winter. Clyde wanted his mother to have a chance to enjoy our boy, so,
as he had to go, he took Junior with him. Then those of my dear
neighbors nearest my heart decided to prevent a lonely Christmas for
me, so on December 21st came Mrs. Louderer, laden with an immense plum
pudding and a big "_wurst_," and a little later came Mrs. O'Shaughnessy
on her frisky pony, Chief, her scarlet sweater making a bright bit of
color against our snow-wrapped horizon. Her face and ways are just as
bright and cheery as can be. When she saw Mrs. Louderer's pudding and
sausage she said she had brought nothing because she had come to get
something to eat herself, "and," she continued, "it is a private
opinion of mine that my neighbors are so glad to see me that they are
glad to feed me." Now wouldn't that little speech have made her welcome
anywhere?
Well, we were hilariously planning what Mrs. O'Shaughnessy called a
"widdy" Christmas and getting supper, when a great stamping-off of snow
proclaimed a newcomer. It was Gavotte, and we were powerfully glad to
see him because the hired man was going to a dance and we knew Gavotte
would contrive some unusual amusement. He had heard that Clyde was
going to have a deer-drive, and didn't know that he had gone, so he had
come down to join the hunt just for the fun, and was very much
disappointed to find there was going to be no hunt. After supper,
however, his good humor returned and he told us story after story of
big hunts he had had in Canada. He worked up his own enthusiasm as well
as ours, and at last proposed that we have a drive of our own for a
Christmas "joy." He said he would take a station and do the shooting if
one of us would do the driving. So right now I reckon I had better tell
you how it is done.
There are many little parks in the mountains where the deer can feed,
although now most places are so deep in snow that they can't walk in
it. For that reason they have trails to water and to the different
feeding-grounds, and they can't get through the snow except along these
paths. You see how easy it would be for a man hidden on the trail to
get one of the beautiful creatures if some one coming from another
direction startled them so that they came along that particular path.
So they made their plans. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy elected herself driver.
Two miles away is a huge mountain called Phillipeco, and deer were
said to be plentiful up there. At one time there had been a sawmill on
the mountain, and there were a number of deserted cabins in which we
could make ourselves comfortable. So it was planned that we go up the
next morning, stay all night, have the hunt the following morning, and
then come home with our game.
Well, we were all astir early the next morning and soon grain, bedding,
and chuck-box were in the wagon. Then Mrs. Louderer, the _kinder_, and
myself piled in; Mrs. O'Shaughnessy bestrode Chief, Gavotte stalked on
ahead to pick our way, and we were off.
It was a long, tedious climb, and I wished over and over that I had
stayed at home; but it was altogether on Baby's account. I was so
afraid that he would suffer, but he kept warm as toast. The day was
beautiful, and the views many times repaid us for any hardship we had
suffered. It was three o'clock before we reached the old mill camp.
Soon we had a roaring fire, and Gavotte made the horses comfortable in
one of the cabins. They were bedded in soft, dry sawdust, and were
quite as well off as if they had been in their own stalls. Then some
rough planks were laid on blocks, and we had our first meal since
breakfast. We called it supper, and we had potatoes roasted in the
embers, Mrs. Louderer's _wurst_, which she had been calmly carrying
around on her arm like a hoop and which was delicious with the bread
that Gavotte toasted on long sticks; we had steaming coffee, and we
were all happy; even Baby clapped his hands and crowed at the unusual
sight of an open fire. After supper Gavotte took a little stroll and
returned with a couple of grouse for our breakfast. After dark we sat
around the fire eating peanuts and listening to Gavotte and Mrs.
Louderer telling stories of their different great forests. But soon
Gavotte took his big sleeping-bag and retired to another cabin, warning
us that we must be up early. Our improvised beds were the most
comfortable things; I love the flicker of an open fire, the smell of
the pines, the pure, sweet air, and I went to sleep thinking how blest
I was to be able to enjoy the things I love most.
It seemed only a short time until some one knocked on our door and we
were all wide awake in a minute. The fire had burned down and only a
soft, indistinct glow from the embers lighted the room, while through a
hole in the roof I could see a star glimmering frostily. It was Gavotte
at the door and he called through a crack saying he had been hearing
queer noises for an hour and he was going to investigate. He had called
us so that we need not be alarmed should we hear the noise and not find
him. We scrambled into our clothes quickly and ran outdoors to listen.
I can never describe to you the weird beauty of a moonlight night among
the pines when the snow is sparkling and gleaming, the deep silence
unbroken even by the snapping of a twig. We stood shivering and
straining our ears and were about to go back to bed when we heard
faintly a long-drawn wail as if all the suffering and sorrow on earth
were bound up in that one sound. We couldn't tell which way it came
from; it seemed to vibrate through the air and chill our hearts. I had
heard that panthers cried that way, but Gavotte said it was not a
panther. He said the engine and saws had been moved from where we were
to another spring across the cañon a mile away, where timber for sawing
was more plentiful, but he supposed every one had left the mill when
the water froze so they couldn't saw. He added that some one must have
remained and was, perhaps, in need of help, and if we were not afraid
he would leave us and go see what was wrong.
We went in, made up the fire, and sat in silence, wondering what we
should see or hear next. Once or twice that agonized cry came shivering
through the cold moonlight. After an age, we heard Gavotte crunching
through the snow, whistling cheerily to reassure us. He had crossed the
cañon to the new mill camp, where he had found two women, loggers'
wives, and some children. One of the women, he said, was "so ver'
seek," 't was she who was wailing so, and it was the kind of "seek"
where we could be of every help and comfort.
Mrs. Louderer stayed and took care of the children while Mrs.
O'Shaughnessy and I followed after Gavotte, panting and stumbling,
through the snow. Gavotte said he suspected they were short of
"needfuls," so he had filled his pockets with coffee and sugar, took in
a bottle some of the milk I brought for Baby, and his own flask of
whiskey, without which he never travels.
At last, after what seemed to me hours of scrambling through the snow,
through deepest gloom where pines were thickest, and out again into
patches of white moonlight, we reached the ugly clearing where the new
camp stood. Gavotte escorted us to the door and then returned to our
camp. Entering, we saw the poor, little soon-to-be mother huddled on
her poor bed, while an older woman stood near warning her that the oil
would soon be all gone and they would be in darkness. She told us that
the sick one had been in pain all the day before and much of the night,
and that she herself was worn completely out. So Mrs. O'Shaughnessy
sent her to bed and we took charge.
Secretly, I felt it all to be a big nuisance to be dragged out from my
warm, comfortable bed to traipse through the snow at that time of the
night. But the moment poor little Molly spoke I was glad I was living,
because she was a poor little Southern girl whose husband is a Mormon.
He had been sent on a mission to Alabama, and the poor girl had fallen
in love with his handsome face and knew nothing of Mormonism, so she
had run away with him. She thought it would be so grand to live in the
glorious West with so splendid a man as she believed her husband to
be. But now she believed she was going to die and she was glad of it
because she could not return to her "folks," and she said she knew her
husband was dead because he and the other woman's husband, both of whom
had intended to stay there all winter and cut logs, had gone two weeks
before to get their summer's wages and buy supplies. Neither man had
come back and there was not a horse or any other way to get out of the
mountains to hunt them, so they believed the men to be frozen somewhere
on the road. Rather a dismal prospect, wasn't it? Molly was just
longing for some little familiar thing, so I was glad I have not yet
gotten rid of my Southern way of talking. No Westerner can ever
understand a Southerner's need of sympathy, and, however kind their
hearts, they are unable to give it. Only a Southerner can understand
how dear are our peculiar words and phrases, and poor little Molly took
new courage when she found I knew what she meant when she said she was
just "honin'" after a friendly voice.
Well, soon we had the water hot and had filled some bottles and placed
them around our patient, and after a couple of hours the tiny little
stranger came into the world. It had been necessary to have a great
fire in order to have light, so as soon as we got Baby dressed I opened
the door a little to cool the room and Molly saw the morning star
twinkling merrily. "Oh," she said, "that is what I will call my little
girlie,--Star, dear little Star."
It is strange, isn't it? how our spirits will revive after some great
ordeal. Molly had been sure she was going to die and saw nothing to
live for; now that she had had a cup of hot milk and held her red
little baby close, she was just as happy and hopeful as if she had
never left her best friends and home to follow the uncertain fortunes
of young Will Crosby. So she and I talked of ash-hoppers, smoke-houses,
cotton-patches, goobers, poke-greens, and shoats, until she fell
asleep.
Soon day was abroad, and so we went outdoors for a fresh breath. The
other woman came out just then to ask after Molly. She invited us into
her cabin, and, oh, the little Mormons were everywhere; poor, half-clad
little things! Some sour-dough biscuit and a can of condensed milk was
everything they had to eat. The mother explained to us that their "men"
had gone to get things for them, but had not come back, so she guessed
they had got drunk and were likely in jail. She told it in a very
unconcerned manner. Poor thing! Years of such experience had taught her
that blessed are they who expect nothing, for they shall not be
disappointed. She said that if Molly had not been sick she would have
walked down out of the mountains and got help.
Just then two shots rang out in quick succession, and soon Gavotte came
staggering along with a deer across his shoulders. That he left for
the family. From our camp he had brought some bacon and butter for
Molly, and, poor though it may seem, it was a treat for her. Leaving
the woman to dress the venison with her oldest boy's aid, we put out
across the cañon for our own breakfast. Beside our much-beaten trail
hung the second venison, and when we reached our camp and had our own
delicious breakfast of grouse, bread, butter, and coffee, Gavotte took
Chub and went for our venison. In a short time we were rolling
homeward. Of course it didn't take us nearly so long to get home
because it was downhill and the road was clearly marked, so in a couple
of hours we were home.
Gavotte knew the two loggers were in Green River and were then at work
storing ice for the railroad, but he had not known that their wives
were left as they were. The men actually had got drunk, lost their
money, and were then trying to replace it. After we debated a bit we
decided we could not enjoy Christmas with those people in want up
there in the cold. Then we got busy. It is sixty miles to town,
although our nearest point to the railroad is but forty, so you see it
was impossible to get to town to get anything. You should have seen us!
Every old garment that had ever been left by men who have worked here
was hauled out, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's deft fingers soon had a pile
of garments cut. We kept the machine humming until far into the night,
as long as we could keep our eyes open.
All next day we sewed as hard as we could, and Gavotte cooked as hard
as he could. We had intended to have a tree for Jerrine, so we had a
box of candles and a box of Christmas snow. Gavotte asked for all the
bright paper we could find. We had lots of it, and I think you would be
surprised at the possibilities of a little waste paper. He made
gorgeous birds, butterflies, and flowers out of paper that once wrapped
parcels. Then he asked us for some silk thread, but I had none, so he
told us to comb our hair and give him the combings. We did, and with a
drop of mucilage he would fasten a hair to a bird's back and then hold
it up by the hair. At a few feet's distance it looked exactly as though
the bird was flying. I was glad I had a big stone jar full of
_fondant_, because we had a lot of fun shaping and coloring candies. We
offered a prize for the best representation of a "nigger," and we had
two dozen chocolate-covered things that might have been anything from a
monkey to a mouse. Mrs. Louderer cut up her big plum pudding and put it
into a dozen small bags. These Gavotte carefully covered with green
paper. Then we tore up the holly wreath that Aunt Mary sent me, and put
a sprig in the top of each green bag of pudding. I never had so much
fun in my life as I had preparing for that Christmas.
At ten o'clock, the morning of the 24th, we were again on our way up
the mountain-side. We took shovels so we could clear a road if need
be. We had dinner at the old camp, and then Gavotte hunted us a way out
to the new, and we smuggled our things into Molly's cabin so the
children should have a real surprise. Poor, hopeless little things!
Theirs was, indeed, a dull outlook.
Gavotte busied himself in preparing one of the empty cabins for us and
in making the horses comfortable. He cut some pine boughs to do that
with, and so they paid no attention when he cut a small tree. In the
mean time we had cleared everything from Molly's cabin but her bed; we
wanted her to see the fun. The children were sent to the spring to
water the horses and they were all allowed to ride, so that took them
out of the way while Gavotte nailed the tree into a box he had filled
with dirt to hold it steady.
There were four women of us, and Gavotte, so it was only the work of a
few moments to get the tree ready, and it was the most beautiful one I
ever saw. Your largest bell, dear Mrs. Coney, dangled from the topmost
branch. Gavotte had attached a long, stout wire to your Santa Claus, so
he was able to make him dance frantically without seeming to do so. The
hairs that held the birds and butterflies could not be seen, and the
effect was beautiful. We had a bucket of apples rubbed bright, and
these we fastened to the tree just as they grew on their own branches.
The puddings looked pretty, too, and we had done up the parcels that
held the clothes as attractively as we could. We saved the candy and
the peanuts to put in their little stockings.
As soon as it was dark we lighted the candles and then their mother
called the children. Oh, if you could have seen them! It was the very
first Christmas tree they had ever seen and they didn't know what to
do. The very first present Gavotte handed out was a pair of trousers
for eight-years-old Brig, but he just stood and stared at the tree
until his brother next in size, with an eye to the main chance, got
behind him and pushed him forward, all the time exclaiming, "Go on,
can't you! They ain't doin' nothin' to you, they's just doin' somethin'
for you." Still Brig would not put out his hand. He just shook his
tousled sandy head and said he wanted a bird. So the fun kept up for an
hour. Santa had for Molly a package of oatmeal, a pound of butter, a
Mason jar of cream, and a dozen eggs, so that she could have suitable
food to eat until something could be done.
After the presents had all been distributed we put the phonograph on a
box and had a dandy concert. We played "There were Shepherds," "Ave
Maria," and "Sweet Christmas Bells." Only we older people cared for
those, so then we had "Arrah Wanna," "Silver Bells," "Rainbow," "Red
Wing," and such songs. How delighted they were! Our concert lasted two
hours, and by that time the little fellows were so sleepy that the
excitement no longer affected them and they were put to bed, but they
hung up their stockings first, and even Molly hung hers up too. We
filled them with peanuts and candy, putting the lion's share of
"niggers" into Molly's stocking.
Next morning the happiness broke out in new spots. The children were
all clean and warm, though I am afraid I can't brag on the fit of all
the clothes. But the pride of the wearers did away with the necessity
of a fit. The mother was radiantly thankful for a warm petticoat; that
it was made of a blanket too small for a bed didn't bother her, and the
stripes were around the bottom anyway. Molly openly rejoiced in her new
gown, and that it was made of ugly gray outing flannel she didn't know
nor care. Baby Star Crosby looked perfectly sweet in her little new
clothes, and her little gown had blue sleeves and they thought a white
skirt only added to its beauty. And so it was about everything. We all
got so much out of so little. I will never again allow even the
smallest thing to go to waste. We were every one just as happy as we
could be, almost as delighted as Molly was over her "niggers," and
there was very little given that had not been thrown away or was not
just odds and ends.
There was never anything more true than that it is more blessed to give
than to receive. We certainly had a delicious dinner too, and we let
Molly have all she wanted that we dared allow her to eat. The roast
venison was so good that we were tempted to let her taste it, but we
thought better of that. As soon as dinner was over we packed our
belongings and betook ourselves homeward.
It was just dusk when we reached home. Away off on a bare hill a wolf
barked. A big owl hooted lonesomely among the pines, and soon a pack of
yelping coyotes went scampering across the frozen waste.
It was not the Christmas I had in mind when I sent the card, but it was
a _dandy_ one, just the same.
With best wishes for you for a happy, _happy_ New Year,
Sincerely your friend,
ELINORE RUPERT STEWART.
XX
THE JOYS OF HOMESTEADING
_January 23, 1913._
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
I am afraid all my friends think I am very forgetful and that you think
I am ungrateful as well, but I am going to plead not guilty. Right
after Christmas Mr. Stewart came down with _la grippe_ and was so
miserable that it kept me busy trying to relieve him. Out here where we
can get no physician we have to dope ourselves, so that I had to be
housekeeper, nurse, doctor, and general overseer. That explains my long
silence.
And now I want to thank you for your kind thought in prolonging our
Christmas. The magazines were much appreciated. They relieved some
weary night-watches, and the box did Jerrine more good than the
medicine I was having to give her for _la grippe_. She was content to
stay in bed and enjoy the contents of her box.
When I read of the hard times among the Denver poor, I feel like urging
them every one to get out and file on land. I am very enthusiastic
about women homesteading. It really requires less strength and labor to
raise plenty to satisfy a large family than it does to go out to wash,
with the added satisfaction of knowing that their job will not be lost
to them if they care to keep it. Even if improving the place does go
slowly, it is that much done to stay done. Whatever is raised is the
homesteader's own, and there is no house-rent to pay. This year Jerrine
cut and dropped enough potatoes to raise a ton of fine potatoes. She
wanted to try, so we let her, and you will remember that she is but six
years old. We had a man to break the ground and cover the potatoes for
her and the man irrigated them once. That was all that was done until
digging time, when they were ploughed out and Jerrine picked them up.
Any woman strong enough to go out by the day could have done every bit
of the work and put in two or three times that much, and it would have
been so much more pleasant than to work so hard in the city and then be
on starvation rations in the winter.
To me, homesteading is the solution of all poverty's problems, but I
realize that temperament has much to do with success in any
undertaking, and persons afraid of coyotes and work and loneliness had
better let ranching alone. At the same time, any woman who can stand
her own company, can see the beauty of the sunset, loves growing
things, and is willing to put in as much time at careful labor as she
does over the washtub, will certainly succeed; will have independence,
plenty to eat all the time, and a home of her own in the end.
Experimenting need cost the homesteader no more than the work, because
by applying to the Department of Agriculture at Washington he can get
enough of any seed and as many kinds as he wants to make a thorough
trial, and it doesn't even cost postage. Also one can always get
bulletins from there and from the Experiment Station of one's own State
concerning any problem or as many problems as may come up. I would not,
for anything, allow Mr. Stewart to do anything toward improving my
place, for I want the fun and the experience myself. And I want to be
able to speak from experience when I tell others what they can do.
Theories are very beautiful, but facts are what must be had, and what I
intend to give some time.
Here I am boring you to death with things that cannot interest you!
You'd think I wanted you to homestead, wouldn't you? But I am only
thinking of the troops of tired, worried women, sometimes even cold and
hungry, scared to death of losing their places to work, who could have
plenty to eat, who could have good fires by gathering the wood, and
comfortable homes of their own, if they but had the courage and
determination to get them.
I must stop right now before you get so tired you will not answer. With
much love to you from Jerrine and myself, I am
Yours affectionately,
ELINORE RUPERT STEWART.
XXI
A LETTER OF JERRINE'S
_February 26, 1913._
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
I think you will excuse my mama for not writing to thank you for black
Beauty when I tell you why. I wanted to thank you myself, and I wanted
to hear it read first so I could very trully thank. Mama always said
horses do not talk, but now she knows they do since she read the Dear
little book. I have known it along time. My own pony told me the story
is very true. Many times I have see men treat horses very badly, but
our Clyde dont, and wont let a workman stay if He hurts stock. I am
very glad.
Mr Edding came past one day with a load of hay. he had too much load to
pull up hill and there was much ice and snow but he think he can make
them go up so he fighted and sweared but they could not get up. Mama
tried to lend him some horse to help but he was angry and was termined
to make his own pull it but at last he had to take off some hay I wish
he may read my Black Beauty.
Our Clyde is still away. We were going to visit Stella. Mama was
driving, the horses raned away. We goed very fast as the wind. I almost
fall out Mama hanged on to the lines. if she let go we may all be kill.
At last she raned them into a fence. they stop and a man ran to help so
we are well but mama hands and arms are still so sore she cant write
you yet. My brother Calvin is very sweet. God had to give him to us
because he squealed so much he sturbed the angels. We are not angels so
he Dont sturb us. I thank you for my good little book. and I love you
for it too.
very speakfully,
JERRINE RUPERT.
XXII
THE EFFICIENT MRS. O'SHAUGHNESSY
_May 5, 1913._
DEAR MRS. CONEY,--
Your letter of April 25 certainly was a surprise, but a very welcome
one. We are so rushed with spring work that we don't even go to the
office for the mail, and I owe you letters and thanks. I keep promising
myself the pleasure of writing you and keep putting it off until I can
have more leisure, but that time never gets here. I am so glad when I
can bring a little of this big, clean, beautiful outdoors into your
apartment for you to enjoy, and I can think of nothing that would give
me more happiness than to bring the West and its people to others who
could not otherwise enjoy them. If I could only take them from whatever
is worrying them and give them this bracing mountain air, glimpses of
the scenery, a smell of the pines and the sage,--if I could only make
them feel the free, ready sympathy and hospitality of these frontier
people, I am sure their worries would diminish and my happiness would
be complete.