to be nasty, she said, as soon as she saw Gale, "Dear me, when are you
going to dress, Gale? You will hardly have time to get out of that
horse-blanket you are wearing and get into something decent." You see,
she thought it was one of my dresses fixed over for Gale. Presently
Sedalia asked me if I was invited to the "function." She had some kind
of rash on her face and Zebulon Pike noticed the rash and heard the
word "function," so he thought that was the name of some disease and
asked Mr. Stewart if the "function" was "catching." Mr. Stewart had
heard Sedalia, but knew "Zebbie" had not heard all that was said and
how he got the idea he had, so he answered, "Yes, if ye once get the
fever." So Zebulon Pike privately warned every one against getting the
"function" from Sedalia. There are plenty of people here who don't know
exactly what a function is, myself among them. So people edged away
from Sedalia, and some asked her if she had seen the doctor and what he
thought of her case. Poor girl, I'm afraid she didn't have a very
enjoyable time.
At last the "jestice" of the peace came, and I hope they live happy
ever afterward. That night a dance was given to celebrate the event
and we began to have dinner immediately after the wedding so as to get
through in time to start, for dances are never given in the home here,
but in "the hall." Every settlement has one and the invitations are
merely written announcements posted everywhere. We have what Sedalia
calls "homogenous" crowds. I wouldn't attempt to say what she means,
but as everybody goes no doubt she is right.
Our dinner was a success, but that is not to be wondered at. Every
woman for miles around contributed. Of course we had to borrow dishes,
but we couldn't think of seating every one; so we set one table for
twenty-four and had three other long tables, on one of which we placed
all the meats, pickles, and sauces, on another the vegetables, soup,
and coffee, and on the third the pie, cakes, ice-cream, and other
desserts. We had two big, long shelves, one above the other, on which
were the dishes. The people helped themselves to dishes and neighbors
took turns at serving from the tables, so people got what they wanted
and hunted themselves a place to sit while they ate. Two of the cowboys
from this ranch waited upon the table at which were the wedding party
and some of their friends. Boys from other ranches helped serve and
carried coffee, cake, and ice-cream. The tablecloths were tolerably
good linen and we had ironed them wet so they looked nice. We had white
lace-paper on the shelves and we used drawn-work paper napkins. As I
said, we borrowed dishes, or, that is, every woman who called herself
our neighbor brought whatever she thought we would need. So after every
one had eaten I suggested that they sort out their dishes and wash
them, and in that way I was saved all that work. We had everything done
and were off to the dance by five o'clock. We went in sleds and
sleighs, the snow was so deep, but it was all so jolly. Zebbie, Mr.
Stewart, Jerrine, and I went in the bobsled. We jogged along at a
comfortable pace lest the "beasties" should suffer, and every now and
then a merry party would fly past us scattering snow in our faces and
yelling like Comanches. We had a lovely moon then and the snow was so
beautiful! We were driving northward, and to the south and back of us
were the great somber, pine-clad Uintah Mountains, while ahead and on
every side were the bare buttes, looking like old men of the
mountains,--so old they had lost all their hair, beard, and teeth.
VII
ZEBULON PIKE VISITS HIS OLD HOME
_December 28, 1909._
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
Our Thanksgiving affair was the most enjoyable happening I can remember
for a long time. Zebulon Pike came, but I had as a bait for him two fat
letters from home. As soon as I came back from his place I wrote to
Mrs. Carter and trusted to luck for my letter to reach her. I told her
all I could about her brother and how seldom he left his mountain home.
I asked her to write him all she could in one letter, as the trips
between our place and his were so few and far between. So when she
received my letter she wrote all she could think of, and then sent her
letter and mine to Mothie and Phoebe, who are widows living in the
old home. They each took turns writing, so their letters are a complete
record of the years "Zebbie" has been gone. The letters were addressed
to me along with a cordial letter from Mrs. Carter asking me to see
that he got them and to use my judgment in the delivering. I couldn't
go myself, but I wanted to read the letters to him and to write the
answers; so I selected one piece of news I felt would bring him to hear
the rest without his knowing how much there was for him.
Well, the boys brought him, and a more delighted little man I am sure
never lived. I read the letters over and over, and answers were hurried
off. He was dreadfully homesick, but couldn't figure on how he could
leave the "critters," or how he could trust himself on a train. Mr.
Stewart became interested, and he is a very resourceful man, so an old
Frenchman was found who had no home and wanted a place to stay so he
could trap. He was installed at Zebulon Pike's with full instructions
as to each "critter's" peculiarities and needs. Then one of the boys,
who was going home for Christmas to Memphis, was induced to wait for
Mr. Parker and to see him safe to Little Rock. His money was banked for
him, and Mr. Stewart saw that he was properly clothed and made
comfortable for the trip. Then he sent a telegram to Judge Carter, who
met Zebulon Pike at Little Rock, and they had a family reunion in Yell
County. I have had some charming letters from there, but that only
proves what I have always said, that I am the luckiest woman in finding
really lovely people and having really happy experiences. Good things
are constantly happening to me. I wish I could tell you about my happy
Christmas, but one of my New Year's resolutions was to stop loading you
down with two-thousand-word letters.
From something you wrote I think I must have written boastingly to you
at some time. I have certainly not intended to, and you must please
forgive me and remember how ignorant I am and how hard it is for me to
express myself properly. I felt after I had written to Mr. Parker's
people that I had taken a liberty, but luckily it was not thought of in
that way by them. If you only knew how far short I fall of my own hopes
you would know I could _never_ boast. Why, it keeps me busy making over
mistakes just like some one using old clothes. I get myself all ready
to enjoy a success and find that I have to fit a failure. But one
consolation is that I generally have plenty of material to cut
generously, and many of my failures have proved to be real blessings.
I do hope this New Year may bring to you the desire of your heart and
all that those who love you best most wish for you.
With lots and lots of love from baby and myself.
Your ex-washlady,
ELINORE RUPERT.
VIII
A HAPPY CHRISTMAS
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
My happy Christmas resulted from the ex-sheriff of this county being
snowbound here. It seems that persons who come from a lower altitude to
this country frequently become bewildered, especially if in poor
health, leave the train at any stop and wander off into the hills,
sometimes dying before they are found. The ex-sheriff cited a case,
that of a young German who was returning from the Philippines, where he
had been discharged after the war. He was the only child of his widowed
mother, who has a ranch a few miles from here. No one knew he was
coming home. One day the cook belonging to the camp of a construction
gang went hunting and came back running, wild with horror. He had found
the body of a man. The coroner and the sheriff were notified, and next
morning went out for the body, but the wolves had almost destroyed it.
High up in a willow, under which the poor man had lain down to die,
they saw a small bundle tied in a red bandanna and fast to a branch.
They found a letter addressed to whoever should find it, saying that
the body was that of Benny Louderer and giving them directions how to
spare his poor old mother the awful knowledge of how he died. Also
there was a letter to his mother asking her not to grieve for him and
to keep their days faithfully. "Their days," I afterward learned, were
anniversaries which they had always kept, to which was added "Benny's
day."
Poor boy! When he realized that death was near his every thought was
for the mother. Well, they followed his wishes, and the casket
containing the bare, gnawed bones was sealed and never opened. And to
this day poor Mrs. Louderer thinks her boy died of some fever while yet
aboard the transport. The manner of his death has been kept so secret
that I am the only one who has heard it.
I was so sorry for the poor mother that I resolved to visit her the
first opportunity I had. I am at liberty to go where I please when
there is no one to cook for. So, when the men left, a few days later, I
took Jerrine and rode over to the Louderer ranch. I had never seen Mrs.
Louderer and it happened to be "Benny's day" that I blundered in upon.
I found her to be a dear old German woman living all alone, the people
who do the work on the ranch living in another house two miles away.
She had been weeping for hours when I got there, but in accordance with
her custom on the many anniversaries, she had a real feast prepared,
although no one had been bidden.
She says that God always sends her guests, but that was the first time
she had had a little girl. She had a little daughter once herself,
little Gretchen, but all that was left was a sweet memory and a
pitifully small mound on the ranch, quite near the house, where Benny
and Gretchen are at rest beside "der fader, Herr Louderer."
She is such a dear old lady! She made us so welcome and she is so
entertaining. All the remainder of the day we listened to stories of
her children, looked at her pictures, and Jerrine had a lovely time
with a wonderful wooden doll that they had brought with them from
Germany. Mrs. Louderer forgot to weep in recalling her childhood days
and showing us her treasures. And then our feast,--for it was verily a
feast. We had goose and it was _so_ delicious. I couldn't tell you half
the good things any more than I could have eaten some of all of them.
We sat talking until far into the night, and she asked me how I was
going to spend Christmas. I told her, "Probably in being homesick." She
said that would never do and suggested that we spend it together. She
said it was one of their special days and that the only happiness left
her was in making some one else happy; so she had thought of cooking
some nice things and going to as many sheep camps as she could, taking
with her the good things to the poor exiles, the sheep-herders. I liked
the plan and was glad to agree, but I never dreamed I should have so
lovely a time. When the queer old wooden clock announced two we went to
bed.
I left quite early the next morning with my head full of Christmas
plans. You may not know, but cattle-men and sheep-men cordially hate
each other. Mr. Stewart is a cattle-man, and so I didn't mention my
Christmas plans to him. I saved all the butter I could spare for the
sheep-herders; they never have any. That and some jars of gooseberry
jelly was all I could give them. I cooked plenty for the people here,
and two days before Christmas I had a chance to go down to Mrs.
Louderer's in a buggy, so we went. We found her up to her ears in
cooking, and such sights and smells I could never describe. She was so
glad I came early, for she needed help. I never worked so hard in my
life or had a pleasanter time.
Mrs. Louderer had sent a man out several days before to find out how
many camps there were and where they were located. There were twelve
camps and that means twenty-four men. We roasted six geese, boiled
three small hams and three hens. We had besides several meat-loaves and
links of sausage. We had twelve large loaves of the _best_ rye bread; a
small tub of doughnuts; twelve coffee-cakes, more to be called
fruit-cakes, and also a quantity of little cakes with seeds, nuts, and
fruit in them,--so pretty to look at and _so_ good to taste. These had
a thick coat of icing, some brown, some pink, some white. I had
thirteen pounds of butter and six pint jars of jelly, so we melted the
jelly and poured it into twelve glasses.
The plan was, to start real early Christmas Eve morning, make our
circuit of camps, and wind up the day at Frau O'Shaughnessy's to spend
the night. Yes, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is Irish,--as Irish as the pigs in
Dublin. Before it was day the man came to feed and to get our horses
ready. We were up betimes and had breakfast. The last speck was wiped
from the shining stove, the kitchen floor was scrubbed, and the last
small thing put in order. The man had four horses harnessed and hitched
to the sled, on which was placed a wagon-box filled with straw, hot
rocks, and blankets. Our twelve apostles--that is what we called our
twelve boxes--were lifted in and tied firmly into place. Then we
clambered in and away we went. Mrs. Louderer drove, and Tam O'Shanter
and Paul Revere were snails compared to us. We didn't follow any road
either, but went sweeping along across country. No one else in the
world could have done it unless they were drunk. We went careening
along hill-sides without even slacking the trot. Occasionally we struck
a particularly stubborn bunch of sagebrush and even the sled-runners
would jump up into the air. We didn't stop to light, but hit the earth
several feet in advance of where we left it. Luck was with us, though.
I hardly expected to get through with my head unbroken, but not even a
glass was cracked.
It would have done your heart good to see the sheep-men. They were all
delighted, and when you consider that they live solely on canned corn
and tomatoes, beans, salt pork, and coffee, you can fancy what they
thought of their treat. They have mutton when it is fit to eat, but
that is certainly not in winter. One man at each camp does the cooking
and the other herds. It doesn't make any difference if the cook never
cooked before, and most of them never did. At one camp, where we
stopped for dinner, they had a most interesting collection of fossils.
After delivering our last "apostle," we turned our faces toward Frau
O'Shaughnessy's, and got there just in time for supper.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is a widow, too, and has quite an interesting story.
She is a dumpy little woman whose small nose seems to be smelling the
stars, it is so tip-tilted. She has the merriest blue eyes and the
quickest wit. It is really worth a severe bumping just to be welcomed
by her. It was so warm and cozy in her low little cabin. She had her
table set for supper, but she laid plates for us and put before us a
beautifully roasted chicken. Thrifty Mrs. Louderer thought it should
have been saved until next day, so she said to Frau O'Shaughnessy, "We
hate to eat your hen, best you save her till tomorrow." But Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy answered, "Oh, 't is no mather, 't is an ould hin she was
annyway." So we enjoyed the "ould hin," which was brown, juicy, and
tender.
When we had finished supper and were drinking our "tay," Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy told our fortunes with the tea-leaves. She told mine
first and said I would die an old maid. I said it was rather late for
that, but she cheerfully replied, "Oh, well, better late than niver."
She predicted for Mrs. Louderer that she should shortly catch a beau.
"'T is the next man you see that will come coortin' you." Before we
left the table some one knocked and a young man, a sheep-herder,
entered. He belonged to a camp a few miles away and is out from Boston
in search of health. He had been into town and his horse was lamed so
he could not make it into camp, and he wanted to stay overnight. He was
a stranger to us all, but Mrs. O'Shaughnessy made him at home and fixed
such a tempting supper for him that I am sure he was glad of the chance
to stay. He was very decidedly English, and powerfully proud of it. He
asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy if she was Irish and she said, "No, ye
haythen, it's Chinese Oi am. Can't yez tell it be me Cockney accint?"
Mr. Boutwell looked very much surprised. I don't know which was the
funnier, the way he looked or what she said.
We had a late breakfast Christmas morning, but before we were through
Mr. Stewart came. We had planned to spend the day with Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy, but he didn't approve of our going into the sheep
district, so when he found where we had gone he came after us. Mrs.
Louderer and he are old acquaintances and he bosses her around like he
tries to boss me. Before we left, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's married daughter
came, so we knew she would not be lonely.
It was almost one o'clock when we got home, but all hands helped and I
had plenty cooked anyway, so we soon had a good dinner on the table.
Mr. Stewart had prepared a Christmas box for Jerrine and me. He doesn't
approve of white waists in the winter. I had worn one at the wedding
and he felt personally aggrieved. For me in the box were two dresses,
that is, the material to make them. One is a brown and red checked, and
the other green with a white fleck in, both outing flannel. For Jerrine
there was a pair of shoes and stockings, both stockings full of candy
and nuts. He is very bluff in manner, but he is really the kindest
person.
Mrs. Louderer stayed until New Year's day. My Christmas was really a
very happy one.
Your friend,
ELINORE RUPERT.
... An interesting day on this ranch is the day the cattle are named.
If Mr. Stewart had children he would as soon think of leaving them
unnamed as to let a "beastie" go without a name.
On the day they vaccinated he came into the kitchen and told me he
would need me to help him name the "critters." So he and I "assembled"
in a safe place and took turns naming the calves. As fast as a calf was
vaccinated it was run out of the chute and he or I called out a name
for it and it was booked that way.
The first two he named were the "Duke of Monmouth" and the "Duke of
Montrose." I called my first "Oliver Cromwell" and "John Fox." The poor
"mon" had to have revenge, so the next ugly, scrawny little beast he
called the "Poop of Roome." And it was a heifer calf, too.
This morning I had the startling news that the "Poop" had eaten too
much alfalfa and was all "swellit oop," and, moreover, he had "stealit
it." I don't know which is the more astonishing, that the Pope has
stolen alfalfa, or that he has eaten it.
We have a swell lot of names, but I am not sure I could tell you which
is "Bloody Mary," or which is "Elizabeth," or, indeed, which is which
of any of them.
E.R.
IX
A CONFESSION
_April 5, 1910._
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
I find upon re-reading your letter that I did not answer it at all when
I wrote you. You must think me very indifferent, but I really don't
mean to be.
My house joins on to Mr. Stewart's house. It was built that way so that
I could "hold down" my land and job at the same time. I see the wisdom
of it now, though at first I did not want it that way. My boundary
lines run within two feet of Mr. Stewart's house, so it was quite easy
to build on.
I think the Pattersons' ranch is about twenty-five miles from us. I am
glad to tell you they are doing splendidly. Gale is just as thrifty as
she can be and Bobby is steady and making money fast. Their baby is
the dearest little thing. I have heard that Sedalia is to marry a
Mormon bishop, but I doubt it. She puts on very disgusting airs about
"our Bobby," and she patronizes Gale most shamefully; but Gale, bless
her unconscious heart, is so happy in her husband and son that she
doesn't know Sedalia is insulting.
My dear old grandmother whom I loved so much has gone home to God. I
used to write long letters to her. I should like a few addresses of old
persons who are lonely as she was, who would like letters such as I
write. You know I can't be brief. I have tried and cannot. If you know
of any persons who would not tire of my long accounts and would care to
have them, you will be doing me a favor to let me know.
I have not treated you quite frankly about something you had a right to
know about. I am ashamed and I regret very much that I have not told
you. I so dread the possibility of losing your friendship that I will
_never_ tell you unless you promise me beforehand to forgive me. I
know that is unfair, but it is the only way I can see out of a
difficulty that my foolish reticence has led me into. Few people,
perhaps, consider me reticent, but in some cases I am afraid I am even
deceitful. Won't you make it easy to "'fess" so I may be happy again?
Truly your friend,
ELINORE RUPERT.
_June 16, 1910._
MY DEAR FRIEND,--
Your card just to hand. I wrote you some time ago telling you I had a
confession to make and have had no letter since, so thought perhaps you
were scared I had done something too bad to forgive. I am suffering
just now from eye-strain and can't see to write long at a time, but I
reckon I had better confess and get it done with.
The thing I have done is to marry Mr. Stewart. It was such an
inconsistent thing to do that I was ashamed to tell you. And, too, I
was afraid you would think I didn't need your friendship and might
desert me. Another of my friends thinks that way.
I hope my eyes will be better soon and then I will write you a long
letter.
Your old friend with a new name,
ELINORE STEWART.
X
THE STORY OF CORA BELLE
_August 15, 1910._
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
... Grandma Edmonson's birthday is the 30th of May, and Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy suggested that we give her a party. I had never seen
Grandma, but because of something that happened in her family years ago
which a few narrow-heads whom it didn't concern in the least cannot
forgive or forget, I had heard much of her. The family consists of
Grandma, Grandpa, and little Cora Belle, who is the sweetest little bud
that ever bloomed upon the twigs of folly.
The Edmonsons had only one child, a daughter, who was to have married a
man whom her parents objected to solely because he was a sheep-man,
while their sympathies were with the cattle-men, although they owned
only a small bunch. To gain their consent the young man closed out his
interest in sheep, at a loss, filed on a splendid piece of land near
them, and built a little home for the girl he loved. Before they could
get to town to be married Grandpa was stricken with rheumatism. Grandma
was already almost past going on with it, so they postponed the
marriage, and as that winter was particularly severe, the young man
took charge of the Edmonson stock and kept them from starving. As soon
as he was able he went for the license.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and a neighbor were hunting some cattle that had
wandered away and found the poor fellow shot in the back. He was not
yet dead and told them it was urgently necessary for them to hurry him
to the Edmonsons' and to get some one to perform the marriage ceremony
as quickly as possible, for he could not live long. They told him such
haste meant quicker death because he would bleed more; but he
insisted, so they got a wagon and hurried all they could. But they
could not outrun death. When he knew he could not live to reach home,
he asked them to witness all he said. Everything he possessed he left
to the girl he was to have married, and said he was the father of the
little child that was to come. He begged them to befriend the poor girl
he had to leave in such a condition, and to take the marriage license
as evidence that he had tried to do right. The wagon was stopped so the
jolting would not make death any harder, and there in the shadow of the
great twin buttes he died.
They took the body to the little home he had made, and Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy went to the Edmonsons' to do what she could there. Poor
Cora Jane didn't know how terrible a thing wounded pride is. She told
her parents her misdeeds. They couldn't see that they were in any way
to blame. They seemed to care nothing for her terrible sorrow nor for
her weakened condition. All they could think of was that the child
they had almost worshiped had disgraced them; so they told her to go.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy took her to the home that had been prepared for her,
where the poor body lay. Some way they got through those dark days, and
then began the waiting for the little one to come. Poor Cora Jane said
she would die then, and that she wanted to die, but she wanted the baby
to know it was loved,--she wanted to leave something that should speak
of that love when the child should come to understanding. So Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy said they would make all its little clothes with every
care, and they should tell of the love. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is the
daintiest needleworker I have ever seen; she was taught by the nuns at
St. Catherine's in the "ould country." She was all patience with poor,
unskilled Cora Jane, and the little outfit that was finally finished
was dainty enough for a fairy. Little Cora Belle is so proud of it.