THE COW LASSES
It was clear that the character of the work for the Gila girls should
differ from that for the men. Esther Bright had thought it all out,
but she resolved to let the girls themselves determine, in large
measure, what it should be. So they came to visit the school that
bright December day to observe.
School! Could this be school? Not school as they recalled it, hours of
dull monotonous tasks, where punishment, merited or unmerited, stood
out in conspicuous boldness. As they now listened, every moment seemed
to open the door to knowledge, and a wonderland of surprising interest
spread before them. The dull drone of the old-time reading lesson had
given place to conversational tones. The children were reading aloud
from a bright, vivacious story that caught and held the attention of
these untutored girls. To learn to read like the teacher became the
proud ambition of these seven visitors.
With a simple lesson in physics the interest deepened. Then came the
lesson in manual training. The deft fingers of the boys and girls were
busy learning the mysteries of tailoring. How to darn a rent in cloth
is no easy thing for untrained fingers to learn. Little fingers, big
fingers, busily plied the needle. The boys were learning how to repair
their clothing. The teacher passed from one to another, helping,
encouraging, commending. She held up a beautiful piece of work for the
visitors to see.
When the school was dismissed for the noon hour, they gathered around
Esther.
"My!" said one, "I wisht I knowed as much as you do, schoolma'am."
"Do you?" asked the teacher, as if to know as much as she did were the
easiest thing in the world.
"You bet I do!" answered the girl.
"Schoolma'am," asked Jessie Roth, "do ye s'pose ye could learn us tae
read as good as them kids did this mornin'?"
"Oh, yes. Even better."
"Better nor them?"
"Indeed, yes, if you will study as hard as they do. One's progress
depends upon one's interest and one's application."
"Oh, we'll study all right," said Kate Keith, "if you'll give us the
chance."
"You bet we will!" said another.
Then Esther told them the history of the Gila Club for men, how it had
begun, how she had taught the men, how the class had grown until it
had seemed imperative to meet in the schoolhouse, and how they
organized as a club.
"Did _you_ learn all them men yourself?" asked a girl just in from the
range. She was a veritable Amazon.
"Yes," was the answer, "until we began to meet in the schoolhouse.
Then I had help."
Esther stood looking into this raw girl's face as though she saw there
the loveliest being on earth. What the teacher really saw there was an
awakening mind and soul.
The girl, rough and uncouth as she was, admired the teacher, and
longed to be like her.
"What can we dae?" asked Jessie Roth, eager to perfect plans for
study.
"That is just what I wish you girls to decide. What would you like to
do?"
In response to the teacher's question, all of them spoke at once.
"One at a time, please, one at a time," Esther said. "Suppose, we
commence with Jessie. What do you wish to do, Jessie?"
"Oh, I'd like tae dae cipherin' an' readin' an' writin'. I wisht I
could read like you, schoolma'am!"
"Could she ever?" questioned Kate Keith, a young English girl.
"Certainly." She showed such belief in them and what they might do
that their enthusiasm rose still higher. Then Kate said impulsively:
"I wisht ye'd learn us to sew. I've been wishin' to know how."
She held up her big, coarse hands, looked at them a moment, and
laughed as she said:
"I don't know as I could handle such a little thing as a needle."
"You wish to learn to sew? I am so glad."
This was just the turn Esther had been hoping would come. "Every
woman," she continued, "ought to know how to sew. I like to sew,
myself. What next?"
A comely maid spoke. "My name's Mandy Young. Me an' Marthy thought
we'd like ter learn ter write letters an'--"
Here she blushed furiously.
"That's good," said the teacher. "What else?"
"Me an' Marthy wanted ter learn ter sing like you do, schoolma'am."
"Now, Martha, it is your turn," said the teacher with an encouraging
smile.
Martha was a great, brawny specimen of humankind. "My name's Miss
Lieben," she said.
"Lieben! Lieben! That's a good name. It means _love_." The cowlass
blushed and snickered. "And Martha's a good name too. There was once a
very careful housekeeper named Martha."
"Oh, I ain't no housekeeper," responded the girl, "but I want ter be.
I want ter learn readin' an' writin', an' cookin', too."
"Cooking! Well! Next?" said Esther, looking into the face of the next
girl.
"My name's Mary Burns."
Mary had a more modest way. "I hardly know what I dae want. I think ye
could plan for us better nor we could plan for oursels. An' we'd a' be
gratefu'."
"Sure," said one.
"That's right," added another. They all nodded their heads in
approval. Then up spoke Bridget Flinn:
"Shure, an' she's on the right thrack. When we can do housework, we
can command a high wage, an' git on. My cousin gits five dollars a
week in New York, an' she says she has mere nothin' ter do, an'
dthresses as good as her misthress. Oi'd loike ter learn ter write
letthers, so as ter wroite ter Pat, an' Oi'd loike ter learn
housekapin', so's I could go out ter sarvice."
Then a pretty Mexican girl, with a soft voice, spoke:
"Martha Castello is my name. I want to learn to read an' write an'
sing."
The teacher stepped to the blackboard, and wrote the following:
Reading Arithmetic Sewing
Writing Singing Housekeeping
The girls watched her intently.
"An' letthers," suggested Bridget.
"To be sure--letters," said Esther, writing the word.
Then followed the organization of the girls' club, resulting in the
election of Jessie Roth as president. It was agreed that for the
present the girls should enter school, and occasionally meet with the
teacher outside of school hours.
That day proved a red-letter day for them. They had come in touch with
an inspiring personality, and their education had begun.
Years have come and gone since that day; but the people of Gila still
tell how a young girl, the sweetest soul that ever lived, came and
dwelt among them, and brought God into their lives. Even the roughest
old men will pause, and say with reverence:
"The Angel of the Gila! God bless her!"
The afternoon session of the school passed quickly. Then followed a
bit of kindly talk with the seven new pupils. Then Esther Bright
walked homeward. She was overtaken by Brigham Murphy and Wathemah.
Something mysterious seemed in the air.
"Miss Bright," blurted out Brigham, "Maw says as will yer come home
with us ter-morrer, ter visit. We're goin' ter have chicken an' lots
o' good things ter eat, ain't we, Wathemah? An' he's comin', too,
ain't yer, Wathemah?"
The Indian child gave an affirmative grunt, and trudged along close to
his teacher. It was a way he had of doing since she had promised to be
his mother.
"Will yer come?" eagerly questioned the representative of the Mormon
household.
"I shall be happy to if you will show me the way."
"Oh, we'll 'scort yer!" And Brigham turned several somersaults, and
ran like a deer along the road leading to the Murphy ranch.
Such a flutter of excitement as the prospective visit brought to the
Murphy household!
"Maw," said Brigham in the midst of his mother's volley of directions
on household arrangements, "Ain't yer goin' ter ask schoolma'am ter
stay all night?" He seemed suddenly interested in social amenities.
"Of course I be! Landy! Don't yer s'pose y'r maw's got no p'liteness?
I told schoolma'am 'bout my 'lations as lives on Lexity Street, York
City, an' keeps a confectony, an' she'll 'spect yer ter be jest as
p'lite an' 'ristercratic as they be. I'll sleep on the floor, an' Kate
an' Kathleen an' Wathemah kin sleep with schoolma'am. She'll think it
a great come-down, Pat Murphy, fur one as is a 'lation, so ter speak,
of Miz Common of Lexity Street, York City, she'll think it's a great
come-down, I say, fur one with sech folks ter live in a common adobe.
Y'r not ter let on y're Irish, but speak as though yer was French
like."
She had given emphasis to her remarks with more and more energetic
movements of her arm, as she washed off the furniture. At last she
paused, and her husband ventured a reply.
"Begorra! An' would yez be afther changin' me mouth to the Frinch
stoile?"
He sidled toward the door, and grinned as he caught the reflection of
himself in the dirty piece of mirror that still remained in the old
black frame on the wall.
There was no denying the fact that Patrick bore unmistakable evidence
of his Irish origin. He realized that he had ventured his remarks as
far as was consistent with peace and safety; so he walked from the
house, chuckling to himself as he went, "Relations on Lexington
Street! Frinch stoile! Begorra!" And he laughed outright.
"Patrick Murphy," his spouse called after him. "This is the first time
a friend o' my 'lations in York City (so ter speak) has visited me.
Patrick Murphy, what _do_ yer s'pose Josiah Common done when my sister
visited there? He took her ter a theatre an' after that he took her
ter a resternt, an' treated her. That's what he done! The least yer
can do is ter scrub up, comb yer har an' put on a clean shirt
ter-morrer. Yer ter clean up, do yer hear?" All this in a high treble.
"Frinch stoile?" inquired Patrick, with a broadening grin. But this
was lost upon Mrs. Murphy, engrossed in plans for the reception of the
coming guest. She smoothed down her hair with both hands.
"Here, Mandy," she called abruptly, "wash out the tablecloth. Sam, you
clean the winders. Jo, you run over to Miz Brown's an' say as y'r
Maw's goin' ter have comp'ny ter-morrer as must have knowed her
'lations as lived on Lexity Street, York City, an' kep' a confectony.
Tell her y'r Maw wants a dozen eggs ter make a cake an' custard. Jake,
oh, Jake!" she called in stentorian tones, "you go ketch them two
settin' hens! The only way yer kin break up a settin' hen when yer
don't want her ter set is jest to make potpie o' her. Y're goin' ter
have a supper that yer'll remember ter y'r dyin' day. We uster have
sech suppers at barn raisin's back East."
The small boys smacked their lips in anticipation. The mother turned
suddenly.
"My landy!" she said. "I forgot somethin'."
"What?" inquired Amanda.
"A napting!"
"A napting? What's that?"
But Mrs. Murphy had begun on the floor, and was scrubbing so
vigorously she did not hear the question.
When order finally evolved from chaos, Mrs. Murphy, with her hair
disheveled and arms akimbo, viewed the scene. Everything was so clean
it was sleek,--sleek enough to ride down hill on and never miss snow
or ice.
"Come 'ere, childern," said Mrs. Murphy, mopping her face with a
corner of her apron. "I want yer to stan' aroun' the room, the hull
ten o' yer, all but the baby. Mandy, do take the baby an' stop her
cryin'. Joseph Smith, stan' at the head, 'cause y're the oldest.
That's the way I uster stan' at the head o' the spellin' class when we
uster spell down 'fore I graduated from deestrict school back in York
State. Y'r Maw was a good speller, ef I do say it. 'Range y'rselfs in
order, 'cordin' to age."
A tumultuous scramble followed. Maternal cuffs, freely administered,
brought a semblance of order.
"Now, childern," said the mother, in a hard shrill voice, "what is y'r
'ligion? Speak up, or yer know what yer'll git!"
"'Ligion o' the Latter Day Saints," answered Samuel.
"An' who is the Prophet o' the Lord?" continued Mrs. Murphy.
"Brigham Young," answered Amanda, assuming an air of conscious
superiority.
"No, he isn't neither," protested Brigham, "for my teacher said so.
Jesus is the only prophet o' the Lord since Old Testament times."
But the heretic was jerked from the line, to await later muscular
arguments. Then the mother continued her catechism.
"Who's another prophet o' the Lord as has had relevations?"
"Joseph Smith," responded Kate, timidly.
"That's right. What divine truth did Joseph Smith teach?"
"That men should marry lots o' wives," said Jake, realizing that he
had answered the most important question of the catechism.
"Yes, childern," she said, with an air of great complacence, "I've
obeyed the prophet o' the Lord. I've had five husbands, an' I've
raised ten young uns. Now what I want yer to understan' is that yer
Maw an' her childern has got all the 'ligion as they wants.
Schoolma'am had better not persume to talk 'ligion to me." She drew
herself up as straight as a ramrod, and her lips set firmly.
"But I wanter show her I'm uster entertainin'. I'll give her the
silver spoon. An' I do wisht I had a napting to put at her place."
"What's that, Maw?" asked Samuel.
"What's what?"
"Why, what yer want ter put at schoolma'am's plate?"
"Oh, a little towel, like. 'Ristercratic people uses them when they
eats. They puts 'em on their laps."
"Won't a dish towel do?"
"Landy! No!"
"Well, we ain't stylish, anyway," said Samuel, philosophically, "an'
it's no use to worry."
"Stylish? We're stylish when we wants to be, an' this is one o' them
times."
"Is it stylish ter go ter Bible school?" asked Brigham. He seemed
greatly puzzled.
"No, sir-ee, it ain't stylish, an' you ain't goin' thar," she said,
giving him a cuff on the ear by way of emphasis.
"She? What's she know 'bout _my_ 'ligion or _y'r_ 'ligion? She ain't
had no relevations. But git off to bed, the hull lot o' yer."
"It's only eight o'clock," said one, sullenly, dragging his feet.
"Well, I don't care. The house is all red up, an' I wants it to stay
red up till schoolma'am comes. Besides, y're all clean yerselfs now,
an' yer won't have to wash an' comb to-morrer."
At last they were driven off to bed, and gradually they quieted down,
and all were asleep in the little adobe house.
But Brigham tossed in terrifying dreams. The scene shifted. He was
with Wathemah, who was telling him of Jesus. Then the teacher's life
was in danger and he tried to save her. He felt her hand upon his
head; a smile flitted across his face, his muscles relaxed; he was in
heaven; the streets were like sunset skies. The teacher took him by
the hand and led him to the loveliest Being he had ever beheld, who
gathered him in His arms, and said, "Suffer little children to come
unto Me."