Milking the cows...a rural woman's lament

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Posted by Goody Sandy on November 02, 2001 at 11:24:28:

In Reply to: Re: About the sickness posted by Diana on November 02, 2001 at 11:03:25:

> Hi:

> Just as a side note, I read a book earlier this year by a historian who studied what was going on in 1692 from a medical perspective. (Off the top of my head I don't remember the name of the book; I'll have to retreive it from my stack of books read if you are interested). She speculates that the sicknesses were caused by a form of encephalitis lethargia. It was transmitted by mosquitoes, ticks, & fleas onto cows (the young women usually milked the cows), deer and birds.

> It made for some interesting reading.

> Diana


Ruth Beknap, a housewife from Dover, New Hampshire set to verse in 1782 her view of the repetitive, physically exhausting chores that faced an 18th century rural white woman every day.

Up in the morning I must rise
Before I’ve time to rub my eyes.
With half-pin’d gown, unbuckled shoe,
I haste to milk my lowing cow.

But, Oh! it makes my heart to ake,
I have no bread till I can bake,
And the, alas! it makes me sputter,
For I must churn or have no butter.

The hogs with swill too I must serve;
For hogs must eat or men will starve.

Besides, my spouse can get no cloaths
Unless I much offend my nose.

For all that try it know it’s true
There is no smell like colouring blue.

Then round the parish I must ride
And make enquiry far and wide
To find some girl that is a spinner,
Then hurry home to get my dinner.

All summer long I toil & sweat,
Blister my hands, and scold & fret.

And when the summer’s work is o’er,
New toils arise from Autumn’s store.

Corn must be husk’d, and pork be kill’d,
The house will all confusion fill’d.

O could you see the grand display
Upon our annual butchering day, --
See me look like ten thousand sluts,
My kitchen spread with grease & guts, --
You’d lift your hands surpris’d, & swear
That Mother Trisket’s self were there.

Ye starch’d up folks that live in town,
That lounge upon your beds till noon,
That never tire yourselves with work,
Unless with handling knife & fork,
Come, see the sweets of country life,
Display’d in Parson B[elknap’s] wife.



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