Prairie Home. Luke has gone to Mingo, and I have gone to quilting, as I am good for little else. Came a headache last night so painful that I went outside and pressed snow against my temples in hopes the cold would drive it away. It seemed as if tiny men were inside my forehead, pounding upon the flesh with their hammers. When the snow failed to do the desired job, I built up the fire and brewed a cup of tea from the spearmint leaves Carrie dried for me. It soothed the head a little, and the soul, as well, freeing me of self-pity. After an hour or so, I was able to creep back into bed and sleep until Luke brought my hungry babe to me for his breakfast. What kind of mother is she who does not hear the cries of her wee one? Now I sit here quietly with a handkerchief tied around my head to keep the tiny miscreants from returning with their tools and resuming their mischief. These headaches always leave me drained, with a feeling that I am sitting elsewhere in the room, watching my poor self.
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