The Poetry Quilt

Charity stood by the house. Across the road, Andover’s weathervane spun in the wind.

Charity whispered, “The vane on the meeting house is turning to and fro. The first breeze of April whips across the melting snow.”

That may be a fine addition to my poetry quilt, she thought. In fact, that poem will finish it. She repeated her rhyme aloud and smiled.

Her older sister, Prudence, overheard. “Charity, when are you going to grow up? Making rhymes is for babies. No one marries a girl for her poems. You should practice tending the house instead.”

Charity’s throat tightened. “I know, Prudence. I’ll work harder.”

Prudence smiled and handed her the broom. “You can start by sweeping the walk. I’m going inside to help Mother with the baking.” 

Charity kept her head down as she swept. She tried to ignore the warm breeze. Prudence was right. Only babies made rhymes.

That evening, Charity embroidered her last poem, the one about the weathervane. Then she finished the quilt and put it in her dowry chest. She was done with poems.

Weeks passed. Charity worked hard. She cooked and cleaned, and she didn’t make any rhymes.

One night, she took out her poetry quilt and looked at it. She’d embroidered 35 poems. It had been a lot of work, but she’d loved it. She sighed. “Prudence is right. I need to grow up. Only babies make rhymes about everything they see.”

She was so tired that she didn’t put the quilt back. Instead, she left it folded on her bed.

That night, Charity tossed and turned. When she woke up in the morning, the air was hazy.

She glanced at the foot of her bed.

The poetry quilt was missing!

Charity dressed and hurried to the kitchen, where she found her father sitting at the table. Soot coated his face.

Charity gasped. “What happened? And where are Prudence and Mother?”

“The Bradstreets’ house burned down last night,” her father replied. “They lost everything. Prudence and your mother took them food and blankets.”

“Blankets? Oh no!” Charity dashed out the door. The Bradstreets were among the most respected people in the colony. She couldn’t let them see her poetry quilt. It was too embarrassing. 

She met her mother and sister in the street. They’d already delivered the blankets.

“I have to get my quilt back,” Charity cried.

“The Bradstreets have nothing left! You can’t begrudge them a blanket,” her mother scolded her.

“Yes, Mother,” Charity said forlornly.

Later that afternoon, Charity knelt in the garden to weed. She glanced up and saw Mistress Bradstreet talking to her mother. She was holding the poetry quilt.

Charity blushed. Mistress Bradstreet probably didn’t like the quilt. Prudence was right. She shouldn’t have made those rhymes.

Charity stood quickly when she noticed Mistress Bradstreet walking over to the garden. She brushed dirt from her apron. Her legs shook as she curtsied. “Good day, Mistress Bradstreet. I’m sorry for the fire at your house.” 

“I’m thankful no one was hurt,” Mistress Bradstreet said softly. “But I fear that your mother may have accidentally given me this.” She held out the quilt.

“It’s all right,” Charity replied. “It’s just a silly old quilt. Some of my baby work. I’m sorry for the poems.”

“Why are you sorry? I enjoyed the poems. Your work shows great promise.”

“But Prudence says poems are for babies.”

Mistress Bradstreet smiled. “I’m not a baby, and I write poems. I’ve even published a book.”

Charity’s jaw dropped.

“In fact,” the woman continued, “I make poems all the time. I’m working on one now about the fire. It’s how I remind myself to be grateful for what I have. Otherwise I might waste my days bemoaning what I’ve lost.”

“I’m thankful for warm breezes in springtime,” Charity said.

Mistress Bradstreet nodded.

“I could tell from your poems.”  

Charity took a deep breath. “Mistress Bradstreet, may I show you more poems someday? And would you let me hear your poems?”

“I’d love that, Charity.” Mistress Bradstreet handed her the quilt. “Your poems helped me smile after the fire. But you should keep this. It’s a beautiful addition to your dowry chest.”

“Thank you, Mistress Bradstreet!” Charity curtsied, then ran to put the quilt inside the house before returning to the garden. After all, she had an idea for a poem about radishes.