That night and many other nights I lay awake, trembling at the
possibility of being left the only woman within eighteen miles.
But mother did not die. I must have been a sturdy child; for, with the
little help father and his homestead partner could spare, I kept that
home going until she was strong again.
Every fall the shoemaker made his rounds through the country, reaching
our place last, for beyond us lay only virgin forest and wild beasts.
His visit thrilled us more than the arrival of any king to-day. We had
been cut off from the world for months. The shoemaker brought news from
neighbors eighteen, forty, sixty, even a hundred and fifty miles away.
Usually he brought a few newspapers too, treasured afterward for months.
He remained, a royal guest, for many days, until all the family was
shod.
Up to my tenth birthday we could not afford the newspaper subscription.
But after that times were a little better, and the Boston Transcript
began to come at irregular intervals. It formed our only tie with
civilization, except for the occasional purely personal letter from
“back home.”
When I was fourteen three tremendous events had marked my life: sunlight
through a window-pane; the logrolling on the river when father added two
rooms to our cabin; and the night I thought mother would die and leave
me the only woman in eighteen miles.
But the fourth event was the most tremendous. One night father hurried
in without even waiting to unload or water his team. He seemed excited,
and handed my mother a letter. Our Great-Aunt Martha had willed father
her household goods and personal belongings and a modest sum that to us
was a fortune. Some one back East “awaited his instructions.” Followed
many discussions, but in the end my mother gained her way. Great-Aunt
Martha's house goods were sold at auction. Father, however, insisted
that her “personal belongings” be shipped to Wisconsin.
After a long, long wait, one day father and I rose at daybreak and rode
thirty-six miles in a springless wagon, over ranchmen's roads (“the
giant's vertebrae,” Jim Hill's men called it) to the nearest express
station, returning with a trunk and two packing cases. It was a solemn
moment when the first box was opened. Then mother gave a cry of
delight. Sheets and bedspreads edged with lace! Real linen pillowcases
with crocheted edgings. Soft woolen blankets and bright handmade
quilts. Two heavy, lustrous table-cloths and two dozen napkins, one
white set hemmed, and one red-and-white, bordered with a soft fringe.
What the world calls wealth has come to me in after years. Nothing ever
equaled in my eyes the priceless value of Great-Aunt Martha's “personal
belongings.”
I was in a seventh heaven of delight. My father picked up the books
and began to read, paying no attention to our ecstasies over dresses and
ribbons, the boxful of laces, or the little shell-covered case holding a
few ornaments in gold and silver and jet.
We women did not stop until we had explored every corner of that trunk
and the two packing boxes. Then I picked up a napkin.
“What are these for?” I asked curiously.
My father slammed his book shut. I had never seen such a look on his
face.
“How old are you, Mary?” he demanded suddenly.