Beginning Again by Mary Beacock Fryer Read Free Book Online

beer. We had trekked some potatoes and carrots from Coleman's Corners, but to save weight we had brought molasses and yeast, traded with Mr. Buell. The recipe was the one Mama had used to prevent scurvy during our first winter in Canada.
    I heated about two pounds of spruce tips and two gallons of water in a cooking kettle. After it boiled I removed the spruce, added molasses and yeast to the liquid, and set the kettle near the hearth to ferment. The beer was a time-honoured method of warding off scurvy, learned from the Indians, and was every bit as good as fresh vegetables. I didn't care for the taste, but making it gave me something to do till my feet got better.
    Early in March, a silly accident put an end to my life in the woods for some weeks. I, who had done very well with an axe cutting down huge white pines, let it slip while splitting kindling. The blade gashed my right foot, and a frantic Papa left Sam working with the Mallorys to take me home. After wrapping the foot to stop the bleeding he set me on the stallion and led him towards Coleman's Corners where Mama could give me the care I needed. I crossed my right knee and propped my injured foot in front of me. If the leg hung down it throbbed and Papa was afraid it would bleed again.
    I felt about spent by the time we reached home. Mama, to my surprise, seemed to be watching for us though we were not expected. In jig time I was lying on my parents' bed, my wounded foot stripped of Papa's bandage and propped on two pillows. Mama squinted at it, brow furrowed. Beside her Elizabeth was looking all sympathy.
    â€œFetch my sewing basket,” she said. “This needs stitches.”
    At that I could not keep from shuddering!

Chapter 4
Stretched to the Limit
    I 'd rather not remember the stitching. I suppose it did not hurt too much. After Mama washed the wound carefully, she drew linen thread through her needle and gently pushed it in and out till she had made seven stitches. Papa held me, his face the colour of a white sheet, and I wondered which of us might faint first.
    â€œIt's a gaping wound,” Mama told us. “It'll heal much faster with the stitches.”
    The next day Papa returned to our land. Soon after, Elizabeth came in and told Mama that Dr. Jones, the only physician for many miles around, was in the village. “Would you like him to see Ned's wound, Mama?” she enquired.
    â€œYes,” she said. “And I want to see him about another matter.”
    â€œI think I know why,” Elizabeth said softly.
    Dr. Solomon Jones, who had been the surgeon to the Loyal Rangers, was tall and plump. Dressed in a black suit, he carried a black leather bag. He unwrapped my foot with surprising gentleness and studied Mama's handiwork. Then he replaced the bandage and straightened up.
    â€œThat looks clean, Mrs. Seaman. And there's no swelling to suggest it's septic. You did a fine job. Keep this young fellow in bed a few days. When he can walk on it without pain, take out those stitches and he can do whatever he feels up to in the shop.”
    I determined to be back on my feet as soon as I could stand. With so much work facing us, I was angry at myself for being so careless with that axe. Elizabeth and Mama had put my straw mattress before the hearth so I would not have to climb the ladder to the loft. I spent comfortable nights, but during the day I thought I would go mad. Being in the midst of the chaos my younger brothers and Sarah created was nerve wracking.
    Robert cried, Smith teased Stephen, and Sarah stubbornly refused to do anything when Mama or Elizabeth asked her to help. Once, in desperation, Mama chased Stephen to the loft, sent Smith to clean the stable, and paddled Sarah with a wooden spoon. Elizabeth was working at a new loom, expertly weaving linsey woollsey, ignoring the bubbub. Some village women had given Mama the flax and wool in return for teaching their children reading and writing. Elizabeh had strung the spun linen