family, Captain Barton, together with another relative, purchased the farm. The Learneds were allowed to stay on, but Clara’s family also moved into the house. The Learned boys, Jerry and Otis, and their friend Lovett Simpson, became her firm friends. “Wild” Jerry and mischievous Otis set the tone for the activities of the little band of cousins, and the next four years were filled with adventurous and daring escapades. In describing the happy events of this time Clara rarely mentions her girl cousins.71
The old Learned homestead, built in the early eighteenth century, was a much larger and more commodious house than the one in which Clara was born. Two stories high, of strong clapboarding, and with a pitched roof, it was surrounded by orchards, gardens, and intriguing outbuildings. The new place presented an array of interesting nooks and crannies to explore. Thus the little troop of cousins and friends roamed the farm’s territory, running through “broad beautiful meadows” and up the rocky and wooded hills. They hunted chestnuts, explored caves, and dogged snakes near the French River. Clara recalled with obvious pleasure the lure of “three temptingly great barns…. Was there ever a better opportunity for hide-and-seek, for jumping and climbing?”72 The saw and grain mills also held a special fascination. The children rode the long saw carriage out over the raceway, jumping off quickly after the sawn log was drawn back. They dared each other to balance on a pole thrown across the mill stream, and they gasped and whooped as it “swayed and teetered from the moment the foot touched it till it left it.” Oblivious to the danger, the children merrily tempted the odds, and, miraculously, none was ever hurt.73
It was a time of revelations and a burst of freedom for Clara. She was away from the watchful eyes of six surrogate parents and removed from the scenes of Dolly’s rages. She idolized Otis and Jerry, and they admired her extravagantly, for she “could run as fast and ride better” than they.74 She enjoyed the varied wildlife of the place and had special care of ducks, chickens, cats, and kittens, as well as her own little dog, “Button.” Even the hired hands adored her, teasing and pampering her in a way her own family was not wont to do. Indeed, she remembered this as the happiest time of her life. “Oh, what a houseful that was up there on that grand old hill,” Clara would exclaim. “I would not say what I would give for one day of that just as it was then, and we be just the same.”75
It was perhaps inevitable that Clara’s long tether would eventually be pulled in, especially when the benign neglect afforded her by her parents had had some unfortunate repercussions. Once, accustomed to roaming the outbuildings and meadows at will, Clara wandered into a barn during butchering time. The sensitive child was startled to see a large ox struck on the head with an axe, and she fell as if she herself had been struck. Her father was furious with his hired men, though Clara came staunchly to their rescue: “I was altogether too friendly with the farm hands to hear them blamed.”76 Worse, her parents began to question the appropriateness of the little girl’s tomboy ways. Her father forbade her to learn to skate, something her male companions enjoyed tremendously. Undaunted, she slipped out at night, tempted by the smooth glare ice and bright stars. The boys tied a woolen comforter around her waist, and while one pulled her along, the other two skated on either side to help keep her steady. “Swifter and swifter we went,” reminisced Clara, “until at length we reached a spot where the ice had been cracked and was full of sharp edges. These threw me and the speed with which we were progressing…gave terrific opportunity for cuts and wounded knees.” Seriously hurt, her disobedience was discovered. For several weeks she endured the isolation and disappointed looks that were her punishment.77 Despite her mother’s reassurance that other little girls had probably done as badly, Clara wrote that she “despised herself and failed to sleep or eat.”
Her parents’ ambivalence about her escapades continued, and, as the mistrust of Clara’s wild sports increased, her mother began encouraging the female arts and girlish play. An enormous fuss was made over a little girls’ party: a poem learned, a new apron made, and a rare kiss bestowed for successful conduct.78 Mother provided the accoutrements for playhouses on the farm’s hills and taught Clara to build fires and cook little dinners or make “real butter in a teacup.”79 Friendships with cousin Elvira Stone and a neighbor, Nancy Fitts, were actively promoted. This was obviously a contradictory signal, as was her earlier punishment for her proficiency in masculine ways that had so often led to acceptance or praise. It confused Clara, who was invigorated by adventure, leadership, and daring, and who by now realized that her abilities equaled those of her male companions. Struggling to draw from the world the same esteem, freedom, and power that she sensed they possessed, she was occasionally applauded but increasingly chastised.
The alternation of pride in belonging to the world of men—of their acceptance and camaraderie, and her strong identification with them—and the distress over the frowns of family and society for forsaking her proper role as a woman, was to become a constant theme in Barton’s life. From childhood she straddled the fence, a visitor to both worlds, a member of neither. As an adult this access gave her an ability to move freely through all elements of society in a way that few others—male or female—could. As a child it served mostly to increase her sense of isolation and drive her to continue her search for a niche.
One way Clara hoped to establish a stronger role in her family’s life was through work. To some extent this was an accepted and necessary part of her childhood, for like farm children of all times, her work and play were inextricably tied together. As a tiny child she learned to call the hired men to dinner, then giggled with pleasure as the chief hand tossed her up on his shoulder to give her a ride back to the house. Clara’s fondness for animals led her to adopt several milch cows, which she learned to care for. “I went faithfully every evening to the yards to receive and look after them,” she recalled. “My little milk pail went as well, and I became proficient in an art never forgotten.” In the springtime she watched the soap making and learned to stir the bubbling mass. Tending ducks, turkeys, and lambs was also her duty. She viewed the creatures as pets, but like her cherished “Button,” they were also obligations. The care of farm animals taught a pattern of responsibility that was the backbone of the New England farm.80
Clara Barton’s reminiscences of her childhood thus show that she was exposed at an early age to a strong belief in the value of hard work. It is doubtful that anyone consciously stressed this idea, although the Barton's were a quintessentially industrious family, striving for achievement from both personal amibition and nervous energy. Rather it was an influence that pervaded a New Englander’s existence and was accepted as an unquestionable truth. Lucy Larcom, who much to Barton’s admiration recorded her own memories of a New England girlhood, reflected that she “learned no theories about ‘the dignity of labor,’ but we were taught to work almost as if it were a religion; to keep at work expecting nothing else.”81 Though the way of life of the Barton's in the 1820s seems mild in comparison with the rugged conditions of their early ancestors, a rigorous schedule was still needed to maintain their comfort. Molasses and cloth might be bought from local merchants, but soap and medicine were made at home. In the rush of harvest, in the continual need to produce food and clothing, and in the relentless effort to look after stock, an affirmation was made of the ritual of work and of its rewards.82
From an early age, therefore, Clara Barton found diligence and usefulness to be methods by which she could gain favor, and she began to define her worth through her service to others. She looked for opportunities beyond the usual farm and school chores, and found one when a painter came to refresh the walls of the Learned place. Fascinated by the tools and scents of his trade, she begged to help and was allowed to do so. “I was taught how to hold my brushes, to take care of them, allowed to help grind my paints, shown how to mix and blend them, how to make putty and use it, to prepare oils and drying…was taught to trim paper neatly, to match and help to hang it, to make the most approved paste, and even varnished the kitchen chairs,” was her exuberant recollection. At the month’s end Clara could only “look on sadly” as the painter packed up his brushes and left. The gift of a locket, inscribed “To a faithful worker,” was scanty compensation for the loneliness she felt.83
Perhaps
