"Dianthy, how are you going up the canyon? Are you going with me and
your brother?"
"No, I think not, Rachel. I promised to go with John Stevens. And the
very next day Henry Boyle asked me to go with him; wasn't that a shame?"
"Wasn't what a shame? That Henry should have the impudence to ask you
to go with him? I should think he'd find out after awhile that you are
not in love with him and never will be."
"I'm sure I can't tell how you know so much about me and my affairs,
Rachel. I haven't told any one I am or I am not in love with Henry
Boyle. And I can't see how it is that you have such a prejudice against
Henry. I'm sure you can't find any fault with him. He's a perfect
gentleman--far more civilized and polite than a whole town full of men
like--like--well--like many of our Utah boys. And he's ambitious, too;
wants to make something of himself; which is more than some of our boys
do. Just see how he came here from England two years ago; left his home
and all his relatives, and in less than a year worked up till he got
the position of clerk in Livingston and Kincaid's store."
"Exactly! And now he is a gentleman in very deed, for he wears store
clothes every day in the week, and the finest worked ladies' buckskin
gloves on Sunday. What more does he require to be a gentleman?"
"See here, Rachel, I want you to answer me one question. Do you, or
does my brother Appleton, know anything wrong about Henry Boyle? Isn't
he a 'Mormon,' in good standing and repute? Doesn't he pay his tithes
and donations, and attend his meetings regularly? What more can you
ask?"
"Oh, Dian, you wear me out completely. Stick to your 'Enery, if
you want to; but he'll never amount to a row of pins. He's a real
namby-pamby man; and that is about all he is likely to be. I should
think you'd want a being with some life and spirit."
"Like John Stevens, perhaps. Well, I've never seen any evidence of this
wonderful life and spirit you folks are always talking about, in John
Stevens. The only fiery thing about John, that I've ever discovered, is
his red beard."
With a half sarcastic smile, the girl dusted the last speck of flour
from her cotton apron, went to the wash bench and calmly washed the
flour and tiny bits of dough from her hands; then, drawing a clean
cloth over her wooden bread trough, she set it on the kitchen table for
the night.
Rachel Winthrop sighed as she watched these proceedings and hushed her
baby to sleep, in the small, yet comfortable rush-bottomed rocker,
which was such a luxury in early Utah days. She admired and loved her
husband's youngest sister, with all the strength of her affectionate
soul; and she yearned with the tenderness of a mother over that
indifferent, self-centered, yet handsome and sensible young person.
"I don't wonder that men admire you, Dianthy," she said, at last.
"You're a fine looking girl."
"You mean I've pretty good taste in fixing myself up. People wouldn't
admire me so much if they saw me 'off parade' a few times. It's my
clothes and the way I put them on that wakens admiration, Rachel. Just
look at my nose!"
She stood a moment, with her arms akimbo, her face tilted as she tried
to squint with half-closed eyes down at the offending organ.
"There's nothing the matter with your nose, Dianthy, only it's got a
patch of flour on the side of it just now. But come, I must put baby
to bed, so we can finish up, or we'll never be ready to start in the
morning."
It was the evening of the 21st of July, 1857. All Salt Lake was astir
with preparations for the famous outing to Big Cottonwood Canyon, where
the Twenty-fourth--Pioneer day--was to be spent. Candles sputtered and
burned down, were snuffed and finally replaced with new ones, as the
women of the young city worked hard yet happily the night through,
baking great banks of pies and loaves upon loaves of tender, yellow
cakes; cooking beef, lamb and chickens; roasting young pigs before
the open fire, in the brick ovens, or in one of the few step-stoves.
Serviceberry preserves, and plenty of thick amber-colored molasses were
stored in all the pails and jars obtainable. Such creamy-brown loaves
of yeast or "salt-rising" bread; such pots of sweet, yellow butter;
such crisp doughnuts and delicate "dutch cheese," never before had been
seen in such profusion during the brief ten years' history of the Great
Salt Lake Valley.
As Rachel Winthrop laid the child in its cradle and prepared to finish
her ironing of print dresses and blue chambrey sunbonnets, the young
girl, who had pulled down her sleeves and adjusted her collar, went
slowly out at the front door, as if watching for someone. Then, turning
back into the sitting-room, she seated herself at the small melodeon
in the corner, and began to play softly. Her touch upon the tiny ivory
keys was very sympathetic and musical. Waltzes and schottisches poured
out in mellow harmony upon the heated waves of the July evening. Then,
as if filled to the full with the spirit of music that she had invoked,
she lifted up her voice in song. "Shells of the Ocean" and "Rock Me to
Sleep, Mother," betrayed a quality of tenderness in the soul that the
somewhat proud exterior did not warrant.
"Oh, Dian," called her sister-in-law, "why do you sing such mournful
songs? You give me the creeps."
"Do I?" asked the girl. "I wasn't thinking; but someway, I feel sad
tonight, just as if something were going to happen."
"Something is, Dian; we are all invited by President Young to spend the
Twenty-fourth in Big Cottonwood Canyon. And there's lots to do before
we go to bed."
"Just one song then, to cheer us up, Rachel, for the evening's work"
and the gay voice trilled out the rollicking changes of "We All Wear
Cloaks," and ended with the evening hymn, "Come, Come, Ye Saints, No
Toil Nor Labor Fear." Before she had finished the first stanza of the
hymn, her brother, Bishop Winthrop, had added his musical bass, and the
sixteen year old Harvey was putting in a fair tenor and playing the air
as well on his concertina. Rachel herself sang the alto. Then, with a
quiet reverence, the Bishop said, "Let us have prayers."
The quiet of the night closed in with starry radiance upon the little
family, the children asleep, while the women worked, conversing in
subdued voices. Few were the hours of sleep that memorable night in
Great Salt Lake City, for most of its citizens, to the number of three
thousand, had been invited to spend the day at the headwaters of the
Big Cottonwood stream, in the little dell far up in the tops of the
mountains. All the city was astir to assist in the unusual festivity.
In the morning, the Winthrop household was boiling and bubbling in the
excitement and heat of preparation.
"Dian," said the distracted Rachel, "you go out to the wagon and get
the Bishop to put in all those things that I have laid at the side of
the appletree."
Out in the back yard could be heard the frequent small explosions that
preceded such scenes in the Winthrop household.
"What's all this trash, Diantha? Does Rachel think we are going to
cross the plains again? She's got enough stuff here to feed an army
and to house a regiment," this as the Bishop selected various of the
bundles and bales sent for the wagon's supply. "Who on earth but Rachel
would ever think of carting a heavy wooden tub, flat irons and popcorn
up Big Cottonwood? Popcorn on a picnic! And she's actually got a
feather bed in this pile! Humph!" and the snort of disgust ended only
as he tossed the bed back into the crotch of the young apple tree.
"Now, Appleton, that bed must go, so just do be good and let's not
waste time this way. Here; it can go right on top of the boxes and
we'll have it handy for the children to sit on," Dian worked as she
talked, for she knew how little value to attach to the warmth of her
brother on such occasions. "Here, Harvey, pack that shovel into the
crevice there, will you?"
"Shovels on a picnic! Does she think we are going to locate mines? And
rakes! My soul, but we will never get up the canyon with this load.
You'll all have to walk, I'll tell you that."
"All but the baby and Rachel, Appleton. I am going to ride in John
Stevens' wagon, with Aunt Clara and Ellie Tyler."
"Is that so, Dian? Well, that's fine." And in the pleasure of this
announcement, the Bishop stowed away most of the things awaiting their
turn on the grass.
"Salt! Why, Dian, there's twenty pounds of salt in this sack," and the
Bishop fairly shouted in astonishment. "Salt by the bushel! Does Rachel
imagine we are going out to pickle meat? There's salt enough for three
thousand people, to last them a week."
"Exactly, Appleton; you know well enough that other people forget
things, and Rachel has to be general commissary for the crowd," calmly
replied her unmoved defender.
"Upon my word! Do you mean that I am to be made a general pack-horse to
carry all the forgotten things for other people?"
"Appleton," this was said skilfully, and by way of diversion, "are we
to have a dancing pavilion up there?"
"Two of them, Dian. And I don't want you sky-larking off with all the
young men in the company, if you are to go with John Stevens. You
won't get another chance like John, let me tell you. A member of the
legislature, a man without fault or blemish, and as good as God ever
made a man."
"There's the rub, brother. I'm not good enough for such a paragon. And
I don't like paragons."
"You're an obstinate girl, Diantha."
The girl laughed merrily, now that she had diverted the attention of
her irascible brother to herself, for he had packed away even the
despised salt, and was putting in the tent poles and tents on top of
the other bulky but light loading, while they were talking.
"Come, Rachel, we're all done. What are you laughing about?" sang out
the Bishop. "Are you ready to start?"
His wife emerged from the house, all smiles, and with a cup of cool
buttermilk to refresh the weary husband, who had dealt so generously
with her packing arrangements.
"Thank you, Dian," she said softly, as the girl hurried into the house
to complete her own preparations.
It was in the early afternoon of that day, when a double team--the
wagon fitted with bows, but the cover folded in the bottom of the wagon
box--drew up to the Winthrop house with great dash and clatter. Four
good spring seats rattled emptily as the driver threw on his brake and
gave a loud "Hello" to the people inside.
The front door opened and Bishop Winthrop came out.
"Dian will be ready in a moment, John. I am glad she is going with you,
for I know you'll take good care of her."
"Just as good as she'll let me," the young man smiled down at his
friend.
"Oh, Dianthy's all right, only she's a little high-spirited. Give her
plenty of time, John; you can afford to wait," said the elder man, in
confidential tones.
At that moment Diantha herself came out with her two nieces, and
looking at the empty seats, she asked, "Where's Ellen Tyler going to
ride? I'll sit with her."
"All right," answered the young man calmly "Only you'll have to sit
three in a seat, as Charlie Rose put that middle seat in for himself
and Ellen."
John sat patiently waiting for the girl to make up her mind, and not
offering to assist her in. Perhaps his horses were fractious. At any
rate, he sat watching them, now and then flicking a fly from them,
apparently indifferent as to the result of the girl's decision.
"I suppose I shall have to ride in front, then," Dian murmured, and
began climbing over the wheel, "although I like to be invited to sit by
young men."
"You may sit on the back seat if you want to, and let either Aunt Clara
or Tom Allen or either of the two little girls, Lucy or Josephine, sit
here," said John, as he smiled down into her averted face, his gray
eyes flashing with suppressed amusement.
"No, thank you. I've had trouble enough to get where I am, without any
help; I don't care to climb any more. Get in, girls," she added.
"Where are you going now, John?" asked Diantha, as they drove off at
last.
"For the rest of the folks," and away they clattered and rattled, the
horses requiring careful handling, they were so full of eager life.
John drove rapidly to the home of Aunt Clara Tyler, where he was to
find the others of his party.
A moment's wait, and then Ellen Tyler came out, followed by the others.
Her brown curls fell from under the white sunbonnet which surrounded
her face like a ruffled halo. The delicate cream of her skin but made
the glowing brown eyes and the scarlet lips the lovelier by contrast.
Her pretty teeth gleamed through the curved line of parted lips as
she bounded smilingly down the flower-bordered path. She had a great
bunch of spice pinks and blue bachelor buttons in her hand, and as she
reached the wagon she threw the blue blossoms into Dian's lap, saying
gleefully, "These belong to you, Dian."
"Why?" cried out Charlie Rose, who stood waiting for his partner, at
the wheel, "do you think Dian is destined to be a blue-stocking or will
she marry an old bachelor?" and the young man sprang gracefully to
assist Ellen to her place.
"Dian's never blue herself, and so she may have my bluest flowers,"
said Ellen, as she leaned over the seat to give her friend a
good-morning kiss.
Fat and jolly Tom Allen had thoughtfully brought out a chair on which
stout and kindly Aunt Clara could climb safely into the back seat
with him. Lucy Winthrop and Josephine Tyler, as inseparable childish
friends, occupied the other seat.
Soon all were seated; the plethoric baskets were disposed of; and the
merry party dashed through the tree-bordered streets, John Stevens
managing his double team with the skill of long practice.
Just at the edge of the town a young man galloped up on horse-back, and
raised his straw hat gracefully to the ladies, reined in his horse near
Diantha Winthrop, and sat on his trotting steed in true English style.
Diantha greeted the young man as Brother Boyle; and at once gayly
devoted her attention to him, ignoring her partner, John Stevens, with
girlish obliviousness.
There was a great clattering of wheels and many gay jests, with gusts
of youthful laughter floating out from that wagon-load of happy
hilarity. The placid Aunt Clara Tyler looked on from her vantage
point in the back seat, with sympathetic companionship. They overtook
and passed scores and hundreds of teams, all traveling in the same
direction. And each party was given, as they passed, the greetings of
long friendships and mutual pleasures.
When they reached the rendezvous at the mouth of Big Cottonwood Canyon,
they found the narrow passageway between the hills looking like a
tented field. Out in the open square of the regulated camp, the strains
of "Uncle" Dimick Huntington's Martial Band saluted the ears with
tingling effect, as the fifes piped out shrilly the melody of "The Girl
I Left Behind Me."
Charlie Rose assisted Aunt Clara and Ellen to alight, while he sang in
merry accompaniment the words of the song. Ellie's own dancing feet
were tripping, almost before she touched the greensward; and Charlie
seized her hands and together they flew and pirouetted and bowed and
danced to the strains of that inspiring sound.
Henry Boyle, who was off his horse before the party halted, quickly
appropriated Dian's willing fingers, and together they tripped in all
the gay disorder of impromptu dancing over the open square, as the
music shrilled and floated out on the cool, canyon breeze.
Even Aunt Clara's feet tingled with the sound; but she refused to
accept jolly Tom Allen's invitation to join the merry throng now
quickly gathering on the sward, for she was very stout; but she smiled
sympathetically into John's face as he glanced quizzically at his own
partner now whisking away merrily with another, and at his associate
youths who had left to him all the labor of unhitching and preparing
camp for the night. But John was not a dancing man. He cared little
that he was left alone. His animals were very dear to him; for his
lonely domestic life had brought him in close association with the dumb
beasts that carried him over trackless plains and mountain peaks.
Soon the word went forth that President Young was approaching the
rendezvous, and all hastened to greet their friend and leader. As
his buggy, driven rapidly through the dusty road, came in sight, the
Nauvoo Band poured forth its brass blare of welcome; the boys pulled
off their hats; the girls waved sunbonnets; and the whole group stood
at attention, with affectionate greetings written upon their smiling
faces, and waving their hands, to welcome Brigham Young--Governor,
President, friend, and brother.
Thereafter followed the peaceable family of Bishop Winthrop. Comforted
and rested by the soothing assurance that wife and children were well
and with him, and that his precious young sister, Diantha, was for
once in the care and company of the man he loved best on earth, Bishop
Winthrop had driven his light spring wagon joyfully, and withal as
rapidly as his farm horses would permit, in the wake of the President
and his immediate family, with Rachel and babe crooning happily beside
him, and the merry youngsters behind, who were too interested in the
gigantic picnic before them even to indulge in a childish squabble.
At late sunset, the bugle sent forth its insistent call for silence.
Rapidly the company of over three thousand souls, encamped for the
night beside the brawling Big Cottonwood stream, gathered in one
glowing mass of color and motion. Then youth and age knelt reverently
on the sward, while devotions were offered to the kind Providence which
had permitted them to begin their long-planned festivity.
An hour after the evening service was over, the pleasure seekers had
retired into wagons and tents, and the silence of the peaceful hills
brooded over the encampment.