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LETTERS
OF A WOMAN
HOMESTEADER
BY
_Elinore Pruitt Stewart_
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1913 AND 1914, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY CO.
1914, BY ELINORE PRUITT STEWART
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published May 1914_
PUBLISHERS' NOTE
The writer of the following letters is a young woman who lost her
husband in a railroad accident and went to Denver to seek support for
herself and her two-year-old daughter, Jerrine. Turning her hand to the
nearest work, she went out by the day as house-cleaner and laundress.
Later, seeking to better herself, she accepted employment as a
housekeeper for a well-to-do Scotch cattle-man, Mr. Stewart, who had
taken up a quarter-section in Wyoming. The letters, written through
several years to a former employer in Denver, tell the story of her new
life in the new country. They are genuine letters, and are printed as
written, except for occasional omissions and the alteration of some of
the names.
4 PARK ST.
CONTENTS
I. THE ARRIVAL AT BURNT FORK 3
II. FILING A CLAIM 7
III. A BUSY, HAPPY SUMMER 15
IV. A CHARMING ADVENTURE AND ZEBULON PIKE 23
V. SEDALIA AND REGALIA 45
VI. A THANKSGIVING-DAY WEDDING 54
VII. ZEBULON PIKE VISITS HIS OLD HOME 60
VIII. A HAPPY CHRISTMAS 64
IX. A CONFESSION 77
X. THE STORY OF CORA BELLE 81
XI. ZEBBIE'S STORY 100
XII. A CONTENTED COUPLE 117
XIII. PROVING UP 133
XIV. THE NEW HOUSE 137
XV. THE "STOCKING-LEG" DINNER 143
XVI. THE HORSE-THIEVES 157
XVII. AT GAVOTTE'S CAMP 180
XVIII. THE HOMESTEADER'S MARRIAGE AND A LITTLE FUNERAL 184
XIX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE 193
XX. THE JOYS OF HOMESTEADING 213
XXI. A LETTER OF JERRINE'S 218
XXII. THE EFFICIENT MRS. O'SHAUGHNESSY 220
XXIII. HOW IT HAPPENED 225
XXIV. A LITTLE ROMANCE 230
XXV. AMONG THE MORMONS 256
XXVI. SUCCESS 279
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LETTERS OF A WOMAN HOMESTEADER
I
THE ARRIVAL AT BURNT FORK
BURNT FORK, WYOMING,
_April 18, 1909._
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
Are you thinking I am lost, like the Babes in the Wood? Well, I am not
and I'm sure the robins would have the time of their lives getting
leaves to cover me out here. I am 'way up close to the Forest Reserve
of Utah, within half a mile of the line, sixty miles from the railroad.
I was twenty-four hours on the train and two days on the stage, and oh,
those two days! The snow was just beginning to melt and the mud was
about the worst I ever heard of.
The first stage we tackled was just about as rickety as it could very
well be and I had to sit with the driver, who was a Mormon and so
handsome that I was not a bit offended when he insisted on making love
all the way, especially after he told me that he was a widower Mormon.
But, of course, as I had no chaperone I looked very fierce (not that
that was very difficult with the wind and mud as allies) and told him
my actual opinion of Mormons in general and particular.
Meantime my new employer, Mr. Stewart, sat upon a stack of baggage and
was dreadfully concerned about something he calls his "Tookie," but I
am unable to tell you what that is. The road, being so muddy, was full
of ruts and the stage acted as if it had the hiccoughs and made us all
talk as though we were affected in the same way. Once Mr. Stewart asked
me if I did not think it a "gey duir trip." I told him he could call it
gay if he wanted to, but it didn't seem very hilarious to me. Every
time the stage struck a rock or a rut Mr. Stewart would "hoot," until
I began to wish we would come to a hollow tree or a hole in the ground
so he could go in with the rest of the owls.
At last we "arriv," and everything is just lovely for me. I have a
very, very comfortable situation and Mr. Stewart is absolutely no
trouble, for as soon as he has his meals he retires to his room and
plays on his bagpipe, only he calls it his "bugpeep." It is "The
Campbells are Coming," without variations, at intervals all day long
and from seven till eleven at night. Sometimes I wish they would make
haste and get here.
There is a saddle horse especially for me and a little shotgun with
which I am to kill sage chickens. We are between two trout streams, so
you can think of me as being happy when the snow is through melting and
the water gets clear. We have the finest flock of Plymouth Rocks and
get so many nice eggs. It sure seems fine to have all the cream I want
after my town experiences. Jerrine is making good use of all the good
things we are having. She rides the pony to water every day.
I have not filed on my land yet because the snow is fifteen feet deep
on it, and I think I would rather see what I am getting, so will wait
until summer. They have just three seasons here, winter and July and
August. We are to plant our garden the last of May. When it is so I can
get around I will see about land and find out all I can and tell you.
I think this letter is about to reach thirty-secondly, so I will send
you my sincerest love and quit tiring you. Please write me when you
have time.
Sincerely yours,
ELINORE RUPERT.
II
FILING A CLAIM
_May 24, 1909._
DEAR, DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
Well, I have filed on my land and am now a bloated landowner. I waited
a long time to even _see_ land in the reserve, and the snow is yet too
deep, so I thought that as they have but three months of summer and
spring together and as I wanted the land for a ranch anyway, perhaps I
had better stay in the valley. So I have filed adjoining Mr. Stewart
and I am well pleased. I have a grove of twelve swamp pines on my
place, and I am going to build my house there. I thought it would be
very romantic to live on the peaks amid the whispering pines, but I
reckon it would be powerfully uncomfortable also, and I guess my twelve
can whisper enough for me; and a dandy thing is, I have all the nice
snow-water I want; a small stream runs right through the center of my
land and I am quite near wood.
A neighbor and his daughter were going to Green River, the county-seat,
and said I might go along, so I did, as I could file there as well as
at the land office; and oh, that trip! I had more fun to the square
inch than Mark Twain or Samantha Allen _ever_ provoked. It took us a
whole week to go and come. We camped out, of course, for in the whole
sixty miles there was but one house, and going in that direction there
is not a tree to be seen, nothing but sage, sand, and sheep. About noon
the first day out we came near a sheep-wagon, and stalking along ahead
of us was a lanky fellow, a herder, going home for dinner. Suddenly it
seemed to me I should starve if I had to wait until we got where we had
planned to stop for dinner, so I called out to the man, "Little
Bo-Peep, have you anything to eat? If you have, we'd like to find it."
And he answered, "As soon as I am able it shall be on the table, if
you'll but trouble to get behind it." Shades of Shakespeare! Songs of
David, the Shepherd Poet! What do you think of us? Well, we got behind
it, and a more delicious "it" I never tasted. Such coffee! And out of
_such_ a pot! I promised Bo-Peep that I would send him a crook with
pink ribbons on it, but I suspect he thinks I am a crook without the
ribbons.
The sagebrush is so short in some places that it is not large enough to
make a fire, so we had to drive until quite late before we camped that
night. After driving all day over what seemed a level desert of sand,
we came about sundown to a beautiful cañon, down which we had to drive
for a couple of miles before we could cross. In the cañon the shadows
had already fallen, but when we looked up we could see the last shafts
of sunlight on the tops of the great bare buttes. Suddenly a great wolf
started from somewhere and galloped along the edge of the cañon,
outlined black and clear by the setting sun. His curiosity overcame him
at last, so he sat down and waited to see what manner of beast we
were. I reckon he was disappointed for he howled most dismally. I
thought of Jack London's "The Wolf."
After we quitted the cañon I saw the most beautiful sight. It seemed as
if we were driving through a golden haze. The violet shadows were
creeping up between the hills, while away back of us the snow-capped
peaks were catching the sun's last rays. On every side of us stretched
the poor, hopeless desert, the sage, grim and determined to live in
spite of starvation, and the great, bare, desolate buttes. The
beautiful colors turned to amber and rose, and then to the general
tone, dull gray. Then we stopped to camp, and such a scurrying around
to gather brush for the fire and to get supper! Everything tasted so
good! Jerrine ate like a man. Then we raised the wagon tongue and
spread the wagon sheet over it and made a bedroom for us women. We made
our beds on the warm, soft sand and went to bed.
It was too beautiful a night to sleep, so I put my head out to look and
to think. I saw the moon come up and hang for a while over the mountain
as if it were discouraged with the prospect, and the big white stars
flirted shamelessly with the hills. I saw a coyote come trotting along
and I felt sorry for him, having to hunt food in so barren a place, but
when presently I heard the whirr of wings I felt sorry for the sage
chickens he had disturbed. At length a cloud came up and I went to
sleep, and next morning was covered several inches with snow. It didn't
hurt us a bit, but while I was struggling with stubborn corsets and
shoes I communed with myself, after the manner of prodigals, and said:
"How much better that I were down in Denver, even at Mrs. Coney's,
digging with a skewer into the corners seeking dirt which _might_ be
there, yea, even eating codfish, than that I should perish on this
desert--of imagination." So I turned the current of my imagination and
fancied that I was at home before the fireplace, and that the backlog
was about to roll down. My fancy was in such good working trim that
before I knew it I kicked the wagon wheel, and I certainly got as warm
as the most "sot" Scientist that ever read Mrs. Eddy could possibly
wish.
After two more such days I "arrived." When I went up to the office
where I was to file, the door was open and the most taciturn old man
sat before a desk. I hesitated at the door, but he never let on. I
coughed, yet no sign but a deeper scowl. I stepped in and modestly
kicked over a chair. He whirled around like I had shot him. "Well?" he
interrogated. I said, "I am powerful glad of it. I was afraid you were
sick, you looked in such pain." He looked at me a minute, then grinned
and said he thought I was a book-agent. Fancy me, a fat, comfortable
widow, trying to sell books!
Well, I filed and came home. If you will believe me, the Scot was glad
to see me and didn't herald the Campbells for two hours after I got
home. I'll tell you, it is mighty seldom any one's so much appreciated.
No, we have no rural delivery. It is two miles to the office, but I go
whenever I like. It is really the jolliest kind of fun to gallop down.
We are sixty miles from the railroad, but when we want anything we send
by the mail-carrier for it, only there is nothing to get.
I know this is an inexcusably long letter, but it is snowing so hard
and you know how I like to talk. I am sure Jerrine will enjoy the cards
and we will be glad to get them. Many things that are a comfort to us
out here came from dear Mrs. ----. Baby has the rabbit you gave her last
Easter a year ago. In Denver I was afraid my baby would grow up devoid
of imagination. Like all the kindergartners, she depended upon others
to amuse her. I was very sorry about it, for my castles in Spain have
been real homes to me. But there is no fear. She has a block of wood
she found in the blacksmith shop which she calls her "dear baby." A
spoke out of a wagon wheel is "little Margaret," and a barrel-stave is
"bad little Johnny."
Well, I must quit writing before you vote me a nuisance. With lots of
love to you,
Your sincere friend,
ELINORE RUPERT.
III
A BUSY, HAPPY SUMMER
_September 11, 1909._
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
This has been for me the busiest, happiest summer I can remember. I
have worked very hard, but it has been work that I really enjoy. Help
of any kind is very hard to get here, and Mr. Stewart had been too
confident of getting men, so that haying caught him with too few men to
put up the hay. He had no man to run the mower and he couldn't run both
the mower and the stacker, so you can fancy what a place he was in.
I don't know that I ever told you, but my parents died within a year of
each other and left six of us to shift for ourselves. Our people
offered to take one here and there among them until we should all have
a place, but we refused to be raised on the halves and so arranged to
stay at Grandmother's and keep together. Well, we had no money to hire
men to do our work, so had to learn to do it ourselves. Consequently I
learned to do many things which girls more fortunately situated don't
even know have to be done. Among the things I learned to do was the way
to run a mowing-machine. It cost me many bitter tears because I got
sunburned, and my hands were hard, rough, and stained with machine oil,
and I used to wonder how any Prince Charming could overlook all that in
any girl he came to. For all I had ever read of the Prince had to do
with his "reverently kissing her lily-white hand," or doing some other
fool trick with a hand as white as a snowflake. Well, when my Prince
showed up he didn't lose much time in letting me know that "Barkis was
willing," and I wrapped my hands in my old checked apron and took him
up before he could catch his breath. Then there was no more mowing, and
I almost forgot that I knew how until Mr. Stewart got into such a
panic. If he put a man to mow, it kept them all idle at the stacker,
and he just couldn't get enough men. I was afraid to tell him I could
mow for fear he would forbid me to do so. But one morning, when he was
chasing a last hope of help, I went down to the barn, took out the
horses, and went to mowing. I had enough cut before he got back to show
him I knew how, and as he came back manless he was delighted as well as
surprised. I was glad because I really like to mow, and besides that, I
am adding feathers to my cap in a surprising way. When you see me again
you will think I am wearing a feather duster, but it is only that I
have been said to have almost as much sense as a "mon," and that is an
honor I never aspired to, even in my wildest dreams.
I have done most of my cooking at night, have milked seven cows every
day, and have done all the hay-cutting, so you see I have been working.
But I have found time to put up thirty pints of jelly and the same
amount of jam for myself. I used wild fruits, gooseberries, currants,
raspberries, and cherries. I have almost two gallons of the cherry
butter, and I think it is delicious. I wish I could get some of it to
you, I am sure you would like it.
We began haying July 5 and finished September 8. After working so hard
and so steadily I decided on a day off, so yesterday I saddled the
pony, took a few things I needed, and Jerrine and I fared forth. Baby
can ride behind quite well. We got away by sunup and a glorious day we
had. We followed a stream higher up into the mountains and the air was
so keen and clear at first we had on our coats. There was a tang of
sage and of pine in the air, and our horse was midside deep in
rabbit-brush, a shrub just covered with flowers that look and smell
like goldenrod. The blue distance promised many alluring adventures, so
we went along singing and simply gulping in summer. Occasionally a
bunch of sage chickens would fly up out of the sagebrush, or a jack
rabbit would leap out. Once we saw a bunch of antelope gallop over a
hill, but we were out just to be out, and game didn't tempt us. I
started, though, to have just as good a time as possible, so I had a
fish-hook in my knapsack.
Presently, about noon, we came to a little dell where the grass was as
soft and as green as a lawn. The creek kept right up against the hills
on one side and there were groves of quaking asp and cottonwoods that
made shade, and service-bushes and birches that shut off the ugly hills
on the other side. We dismounted and prepared to noon. We caught a few
grasshoppers and I cut a birch pole for a rod. The trout are so
beautiful now, their sides are so silvery, with dashes of old rose and
orange, their speckles are so black, while their backs look as if they
had been sprinkled with gold-dust. They bite so well that it doesn't
require any especial skill or tackle to catch plenty for a meal in a
few minutes.
In a little while I went back to where I had left my pony browsing,
with eight beauties. We made a fire first, then I dressed my trout
while it was burning down to a nice bed of coals. I had brought a
frying-pan and a bottle of lard, salt, and buttered bread. We gathered
a few service-berries, our trout were soon browned, and with water,
clear, and as cold as ice, we had a feast. The quaking aspens are
beginning to turn yellow, but no leaves have fallen. Their shadows
dimpled and twinkled over the grass like happy children. The sound of
the dashing, roaring water kept inviting me to cast for trout, but I
didn't want to carry them so far, so we rested until the sun was
getting low and then started for home, with the song of the locusts in
our ears warning us that the melancholy days are almost here. We would
come up over the top of a hill into the glory of a beautiful sunset
with its gorgeous colors, then down into the little valley already
purpling with mysterious twilight. So on, until, just at dark, we rode
into our corral and a mighty tired, sleepy little girl was powerfully
glad to get home.
After I had mailed my other letter I was afraid that you would think me
plumb bold about the little Bo-Peep, and was a heap sorrier than you
can think. If you only knew the hardships these poor men endure. They
go two together and sometimes it is months before they see another
soul, and rarely ever a woman. I wouldn't act so free in town, but
these men see people so seldom that they are awkward and embarrassed. I
like to put them at ease, and it is to be done only by being kind of
hail-fellow-well-met with them. So far not one has ever misunderstood
me and I have been treated with every courtesy and kindness, so I am
powerfully glad you understand. They really enjoy doing these little
things like fixing our dinner, and if my poor company can add to any
one's pleasure I am too glad.
Sincerely yours,
ELINORE RUPERT.
Mr. Stewart is going to put up my house for me in pay for my extra
work.
I am ashamed of my long letters to you, but I am such a murderer of
language that I have to use it all to tell anything.
Please don't entirely forget me. Your letters mean so much to me and I
will try to answer more promptly.
IV
A CHARMING ADVENTURE AND ZEBULON PIKE
_September 28, 1909._
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
Your second card just reached me and I am plumb glad because, although
I answered your other, I was wishing I could write you, for I have had
the most charming adventure.
It is the custom here for as many women as care to to go in a party
over into Utah to Ashland (which is over a hundred miles away) after
fruit. They usually go in September, and it takes a week to make the
trip. They take wagons and camp out and of course have a good time,
but, the greater part of the way, there isn't even the semblance of a
road and it is merely a semblance anywhere. They came over to invite me
to join them. I was of two minds--I wanted to go, but it seemed a
little risky and a big chance for discomfort, since we would have to
cross the Uinta Mountains, and a snowstorm likely any time. But I
didn't like to refuse outright, so we left it to Mr. Stewart. His
"Ye're nae gang" sounded powerful final, so the ladies departed in awed
silence and I assumed a martyr-like air and acted like a very much
abused woman, although he did only what I wanted him to do. At last, in
sheer desperation he told me the "bairn canna stand the treep," and
that was why he was so determined. I knew why, of course, but I
continued to look abused lest he gets it into his head that he can boss
me. After he had been reduced to the proper plane of humility and had
explained and begged my pardon and had told me to consult only my own
pleasure about going and coming and using his horses, only not to
"expoose" the bairn, why, I forgave him and we were friends once more.
Next day all the men left for the roundup, to be gone a week. I knew I
never could stand myself a whole week. In a little while the ladies
came past on their way to Ashland. They were all laughing and were so
happy that I really began to wish I was one of the number, but they
went their way and I kept wanting to go _somewhere_. I got reckless and
determined to do something real bad. So I went down to the barn and
saddled Robin Adair, placed a pack on "Jeems McGregor," then Jerrine
and I left for a camping-out expedition.
It was nine o'clock when we started and we rode hard until about four,
when I turned Robin loose, saddle and all, for I knew he would go home
and some one would see him and put him into the pasture. We had gotten
to where we couldn't ride anyway, so I put Jerrine on the pack and led
"Jeems" for about two hours longer; then, as I had come to a good place
to camp, we stopped.
While we had at least two good hours of daylight, it gets so cold here
in the evening that fire is very necessary. We had been climbing higher
into the mountains all day and had reached a level tableland where the
grass was luxuriant and there was plenty of wood and water. I unpacked
"Jeems" and staked him out, built a roaring fire, and made our bed in
an angle of a sheer wall of rock where we would be protected against
the wind. Then I put some potatoes into the embers, as Baby and I are
both fond of roasted potatoes. I started to a little spring to get
water for my coffee when I saw a couple of jack rabbits playing, so I
went back for my little shotgun. I shot one of the rabbits, so I felt
very like Leather-stocking because I had killed but one when I might
have gotten two. It was fat and young, and it was but the work of a
moment to dress it and hang it up on a tree. Then I fried some slices
of bacon, made myself a cup of coffee, and Jerrine and I sat on the
ground and ate. Everything smelled and tasted so good! This air is so
tonic that one gets delightfully hungry. Afterward we watered and
restaked "Jeems," I rolled some logs on to the fire, and then we sat
and enjoyed the prospect.
The moon was so new that its light was very dim, but the stars were
bright. Presently a long, quivering wail arose and was answered from a
dozen hills. It seemed just the sound one ought to hear in such a
place. When the howls ceased for a moment we could hear the subdued
roar of the creek and the crooning of the wind in the pines. So we
rather enjoyed the coyote chorus and were not afraid, because they
don't attack people. Presently we crept under our Navajos and, being
tired, were soon asleep.
I was awakened by a pebble striking my cheek. Something prowling on the
bluff above us had dislodged it and it struck me. By my Waterbury it
was four o'clock, so I arose and spitted my rabbit. The logs had left a
big bed of coals, but some ends were still burning and had burned in
such a manner that the heat would go both under and over my rabbit. So
I put plenty of bacon grease over him and hung him up to roast. Then I
went back to bed. I didn't want to start early because the air is too
keen for comfort early in the morning.
The sun was just gilding the hilltops when we arose. Everything, even
the barrenness, was beautiful. We have had frosts, and the quaking
aspens were a trembling field of gold as far up the stream as we could
see. We were 'way up above them and could look far across the valley.
We could see the silvery gold of the willows, the russet and bronze of
the currants, and patches of cheerful green showed where the pines
were. The splendor was relieved by a background of sober gray-green
hills, but even on them gay streaks and patches of yellow showed where
rabbit-brush grew. We washed our faces at the spring,--the grasses that
grew around the edge and dipped into the water were loaded with
ice,--our rabbit was done to a turn, so I made some delicious coffee,
Jerrine got herself a can of water, and we breakfasted. Shortly
afterwards we started again. We didn't know where we were going, but we
were on our way.
That day was more toilsome than the last, but a very happy one. The
meadowlarks kept singing like they were glad to see us. But we were
still climbing and soon got beyond the larks and sage chickens and up
into the timber, where there are lots of grouse. We stopped to noon by
a little lake, where I got two small squirrels and a string of trout.
We had some trout for dinner and salted the rest with the squirrels in
an empty can for future use. I was anxious to get a grouse and kept
close watch, but was never quick enough. Our progress was now slower
and more difficult, because in places we could scarcely get through the
forest. Fallen trees were everywhere and we had to avoid the branches,
which was powerful hard to do. Besides, it was quite dusky among the
trees long before night, but it was all so grand and awe-inspiring.
Occasionally there was an opening through which we could see the snowy
peaks, seemingly just beyond us, toward which we were headed. But when
you get among such grandeur you get to feel how little you are and how
foolish is human endeavor, except that which reunites us with the
mighty force called God. I was plumb uncomfortable, because all my own
efforts have always been just to make the best of everything and to
take things as they come.
At last we came to an open side of the mountain where the trees were
scattered. We were facing south and east, and the mountain we were on
sheered away in a dangerous slant. Beyond us still greater wooded
mountains blocked the way, and in the cañon between night had already
fallen. I began to get scary. I could only think of bears and
catamounts, so, as it was five o'clock, we decided to camp. The trees
were immense. The lower branches came clear to the ground and grew so
dense that any tree afforded a splendid shelter from the weather, but I
was nervous and wanted one that would protect us against any possible
attack. At last we found one growing in a crevice of what seemed to be
a sheer wall of rock. Nothing could reach us on two sides, and in front
two large trees had fallen so that I could make a log heap which would
give us warmth and make us safe. So with rising spirits I unpacked and
prepared for the night. I soon had a roaring fire up against the logs
and, cutting away a few branches, let the heat into as snug a bedroom
as any one could wish. The pine needles made as soft a carpet as the
wealthiest could afford. Springs abound in the mountains, so water was
plenty. I staked "Jeems" quite near so that the firelight would
frighten away any wild thing that tried to harm him. Grass was very
plentiful, so when he was made "comfy" I made our bed and fried our
trout. The branches had torn off the bag in which I had my bread, so it
was lost in the forest, but who needs bread when they have good, mealy
potatoes? In a short time we were eating like Lent was just over. We
lost all the glory of the sunset except what we got by reflection,
being on the side of the mountain we were, with the dense woods
between. Big sullen clouds kept drifting over and a wind got lost in
the trees that kept them rocking and groaning in a horrid way. But we
were just as cozy as we could be and rest was as good as anything.
I wish you could once sleep on the kind of bed we enjoyed that night.
It was both soft and firm, with the clean, spicy smell of the pine. The
heat from our big fire came in and we were warm as toast. It was so
good to stretch out and rest. I kept thinking how superior I was since
I dared to take such an outing when so many poor women down in Denver
were bent on making their twenty cents per hour in order that they
could spare a quarter to go to the "show." I went to sleep with a
powerfully self-satisfied feeling, but I awoke to realize that pride
goeth before a fall.
I could hardly remember where I was when I awoke, and I could almost
hear the silence. Not a tree moaned, not a branch seemed to stir. I
arose and my head came in violent contact with a snag that was not
there when I went to bed. I thought either I must have grown taller or
the tree shorter during the night. As soon as I peered out, the mystery
was explained.
Such a snowstorm I never saw! The snow had pressed the branches down
lower, hence my bumped head. Our fire was burning merrily and the heat
kept the snow from in front. I scrambled out and poked up the fire;
then, as it was only five o'clock, I went back to bed. And then I began
to think how many kinds of idiot I was. Here I was thirty or forty
miles from home, in the mountains where no one goes in the winter and
where I knew the snow got to be ten or fifteen feet deep. But I could
never see the good of moping, so I got up and got breakfast while Baby
put her shoes on. We had our squirrels and more baked potatoes and I
had delicious black coffee.
After I had eaten I felt more hopeful. I knew Mr. Stewart would hunt
for me if he knew I was lost. It was true, he wouldn't know which way
to start, but I determined to rig up "Jeems" and turn him loose, for I
knew he would go home and that he would leave a trail so that I could
be found. I hated to do so, for I knew I should always have to be
powerfully humble afterwards. Anyway it was still snowing, great, heavy
flakes; they looked as large as dollars. I didn't want to start "Jeems"
until the snow stopped because I wanted him to leave a clear trail. I
had sixteen loads for my gun and I reasoned that I could likely kill
enough food to last twice that many days by being careful what I shot
at. It just kept snowing, so at last I decided to take a little hunt
and provide for the day. I left Jerrine happy with the towel rolled
into a baby, and went along the brow of the mountain for almost a
mile, but the snow fell so thickly that I couldn't see far. Then I
happened to look down into the cañon that lay east of us and saw smoke.
I looked toward it a long time, but could make out nothing but smoke,
but presently I heard a dog bark and I knew I was near a camp of some
kind. I resolved to join them, so went back to break my own camp.
At last everything was ready and Jerrine and I both mounted. Of all the
times! If you think there is much comfort, or even security, in riding
a pack-horse in a snowstorm over mountains where there is no road, you
are plumb wrong. Every once in a while a tree would unload its snow
down our backs. "Jeems" kept stumbling and threatening to break our
necks. At last we got down the mountain-side, where new danger
confronted us,--we might lose sight of the smoke or ride into a bog.
But at last, after what seemed hours, we came into a "clearing" with a
small log house and, what is rare in Wyoming, a fireplace. Three or
four hounds set up their deep baying, and I knew by the chimney and the
hounds that it was the home of a Southerner. A little old man came
bustling out, chewing his tobacco so fast, and almost frantic about his
suspenders, which it seemed he couldn't get adjusted.
As I rode up, he said, "Whither, friend?" I said "Hither." Then he
asked, "Air you spying around for one of them dinged game wardens arter
that deer I killed yisteddy?" I told him I had never even seen a game
warden and that I didn't know he had killed a deer. "Wall," he said,
"air you spying around arter that gold mine I diskivered over on the
west side of Baldy?" But after a while I convinced him that I was no
more nor less than a foolish woman lost in the snow. Then he said,
"Light, stranger, and look at your saddle." So I "lit" and looked, and
then I asked him what part of the South he was from. He answered, "Yell
County, by gum! The best place in the United States, or in the world,
either." That was my introduction to Zebulon Pike Parker.
Only two "Johnny Rebs" could have enjoyed each other's company as
Zebulon Pike and myself did. He was so small and so old, but so
cheerful and so sprightly, and a real Southerner! He had a big, open
fireplace with backlogs and andirons. How I enjoyed it all! How we
feasted on some of the deer killed "yisteddy," and real corn-pone baked
in a skillet down on the hearth. He was so full of happy recollections
and had a few that were not so happy! He is, in some way, a kinsman of
Pike of Pike's Peak fame, and he came west "jist arter the wah" on some
expedition and "jist stayed." He told me about his home life back in
Yell County, and I feel that I know all the "young uns."
There was George Henry, his only brother; and there were Phoebe and
"Mothie," whose real name is Martha; and poor little Mary Ann, whose
death was described so feelingly that no one could keep back the
tears. Lastly there was little Mandy, the baby and his favorite, but
who, I am afraid, was a selfish little beast since she had to have her
prunellas when all the rest of the "young uns" had to wear shoes that
old Uncle Buck made out of rawhide. But then "her eyes were blue as
morning-glories and her hair was jist like corn-silk, so yaller and
fluffy." Bless his simple, honest heart! His own eyes are blue and
kind, and his poor, thin little shoulders are so round that they almost
meet in front. How he loved to talk of his boyhood days! I can almost
see his father and George Henry as they marched away to the "wah"
together, and the poor little mother's despair as she waited day after
day for some word, that never came.
Poor little Mary Ann was drowned in the bayou, where she was trying to
get water-lilies. She had wanted a white dress all her life and so,
when she was dead, they took down the white cross-bar curtains and
Mother made the little shroud by the light of a tallow dip. But, being
made by hand, it took all the next day, too, so that they buried her by
moonlight down back of the orchard under the big elm where the children
had always had their swing. And they lined and covered her grave with
big, fragrant water-lilies. As they lowered the poor little home-made
coffin into the grave the mockingbirds began to sing and they sang all
that dewy, moonlight night. Then little Mandy's wedding to Judge
Carter's son Jim was described. She wore a "cream-colored poplin with a
red rose throwed up in it," and the lace that was on Grandma's wedding
dress. There were bowers of sweet Southern roses and honeysuckle and
wistaria. Don't you know she was a dainty bride?
At last it came out that he had not heard from home since he left it.
"Don't you ever write?" I asked. "No, I am not an eddicated man,
although I started to school. Yes'm, I started along of the rest, but
they told me it was a Yankee teacher and I was 'fraid, so when I got
most to the schoolhouse I hid in the bushes with my spelling-book, so
that is all the learning I ever got. But my mother was an eddicated
woman, yes'm, she could both read and write. I have the Bible she give
me yit. Yes'm, you jist wait and I'll show you." After some rummaging
in a box he came back with a small leather-bound Bible with print so
small it was hard to read. After turning to the record of births and
deaths he handed it to me, his wrinkled old face shining with pride as
he said, "There, my mother wrote that with her own hand." I took the
book and after a little deciphered that "Zebulon Pike Parker was born
Feb. 10, 1830," written in the stiff, difficult style of long ago and
written with pokeberry ink. He said his mother used to read about some
"old feller that was jist covered with biles," so I read Job to him,
and he was full of surprise they didn't "git some cherry bark and some
sasparilly and bile it good and gin it to him."
He had a side room to his cabin, which was his bedroom; so that night
he spread down a buffalo robe and two bearskins before the fire for
Jerrine and me. After making sure there were no moths in them, I spread
blankets over them and put a sleepy, happy little girl to bed, for he
had insisted on making molasses candy for her because they happened to
be born on the same day of the month. And then he played the fiddle
until almost one o'clock. He played all the simple, sweet, old-time
pieces, in rather a squeaky, jerky way, I am afraid, but the music
suited the time and the place.
Next morning he called me early and when I went out I saw such a
beautiful sunrise, well worth the effort of coming to see. I had
thought his cabin in a cañon, but the snow had deceived me, for a few
steps from the door the mountains seemed to drop down suddenly for
several hundred feet and the first of the snow peaks seemed to lie
right at our feet. Around its base is a great swamp, in which the swamp
pines grow very thickly and from which a vapor was rising that got
about halfway up the snow peak all around. Fancy to yourself a big
jewel-box of dark green velvet lined with silver chiffon, the snow peak
lying like an immense opal in its center and over all the amber light
of a new day. That is what it looked most like.
Well, we next went to the corral, where I was surprised to find about
thirty head of sheep. Some of them looked like they should have been
sold ten years before. "Don't you ever sell any of your sheep?" I
asked. "No'm. There was a feller come here once and wanted to buy some
of my wethers, but I wouldn't sell any because I didn't need any
money." Then he went from animal to animal, caressing each and talking
to them, calling them each by name. He milked his one cow, fed his two
little mules, and then we went back to the house to cook breakfast. We
had delicious venison steak, smoking hot, and hoe-cakes and the
"bestest" coffee, and honey.
After breakfast we set out for home. Our pack transferred to one of the
little mules, we rode "Jeems," and Mr. Parker rode the other mule. He
took us another way, down cañon after cañon, so that we were able to
ride all the time and could make better speed. We came down out of the
snow and camped within twelve miles of home in an old, deserted ranch
house. We had grouse and sage chicken for supper. I was so anxious to
get home that I could hardly sleep, but at last I did and was only
awakened by the odor of coffee, and barely had time to wash before
Zebulon Pike called breakfast. Afterwards we fixed "Jeems's" pack so
that I could still ride, for Zebulon Pike was very anxious to get back
to his "critters."
Poor, lonely, childlike little man! He tried to tell me how glad he had
been to entertain me. "Why," he said, "I was plumb glad to see you and
right sorry to have you go. Why, I would jist as soon talk to you as to
a nigger. Yes'm, I would. It has been almost as good as talking to old
Aunt Dilsey." If a Yankee had said the same to me I would have demanded
instant apology, but I know how the Southern heart longs for the dear,
kindly old "niggers," so I came on homeward, thankful for the first
time that I can't talk correctly.
I got home at twelve and found, to my joy, that none of the men had
returned, so I am safe from their superiority for a while, at least.
With many apologies for this outrageous letter, I am
Your ex-Washlady,
ELINORE RUPERT.
V
SEDALIA AND REGALIA
_November 22, 1909._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--
I was dreadfully afraid that my last letter was too much for you and
now I feel plumb guilty. I really don't know how to write you, for I
have to write so much to say so little, and now that my last letter
made you sick I almost wish so many things didn't happen to me, for I
always want to tell you. Many things have happened since I last wrote,
and Zebulon Pike is not done for by any means, but I guess I will tell
you my newest experience.
I am making a wedding dress. Don't grin; it isn't mine,--worse luck!
But I must begin at the beginning. Just after I wrote you before, there
came a terrific storm which made me appreciate indoor coziness, but as
only Baby and I were at home I expected to be very lonely. The snow was
just whirling when I saw some one pass the window. I opened the door
and in came the dumpiest little woman and two daughters. She asked me
if I was "Mis' Rupit." I told her that she had almost guessed it, and
then she introduced herself. She said she was "Mis' Lane," that she had
heard there was a new stranger in the country, so she had brought her
twin girls, Sedalia and Regalia, to be neighborly. While they were
taking off their many coats and wraps it came out that they were from
Linwood, thirty miles away. I was powerful glad I had a pot roast and
some baked beans.
After we had put the horses in the barn we had dinner and I heard the
story of the girls' odd names. The mother is one of those "comfy," fat
little women who remain happy and bubbling with fun in spite of hard
knocks. I had already fallen in love with Regalia, she is so jolly and
unaffected, so fat and so plain. Sedalia has a veneer of most
uncomfortable refinement. She was shocked because Gale ate all the
roast she wanted, and if I had been very sensitive I would have been in
tears, because I ate a helping more than Gale did.
But about the names. It seemed that "Mis' Lane" married quite young,
was an orphan, and had no one to tell her things she should have known.
She lived in Missouri, but about a year after her marriage the young
couple started overland for the West. It was in November, and one night
when they had reached the plains a real blue blizzard struck them.
"Mis' Lane" had been in pain all day and soon she knew what was the
matter. They were alone and it was a day's travel back to the last
house. The team had given out and the wind and sleet were seeing which
could do the most meanness. At last the poor man got a fire started and
a wagon sheet stretched in such a manner that it kept off the sleet. He
fixed a bed under the poor shelter and did all he could to keep the
fire from blowing away, and there, a few hours later, a little girl
baby was born. They melted sleet in the frying-pan to get water to wash
it. "Mis' Lane" kept feeling no better fast, and about the time they
got the poor baby dressed a second little one came.
That she told me herself is proof she didn't die, I guess, but it is
right hard to believe she didn't. Luckily the fire lasted until the
babies were dressed and the mother began to feel better, for there was
no wood. Soon the wind stopped and the snow fell steadily. It was
warmer, and the whole family snuggled up under the wagon sheet and
slept.
Mr. Lane is a powerful good husband. He waited two whole days for his
wife to gain strength before he resumed the journey, and on the third
morning he actually carried her to the wagon. Just think of it! Could
more be asked of any man?
Every turn of the wheels made poor "Mis' Lane" more homesick. Like Mrs.
Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch, she had a taste for geographical names,
and "Mis' Lane" is very loyal, so she wanted to call the little
first-born "Missouri." Mr. Lane said she might, but that if she did he
would call the other one "Arkansas." Sometimes homesickness would
almost master her. She would hug up the little red baby and murmur
"Missouri," and then daddy would growl playfully to "Arkansas." It went
on that way for a long time and at last she remembered that Sedalia was
in Missouri, so she felt glad and really named the older baby
"Sedalia." But she could think of nothing to match the name and was in
constant fear the father would name the other baby "Little Rock."
For three years poor Gale was just "t'other one." Then the Lanes went
to Green River where some lodge was having a parade. They were watching
the drill when a "bystander that was standing by" said something about
the "fine regalia." Instantly "Mis' Lane" thought of her unnamed
child; so since that time Gale has had a name.
There could be no two people more unlike than the sisters. Sedalia is
really handsome, and she is thin. But she is vain, selfish, shallow,
and conceited. Gale is not even pretty, but she is clean and she is
honest. She does many little things that are not exactly polite, but
she is good and true. They both went to the barn with me to milk. Gale
tucked up her skirts and helped me. She said, "I just love a stable,
with its hay and comfortable, contented cattle. I never go into one
without thinking of the little baby Christ. I almost expect to see a
little red baby in the straw every time I peek into a manger."
Sedalia answered, "Well, for Heaven's sake, get out of the stable to
preach. Who wants to stand among these smelly cows all day?"
They stayed with us almost a week, and one day when Gale and I were
milking she asked me to invite her to stay with me a month. She said
to ask her mother, and left her mother and myself much together. But
Sedalia stuck to her mother like a plaster and I just could not stand
Sedalia a whole month. However, I was spared all embarrassment, for
"Mis' Lane" asked me if I could not find work enough to keep Gale busy
for a month or two. She went on to explain that Sedalia was expecting
to be married and that Gale was so "common" she would really spoil the
match. I was surprised and indignant, especially as Sedalia sat and
listened so brazenly, so I said I thought Sedalia would need all the
help she could get to get married and that I should be glad to have
Gale visit me as long as she liked.
So Gale stayed on with me. One afternoon she had gone to the
post-office when I saw Mr. Patterson ride up. He went into the
bunk-house to wait until the men should come. Now, from something Gale
had said I fancied that Bob Patterson must be the right man. I am
afraid I am not very delicate about that kind of meddling, and while I
had been given to understand that Patterson was the man Sedalia
expected to marry, I didn't think any man would choose her if he could
get Gale, so I called him. We had a long chat and he told me frankly he
wanted Gale, but that she didn't care for him, and that they kept
throwing "that danged Sedalia" at him. Then he begged my pardon for
saying "danged," but I told him I approved of the word when applied to
Sedalia, and broke the news to him that Gale was staying with me. He
fairly beamed. So that night I left Gale to wash dishes and Bob to help
her while I held Mr. Stewart a prisoner in the stable and questioned
him regarding Patterson's prospects and habits. I found both all that
need be, and told Mr. Stewart about my talk with Patterson, and he
said, "Wooman, some day ye'll gang ploom daft." But he admitted he was
glad it was the "bonny lassie, instead of the bony one." When we went
to the house Mr. Stewart said, "Weel, when are you douchy bairns
gangin' to the kirk?"
They left it to me, so I set Thanksgiving Day, and as there is no "kirk
to gang to," we are going to have a justice of the peace and they are
to be married here. We are going to have the dandiest dinner that I can
cook, and Mr. Stewart went to town next day for the wedding dress, the
gayest plaid outside of Caledonia. But Gale has lots of sense and is
going to wear it. I have it almost finished, and while it doesn't look
just like a Worth model, still it looks plumb good for me to have made.
The boys are going up after Zebulon Pike, and Mr. Stewart is going
after "Mis' Lane." Joy waves are radiating from this ranch and about
Thanksgiving morning one will strike you.
With lots of love and happy wishes,
Your ex-Washlady,
ELINORE RUPERT.
VI
A THANKSGIVING-DAY WEDDING
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
... I think every one enjoyed our Thanksgiving programme except poor
Gale. She was grieved, I verily believe, because Mr. Patterson is not
Mormon and could not take Sedalia and herself also. I suppose it seemed
odd to her to be unable to give way to Sedalia as she had always done.
I had cooked and cooked. Gale and Zebulon Pike both helped all they
could. The wedding was to be at twelve o'clock, so at ten I hustled
Gale into my room to dress. I had to lock the door to keep her in, and
I divided my time between the last touches to my dinner and the
finishing touches to Gale's toilet and receiving the people. The Lane
party had not come yet, and I was scared to death lest Sedalia had had
a tantrum and that Mr. Stewart would not get back in time. At last I
left the people to take care of themselves, for I had too much on my
mind to bother with them. Just after eleven Mr. Stewart, Mis' Lane,
Sedalia, and Pa Lane "arriv" and came at once into the kitchen to warm.
In a little while poor, frightened Gale came creeping in, looking
guilty. But she looked lovely, too, in spite of her plaid dress. She
wore her hair in a coronet braid, which added dignity and height, as
well as being simple and becoming. Her mother brought her a wreath for
her hair, of lilies of the valley and tiny pink rosebuds. It might seem
a little out of place to one who didn't see it, but the effect was
really charming.