by Gina Stevensen
The Pilgrims' first winter was a terrible one. Let's start from the beginning ...
The winter was coming fast. The Pilgrims had settled on a good place to build their village, close to streams and brooks, and with space for planting their crops. They called the place Plymouth, because they had left from Plymouth, England.
People got to work right away, chopping trees and building houses. The women gathered hay to make the thatch for the roof tops. They made a little street down the middle, with houses on either side of the road.
They didn't finish all the houses in time for winter. They didn't find enough food in the forests. The Pilgrims worked their hardest to get ready for winter but when winter came, it was terrible for them. They were sick, cold, and hungry. By the middle of winter, only seven of the Pilgrims were healthy enough to stand up. They had to take care of all the others who were sick. Two of the Pilgrims who remained healthy were Myles Standish and William Brewster.
It was January 13, 1621. A harsh wind blew in through the bare windows of the Winslow house. Inside, people were moaning and rolling around with their mouths open, like they couldn't breathe. The thatched roof had many holes in it, and everyone was sure it was lower than it was a week before.
It was a cold, cold day, and little Ellen More was huddled on the floor, barely able to toss and turn. A foul stench stung the air like an arrow. Suddenly, she stopped. Her wide, pale blue, eyes grew wider. Her pale face got paler. She let out a long sigh, and then lay still, her eyes still wide open.
Elizabeth Hopkins, who was one of the few people in the village who could still stand, hobbled over and carefully knelt beside her. She gently put her hand on Ellen's throat, feeling for a pulse. Then she closed Ellen's eyes, stifled a sob, and said, "She's dead."
Meanwhile, at the Carver house, Jasper More was moaning and groaning and wishing he was in England. Just a few moments before, a messenger from the Brewster house had come and told them that Mary More had died the night before. Without any warning, Jasper's moaning and groaning stopped. Next to him, John Carver, who was sick himself, lifted the boy's bony arm and gently shook him.
"Wake u-up J-Jasper!" he cried, but to no avail. He was dead. At the end of the day, only Richard More was still alive from his family.
At the Brewster's house, William wobbily carried a small bowl of scraps of food to his wife, Mary, who was ill. Suddenly, Mary said, to no one in particular,
"When w-w-will this b-b-be over? Has G-God f-forgotten u-u-u-us?"
"This will soon b-be over. God has not forgotten," William Brewster replied.