January 1st, 1866.—A New Year but a Happy New Year? No, indeed. We got up this morning to find ourselves the only occupants of Pine Hill plantation. It was a clean sweep, all were gone. Nobody to get breakfast; nobody to clean up the house; no maids to look after the wants of “milady;” no butler to serve the meals; no carriage-driver if we should care to ride. Not a servant, not one and we unused to work.
It is night now. Aunt Robinson taught me to make up beds long ago, when she took me to sleep in her room, so we have each of us a neat bed to rest in. Mother said she could mix muffins if somebody would bake them. Father offered to make the coffee, that being his specialty and Mattie said she would eat some when it was done and John Branch, who had spent the night here, stretched himself and said, “I’ll saddle the pony and go to town.” We did not ask him to stay, though I thought he might have brought in some wood as it was low in the wood-boxes.
I am tired—tired tonight, will all the days of the year be like this one? What are we going to do without the negroes? Will we have to do these manifold duties for ourselves? Or can we hire white servants as they do at the North? I wonder where the negroes have gone, and why did they not tell us they were going? Life is a puzzle sometimes.
