Mother and I made our first attempt at cooking while the stove was
beneath the wagon cover and the pipe thrust out through the hole in the
rear.
[Illustration]
If we had had plenty of dry wood, I have no doubt but that the work
could have been done with some degree of comfort; but as it was, we
were put to our wits' ends, even to get sufficient heat to boil the
water, and when word was given for the company to start, we had not
really begun to cook the breakfast.
Of course it would have been dangerous for us to attempt to keep a fire
burning while the wagon was moving. Therefore we would have been forced
to set off without breakfast, had not Ellen's mother kindly sent us
some corn bread which she had baked the night before, and this, with
fresh milk, made up our meal.
At the time I thought I was much injured because of not having more
food; but before we had come to the land of California I often looked
back upon that morning with longing, remembering the meal of corn bread
and milk as though it was a feast.
During all the long day, except for half an hour at noon, the
patient oxen plodded wearily on amid the rain, oftentimes sinking
fetlock-deep in the marshy places. Everything was damp and every place
uncomfortable, and at times it seemed as if I could no longer bear up
under the suffering.
In order to teach me that, instead of grumbling, I ought to be thankful
for the comforts I could enjoy, mother told me to look at those who
were exposed to the storm. I saw father and the other men walking
beside the oxen, the rain pelting down upon them pitilessly; I heard
the cry of a baby in pain; and I soon came to understand that my lot
was far less hard than that of many others.
She read me a lesson on patience and contentment, whatever might
be my surroundings, until I grew ashamed of having shown myself so
disagreeable.