_Nov. 28. Thursday._ Cold drizzling and misty rains, which have melted the little snow. The farmers are beginning to pick up their dead wood. Within a day or two the walker finds gloves to be comfortable, and begins to think of an outside coat and of boots. Embarks in his boots for the winter voyage. The Indian talked about “our folks” and “your folks,” “my grandfather” and “my grandfather’s cousin,” Samoset. It is remarkable, but nevertheless true, as far as my observation goes, that women, to whom we commonly concede a somewhat finer and more sibylline nature, yield a more implicit obedience even to their animal instincts than men. The nature in them is stronger, the reason weaker. There are, for instance, many young and middle-aged men among my acquaintance—shoemakers, carpenters, farmers, and others—who have scruples about using animal food, but comparatively few girls or women. The latter, even the most refined, are the most intolerant of such reforms. I think that the reformer of the severest, as well as finest, class will find more sympathy in the intellect and philosophy of man than in the refinement and delicacy of woman. It is, perchance, a part of woman’s conformity and easy nature. Her savior must not be too strong, stern, and intellectual, but charitable above all things. The thought of its greater independence and its closeness to nature diminishes the pain I feel when I see a more interesting child than usual destined to be brought up in a shanty. I see that for the present the child is happy and is not puny, and has all the wonders of nature for its toys. Have I not faith that its tenderness will in some way be cherished and protected, as the buds of the spring in the remotest and wildest wintry dell no less than in the garden plot and summer-house? I am the little Irish boy That lives in the shanty. I am four years old to-day And shall soon be one and twenty. I shall grow up And be a great man, And shovel all day As hard as I can. Down in the Deep Cut, * * * * * Where the men lived Who made the railroad. For supper I have some potato And sometimes some bread, And then, if it’s cold, I go right to bed. I lie on some straw Under my father’s coat. At recess I play With little Billy Gray, And when school is done, Then home I run. And if I meet the cars, I get on the other track, And then I know whatever comes I needn’t look back. My mother does not cry, And my father does not scold, For I am a little Irish boy, And I’m four years old. Every day I go to school Along the railroad. It was so cold it made me cry The day that it snowed. And if my feet ache I do not mind the cold, For I am a little Irish boy, And I’m four years old.[101]