Three more days to go. This morning I helped Mama cook soft boiled eggs and cakes and we ate it with the maple syrup she brought all of the way from Vermont. She said that it might be the last time we have any if they don’t have maple trees in Oregon. That is my saddest thought, because the best thing I can remember from my childhood is warm boiled eggs, all gooey and covered with maple syrup. Mama insists that we will have eggs though, because there are a lot of hens among the emigrants.
Papa and Mr. Bradford agreed to not argue anymore in front of the children, but I think they meant in front of Mama. We shall see how that goes.