On my return from Milford, Wednesday, I sought and found No. 1203 G street, just in time to again take tea with the Keefer family, and spend the night with them, intending to go to Fremont next day. But Mrs. K. insisted that she would not allow me to slight the capital in that way, and to her I am indebted for much of my sight-seeing in and about Lincoln.
Thursday afternoon we went to the penitentiary to see a little of convict life. But the very little I saw made me wonder why any one who had once suffered imprisonment would be guilty of a second lawless act. Two negro convicts in striped uniforms were lounging on the steps ready to take charge of the carriages, for it was visitor's day. Only good behaved prisoners, whose terms have almost expired, are allowed to step beyond the iron bars and stone walls. We were taken around through all the departments—the kitchen, tailor shop, and laundry, and where brooms, trunks, harnesses, corn-shellers, and much that I cannot mention, are made. Then there was the foundry, blacksmith shop, and stone yard, where stones were being sawed and dressed ready for use at the capitol building. The long double row of 160 cells are so built of stone and cement that when once the door of iron bars closes upon a prisoner he has no chance of exit. They are 4×7 feet, and furnished with an iron bedstead, and one berth above; a stool, and a lap-board to write on. They are allowed to write letters every three weeks, but what they write is read before it is sent, and what they receive is read before it is given to them. There are 249 prisoners, a number of whom are from Wyoming. Their meals are given them as they pass to their cells. They were at one time seated at a table and given their meals together, but a disturbance arose among them and they used the knives and forks for weapons to fight with. And they carried them off secretly to their cells, and one almost succeeded in cutting his way through the wall. Only those who occupy the same cell can hold any conversation. Never a word is allowed to be exchanged outside the cells with each other. Thus silently, like a noiseless machine, with bowed heads, not even exchanging a word, and scarcely a glance, with their elbow neighbor, they work the long days through, from six o'clock until seven, year in and year out. On the Fourth of July they are given two or three hours in which they can dance, sing, and talk to each other, a privilege they improve to the greatest extent, and a general hand-shaking and meeting with old neighbors is the result. Sunday, at nineA.M., they are marched in close file to the chapel, where Rev. Howe, City Missionary, formerly a missionary in Brooklyn and New York, gives them an hour of good talk, telling them of Christ and Him Crucified, and of future reward and punishment, but no sectarian doctrines. He assures me some find the pearl of great price even within prison walls. They have an organ in the chapel and a choir composed of their best singers, and it is not often we hear better. Rev. Howe's daughter often accompanies her father and sings for them. They are readily brought to tears by the singing of Home, Sweet Home, and the dear old hymns. Through Mr. Howe's kind invitation we enjoyed his services with them, and as we rapped for admittance behind the bars, the attendant said: "Make haste, the boys are coming"; and the iron door was quickly locked after we entered. A prisoner brought us chairs, and we watched the long line of convicts marching in, the right hand on the shoulder of the one before them, and their striped cap in the left. They filed into the seats and every arm was folded. It made me sigh to see the boyish faces, but a shudder would creep over me when, here and there, I marked a number wearing the hoary locks of age. As I looked into their faces I could not but think of the many little children I have talked to in happy school days gone by, and my words came back to me: "Now, children, remember I will never forget you, and I will always be watching to see what good men and women you make; great philanthropists, teachers, and workers in the good work, good ministers, noble doctors, lawyers that will mete out true justice, honest laborers, and who knows but that a future Mr. or Mrs. President sits before me on a school bench? Never, never allow me to see your name in disgrace." And I hear a chorus of little voices answer: "I'll be good, Teacher, I'll be good." But before me were men who, in their innocent days of childhood, had as freely and well-meaningly promised to be good. But the one grand thought brightened the dark picture before me: God's great loving-kindness and tender mercy—a God not only to condemn but to forgive. Nine-tenths of the prisoners, I am told, are here through intemperance. Oh, ye liquor dealers that deal out ruin with your rum by the cask or sparkling goblet! Ye poor wretched drunkard, social drinker, or fashionable tippler! Why cannot you be men, such as your Creator intended you should be? I sometimes think God will punish thecause, while man calls the effect to account. For my part, I will reach out my hand to help raise the poorest drunkard from the ditch rather than to shake hands with the largest liquor dealer in the land, be he ever so good (?) Good! He knows what he deals out, and that mingled with his ill-gotten gains is the taint of ruined souls, souls for which he will have to answer for before the Great Judge who never granted a license to sin, nor decided our guilt by a jury.
Mrs. K. had secured a pass to take us to the insane asylum, but we felt we had seen enough of sadness, and returned home.
Friday.About twoP.M.the sky was suddenly darkened with angry looking clouds, and I watched them with interest as they grew more threatening and the thunder spoke in louder tones. I was not anxious to witness a cyclone, but if onemustcome, I wanted to watch its coming, and see all I could of it. But the winds swept the clouds rapidly by, and in a couple of hours the streets were dry, and we drove out to see the only damage done, which was the partial wreck of a brick building that was being erected. Reports came in of a heavy fall of hail a few miles west that had the destroyed corn crop in some places. This was the hardest storm seen during my stay in the state. [ERRATA. Page 245, last line but one, in place of "Nebraska is visited" read "Nebraska isnotvisited." Third line from bottom leave out the word "not" from commencement of line.] Nebraska is not visited, as some suppose, with the terrible cyclones and wind storms that sweep over some parts of the West; nor have I experienced the constant wind that I was told of before I came; yet Nebraska has more windy weather than does Pennsylvania.
The sun comes down with power, and when the day is calm, is very oppressive; but the cool evenings revive and invigorate all nature.
Saturdaywe spent in seeing the city from center to suburb and drinking from the artesian well in the government square. The water has many medical properties, and is used as a general "cure-all."
Climbing the many steps to the belfry of the University, we had a fine view of the city, looking north, east, south, and west, far over housetops. Many are fine buildings of stone and brick, and many beautiful residences with well kept lawns. The streets are 100 and 120 feet wide. Sixteen feet on each side are appropriated for sidewalks, five of which, in all but the business streets, is the walk proper—built of stone, brick, or plank—and the remaining eleven feet are planted with shade trees, and are as nicely kept as the door yards.
The streets running north and south are numbered from first to twenty-fifth street. Those from east to west are lettered from A to W.
Saturday evening—a beautiful moonlight night—just such a night as makes one wish for a ride. Who can blame me if I take one? A friend has been telling how travelers among the Rockies have to climb the mountains on mountain mules or burros. My curiosity is aroused to know if when I reach the foot of Pike's Peak, I can ascend. It would be aggravating to go so far and not be able to reach the Peak just because I couldn't ride on a donkey. So Mrs. K. engaged Gussie Chapman, a neighbor's boy, to bring his burro overafter dark. All saddled, Fanny waits at the door, and I must go.
Good bye, reader, I'll tell you all about my trip when I get back—I'll telegraph you at the nearest station. Don't be uneasy about me; I am told that burros never run off, and if Fanny should throw me I have only three feet to fall. I wonder what her great ears are for—but a happy thought strikes me, and I hang my poke hat on one and start.
One by one her feet are lifted,One by one she sets them down;Step by step we leave the gatepost,And go creeping 'round to a convenient puddle,
One by one her feet are lifted,One by one she sets them down;Step by step we leave the gatepost,And go creeping 'round to a convenient puddle,
One by one her feet are lifted,One by one she sets them down;Step by step we leave the gatepost,And go creeping 'round to a convenient puddle,
One by one her feet are lifted,
One by one she sets them down;
Step by step we leave the gatepost,
And go creeping 'round to a convenient puddle,
when Fanny flops her ears, and lands my hat in the middle. Well, you cannot expect me to write poetry and go at this rate of speed. My thoughts and the muses can't keep pace with the donkey.
Most time to telegraph back to my friends who waved me away so grandly. But, dear me, I have been so lost in my reverie on the lovely night, and thoughts of how I could now climb Pike's Peak—if I ever reached the foot of the mountain,—that I did not notice that Fanny had crept round the mud puddle, and was back leaning against the gate-post. Another start, and Fanny's little master follows to whip her up; but she acts as though she wanted to slide me off over her ears, and I beg him to desist, and we will just creep. Poor little brute, you were created to creep along the dangerous mountain passes with your slow, cautious tread, and I won't try to force you into a trot.
Well, I went up street and down street, and then gave my seat to Hettie Keefer.
"What does it eat?" I asked.
"Oh, old shoes and rags, old tin cans, and just anything at all."
I wish I could tell you all about this queer little Mexican burro, but Hettie is back, and it is time to say good night.
In 1880, Kansas was so flooded with exodus negroes that Nebraska was asked to provide for a few, and over one hundred were sent to Lincoln. Near Mr. K.'s home, they have a little church painted a crushed strawberry color, and in the afternoon, our curiosity led us right in among these poor negroes so lately from the rice and cotton fields and cane brakes of the sunny South, to see and hear them in their worship. They call themselves Baptist, but, ignorant of their church belief, requested the Rev. Mr. Gee, then minister of the Lincoln Baptist church, to come and baptise their infants.
I went supplied with a large fan to hide a smiling countenance behind, but had no use for it in that way. Their utter ignorance, and yet so earnest in the very little they knew, drove all the smiles away, and I wore an expression of pity instead.
The paint is all on the outside of the house, and the altar, stand and seats are of rough make up. The whole audience turned the whites of their eyes upon us as we took a seat near the door. Soon a powerful son of Africa arose and said:
"Bruddering, I havn't long to maintain ye, but if ye'll pray for me for about the short space of fifteen minutes, I'll try to talk to ye. And Moses lifted up his rod in de wilderness, dat all dat looked upon dat rod might be healed. Now in dose days dey had what they called sarpents, but in dese days we call dem snakes, and if any one was bit by a snake and would look on dat rod he would be healed of de snake bite." How earnestly he talk to his "chilens" for de short space of time, until he suddenly broke off and said with a broad grin: "Now my time is up. Brudder, will you pray?" And while the brudder knelt in prayer the audience remained seated, hid their faces in their hands, and with their elbows resting on their knees, swayed their bodies to a continual humumum, and kept time with their feet; the louder the prayer, the louder grew the hum until the prayer could not be heard. One little Topsy sat just opposite us keeping time to the prayer by bobbing her bare heels up and down from a pair of old slippers much too large for her, showing the ragged edges of a heelless stocking, while she eyed "de white folks in de corner." After prayer came the singing, if such it may be called. The minister lined out a hymn from the only hymn book in the house, and as he ended the last word he began to sing in the same breath, and the rest followed. It did not matter whether it was long, short, or particular meter, they could drawl out one word long enough to make six if necessary, and skip any that was in the way. It was only a perfect mumble of loud voices that is beyond description, and must be heard to be appreciated. But the minister cut the singing short, by saying: "Excuse de balance," which we were glad to do. I was very much afraid he was getting "Love among the roses" mixed in with the hymn. While they sang, a number walked up to the little pine table and threw down their offering of pennies and nickels with as much pride and pomp as though they gave great sums, some making two trips. Two men stood at the table and reached out each time a piece of money was put down to draw it into the pile; but with all their caution they could not hinder one girl from taking up, no doubt, more than she put down, and not satisfied with that, again walked up and quickly snatched a piece of money without even pretending to throw some down. The minister closed with a benediction, and then announced that "Brudder Alexander would exhort to ye to-night and preach de gospel pint forward; and if de Lord am willin, I'll be here too."
A number gathered around and gave us the right hand of fellowship with an invitation to come again, which we gladly accepted, and evening found us again in the back seat with pencil and paper to take notes.
Brudder Alexander began with: "Peace be unto dis house while I try to speak a little space of time, while I talks of brudder Joshua. My text am de first chapter of Joshua, and de tenth verse. 'Then Joshua commanded the officers of the people, saying,' Now Joshua was a great wrastler and a war-man, and he made de walls of Jericho to fall by blowen on de horns. Oh, chilens! and fellow-mates, neber forget de book of Joshua. Look-yah! Simon Peta was de first bishop of Rome, but de Lord had on old worn-out clothes, and was sot upon an oxen, and eat moldy bread. And look-a-yah! don't I member de time, and don't I magine it will be terrible when de angel will come wid a big horn, and he'll give a big blah on de horn, and den look out; de fire will come, and de smoke will descend into heaven, and de earth will open up its mouth and not count the cost of houses. And look-a-yah! I hear dem say, de Rocky mountains will fall on ye. Oh, bruddering and fellow-mates, I clar I heard dem say, if ye be a child of God, hold out and prove faithful, and ye'll receive the crown, muzzle down. Now chilen, my time is expended."
And with this we left them to enjoy their prayer meeting alone, while we came home, ready to look on the most ridiculous picture that can be drawn by our famous artist in Blackville, and believe it to be a true representation. Poor children, no wonder the "true blue" fought four long years to set you free from a life of bondage that kept you in such utter ignorance.
Monday morning I felt all the time I had for Lincoln had been "expended," and I bade my kind friends of the capital good-bye.
Home again from Lincoln, Nebraska, to Indiana County Pennsylvania. The Kinzua bridge and Niagara Falls. — The conclusion.
Left Lincoln Monday morning, July 17, on the U.P.R.R. for Fremont. Passed fields of corn almost destroyed by the hail storm of last Friday. It is sad to see some of the farmers cultivating the stubble of what but a few days ago was promising fields of corn. We followed the storm belt until near Wahoo, where we again looked on fine fields. At Valley, a small town, we changed cars and had a tiresome wait of a couple of hours. I was surprised to see a town in Nebraska that seemed to be on the stand-still, but was told that it was too near Omaha and Fremont. A short ride from Valley brought us to Fremont. The first person I saw at the depot was Mrs. Euber, one of the colonists. Before she had recognized me, I put my arm about her and said: "Did you come to meet me, Mrs. Euber?"
"Why, Sims, is this you! I thought you had gone back east long ago."
After promising to spend my time with her, I went to speak to Mr. Reynolds, to whom I had written that I expected to be in Fremont the previous week.
"Well," he said, "you have a great sin to answer for; when I received your card, I ordered a big bill of groceries, and Mrs. Reynolds had a great lot of good things prepared for your entertainment; and when you didn't come, I almost killed myself eating them up."
Sorry I had missed such a treat; and caused so much misery. I left him, promising to call for any he might have left, which I did, and I found he had not eaten them all—which quite relieved my guiltiness. I called on Mrs. N. Turner, one of Fremont's earliest settlers, from whom I learned much of the early history of the country. She said as she shook my hand at parting: "I sincerely hope you will have a safe journey home, and find your dear mother well!"
"Thank you," I replied, "you could not have wished me any thing better." Nothing can be more pleasant to me than to thus snatch acquaintances here and there, and though 'tis but a very short time we meet, yet I reap many good impressions, and many pleasing memories are stored away for future reference, in quiet hours.
Left Fremont Wednesday noon, July 19, with aching temples; but the thought that I was really going home at last, soon relieved my indisposition, and I was ready to write as I went; eastward bound, over level country of good pasture and hay lands. Land, that, when we passed over the 26th April was void of a green spear; trees that then swayed their budding branches in the winds, now toss their leafy boughs. Said good-bye to the winding Elkhorn river, a little way east of Fremont.
Wild roses and morning glories brighten the way. Why! here we are at Blair; but I have told of Blair before, so will go on to the Missouri river. And as we cross over I stand on the platform of the rear car where I can see the spray, and as I look down into the dark water and watch the furrow the boat leaves in the waves, I wonder where are all those that crossed over with me to the land I have just left. Some have returned, but the majority have scattered over the plains of Northwestern Nebraska. I was aroused from my sad reverie by an aged gentleman who stood in the door, asking: "Why, is this the way we cross the river? My! how strong the water must be to bear us up! Oh, dear! Be careful, Sis, or you might fall off when the boat jars against the shore."
"I am holding tight," I replied, "and if I do I will fall right in the boat or skiff swung at the stern." I did not then know that to fall into the Missouri river is almost sure death, as the sand that is mixed with the water soon fills the clothing, and carries one to bottom—but we landed without a jar or jolt and leave the muddy waves for the sandy shores of Iowa.
Reader, I wish I could tell you all about my home going—of my visit at Marshalltown, Iowa, with the Pontious family—dear old friends of my grand-parents; at Oswego, Ill., with an uncle; at Tiffin and Mansfield, Ohio, with more friends, and all I heard and saw along the way. Allow me to skip along and only sketch the way here and there.
July 30, 5:30P.M."Will you tell me, please, when we cross the Pennsylvania state line?" I asked of the conductor. "Why, we crossed the line ten miles back." And I just put my hand out of the window and shake hands with the dear old state and throw a kiss to the hills and valleys, and that rocky bank covered with flowering vines. I thought there was an air of home in the breezes.
The sun was going down, and shadows growing long when we stopped at Meadville, and while others took supper I walked to the rear of the depot to the spot where our party had snow-balled only three months ago. The snow has melted, the merry party widely separated, and alone I gather leaves that then were only buds, and think. Ah! their bright expectations were all in the bud then. Have they unfolded into leaves as bright as these I gather?
Well, I am glad to pat the soil of my native state, and call it dear old "Pa." But could my parents go with me I feel I would like to return again to Nebraska, for though I could never love it as I always shall the "Keystone," yet I have already learned to very highly respect and esteem Nebraska for its worth as a state, and for the kind, intelligent people it holds within its arms.
As I take my seat in the car, a young, well-dressed boy sits near me in a quiet state of intoxication. Well, I am really ashamed! To think I have seen two drunken men to-day and only seven during my three months' stay in Nebraska. So much good for the high license law. If you cannot have prohibition, have the next best thing, and drowned out all the little groggeries and make those whowillhave it, pay the highest price. Poor boy! You had better go to Nebraska and take a homestead.
"Old Sol" has just hid his face behind the dear old hills and it is too dark to see, so I sing to myself. My "fellow mates" hear the hum and wonder what makes me so happy. They don't know I am going home, do they?
"Salamanaca! change cars for Bradford," and soon I am speeding on to B. over the R. & P. road. Two young men and myself are the sole occupants of the car.
"Where do you stop when you go to B.?" one asks of the other.
"At the —— (naming one of the best hotels) generally, but they starve a fellow there. In fact, they do at all the hotels; none of them any good."
"Well, that's just my plain opinion," No. 1 answers, and I cuddle down to sleep, fully assured that I am really near Bradford, where everything is "no good," and "just too horrid for anything." Suppose those young dandies are "Oil Princes"—"Coal Oil Johnnies," you know—and can smash a hotel just for the amusement, but can't pay for their fun.
When I arrived at Bradford the young men watched me tug at my satchels as I got off, all alone, in the darkness of the midnight hour. I knew my brother would not be expecting me, and had made up my mind to take the street cars and go to the St. James. But no street cars were in waiting and only one carriage.
"Go to the ——, lady?"
"No, I don't know that house," I replied; and giving my satchels in the ticket agent's care, I started out in the darkness, across the bridge, past dark streets and alleys, straight up Main street, past open saloons and billiard halls, but not a policeman in sight. So I kept an eye looking out on each side while I walked straight ahead with as firm and measured tread as though I commanded a regiment of soldiers, and I guess the clerk at the St. James thought I did, for he gave me an elegant suite of rooms with three beds. I gave two of them to my imaginary guards, and knelt at the other to thank the dear Father that He had brought me safely so near home.
"How much for my lodging?" I asked, in the morning.
"Seventy-five cents."
I almost choked as I repeated, "Seventy-five cents! Won't you please take fifty?"
"Why?"
"Because it is all the money I have, except a nickel."
"I suppose it will have to do," he said, and I jingled my fifty cents on the counter as loudly as though it was a whole dollar, but could not help laughing heartily at the low ebb of my finances. The several little extras I had met with had taken about all.
I then went to find brother Charlie's boarding-place and surprised him at the breakfast table.
August 1st, Charley and I visited Rock City, or rather, the city of rocks, just across the New York line. Houses of rock they are in size, but are only inhabited by sight-seers. I wish I could describe them to you, reader. All I know is, they are conglomerate rocks, made up of snowy white pebbles from the size of a pea to a hickory nut, that glisten in the sunlight, making the rocks a crystal palace. As I dig and try to dislodge the brightest from its bed of hardened sand, I wonder how God made the cement that holds them so firmly in place, and how and why He brought these rocks to the surface just here and nowhere else. Down, around, and under the rocks we climbed, getting lost in the great crevices, and trying to carve our names on the walls with the many that are chiseled there, but only succeeded in making "our mark." They are one of the beautiful, wonderful things that are beyond description.
Friday, August 3, I left on the Rochester & Pittsburgh R.R. for DuBois. Took a last look at Main street with its busy throng, and then out among the grand old hills that tower round with their forests of trees and derricks, winding round past Degoliar, Custer City, Howard Junction, and crossing east branch of "Tuna" creek. Everything is dumped down in wild confusion here—mountains and valleys, hills and hollows, houses and shanties, tanks and derricks, rocks and stones, trees, bushes, flowers, logs, stumps, brush, and little brooks fringed with bright bergamot flowers which cast their crimson over the waters and lade the air with their perfume. On we go past lots of stations, but there are not many houses after we get fairly out of the land of derricks. Through cuts and over tressels and fills—but now we are 17 miles from B., and going slowly over the great Kinzua bridge, which is the highest railway bridge in the world. It is 2,062 feet from abutment to abutment, and the height of rail above the bed of the creek is 302 feet. Kinzua creek is only a little stream that looks like a thread of silver in the great valley of hemlock forest. Will mother earth ever again produce such a grand forest for her children? Well, for once I feel quite high up in the world. Even Ex-President Grant, with all the honors that were heaped upon him while he "swung around the circle," never felt so elevated as he did when he came to see this bridge, and exclaimed while crossing it, "Judas Priest, how high up we are!"
It is well worth coming far to cross this bridge. I do not experience the fear I expected I would. The bridge is built wide, with foot walks at either side, and the cars run very slow.
One hotel and a couple of little houses are all that can be seen excepting trees. I do hope the woodman will spare this great valley—its noble trees untouched—and allow it to forever remain as one of Pennsylvania's grandest forest pictures.
Reader, I wish I could tell you of the great, broad, beautiful mountains of Pennsylvania that lift their rounded tops 2,000 to 2,500 feet above sea level. But as the plains of Nebraska are beyond description, so are the mountains.
J. R. Buchanan says: "No one can appreciate God until he has trod the plains and stood upon the mountain peaks."
To see and learn of these great natural features of our land but enlarges our love for the Great Creator, who alone could spread out the plains and rear the mountains, and enrich them with just what His children need. To wind around among and climb the broad, rugged mountains of Pennsylvania is to be constantly changing views of the most picturesque scenery of all the states of the Union.
Arrived at DuBois 5P.M.This road has only been in use since in June, and the people gather round as though it was yet a novelty to see the trains come in. I manage to land safely with all my luggage in hand, and make my way through the crowd to Dr. Smathers'. There stood Francis watching the darkies pass on their way to camp meeting; but when he recognized this darkey, he danced a jig around me, and ran on before to tell mamma "Auntie Pet" had come. I could not wait until I reached the "wee Margaretta" to call to her, and then came Sister Maggie, and were not we glad? and, oh! how thankful for all this mercy! and the new moon looked down upon us, and looked glad too. These were glad, happy days, but I was not yet home. Father and Norval came in a few days. Norval to go with Charley to Nebraska, and father to take his daughter home.
"Well, Frank, you look just like the same girl after all your wandering," father said, as he wiped his eyes after the first greeting:
"Yes, nothing seems to change Pet, only she is much healthier looking than when she went away," Maggie said.
August 10. Father and I started early for a forty mile drive home, through farming and timber country. About one-third is cleared land, the rest is woods, stumps, and stones. At noon "Colonel" was fed, and we sat down under pine trees and took our lunch of dried buffalo meat from the west, peaches from the south, and apples from home. Well, I thought, that is just the way this world gets mixed up. It takes a mixture to make a good dinner, and a mixture to make a good world.
While going through Punxsutawney (Gnat-town), I read the sign over a shed, "Farming Implements." I looked, and saw one wagon, a plow, and something else, I guess it was a stump puller. I could not help comparing the great stock of farming implements seen in every little western town.
Along Big Mahoning creek, over good and bad roads, up hill and down we go, until we cross Little Mahoning—bless its bright waters!—and once more I look upon Smicksburg, my own native town—the snuggest, dearest little town I ever did see! and surrounded by the prettiest hills. If I wasn't so tired, I'd make a bow to every hill and everybody. Two miles farther on, up a long hill, and just as the sun sends its last rays aslant through the orchard, we halt at the gate of "Centre Plateau," and as I am much younger than father, I get out and swing wide the gate. It is good to hear the old gate creak a "welcome home" on its rusty hinges once more, and while father drives down the lane I slip through a hole in the fence, where the rails are crooked, and chase Rosy up from her snug fence corner; said "how do you do," to Goody and her calf, and start Prim into a trot; and didn't we all run across the meadow to the gate, where my dear mother stood waiting for me.
"Mother, dear, your daughter is safe home at last," I said, "and won't leave you soon again!"
Poor mother was too glad to say much. I skipped along the path into the house, and Hattie (Charlie's wife) and I made such a fuss that we frightened Emma and Harry into a cry.
I carried the milk to the spring-house for mother, and while she strains it away, I tell her all about Uncle John's and the rest of the friends.
Come, reader, and sit down with me, and have a slice of my dear mother's bread and butter, and have some cream for your blackberries, and now let's eat. I've been hungry so long for a meal at home. And how good to go to my own little room, and thank God for this home coming at my own bedside, and then lay me down to sleep.
Then there were uncles, aunts, and cousins to visit and friends to see and tell all about my trip, and how I liked the West. Then "Colonel" was hitched up, and we children put off for a twenty mile ride to visit Brother Will's. First came Sister Lizzie to greet us, then dear May, shy little Frantie, and squealing, kicking Charlie boy was kissed—but where is Will?
"Out at the oats field?"
"Come, May, take me to your papa; I can't wait until supper time to see him." Together we climb the hill, then through the woods to the back field. Leaving May to pick huckleberries and fight the "skeeters," I go through the stubble. Stones are plenty, and I throw one at him. Down goes the cradle and up goes his hat, with "Three cheers for sister!"
As we trudge down the hill, I said:
"Let's go West, Will, where you have no hills to climb, and can do your farming with so much less labor. Why, I didn't see a cradle nor a scythe while I was in Nebraska. Surely, it is the farmer's own state."
"Well, I would like to go if father and mother could go too, but I will endure the extra work here for the sake of being near them. If they could go along I would like to try life in the West."
Home again, and I must get to my writing, for I want to have my book out by the last of September. I had just got nicely interested, when mother puts her head in at the door, and says, with such a disappointed look:
"Oh! are you at your writing? I wanted you to help me pick some huckleberries for supper."
Now, who wouldn't go with a dear, good mother? The writing is put aside, and we go down the lane to the dear old woods, and the huckleberries are gathered.
Seated again—
"Frank," father says, "I guess you will have to be my chore boy while Norval is away. Come, I'd like you to turn the grindstone for me while I make a corn cutter."
Now, who wouldn't turn a grindstone for a dear, good father?
There stood father with a broken "sword of Bunker Hill" in his hand that he found on the battle field of Bunker Hill, in Virginia.
"Now, father, if you are sure that was a rebel sword, I'll willingly turn until it is all ground up; but if it is a Union sword, why then, "Hang the old sword in its place," and sharpen up your old corn cutters, and don't let's turn swords into plowshares now even though it be a time of peace."
I lock the door and again take up my pen. "Rattle, rattle at the latch," and "Oo witing, Aunt Pet? Baby and Emma wants to kiss Aunt Pet!" comes in baby voice through the key-hole. The key is quickly turned, and my little golden-haired "niece" and "lover" invade my sanctum sanctorum, and for a time I am a perfect martyr to kisses on the cheeks, mouth, and, as a last resort for an excuse, my little lover puts up his lips for a kiss "on oo nose." Now, who wouldn't be a martyr to kisses—I mean baby kisses?
Thus my time went until the grapes and peaches were ripe, and then came the apples—golden apples, rosy-cheeked apples, and the russet brown. And didn't we children help to eat, gather, store away, and dry until I finished the drying in a hurry by setting fire to the dry house. The cold days came before I got rightly settled down to write again, and although cold blows the wind and the snow is piling high, while the thermometer says 20° below, yet all I have to do is to take up a cracked slate and write. But I write right over the crack now until the slate is filled, and then it is copied off; I write I live the days all over again; eating Mrs. Skirving's good things, riding behind oxen and mules, crossing the Niobrara, viewing the Keya Paha, standing on Stone Butte, walking the streets of Valentine, and even yet I feel as though I was running the gauntlet, while the cowboys line the walks. Government mules are running off with me, now I am enjoying the "Pilgrim's Retreat," and I go on until I have all told and every day lived over again in fond memory. And through it I learn a lesson of faith and trust.
So I wrote away until February 16, when I again left my dear home for the west, to have my book published. Went via DuBois and Bradford. Left Bradford March 19, for Buffalo, on the R. & P.R.R. The country along this road presents a wild picture, but I fear it would be a dreary winter scene were I to attempt to paint it, for snow drifts are yet piled high along the fence corners. At Buffalo I took the Michigan Central R.R. for Chicago. I catch a glimpse of Lake Erie as we leave Buffalo, and then we follow Niagara river north to the Falls. Reader, I will do the best I can to tell you of my car-window view of Niagara. We approach the Falls from the south, and cross the new suspension bridge, about two miles north of the Falls. Just below the bridge we see the whirlpool, where Capt. Webb, in his reckless daring, lost his life. The river here is only about 800 feet wide, but the water is over 200 feet deep. The banks of the river are almost perpendicular, and about 225 feet from top to the water's edge. Looking up the river, we can catch only a glimpse of the Falls, as the day is very dull, and it is snowing quite hard; but enough is seen to make it a grand picture. Across the bridge, and we are slowly rolling over the queen's soil. Directly south we go, following close to the river. When we are opposite the Falls the train is stopped for a few minutes, while we all look and look again. Had the weather been favorable, I would have been tempted to stop and see all that is to be seen. But I expect to return this way at a more favorable time, and shall not then pass this grand picture so quickly by. The spray rises high above the Falls, and if the day was clear, I am told a rainbow could be seen arching through the mist. The banks of the river above the Falls are low, and we can look over a broad sheet of blue water. But after it rushes over the Falls it is lost to our view. I wish I could tell you more, and tell it better, but no pen can do justice to Niagara Falls.
I was rather astonished at Canada. Why, I did not see more prairie or leveler land in the west than I did in passing through Canada. The soil is dark red clay, and the land low and swampy.
A little snow was to be seen along the way, but not as much as in New York; the country does not look very thrifty; poor houses and neglected farms; here and there are stretches of forest. Crossed the Detroit river on a boat as we did the Missouri, but it is dark and I can only see the reflection of the electric light on the water as we cross to the Michigan shore. The night is dark and I sleep all I can. I did not get to see much of Michigan as we reached Chicago at eight, Friday morning. But there was a friend there to meet me with whom I spent five days in seeing a little mite of the great city. Sunday, I attended some of the principal churches and was surprised at the quiet dress of the people generally and also to hear every one join in singing the good old tunes, and how nice it was; also a mission Sunday-school in one of the bad parts of the city, where children are gathered from hovels of vice and sin by a few earnest christian people who delight in gathering up the little ones while they are easily influenced. Well, I thought, Chicago is not all wicked and bad. It has its philanthropists and earnest christian workers, who are doing noble work. Monday, Lincoln Park was visited, and how I did enjoy its pleasant walks on that bright day, and throwing pebbles into Lake Michigan. Tuesday, went to see the panorama of the battle of Gettysburg. There now, don't ask me anything about it, only if you are in Chicago while it is on exhibition, go to corner Wabash avenue and Hubbard Court, pay your fifty cents and look for yourself. I was completely lost when I looked around, and felt that I had just woke up among the hills of Pennsylvania. But painted among the beautiful hills was one of the saddest sights eyes ever looked upon. The picture was life size and only needed the boom of the artillery and the groans of the dying to give it life. Wednesday morning brother Charles came with a party of twenty, bound for the Platte Valley, Nebraska, but I could not go with them as they went over the C. & N.W.R.R., and as I had been over that road, I wished to go over the C.B. & Q.R.R. for a change; so we met only to separate. I left on the 12.45, Wednesday, and for a way traveled over the same road that I have before described. There is not much to tell of prairie land in the early spring time and I am too tired to write. We crossed the Mississippi river at Burlington, 207 miles from Chicago, but it is night and we are deprived of seeing what would be an interesting view. Indeed it is little we see of Iowa, "beautiful land," as so much of it is passed over in the night. 482 miles from Chicago, we cross the Missouri river at Plattsmouth. 60 miles farther brings us to Lincoln, arriving there at 12M.March 27. I surprised Deacon Keefer's again just at tea-time. Mother Keefer received me with open arms, and my welcome was most cordial from all, and I was invited to make my home with them during my stay in Lincoln.
My next work was to see about the printing of my book. I met Mr. Hathaway, of the State Journal Co., and found their work and terms satisfactory, and on the morning of the 24th of April, just one year from the day our colony left Bradford and the work of writing my book began, I made an agreement with the Journal company for the printing of it. I truly felt that with all its pleasures, it had been a year of hard labor.
How often when I was busy plying the pen with all heart in the work, kind friends who wished me well would come to me with words of discouragement and ask me to lay aside my pen, saying:
"I do not see how you are to manage about its publication, and all the labor it involves."
"I do not know myself, but I have faith that if I do the work cheerfully, and to the best of my ability, and 'bearing well my burden in the heat of the day,' that the dear Lord who cared for me all through my wanderings while gathering material for this work, and put it into the hearts of so many to befriend me, will not forsake me at the last."
"Did He forsake me," do you ask?
"No, not for one moment." When asked for the name of some one in Lincoln as security, I went to one of my good friends who put their name down without hesitation.
"What security do you want of me?" I asked.
"Nothing, only do the best you can with your book."
"The dear Lord put it into your heart to do this in answer to my many prayers that when the way was dark, and my task heavy, helping hands would be reached out to me."
"Why God bless you, little girl! The Lord will carry you through, so keep up brave heart, and do not be discouraged."
I would like to tell you the name of this good friend, but suffice it to say he is one whom, when but a lad, Abraham Lincoln took into his confidence, and by example taught him many a lesson of big-heartedness such as only Abraham Lincoln could teach.
Friday, May 9th.I went to Wymore to pay my last visit to my dear aunt, fearing that I would not find her there. But the dear Father spared her life and she was able to put her arms about me and welcome me with: "The Lord is very good to bring you to me in time. I was afraid you would come too late." Sunday her spirit went down to the water's edge and she saw the lights upon the other shore and said: "What a beautiful light! Oh! if I had my will I would cross over just now." But life lingered and I left her on Monday. Wednesday brought me this message: "Mother has just fallen asleep." With this shadow of sorrow upon me I went to Milford that day to begin my Maying of '84 with a row on the river and a sun-set view on the Blue.
"Is there a touch lacking or a color wanting?" I asked, as I looked up to the western sky at the beautiful picture, and down upon the mirror of waters, and saw its reflection in its depth.
The 15th of May dawned bright and beautiful; not a cloud flecked the sky all the livelong day. We gathered the violets so blue and the leaves so green of Shady Cliff and the Retreat, talking busily of other May-days, and thinking of the loved ones at home who were keeping my May-day in the old familiar places.
Then back to Lincoln carrying bright trophies of our Maying at Milford, and just at the close of day, when evening breathes her benediction, friends gathered round while two voices repeated: "With this ring I thee wed. By this token I promise to love and cherish."
And now reader, hoping that I may some day meet you inmy"Diary of a Minister's Wife," I bid youGood-Bye.
mapFREMONT, ELKHORN AND MISSOURI VALLEY R.R. AND CONNECTIONS,TO THE FREE HOMES FOR THE MILLION.
mapFREMONT, ELKHORN AND MISSOURI VALLEY R.R. AND CONNECTIONS,TO THE FREE HOMES FOR THE MILLION.
FREMONT, ELKHORN AND MISSOURI VALLEY R.R. AND CONNECTIONS,TO THE FREE HOMES FOR THE MILLION.
Transcriber's Note:Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed.
Transcriber's Note:
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.
Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed.