hear anything. We could hear the most peculiar, long-drawn, sighing
wail that steadily grew louder and nearer. I was really frightened, but
he said it was the forerunner of the windstorm that would soon strike
us. He said it was wind coming down Crag Cañon, and in just a few
minutes it struck us like a cold wave and rushed, sighing, on down the
cañon. We could hear it after it had passed us, and it was perfectly
still around the cabin. Soon we heard the deep roaring of the coming
storm, and Zebbie called the hounds in and secured the door. The sparks
began to fly up the chimney. Jerrine lay on a bearskin before the
fire, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I sat on the old blue "settle" at one
side. Gavotte lay on the other side of the fire on the floor, his hands
under his head. Zebbie got out his beloved old fiddle, tuned up, and
began playing. Outside the storm was raging, growing worse all the
time. Zebbie played and played. The worse the tumult, the harder the
storm, the harder he played. I remember I was holding my breath,
expecting the house to be blown away every moment, and Zebbie was
playing what he called "Bonaparte's Retreat." It all seemed to flash
before me--I could see those poor, suffering soldiers staggering along
in the snow, sacrifices to one man's unholy ambition. I verily believe
we were all bewitched. I shouldn't have been surprised to have seen
witches and gnomes come tumbling down the chimney or flying in at the
door, riding on the crest of the storm. I glanced at Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy. She sat with her chin in her hand, gazing with unseeing
eyes into the fire. Zebbie seemed possessed; he couldn't tire.
It seemed like hours had passed and the tumult had not diminished. I
felt like shrieking, but I gathered Jerrine up into my arms and carried
her in to bed. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy came with us. She touched my elbow
and said, "Child, don't look toward the window, the banshees are out
to-night." We knelt together beside the bed and said our beads; then,
without undressing save pulling off our shoes, we crawled under our
blankets and lay on the sweet, clean pine. We were both perfectly worn
out, but we could not sleep. There seemed to be hundreds of different
noises of the storm, for there are so many cañons, so many crooks and
turns, and the great forest too. The wind was shrieking, howling, and
roaring all at once. A deep boom announced the fall of some giant of
the forest. I finally dozed off even in that terrible din, but Zebbie
was not so frenzied as he had been. He was playing "Annie Laurie," and
that song has always been a favorite of mine. The storm began gradually
to die away and "Annie Laurie" sounded so beautiful. I was thinking of
Pauline and, I know, to Zebbie, Annie Laurie and Pauline Gorley are one
and the same.
I knew no more until I heard Zebbie call out, "Ho, you sleepy-heads,
it's day." Mrs. O'Shaughnessy turned over and said she was still
sleepy. My former visit had taught me what beauty the early morning
would spread before me, so I dressed hastily and went outdoors. Zebbie
called me to go for a little walk. The amber light of the new day was
chasing the violet and amethyst shadows down the cañons. It was all
more beautiful than I can tell you. On one side the cañon-walls were
almost straight up. It looked as if we might step off into a very world
of mountains. Soon Old Baldy wore a crown of gleaming gold. The sun was
up. We walked on and soon came to a brook. We were washing our faces
in its icy waters when we heard twigs breaking, so we stood perfectly
still. From out the undergrowth of birch and willows came a deer with
two fawns. They stopped to drink, and nibbled the bushes. But soon they
scented strangers, and, looking about with their beautiful, startled
eyes, they saw us and away they went like the wind. We saw many great
trees uptorn by the storm. High up on the cliffs Zebbie showed me where
the eagles built every year.... We turned homeward and sat down upon
the trunk of a fallen pine to rest and take another look at the
magnificent view. Zebbie was silent, but presently he threw a handful
of pebbles down the cañon wall. "I am not sorry Pauline is dead. I have
never shed a tear. I know you think that is odd, but I have never
wanted to mourn. I am glad that it is as it is. I am happy and at peace
because I know she is mine. The little breeze is Pauline's own voice;
she had a little caressing way just like the gentlest breeze when it
stirs your hair. There is something in everything that brings back
Pauline: the beauty of the morning, the song of a bird or the flash of
its wings. The flowers look like she did. So I have not lost her, she
is mine more than ever. I have always felt so, but was never quite sure
until I went back and saw where they laid her. I know people think I am
crazy, but I don't care for that. I shall not hate to die. When you get
to be as old as I am, child, everything will have a new meaning to
you."
At last we slowly walked back to the cabin, and at breakfast Zebbie
told of the damage the storm had done. He was so common-place that no
one ever would have guessed his strange fancy....
I shall never forget Zebbie as I last saw him. It was the morning we
started home. After we left the bench that Zebbie lives on, our road
wound down into a deeper cañon. Zebbie had followed us to where a turn
in the cañon should hide us from view. I looked back and saw him
standing on the cliffs, high above us, the early morning sun turning
his snowy hair to gold, the breeze-fingers of Pauline tossing the
scanty locks. I shall always remember him so, a living monument to a
dead past.
ELINORE STEWART.
XII
A CONTENTED COUPLE
_October 6, 1911._
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
... I once "heared" Sedalia Lane telling some of her experiences, and
she said she "surreptitiously stole along." One day, when I thought the
coast was clear, I was surreptitiously examining the contents of the
tool-chest with a view toward securing to myself such hammers, saws,
and what else I might need in doing some carpentry work I had planned.
The tool-chest is kept in the granary; both it and the granary are
usually kept locked. Now the "gude mon" has an idea that a "wooman"
needs no tools, and the use and misuse of his tools have led to numbers
of inter-household wars. I was gloating over my opportunity, and also
making the best of it, when a medley of burring Scotch voices brought
me to a quick realization that discretion is the better part of valor.
So I went into seclusion behind a tall oat-bin. It seemed that two
neighbors whom I had never seen were preparing to go to town, and had
come to get some tools and to see if the Stewart would lend them each a
team. Now Mr. Stewart must be very righteous, because he certainly
regardeth his beast, although he doesn't always love his neighbor as
himself. He was willing, however, for friends Tam Campbell and Archie
McEttrick to use his teams, but he himself would take a lighter rig and
go along, so as to see that his horses were properly cared for, and to
help out in case of need.
They made their plans, set the day, and went their ways. As soon as I
could, I made myself scarce about the granary and very busy about the
house, and, like Josiah Allen, I was in a very "happyfied" state of
mind. There is nothing Mr. Stewart likes better than to catch me
unprepared for something. I had been wanting to go to town, and he had
said I might go with him next time he went, if I was ready when he was.
I knew I would not hear one word about the proposed trip, but that only
added to the fun. I had plenty of time to make all preparations; so the
day before they were to start found me with all in readiness. It was
quite early in the spring and the evenings were quite chilly. We had
just finished supper, when we heard a great rumbling, and I knew
neighbors Campbell and McEttrick had arrived on their way to town; so I
began to prepare supper for them. I hadn't expected a woman, and was
surprised when I saw the largest, most ungainly person I have ever met
come shambling toward me.
She was Aggie McEttrick. She is tall and raw-boned, she walks with her
toes turned out, she has a most peculiar lurching gait like a camel's.
She has skin the color of a new saddle, and the oddest straggly
straw-colored hair. She never wears corsets and never makes her waists
long enough, so there is always a streak of gray undershirt visible
about her waist. Her skirts are never long enough either, and she knits
her own stockings. Those inclined can always get a good glimpse of
blue-and-white striped hose. She said, "I guess you are the Missus."
And that was every word she said until I had supper on the table. The
men were busy with their teams, and she sat with her feet in my oven,
eyeing my every movement. I told her we had just had our supper, but
she waited until I had theirs ready before she announced that neither
she nor Archie ate hot biscuits or steak, that they didn't take tea for
supper, preferred coffee, and that neither of them could eat peaches or
honey. So all of my supper was ruled off except the butter and cream.
She went down to their wagons and brought up what she wanted, so Tam
Campbell was the only one who ate my honey and biscuit.
Tam is just a Scot with an amazingly close fist, and he is very
absent-minded. I had met Annie, his wife, and their six children. She
told me of his absent-mindedness. Her remedy for his trouble when it
came to household needs was to repeat the article two or three times in
the list. People out like we are buy a year's supply at a time. So a
list of needed things is made up and sent into town. Tam always managed
to forget a great many things.
Well, bedtime came. I offered to show them to their room, but Aggie
said, "We'll nae sleep in your bed. We'll jest bide in the kitchen." I
could not persuade her to change her mind. Tam slept at the barn in
order to see after the "beasties," should they need attention during
the night. As I was preparing for bed, Aggie thrust her head into my
room and announced that she would be up at three o'clock. I am not an
early bird, so I thought I would let Aggie get her own breakfast, and I
told her she would find everything in the pantry. As long as I was
awake I could hear Archie and Aggie talking, but I could not imagine
what about. I didn't know their habits so well as I came to later. Next
morning the rumbling of their wagons awakened me, but I turned over and
slept until after six.
There are always so many things to do before leaving that it was nine
o'clock before we got started. We had only gotten about two miles, when
Mr. Stewart remembered he had not locked the granary, so back we
trotted. We nooned only a few miles from home. We knew we could not
catch the wagons before camping-time unless we drove very hard, so Mr.
Stewart said we would go by the Edmonsons' and spend the night there. I
enjoy even the memory of that drive through the short spring
afternoon,--the warm red sand of the desert; the Wind River Mountains
wrapped in the blue veil of distance; the sparse gray-green sage, ugly
in itself, but making complete a beautiful picture; the occasional
glimpse we had of shy, beautiful wild creatures. So much happiness can
be crowded into so short a time. I was glad, though, when Cora Belle's
home became a part of our beautiful picture. It is situated among great
red buttes, and there is a blue lake back of the house. Around the lake
is a fringe of willows. Their house is a low, rambling affair, with a
long, low porch and a red clay roof. Before the house is a cotton-wood
tree, its gnarled, storm-twisted branches making it seem to have the
"rheumatiz." There is a hop-vine at one end of the porch. It had not
come out when we were there, but the dead vine clung hopelessly to its
supports.
Little Cora Belle just bubbled with delight, and her grandparents were
scarcely better than she. Spring house-cleaning was just finished, and
they have company so seldom that they made us feel that we were doing
them a favor by stopping. Poor old "Pa" hobbled out to help put the
team away, and when they came back, Cora Belle asked me out to help
prepare supper, so I left Mr. Stewart with "Granny" and "Pa" to listen
to their recitals and to taste their many medicines. Cora Belle is
really an excellent housekeeper. Her cooking would surprise many
people. Her bread was delicious, and I am sure I never tasted anything
better than the roasted leg of lamb she gave us for supper. I am
ashamed to tell you how much I ate of her carrot jam. From where I sat
I had a splendid view of the sunset across the lake. Speaking of things
singly, Wyoming has nothing beautiful to offer. Taken altogether, it is
grandly beautiful, and at sunrise and sunset the "heavens declare His
glory."
Cora Belle is so animated and so straightforward, so entirely clean in
all her thoughts and actions, that she commands love and respect at one
and the same time. After supper her grandfather asked her to sing and
play for us. Goodness only knows where they got the funny little old
organ that Cora Belle thinks so much of. It has spots all over it of
medicine that has been spilled at different times, and it has, as Cora
Belle said, lost its voice in spots; but that doesn't set back Cora
Belle at all, she plays away just as if it was all right. Some of the
keys keep up a mournful whining and groaning, entirely outside of the
tune. Cora Belle says they play themselves. After several "pieces" had
been endured, "Pa" said, "Play my piece, Cory Belle"; so we had "Bingen
on the Rhine" played and sung from A to izzard. Dear old "Pa," his
pain-twisted old face just beamed with pride. I doubt if heaven will
have for him any sweeter music than his "baby's" voice. Granny's
squeaky, trembly old voice trailed in after Cora Belle's, always a word
or two behind. "Tell my friends and companions when they meet and
_scrouge_ around"; that is the way they sang it, but no one would have
cared for that, if they had noticed with what happy eagerness the two
sang together. The grandparents would like to have sat up all night
singing and telling of things that happened in bygone days, but poor
tired little Cora Belle began to nod, so we retired. As we were
preparing for bed it suddenly occurred to Mr. Stewart that I had not
been surprised when going to town was mentioned, so he said, "Wooman,
how did it happen that you were ready when I was to gae to the toone?"
"Oh," I said, "I knew you were going." "Who tell it ye?" "A little
bird." "'T was some fool wooman, mayhap." I didn't feel it necessary to
enlighten him, and I think he is still wondering how I knew.
Next morning we were off early, but we didn't come up with the wagons
until almost camping-time. The great heavily-loaded wagons were
creaking along over the heavy sands. The McEttricks were behind,
Aggie's big frame swaying and lurching with every jolt of the wagon.
They never travel without their German socks. They are great thick
things to wear on the outside of their shoes. As we came up behind
them, we could see Aggie's big socks dangling and bobbing beside
Archie's from where they were tied on the back part of the wagon. We
could hear them talking and see them gesticulating. When we came
nearer, we found they were quarreling, and they kept at it as long as I
was awake that night. After the men had disposed of their loads, they
and Mr. Stewart were going out of town to where a new coal-mine was
being opened. I intended to go on the train to Rock Springs to do some
shopping. Aggie said she was going also. I suggested that we get a room
together, as we would have to wait several hours for the train, but she
was suspicious of my motives. She is greatly afraid of being "done," so
she told me to get my own room and pay for it. We got into town about
three o'clock in the afternoon, and the train left at midnight.
I had gone to my room, and Jerrine and myself were enjoying a good rest
after our fatiguing drive, when my door was thrown open and a very
angry Aggie strode in. They asked us fifty cents each for our rooms.
Aggie paid hers under protest and afterward got to wondering how long
she was entitled to its use. She had gone back to the clerk about it,
and he had told her for that night only. She argued that she should
have her room for a quarter, as she would only use it until midnight.
When that failed, she asked for her money back, but the clerk was out
of patience and refused her that. Aggie was angry all through. She
vowed she was being robbed. After she had berated me soundly for
submitting so tamely, she flounced back to her own room, declaring she
would get even with the robbers. I had to hurry like everything that
night to get myself and Jerrine ready for the train, so I could spare
no time for Aggie. She was not at the depot, and Jerrine and I had to
go on to Rock Springs without her. It is only a couple of hours from
Green River to Rock Springs, so I had a good nap and a late breakfast.
I did my shopping and was back at Green River at two that afternoon.
The first person I saw was Aggie. She sat in the depot, glowering at
everybody. She had a basket of eggs and a pail of butter, which she had
been trying to sell. She was waiting for the night train, the only one
she could get to Rock Springs. I asked her had she overslept. "No, I
didna," she replied. Then, she proceeded to tell me that, as she had
paid for a whole night's use of a room, she had stayed to get its use.
That it had made her plans miscarry didn't seem to count.
After all our business was attended to, we started for home. The wagons
were half a day ahead of us. When we came in sight, we could see Aggie
fanning the air with her long arms, and we knew they were quarreling. I
remarked that I could not understand how persons who hated each other
so could live together. Clyde told me I had much to learn, and said
that really he knew of no other couple who were actually so devoted. He
said to prove it I should ask Aggie into the buggy with me and he would
get in with Archie, and afterwards we would compare notes. He drove up
alongside of them, and Aggie seemed glad to make the exchange. As we
had the buggy, we drove ahead of the wagons. It seems that Archie and
Aggie are each jealous of the other. Archie is as ugly a little monkey
as it would be possible to imagine. She bemeaned him until at last I
asked her why she didn't leave him, and added that I would not stand
such crankiness for one moment. Then she poured out the vials of her
wrath upon my head, only I don't think they were vials but barrels.
About sundown we made it to where we intended to camp and found that
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had established a sheep-camp there, and was out with
her herd herself, having only Manny, a Mexican boy she had brought up
herself, for a herder. She welcomed us cordially and began supper for
our entire bunch. Soon the wagons came, and all was confusion for a few
minutes getting the horses put away for the night. Aggie went to her
wagon as soon as it stopped and made secure her butter and eggs
against a possible raid by Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. Having asked too high a
price for them, she had failed to sell them and was taking them back.
After supper we were sitting around the fire, Tam going over his
account and lamenting that because of his absent-mindedness he had
bought a whole hundred pounds of sugar more than he had intended, Aggie
and Archie silent for once, pouting I suspect. Clyde smiled across the
camp-fire at me and said, "Gin ye had sic a lass as I hae, ye might
blither." "Gin ye had sic a mon as mine--" I began, but Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy said, "Gin ye had sic a mon as I hae." Then we all three
laughed, for we had each heard the same thing, and we knew the
McEttricks wouldn't fight each other. They suspected us of laughing at
them, for Archie said to Aggie, "Aggie, lass, is it sport they are
making of our love?" "'T is daft they be, Archie, lad; we'll nae mind
their blither." She arose and shambled across to Archie and hunkered
her big self down beside him. We went to bed and left them peaceable
for once.
I am really ashamed of the way I have treated you, but I know you will
forgive me. I am not strong yet, and my eyes are still bothering me,
but I hope to be all right soon now, and I promise you a better letter
next time. Jerrine is very proud of her necklace. I think they are so
nice for children. I can remember how proud I was of mine when I was a
child. Please give your brother our thanks, and tell him his little
gift made my little girl very happy.
I am afraid this letter will seem rather jumbled. I still want the
address of your friend in Salem or any other. I shall find time to
write, and I am not going to let my baby prevent me from having many
enjoyable outings. We call our boy Henry Clyde for his father. He is a
dear little thing, but he is a lusty yeller for baby's rights.
With much love,
JERRINE AND HER MAMMA.
XIII
PROVING UP
_October 14, 1911._
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
I think you must be expecting an answer to your letter by now, so I
will try to answer as many of your questions as I remember. Your letter
has been mislaid. We have been very much rushed all this week. We had
the thresher crew two days. I was busy cooking for them two days before
they came, and have been busy ever since cleaning up after them. Clyde
has taken the thresher on up the valley to thresh for the neighbors,
and all the men have gone along, so the children and I are alone. No, I
shall not lose my land, although it will be over two years before I can
get a deed to it. The five years in which I am required to "prove up"
will have passed by then. I couldn't have held my homestead if Clyde
had also been proving up, but he had accomplished that years ago and
has his deed, so I am allowed my homestead. Also I have not yet used my
desert right, so I am still entitled to one hundred and sixty acres
more. I shall file on that much some day when I have sufficient money
of my own earning. The law requires a cash payment of twenty-five cents
per acre at the filing, and one dollar more per acre when final proof
is made. I should not have married if Clyde had not promised I should
meet all my land difficulties unaided. I wanted the fun and the
experience. For that reason I want to earn every cent that goes into my
own land and improvements myself. Sometimes I almost have a brain-storm
wondering how I am going to do it, but I know I shall succeed; other
women have succeeded. I know of several who are now where they can
laugh at past trials. Do you know?--I am a firm believer in laughter. I
am real superstitious about it. I think if Bad Luck came along, he
would take to his heels if some one laughed right loudly.
I think Jerrine must be born for the law. She always threshes out
questions that arise, to her own satisfaction, if to no one else's. She
prayed for a long time for her brother; also she prayed for some
puppies. The puppies came, but we didn't let her know they were here
until they were able to walk. One morning she saw them following their
mother, so she danced for joy. When her little brother came she was
plainly disappointed. "Mamma," she said, "did God really make the
baby?" "Yes, dear." "Then He hasn't treated us fairly, and I should
like to know why. The puppies could walk when He finished them; the
calves can, too. The pigs can, and the colt, and even the chickens.
What is the use of giving us a half-finished baby? He has no hair, and
no teeth; he can't walk or talk, nor do anything else but squall and
sleep."
After many days she got the question settled. She began right where
she left off. "I know, Mamma, why God gave us such a half-finished
baby; so he could learn our ways, and no one else's, since he must live
with us, and so we could learn to love him. Every time I stand beside
his buggy he laughs and then I love him, but I don't love Stella nor
Marvin because they laugh. So that is why." Perhaps that is the reason.
Zebbie's kinsfolk have come and taken him back to Yell County. I should
not be surprised if he never returned. The Lanes and the Pattersons
leave shortly for Idaho, where "our Bobbie" has made some large
investments.
I hope to hear from you soon and that you are enjoying every minute.
With much love,
Your friend,
ELINORE STEWART.
XIV
THE NEW HOUSE
_December 1, 1911._
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
I feel just like visiting to-night, so I am going to "play like" you
have come. It is so good to have you to chat with. Please be seated in
this low rocker; it is a present to me from the Pattersons and I am
very proud of it. I am just back from the Patterson ranch, and they
have a dear little boy who came the 20th of November and they call him
Robert Lane.
I am sure this room must look familiar to you, for there is so much in
it that was once yours. I have two rooms, each fifteen by fifteen, but
this one on the south is my "really" room and in it are my treasures.
My house faces east and is built up against a side-hill, or should I
say hillside? Anyway, they had to excavate quite a lot. I had them
dump the dirt right before the house and terrace it smoothly. I have
sown my terrace to California poppies, and around my porch, which is
six feet wide and thirty long, I have planted wild cucumbers.