"Ann! Ann Elizabeth Potter!"

 My mother's voice echoes out of the house. I sigh and tug on my long blue ruffled dress. The sun is so hot- I wish I could wear something other than dresses all the time! But girls my age (especially around eleven or twelve years old) aren't allowed to be as carefree as the boys are. Girls my age must wear ruffled dresses and petticoats, never get dirty, always be ladylike, take an interest in writing and pretty things, and such and such- the list goes on and on! Of course, it's not all bad, but I'd prefer a fishing pole in my hand rather than a jump rope. I turn and walk (that's another rule: girls can only walk and sometimes skip, never run and jump other than when jumping rope)

back to the house, jump rope in hand. My friends, Becky Thatcher, Lucy Harper, Sabina Temple and Susie Rogers, live in our community.

"Yes, Mother?" I reply, entering the humid room. Dust curls up from the floorboards by my boots. My mother is bent over, sewing, her quiltwork stretched across her lap. It's the middle of May; I have no idea why she's making a quilt in this heat. Distracted, she requests,

"Ann, I need you to sweep the floor. Just look at this dust- it's making me sneeze, and I can't get anything done!"

I groan inwardly, but never show my reluctance.

"Yes, Mother," I reply softly, and go to the cupboard to find the broom. I pick it up and begin sweeping the dusty

floor, flicking the brown dirt and flaky dust out the doorway. Really, I wish I could be outside playing jump rope with my friends, but most girls are probably stuck inside on Sundays anyway, reading the Bible, playing with paper dolls or doing light chores.

Last Sunday, Reverend Sprague taught about sin. But he used only girls as examples of sinners (not counting, of course, the side comments he made about Tom Sawyer). It's unfair that we girls get all the blame while the boys get away with almost anything!

I pick up a chunk of grit, twisting it between my fingers in frustration until it forms a severe curlicue. My mother had probably also called me in because I was jump roping

on a Sunday. I pick up a piece of bark and a scrap of lead, scribbling hastily, 'Go home- I'm not going to come out for a while' and flash it out the open window at my waiting friends. Becky, Lucy, Sabina and Susie glance at it, take no offense, and calmly walk away, understanding my message completely. Then, under my mother's suspicious glare, I tear the bark into several sweep-able chunks, slip the scrap of lead into my dress pocket, and keep on sweeping the floor.

I work like this for about fifteen minutes before my mother intervenes and dismisses me, saying,

"All right, Ann, that's good enough. I reckon you swept that floor neat as a pin. You can go out and play now-

but no jump roping. Is that clear?" she commands. I murmur,

"Yes'm," and quietly walk out the door. Once outside, I skip down to the creek to pick some flowers. I am quite an unpredictable young girl, even at twelve, so of course my parents like to keep at least one eye out of their combined four on me. But I am unattended now by the creek, so while I am picking pretty tulips, water lilies and gorgeous, nameless, sun-colored flowers, my foot slips and I tumble down into the icy rushing water.

Like most girls of my time, I cannot swim, so I flounder helplessly in the cold, strong current. Water, cold, brown and murky, fills my hair and eyes, penetrating my fair