The Project Gutenberg eBook of On the frontier
Title: On the frontier
or, Scenes in the West
Author: C. H. Pearson
Release date: October 29, 2025 [eBook #77147]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: Massachusetts Sabbath School Society, 1864
Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.
COME TO BE MARRIED. Frontier.
ON THE FRONTIER,
OR
SCENES IN THE WEST.
[BY]
[Charles Henry Pearson]
Written for the Massachusetts Sabbath School Society,
and approved by the Committee of Publication.
BOSTON:
MASSACHUSETTS SABBATH SCHOOL SOCIETY
DEPOSITORY, NO. 13 CORNHILL.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by the
MASS. SABBATH SCHOOL SOCIETY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District
of Massachusetts.
STEREOTYPE AT THE
BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY.
— — — — — —
PRINTED BY WRIGHT & POTTER.
CONTENTS.
————
ADVENTURE ON A WESTERN STEAMER
ON THE FRONTIER.
ADVENTURE ON A WESTERN STEAMER.
I HAD been for some years in poor health, and, at length, became almost prostrated in body and mind. Physicians advised a change of climate, recommending the Northwest as adapted to restore the tone of my physical system, and save my lungs from disease.
Having never visited the region designated, I wrote a letter of inquiry to a friend who had just returned from that part of the country. Among other things, in reply, he said, "Should you go West, beware of the Mississippi River desperadoes. In taking a steamer, appropriate a state-room to yourself; do not, on any consideration, share one with a stranger. Let the money you take with you be in gold, and what you do not at once need secure about your person, thus." Then followed an ingenious method of secreting it. At the close of his communication, the caution concerning the money and the state-room was repeated.
Now, it is all very well, doubtless, for the physician with a lucrative practice to advise his patient to take a long and expensive journey, and the well-to-do merchant, with characteristic foresight, to describe the best way of taking care of surplus funds; but how one whose income was "five hundred a year, and sass," as Peep at No. 5 has it, could make such directions useful, was a question.
Nevertheless, in one such case, at least, that problem was solved; I will not say "how," without the permission of the generous friends who saved heart and brain that tug. So one pleasant autumn morning found me on my way to the El Dorado of broken-down dyspeptics and pining consumptives.
A ride of fourteen hundred miles from my sick-room, and I was at Dubuque, weary, yet impatiently awaiting the steamer that was to take me to the rolling prairies and bracing air of Minnesota. I had seen "the lions," and had nothing to do but that most patience-trying of all vocations in this railroad era to wait—for a delaying conveyance. Hour after hour passed, and I had about given up expecting the boat, when the porter, touching his cap, said, "The steamer is coming, sir. Shall I take your baggage to the landing?"
What a swarming hive was that Mississippi steamer! What part of the world was not represented in that motley, jostling throng!
My first business was to secure a state-room, for it was plain that all on board would not have beds that night. Just then my friend's advice recurred, and I resolved it should be followed.
"I would like a state-room entirely to myself," said I to the clerk. "Can I be accommodated?"
"Can't tell about 'that!'" said he, crustily. Then, looking over his book, "Yes, here's 'one' empty—'forty-nine;' and here's the key," handing a key to which was attached a strip of leather marked 49.
I was enough of an invalid to retire early, and, having disposed of my valise, turned to fasten the door, when, on inserting the key, I found that it would not fit the lock. Returning to the office, my very meek statement of the unpleasant fact did not add to the amiability of the clerk. He couldn't be responsible for every key on the boat; if the wrong one had been labeled forty-nine, it wasn't "his" fault. "All is," said he, "that's the only state-room, and that's the only key to it 'I' know of!"
There was no redress. I could only go back to the state-room, barricade the door with such articles as were at hand, and make the best of it.
How welcome "nature's sweet restorer" to the sick and weary traveler, and how "unwelcome" to have its blissful spell disturbed, thought I, as strong-lunged voices banished my slumber. Looking from the little window at the head of my berth, an animated scene was presented. On an elevated stand was perched a well-dressed man, playing on a shrill-voiced accordeon a popular air, accompanying it with a superb voice; the swaying mass of humanity around joining in the chorus; scores of voices in unison making stentorian melody. I was in no mood to sympathize with their enjoyment, but felt rather like the old lady, who, not approving of martial music, as the military pageant was passing, stepped out, and requested the band to stop playing.
Till eleven o'clock the noisy music continued, when a tall, red-faced man, who made it his business to tease the musician, dropped a satirical remark in one of the pauses in the concert about a certain duet by a cracked voice and a badly cracked accordeon. The leader of the orchestra, with the over-sensitiveness of his class, declared, in high wrath, he would play no more—an announcement which, very ungratefully, was received with cheers, and the passengers separated for the night.
Just from the sick-room, the journey and the loss of rest had so jaded me, that at once, as soon as it was quiet, I fell into a deep sleep. Suddenly, however, I was again aroused, by the falling of some article to the floor, and, rising upon my elbow, saw a face peering in at the door, as if some one was making exertions to enter.
It was a swarthy face, with shaggy eyebrows and heavy black beard, and the reader can feel assured it did not impress me at all favorably in the dim light and the dead silence.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"I have come to turn in!" said my visitor, stepping fully into view.
"You have mistaken the number," said I: "this is my room."
"I think 'you' are mistaken," he coolly replied: "this is forty-nine, I believe? Yes," added he, stepping back, and reading the number on the door, "forty-nine," then exhibiting a key on which that number was marked.
"There is something wrong," I replied, "and I can not submit to intrusion."
"And I can not be kept out of my berth," he rejoined, determinedly. "The clerk sent me here not three minutes ago, with this key, and here I intend to stay."
"We will see what the clerk says about it," said I, starting out to find him.
My intruder followed; but the office lights were out, and save the echo of our footsteps, and the strain and rush of the boat, silence brooded in the vast floating palace.
"The clerk has turned in, I guess," said my new acquaintance, "the rascal! He was here not more than three minutes ago. What's to be done?"
I reflected a moment. A short time before, a passenger, walking the boat at night, mysteriously disappeared; his agonized family being put ashore the next morning penniless and without a protector. I must confess that, under the circumstances, I scarcely knew which to choose—the state-room with the stranger, or the open boat without the stranger, but concluded to take the former. So, returning together, and taking the upper of the tier of berths, I resolved to keep watch for the rest of the night, ready for any emergency. My unwelcome companion took the berth next below me.
It was not hard to keep awake after the events of the evening; and yet the moments moved slowly. Full two hours passed, and I was deliberating whether or not to dismiss my suspicions and go to sleep, when weariness overcame me, and I dropped into a restless slumber. How long this continued I can not tell; but suddenly a hand glided across my chest, pausing at the very spot where the gold had been secreted. The feat was accomplished with surprising dexterity, and, glancing in the direction from which the hand came, I found myself gazing into the same eyes that had peered in at me from the half-opened door! But the expression! Never had I seen any thing so fiendish—such a look of murderous determination. The left hand was at the gold, while the right held a gleaming knife. I felt that my hour had come. And yet it was not the glittering blade that filled me with horror, so much as the pitiless, demoniac expression of those eyes glaring from out their deep sockets. The blood froze in my veins. All power of resistance or of motion was gone. I could even feel the keen point of the knife entering my quivering flesh, before, with one last, desperate effort, I succeeded in throwing off the deathlike stupor. Happily, that final effort availed, and, raising myself in the attitude of resistance, I awoke—awoke to hear my new friend, who yet remained peaceably in bed, make our room resound with certain nasal sounds, which, if not as musical as one could wish, were not just then wholly unwelcome.
Morning dawned clear and beautiful, showing a more preposessing face on the person of my suspected room-mate. He was from the good city of Hartford, Conn., and, from motives similar to my own, had secured, as he supposed, a state-room to himself, and having "the key to the only empty state-room,"—"forty-nine,"—was as much astonished at finding it occupied, as I was at being intruded upon.
"But," said he, laughing, "I had no objections to passing the night with you!"
"Why not?" I asked.
"Because I knew you to be an honest man!"
"Ah, how did you know that?"
"From your anxiety to be alone."
DEATH ON THE PRAIRIE.
THE long, terribly cold winter was nearly over, when my hibernating was enlivened by a caller,—a man of some note with us, having traits which mark the frontier chieftain.
Brave, and physically powerful, he sometimes takes the law into his own hands, and settles quarrels. Not a few "new country" differences, of threatening aspect, have vanished before his stalwart form. As when, for example, a tempting "claim" was in dispute, and the rival party had gathered in force to drive the other away. Coolly listening to the altercation, he would espouse the side he judged in the right,—perhaps the weaker; then, laying aside his coat, as their champion, offer to decide the case by an appeal to muscular force, announcing himself ready to meet "any three" of the trespassers. But, however, the challenge was not accepted. Whether the sight of that huge fist excited fear, or conscience, or both, it proved a potent pacificator.
He was also well read,—a fluent public speaker, when once under way, and in debate, an opponent not to be despised. A politician, too, he had graced more than one new State legislature. And though in his early days in Maine he stood well as a church-member, he was now, alas! an avowed skeptic;—perhaps not a strange sequence to years of migratory life in California and the West.
Many a fine chat had Mr. B. and I enjoyed together, seated before the ample clay-stick-and-stone fireplace in his cabin, as he solaced himself with his pipe of an evening; and though, at times, I pressed home the claims of religion, he was not offended, if not convinced. But this was before the fierce wintery blockade had cut off neighborly intercourse.
The object of his call was at once stated. It appeared that, recently, having got out of supplies, he had ventured to break a road to M—, a settlement eleven miles distant, to buy flour and other stores. While there, he heard that a lad, twelve years of age, was frozen to death on the prairie, the first of the season, and that the parents were so deeply afflicted that it was feared the mother's reason would be unsettled. His sympathies being stirred, he visited the sorrowing household to offer consolation. To his surprise, his words were powerless. Nothing he could say, however kind or well-reasoned, reached their case; and, baffled, he saw they needed divine sympathy, of which he could not speak. He advised them, therefore, to call in a Christian minister.
Weepingly, they rejoined that they knew not as there was one in all the region.
"There is one tarrying in my neighborhood," he replied, "and I doubt not he will cheerfully come, preach a funeral discourse at your house, and do all he can for your peace of mind."
"And now," said he, after narrating the above, "if you will set a time to go over, I will carry them word, that they may arrange for your coming, and give due notice of the sermon."
It was with no little satisfaction that I made the appointment. For what more exalted privilege than to bear the balm of the gospel to bleeding hearts! Moreover, the testimony my infidel friend had thus unwittingly borne to Christianity, was exceedingly gratifying, and led me to hope for his further enlightenment.
The day set for the services at M— dawned calm and clear, with a slight relenting of the cold. A good brother had offered the use of his handsome span and a generous pair of "runners," and calling for Mr. B., who, with a show of reluctance, consented to accompany us, we set out. A choir had been extemporized for the occasion. It was composed of persons originally from various States and from Canada, a miniature specimen of western society. Strewing the bottom of the long pung with clean straw, and taking our seats thereon, the better to screen us from the sharp, frosty air, and carefully enveloped in blankets and buffalo robes, the ride was made quite comfortable.
"There's the house!" said Mr. B., at length, as we began to ascend a swell of land, on which stood a pretty painted cottage, reminding one of New England. On the extended ridge grew the burr oak, with almost the regularity of cultivation,—producing the illusion that we were passing through an eastern orchard. In the background were cleared fields, well fenced, and the river belted with forest trees. It was a charming place, and an exclamation of delight broke from our company. One glance assured us that this was the abode of taste and thrift. The interest awakened by exteriors was not lessened when I met the inmates. The master of the house impressed me as a large-hearted, industrious man in his business enterprises, and in social relations kind and affectionate. His wife and a married sister entered the room soon after our arrival, neatly dressed in mourning; the former pale and worn; the gentle, refined face of the latter, sad and sympathizing. They were from Vermont, accustomed to the best influences of that goodly State, the stamp of which was indelibly placed on them.
The story of the parent's sorrow was heart-touching.
Judson, the son they mourned, was the eldest of five children,—a child of promise; "the flower of the family," as the neighbors expressed it. He had a mind mature beyond his years, and was a dutiful son. For some weeks before his decease, a change had taken place in his health. Without any known cause, his bodily strength wasted.
And, on the subject of religion, his feelings became tender and earnest. That ripening for the Reaper, by unearthly culture, sometimes witnessed in children, despite the most unpropitious circumstances, just ere they pass away, was his blessed experience. Deep questions about God and Christ and Heaven he revolved by himself. Questions of duty he was often propounding to the parents' slumbering consciences. His father had been a consistent member of the church, and faithful in family duties years before, but in the absorbing cares of frontier life, and the destitution of religious privileges, becoming backslidden, he had forsaken the family altar, and his conversation was utterly worldly. The son, with shadows of eternity deepening on his pathway, and the Spirit gently leading him, became unhappy in view of the parental shortcomings.
With tearful, pleading eyes, he would often say, "Oh, why don't father read the Bible and have prayers as he used to, mother?"
And the mother would ponder these things in her heart.
One day an elk had been shot some three miles out on the prairie, and a party were going with a wagon to bring it in. Watson Freeman, a companion of Judson's, and two years his senior, was going with the hunters, and Judson asked his mother's permission to accompany him. Contrary to her custom, for she watched over her idol with jealous care, she gave her consent, "scarcely knowing," as she told me, "what she said." The boys, as the team went slowly, soon got out and followed on behind. Excited by the expedition, they noticed not that the horses were gradually leaving them, till a great weariness fell on the more delicate of the two. He complained of being too tired to walk, and his young friend called to the men: "Stop a moment and let Judson get in. He's tired!"
"Can't wait," replied the hunter; "if he wants to ride he must run and catch up!"
The poor boy tried to rouse himself to hasten, but in vain.
His companion, alarmed, entreated the driver to wait, saying, "Do stop, just a moment, Judson's so weak! Do let him get in; he can't run a step; he can scarcely walk!"
"Well, let him stay where he is, then!" was the rough answer. "If he's too much of a baby to walk he ought to have staid at home!" And quickly the wagon was out of sight.
Meanwhile the cold increased. The sky became overcast. And a snow-squall, such as frequently sweeps the prairies of the northwest in late autumn, set in. The blinding flakes were whirled about with the fury peculiar to the storm where the wind, unobstructed, gathers mightiest force, and the enfeebled boy felt a deathly chill striking to his vitals, and said, "O Watson, I'm freezing to death!"
His companion saw the danger, and, exposing himself to the terrible air, as he took off his own coat, and wrapped his friend in it, he replied, cheerfully, "There! That will keep you warm, I guess. Now take hold of my hand, and we'll go right home. I'll help you all I can. 'I' can find the way!" And, turning about, they started for the settlement.
Those who have known, as I have, the hardy pioneer to become bewildered and lost close to his own dwelling, when overtaken by one of those violent tornado-like storms, his cries for help drowned in the roar of the tempest, will understand the nature of the task which that brave young heart proposed to itself.
An instance of the kind occurred about the time of the event I am relating. A settler, experienced in frontier life, had gone to attend to his cattle, which were yarded in a temporary rail enclosure, a few rods from his cabin. While busied there, suddenly the dusky wing of the snow-tempest obscured the heavens. Hastily finishing his task, he started for home. Already every object was hidden in the awful gloom, and how the maddened gusts charged upon, and smote and baffled him!—pelting him with the cruel sleet; filling eyes and nostrils, nay, almost burying him with the driving drifts. The sharp coldness cut to the bones. The whole air was in commotion,—hissing, howling, wailing, groaning. Downward rushed the heavy snow-clouds, upward shot opposing columns, with surprising speed and strength; from every quarter to every quarter the whirlwind hurled the swift moving flakes. He had cleared forests in Michigan, and conquered hardships in prairie land, but now the strong man was at his wit's end; hoping each moment, as he was tossed about in the mighty tumult, to reach his destination, only to be perplexed in his disappointment. Meanwhile, the families at home—for two occupied the dwelling—had become alarmed for him. Two stout men set off for his rescue, shouting his name. They returned, unable to cope with the rage of the elements. Getting their guns, they made another attempt. The report of the firearms reached the lost man's ear. He had been whirled about near the locality from whence he had started; and when the sound of the gun reached him, in his bewilderment, he was going directly out "to the solitudes of the prairie." A moment more and he would have been beyond recovery.
It was a mile and a half to the nearest dwelling, and they had gone only a few rods when Watson perceived his playmate could proceed no further, and, with a heroism beyond his years, he took him on his back and bore him on, on; the raging winds disputing the way, and the snow beating against him pitilessly.
Three quarters of a mile—the neighbors afterward estimated—did that noble boy carry his precious burden, nerved to strange strength by the love that was in his heart, and the consciousness that life or death hung on the issue. But the hands about his neck relaxed their hold, and his own step faltered; so, coming to a lonely oak, he leaned his charge against it, and covering him up carefully with the over-garment, bidding him not to be afraid, fled for help.
As soon as possible, he returned with a wagon, accompanied by its owner and a neighbor. By the side of the tree they found him, covered with a fleecy robe, sitting there still and silent, a faint trembling of the pulse was all that told that life was not extinct. What had been his thoughts there alone amid the wild storm; what the tenacity with which his young heart clung to life,—the yearnings for father, mother, little brothers; what the agonized soul-cries that ascended above the voices of the tempest, piercing heaven, or what visions of angel ministrants strengthening him in the last conscious struggle, there was none to tell. He was speechless.
Laying him gently in the vehicle, they drove for his home. Bursting open the door, they bore the child in,—rash, kind men! "Judson was dead!" Not an intimation had the parents received that evil had befallen their son, since a few short hours before he had gone forth in his young joy. The blow fell with stunning force, it was so sudden, so unexpected; and while the father was sorely stricken, the mother mourned in an agony that "refused to be comforted."
"Oh, that he had been taken away from before our eyes by disease, then we might have been prepared for it!" she exclaimed. "But to have him perish all alone, with no one near to speak to, no one by to soothe his last moments! Left, too, so brutally by neighbors who, if they had been at all humane, might have saved him from such a fate. And to bury him without a minister of the gospel to speak to us from God's word, and offer prayer, it was so revolting, so dreadful!"
"Did you have no funeral service?" I asked.
"Yes; but it was so different from what we needed, and from what we had been accustomed to. We were told that a settler, three miles from here, a smart capable man, was a preacher. And, although he was a Universalist, rather than have none of the offices appropriate to such an event, my husband invited him to officiate. He made some remarks, but did not pray, saying he was not used to praying. And so my boy was buried! We have never felt right about that funeral, and when I heard of you, I felt 'so' glad! I have not heard a sermon for more than two years, yet I prize such privileges."
But silently the neighbors had assembled from miles around, some on foot, more in ox-teams. The rooms were crowded with an intelligent, strongly-marked audience, decorous and sympathizing. A deep hush was over all as I read those solemn, sweetly-consoling passages in the Bible that lead the thoughts from the perishable to the unchangeable, and reveal the life to come. How wondrously significant were they in that grief-shadowed, pioneer home! And how touching the oft-sung hymn,—
"Thus fades the lovely, blooming flower,
Frail, smiling solace of an hour!"
Never, however, had I read those fine words of Cowper with such effect:—
"God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps on the sea,
And rides upon the storm."
And I felt impressed to say, alluding to the providential and gracious preparation of the lad for the sudden coming of the messenger, that, if the bereaved would seek grace to look away from secondary causes up to the great First Cause, confiding in his wisdom and love, I felt confident they would yet see proofs of a kind design in their affliction, and learn that by it God intended signal good to themselves and others; a remark which subsequent events justified. But I will not anticipate.
The mother's sorrowful face haunted me all the way during the ride back. Few words were spoken by our little company, before so companionable. The gloom of the death-room was on us all. The very landscape seemed in unison with the scene we had left, as it stretched away to the horizon, smooth and treeless, wrapped in its fleecy shroud. As I glanced athwart the long, dull level, I thought of the races that once held possession here, now gone. What was that great solitude but a vast city of the dead, without a memento? Only one living thing appeared as far as the eye could reach. On a gently swelling mound near by, scarcely distinguishable, in its garb of pure white, from the snowy hillock, sat a large Arctic bird ("strix nyctea"). Naturalists say that nearly all the notes of birds are plaintive. With a moaning scream, like one in distress, the bird soared over us, his eagle size and swan-like plumage adding majesty to his lonely flight. The whole was in unison with the sad emotions that ruled our hearts.
"I thank you for calling for me," said my infidel friend, as he stepped out of the sleigh at his gate.
"And I thank 'you,'" I replied, "for opening the way for Christian labor on behalf of that afflicted family. If it benefits them, you brought it about. And my prayer is, that it may do us 'all' good!"
"I hope it may," he rejoined, with a tremulous voice, as he entered his door.
The driver was not so much to blame as at first appeared. He did not realize that the boy was so feeble. Many kind-hearted people, blessed with health, cannot be made to understand the condition of those less favored in this regard. How often the incurably diseased, suffering indescribable horrors, subjected to the slow-wasting power of some chronic complaint, are contemptuously treated by those who might cheer their gloom and soften their hard lot. Ah! Dear reader, let us never be wanting in tenderest sympathy toward the frail, sensitive invalid, soon perhaps to be hidden from our sight by the clinging turf.
GOING FOR LUMBER.
AUTUMN'S breath was growing frosty, reminding us that Winter was on his way, and our house was still unfinished; the floors were yet to be laid, and the roof boarded and shingled. The neighbor who volunteered to "draw the minister's lumber," had taken long journeys with that object in view, but without accomplishing his purpose, for the mills could not supply the demand, so great had been the immigration. So I resolved to go for it myself.
But every thing available, biped and quadruped, was over-busy, and as I had no "team," a further delay seemed inevitable, when relief came from an unexpected quarter. A Norwegian—a semi-Americanized, good man, hearing of my situation, called to offer the use of his cattle. He had them with him, a yoke of young, sharp-horned brindles, trim and muscular, with bright, undaunted eyes.
Now, within the year, I had landed, an invalid, in Minnesota. Forbidden, by my physicians, to preach for at least two years, I had, after the first few weeks, farmed, carpentered, felled trees, split rails, quarried stone, practiced medicine, taught school, &c., besides performing usual Sabbath labor. Having resolved to "take things by the smooth handle," I had found no little happiness in my many-sided life, but the prospect of a long journey with oxen did not look attractive I confess.
"Why, my friend," said I to the Norwegian, "it is twenty-seven miles to the nearest mill! I haven't patience to go that distance with cattle, they are so slow."
"Mine are fast enough," he replied. "I will match them against the best horses about here. I always trot them when they haven't a heavy load. You'll find them nimble, I'll warrant!"
It was no time to be finical, and I asked, "When can I have them?"
"To-night," said he. "I will leave them here and walk home. It is only six miles!"
The wagon-body was weak, and he requested that I procure another. I obtained one at last; an unwieldy affair, so heavy that three of us found it something of a task to adjust it to the wheels—a veritable Pennsylvanian—long enough, as they of the Quaker State say, "to reach from one mud-hole to the next."
The next morning I had mounted to the board seat, with my long teamster's whip, when a gentle voice called from the door,—
"Bring the wagon back safely if you can!"
The musical little laugh that accompanied this sally had something of foreboding in it.
For a while the path lay across prairie solitudes, unrelieved, save by a lively divergence now and then by the cattle, made in the spirit of mischief. Often, too, a "prairie hen" would run on before the team, keeping a few feet ahead, then fly off, with a whirring sound, into the long grass.
Seven miles, and "Slough Creek" was reached—a willow-fringed, bridgeless stream. Alighting, I was calculating, by the aid of a long pole, the depth of water and mud, and the steepness of the banks, when I was forced to run for the wagon, and managed to jump in behind, just as it was going into the gulf, for the brindles had concluded to wait no longer. Down we went, with a plunge and a shock, and up the other side at a round trot, the freakish creatures keeping on, in spite of me, across a level meadow, through a bristling array of blackberry and other bushes, to a log-house. There they stopped.
I got out to turn them into the path again, but they ran round and round the cabin. In a few moments a woman came out, and comprehending my trouble, seized the whip, and laying the lash on with her brawny arm, soon brought the cattle into subjection. They suffered her to guide them into the road. She disappeared, as I thanked her in pantomime—for she was a Norwegian, as unable to speak my language as I hers, and the brindles would not act as interpreters, yet that they understood her perfectly, and my English somewhat, I could not doubt.
It was once more "smooth sailing," and as the beasts behaved for a time with exemplary steadiness, for want of something else to do I fell to reconsidering the figure I had just cut, and trying to comprehend the character and qualities of my horned steeds. What sagacity they showed in choice of opportunity when about to execute a wild prank! How ungovernable they became toward me, yet obedient to a woman's voice and hand! I at once recalled a humorous description I had read of pig-driving in Ireland. The writer says, wittily, there was in Ireland an old breed of swine, which is now nearly extinct, except in some remote parts of the country, where they are still useful in the hunting season, particularly if dogs happen to be scarce. (He assures John Bull, on the authority of Phil Purcel, pig-driver, that this is a fact.) They were a tall, loose species, with legs of an unusual length, with no flesh, short ears, as if they had been cropped for sedition, and with long faces of a highly intellectual cast. They were also of such activity that few greyhounds could clear a ditch or cross a field with more agility. Their backs formed a rainbow arch, capable of being contracted or extended to an inconceivable degree; and their usual rate of travelling in droves was at mail-coach speed, or six Irish miles an hour, preceded by an outrider to clear the way, whilst their rear was brought up by another horseman, going at a three-quarter gallop!
In the middle of summer, when all Nature reposed under the united influence of heat and dust, it was an interesting sight to witness a drove of them sweeping past, like a whirlwind, in a cloud of their own raising; their sharp and lengthy outlines dimly visible through the shining haze, like a flock of antelopes crossing the deserts of the East. Their patriotism, also, as evinced in an attachment to the land of their birth and Irish habits, was scarcely more remarkable than their sagacity. There was not, the distinguished author assures us, an antiquarian among that learned and useful body, the Irish Academy, who could boast such an intimate knowledge of the Irish language, in all its shades of meaning and idiomatic beauty, as did this once flourishing class of animals. Not that they were confined to the Irish tongue, many of them understood English too; and it was said of those that belonged to a convent, the members of which, in their intercourse with each other, spoke only in Latin, that they were tolerable masters of that language, and refused to leave a potato field, or plot of cabbages, except when addressed in it. To the English tongue, however, they had a deep-rooted antipathy; whether proceeding from the national feeling, or the fact of its not being sufficiently guttural, is not affirmed; be this as it may, says the writer referred to, it must be admitted that they were excellent Irish scholars, and paid a surprising degree of deference and obedience to whatever was addressed to them in their own language. For a critical knowledge of their native tongue they were unrivalled by the most learned pigs or antiquarians of their day; none of either class possessing, at that period, such a knowledge of Irish manners, nor so keen a sagacity in tracing out Irish "roots."
I was adjusting this description, hyperbole and all, to my case, substituting cattle for swine, and Norwegian for Irish, when my comparisons were brought to a pause. We had entered primitive forests, belting a river which flowed through loftily rounded bluffs. From the edge of the woods I could see that the road wound down among the trees by a long, yet rapid descent, often making a curve to avoid a stump, rock, or tree. So I took my place by the cattle, resting my whip across their faces, to check undue speed; but soon, with an impetuous charge, away they went, the axles frequently grazing the oaks, the heavy vehicle imparting dangerous momentum, till, dashing through the shallow stream, as they could not fly up the opposite bluff, I overtook them.
My attention was now called to a peculiarity in the road. We had ascended gradually, till we were crossing bare rock at a suspicious angle, and still the way grew steep. Thinking I must have missed the path, and that a track I saw a few moments before might be the true one, I stopped the cattle and hastened to examine it, with a frequent "whoa!" The result showed that we were on the right road. Returning, I found that the cattle, with a quick movement, had gained the apex of the bill, and there they stood, ranged along the verge of a precipice of at least one hundred and fifty feet! The slightest false movement might send them over. As carefully as possible, I turned them down to the road again,—and they were models of docility the while,—but the instant it was done, they wheeled about, throwing the vehicle completely over, and steamed toward home, leaving the wagon-body on the side of the rock, and further down the hind wheels; and recrossing the river, they sped up the other declivity, while I shouted most despairingly after them. By taking a bee line, however, I succeeded in coming out in front of them before they emerged upon the smooth prairie. Then, there was the righting of the front wheels, the attaching of the others, the guiding of the perverse animals up the bluff to the ponderous wagon-body. Where "should" I get help to replace it, in that lonely place, seldom trodden by human foot? I felt that this was an extremity, and for a moment could do nothing but pray. Then I looked up the winding path I had come, hoping to see some friendly face. None appeared. Meanwhile the cattle were restless. So, summoning all my energy,—the energy of desperation,—to my own wonder, I raised the huge wreck from its resting-place and adjusted it to the wheels, and in due time reached the mill village.
"Have you any lumber?" I asked of the mill owner.
"No; I let the last go this morning," he replied. "A man was here from L—, and said he must have some for his own house and some for his minister's. I let him have a few boards to keep him from suffering, though I needed them myself. Perhaps you are the minister from L—? Well, I thought likely. But I haven't a chip left. Which way did you come?"
"Across R— River, through the woods."
"No wonder you've been cast-away; it's a terrible road. Let me advise you to take the other route going back; it will be prairie mostly, and though further, will be easier."
"I shall do so. But what is that?" I asked, as my eyes rested on the end of a board protruding from a mass of timber.
"Well, that 'does' look like a board," said the easy proprietor, "but it would be a job to get it out."
And he turned away, while I turned over the oak timber till I had obtained more of a supply than the neighbor that preceded me.
"Six miles to the Norwegian," said the mill man, as I was starting off. "You had better inquire the way of him, as the road is a blind one, and he knows all about it."
The afternoon was half gone, but I hoped to reach a settlement on R— River, and spend the night there. But the chapter of accidents was not full. As I was ascending from the low village plot, the pins that held the bows in the yokes dropped out in concert, as if in memory of past joltings, letting the cattle free; of which casualty, they were not slow to take advantage, scampering off like wild buffaloes. In vain I used all the arts of which I was master, seeking to coax, surprise, or drive them into the bows again, which I bore with me for the purpose. If for a moment they stopped to graze, it was with one eye on me, ready to spring away at my approach. Help appeared, however, in the person of a map agent, just from New England, having left college, and come West for his health. He recognized me at a distance, and filled with compassion, hastened to the rescue as fast as his lame leg, made stiff by a rheumatic affection, would permit. The scene now became ludicrous in the extreme, and I laughed till the tears came, at my own plight and the figure my earnest friend cut, dragging his troublesome limb after him, as he tried to head the cattle. Farm bred, the crook of his arm and his intonations were rural, to perfection, but, as if aware of his infirmity, the wily brutes would wait his coming, and then, just in the nick of time, shake their heads and dart by.
More effective aid was rendered when an emigrant wagon appeared. Its inmates, scattering over the plain, proved too much for brindles, and they were captured, and the wooden pins that, with a borrowed axe, I had made meantime, were driven into the bows with an emphasis, that said, "Stay there!"
Twilight overtook me crossing a succession of sharply-defined ridges, black as Erebus, for the prairie fires had just swept over them. Wagon-tracks diverged on either hand, and when darkness fell,—and it was "pitchy dark,"—I soon lost my way, and there seemed before me the only alternative of passing the night where I was. The tent-like clouds lifted slightly, and stopping the team, I was considering what to do, when I saw something white moving along. It proved to be a man in shirt sleeves.
"Halloo!" I shouted, and he came nearer. "Can you tell me where the Norwegian lives?"
"An' it's about a mile an' a quarter, kaping the ravine to the second right hand road, thin kape to the lift apiece, an' ye'll come to it. But do ye know the way at all, at all?"
"Never was here before."
"Thin ye can niver find it, sure!"
"Not unless you will show me the way."
"Indade an' I can't! Fur yer see I'm in me shirt sleeves, an' I've been shakin' with the ager, an' the night air 'll bring it on agin. I wouldn't have exposed meself, but me cattle have strayed off."
"Oh, they will be found, no doubt!"
"But the neighbors up here have their turnips out, and they swear they'll shoot me cattle if they git at the turnips, an' as there's no fence they'll be sure an' do it, an' me oxen will be kilt intirely!"
"But, friend, you see how it is. I'm lost, and you can help me. My cattle are swift; it won't take long to drive to the Norwegian's, so don't leave me here!"
"An' sure it's not Pat O'Connor that'll do the likes o' that!" said he, touched by the urgency of my appeal. And springing to the seat, and applying the whip, the heavy team rumbled along over the roughnesses, now leaning to one side, now to the other, then ascending a rise of ground, then diving down the other side. Soon it stopped, and the driver jumped out, saying, cheerily,—
"Here's the place! Jist mind the cattle, an' I'll stip over and inquire the way for yer—it's bad gittin' to the house for strangers."
After a few moments he returned, saying, angrily, "Bad luck to 'em! The cabin is full of Norwegians, for they've had a raisin', an' they're all drunk as bastes, an' fightin' like Injuns, an' niver a word can I git out o' them. Sure, an' I don't know what I can do fur ye now. 'Twouldn't be safe for the likes o' ye to go with me, fur thim Irishmen are bad enough for any thing, an' it wouldn't do fur the drunken bastes in the house yonder to know ye're about. But good luck to ye, I must go."
Some months before, I had come across an English family, living, I now thought, in that vicinity, and I asked, "Is there an Englishman living near here?"
"And is his cabin in a fine grove?"
"Yes."
"An' has he grass land on the south, an' jist before his door a dozen acres of 'breakin'' that's not finced?"
"That's the man."
"Faith, an' he lives only a mile and a half from here!"
"Can you drive me there?"
"Sure, an' I wouldn't do it for all the goold in Californy; for it's meself that isn't well, an' me cattle 'll be murthered before I can git back!"
"But," said I, strongly, "you 'must' do it. I can't lie out on the prairie. I don't think your cattle will be any safer for leaving me here."
"Are you a minister?" he asked.
"Yes."
Instantly he was aboard again, and there was something of reverence in his tone, as he said, "I wouldn't go with ye fur money; but—but—I'll not lave ye now."
It was past ten o'clock when the grove-shaded cabin rose to view. My guide hurried to arouse the occupants while I "minded" the cattle.
"Hilloo there! Wake up!" he shouted, as he thumped at the door. "An' ould acquaintince has lost his way, an' wants a shilter. Wake up, I say, and not be slapin' like heathin, when a frind is frazin' in the cowld!"
A door swung cautiously ajar; there was a hum of voices, and the Irishman returned, saying,—
"It's all right with ye, an' I'll bid ye good-bye!" extending his hand. Then, as the well-earned guerdon touched the palm, "Sure an' ye don't think I came for pay!" and warm-hearted Erin disappeared as mine host came up.
But like the Dutchman, who, after a scene of pathos over his lost "poy" restored, found that it was "not" his "poy," so this Englishman was not "my" Englishman. On explaining the mistake, however, he said,—
"Never mind, I shan't fret if you don't."
The dwelling proved to be one of those wretched loggeries that, happily, form an exception to the social habits of the region. The inmates were as uncultured as their shanty was rude. The one room contained five beds, one without a stead, while a dirty cooking-stove stood in the center. The floor was "truncheon," roughly hewed. A hole in the wall served for windows. Size should set off grace or goodness. The huge wife could scarcely lay claim to an excess of the latter. Then there was a grown-up daughter, whose chief accomplishment seemed to be the incessant using of the floor for a pocket handkerchief. Having dressed themselves, both dame and daughter sat down to ask questions, and pare potatoes for the next meal.
"Can you give me some water?" I asked.
A rusty dipper, filled with a dubious imitation of that beverage, was passed with this caution, "Look out for the wrigglers! I always blow before drinking!"
Having satisfied the appetite for news, the husband said,—
"Well, old woman, perhaps the stranger would like to go to bed!" At which mother and daughter began to disrobe, so I stepped out a while. On reentering, I was little relieved to find they had retired, for their bed faced the one I was to share with the man, and with heads propped up against the wall, they eyed me with much interest. This was not at all molified, when the sire observed,—
"You can turn in as soon as you please;" while, from politeness, I suppose, he waited for me to retire first, keeping the candle burning on a trunk at the head of the bed. Hoping the gazers would weary of their mood, and he of his, that I might extinguish the candle, I went out again. But when I returned, landlord was still up, and the feminines not a bit sleepy, so, "doing as the Romans do," by an ingenious gymnastic feat, I was quickly hidden beneath the coverlids, while my new friend laid aside his garments at leisure, got slowly into bed, pulled up the covering, turned over, and blew out the light!
A silver ray streaming through the aperture in the logs opposite, woke me, and rising, I saw that it was the morning star peeping in at our repose.
"You are not going now!" exclaimed mine host, rubbing open his eyes.
"Yes, I make such slow progress I must be off in season!"
"Won't you stop and eat a mouthful first?"
"No, I thank you. But if you will yoke the cattle, and tell me about the road, I shall be much obliged."
The directions were not over clear, and the prairie did not lack in wagon-tracks, and, as might be expected, some miles were added to those really necessary in order to reach the settlement at which I was to tarry for business and refreshment. The stay here was much delayed. A debtor proposed to settle his long-standing account by letting me have a cow. The offer might not be made again.
"Is she near by?" I asked.
"O, yes; just down by the fence there. 'Twill take but a moment to find her."
The moment was full two hours ere she was secured, and attached to the team. Then an estimable lady teacher wished to ride over with me to L—, and there was further waiting for "big box, little box, band-box, and bundle." Mooly, picture of meekness that she was, when we were a couple of miles from her accustomed pasturage, slipped her rope, and rapidly retraced her steps. Her homesickness met with no indulgence, however, for she was chased down and led captive back, which she retaliated by causing us innumerable vexations, keeping one or the other of us humans watching her, lest her horns became entangled in the wheels, or to urge her on when she held back at the risk of her neck, when the locomotives from Norway had an attack of the capers.
Despite every exertion, night fell while yet we were some miles from home, bringing with it, what is rarely seen in Minnesota, a dense fog, obscuring the stars, and hiding the surface of the country beneath its misty vail. An uninhabited tract of burr-oaks and hazel-bushes was yet to be passed. The dim and tortuous path was soon lost, and we were wildly beating about to strike it again. At length the wheels run smoothly.
"It is the road," said I; "our wanderings will soon be over!" But immediately thereafter the cattle stopped, and refused to proceed. Passing quickly to their side, how thankful I was for their obstinacy. They stood on the steep bank of the Iowa, facing the water. The flowing current revealed our course, however, and ere long we reached our destination.
My arrival was greeted with a merrier laugh than that which celebrated my departure. The sight, no doubt, was mirth-provoking as our procession passed before the door. Ragged and soiled, with a mammoth squash, which I had bought of my English friend, crowning the load, the cow tied behind the team; the lady teacher, who, unfortunately, had been obliged to walk most of the way, to attend to the manners of the turbulent cow, bringing up the rear;—the show, it appeared, was worth the trouble of standing, lamp in hand, to witness it.
As for the lumber, it did double duty; not only keeping the winds at bay, but in the gloomiest weather suggesting memories, which had a most enlivening influence on our household.
LIGHT FOR THE PRAIRIE.
ONE fine, spring morning, such as Minnesotians rejoice in, services had just commenced in our little sanctuary, when two strangers entered. One of them I soon recognized as Mr. L., whose son Judson had perished from cold on the prairie. Himself and friend,—a most exemplary Christian, as I afterward found,—having no preaching in their settlement, had walked eleven miles to attend our meeting. As they were returning at night, I accompanied them a short distance for religious conversation.
Their presence had a wider significance than I had supposed. Mr. L. said that the funeral services of his boy Judson had awakened a general wish for preaching; and hearing that I was not engaged, the settlers at L— were anxious that I should locate with them.
"We want the gospel," he said, with Western frankness, "and we don't mean to 'steal' it either!" Then followed considerations tending to show that the speaker, and those he represented, were in earnest.
Visits to L— convinced me that it was a promising field of effort, and I did not feel at liberty to "decline the call," though previously I had scarcely determined whether to remain West or not. Accepting the generous hospitality of Mr. L., I became an inmate of his household, until the arrival of my family from the east. The shadow of their great sorrow still rested on them, stimulating in me desire for their spiritual good.
One member of the family, especially, excited interest. They called her aunt Flora. She was over sixty, stout and robust; her plain, almost repulsive countenance, wearing ever a sullen, imbittered expression. A more hopeless, forbidding face one rarely sees. She had also this peculiarity. She uniformly absented herself from our devotions, and if in the room when the hour of prayer arrived, would immediately leave till the exercises were over. I supposed, for a time, that some labor called her away, and wondered that domestic arrangements were not such as to permit her to remain.
"I do not get acquainted with aunt Flora," I said to Mrs. L. one day.
"No, I suppose not," she answered.
"Is she a professor of religion?"
"No, indeed she 'hates' religion," was the intense reply. "I do not think she has read a word in the Bible or attended church since she was a child. You have noticed she is never present at family prayers?"
"Yes; I thought perhaps some duty made her absence necessary."
"Oh, no, she will not stay. No one can induce her to; it has been often tried, but in vain."
"What a pity! And she looks so unhappy. We must pray and labor for her; perhaps God will soften her heart, and lead her to peace."
"You would not speak thus," was the decided rejoinder, "if you know aunt Flora's history. I have no hope that she will ever be a different woman. She has for years been the bitterest enemy to the Bible and to Christians that I ever saw."
"But," I interposed, "how often were the vilest outcasts brought in under the Saviour's ministry!—the lowest, most abandoned, as well as the fiercest opposers. How the grace of Christ was magnified when he saved Zaccheus and Mary Magdalene; and met Saul of Tarsus, and made him a 'chosen vessel.'"
"Well, you can try," she replied; "but you will be disappointed. If you knew aunt Flora as I do, you would not attempt it."
Before I was half through the first line, most of the audience were singing; many, I doubt not, with a tearful memory of other days. The effect can not be described. Many a hallowed association was called up at that moment, to thrill the hearts of wanderers from earlier influences.
But what an hour was that when, after many struggles, the church was formed! The rain and the "bad going" did not keep the faithful few away. A venerated servant of Christ, living a "mile and a half off" on the prairie, seeking relief from the painful disease that had interrupted a useful pastorate, was punctually present, and, grasping my hand, said, "I did not know how I should get here; and when I came to the stream, and found there was no way to cross, I did not know for a moment, but I must turn back; it was hard to do it, however, and I just 'waded through,' and here I am!"
Then later came the longed-for blessing. The rain of the Spirit descended, and in many a household was heard the inquiry, "What shall I do?" and the rejoicing of new-born souls.
Mr. and Mrs. L. were both members of our little church, and the family altar was no longer neglected. Aunt Flora, however, remained outside of the widening circles of salvation; she continued to absent herself from family devotions. But at length there was a change, imperceptible at first to most. Her voice was losing its harshness, her manner becoming more genial, and, though taciturn still, various little offices of kindness attested her growing interest. The "two" who, by agreement, were laying her case day and night before the Hearer of prayer took courage.
I embraced an opportunity to say to Mrs. L., "Do yourself and husband discharge your duty toward aunt Flora? Do you pray for and labor with her? If I mistake not, the Holy Spirit is leading her to thoughtfulness—to God."
"You do not 'know' aunt Flora," she replied, with a look of surprise. "She will never change; I can not expect it!"
Oh, how prone God's people are to limit his grace.
On Sabbath days Mr. L., in his large-hearted way, loaded his long wagon with neighbors, and, in his zeal to get people to meeting, sometimes sent the ox-cart too. All the family, save aunt Flora, went. One Sunday morning, as we were setting out, she stood in the doorway, holding a babe left in her charge for the day. There was a tender, pensive expression on her face, and I said: "Good morning, aunt Flora. It makes us feel sad to leave you behind. God can bless you at home, however."
I had never ventured much on the subject so unpleasant to her, but the parting remark was well received. I detected symptoms of deep emotion as she turned away, and I said to Mrs. L., "It would not surprise me to learn that aunt Flora reads the Bible after we are gone." Still the same incredulity.
About sundown, a few weeks after this, a messenger called at our house—for we were then housekeeping, some two miles from Mr. L.'s,—stating that aunt Flora had been taken suddenly ill, and wished myself and wife to visit her immediately. We were speedily by her bedside; but what a happy place was that! Suffering intense physical anguish, her face was radiant with heavenly light, and, with shouts of joy, she was triumphing in the love of a faithful and almighty Saviour.
"O Jesus! Jesus! How lovely, how glorious! I am his, and he is mine!" she exclaimed.
"How is this?" I cried, seizing her hand. "Do you, indeed, love the Saviour?"
"Oh, yes," she replied; "he called after me; he sought me, and found me; and I will praise him forever."
"This is, indeed, joyful news. But when did this change take place?"
"It was the Sabbath morning when you all left me to go to meeting. After I entered the room, something seemed to tell me that I was soon to die, and that I must prepare for it. I did not know what to do, but took up the Bible, thinking perhaps God would show me the way. While reading the chapter to which I opened, it seemed as if a great light shone on the words, and I saw how kind and loving Jesus was; how he loved sinners like me, and how he would receive me if I would only come. I came to him; and, glory to his name! he did receive me, and I am so happy! Help me praise him, all of you!"
"What chapter was it, aunt Flora, that was so blessed to you?"
"I do not know," she replied. "It was in the New Testament. It was about the woman that broke the alabaster box of precious ointment on the Saviour's feet, and wiped them with the hair of her head. And after I am gone," she added, "I want you to preach my funeral sermon from that chapter. I do not know where it is, I have read the Bible so little; but you can find it."
"We hope that you will get well, and live to do much good yet."
"No, no; my time has come, I am sure of it; and I am going home. I'm going to Jesus."
Mr. and Mrs. L. stood by in joyful surprise at her change. In earnest words she exhorted them to faithfulness and diligence; then calling in members of the household still unrenewed, warned and entreated them to seek the Saviour; their tearful promises witnessing to the power of her appeals.
One thing perplexed me. During the fortnight that intervened till she "fell asleep," she would quote passages of Scripture from the Old and New Testaments with surprising accuracy, copiousness, and pertinency, expressing herself almost wholly in the language of inspiration.
I said to her, "How is it that you can thus quote from the Bible, when, for many years, you have not read or heard it read?" The answer should thrill the heart of every Christian parent and Sabbath school teacher.
"Oh," said she, with a happy smile, "those are passages that I heard my father read at family prayers when I was a little child!"
"Let those who sow in sadness wait
Till the fair harvest come;
They shall confess their sheaves are great,
And shout the blessings home."
"How I love you!" she exclaimed, on one occasion; "you are my spiritual father; and you (turning to my wife) are my spiritual mother! But, oh! how much more I love Jesus. Now I long to be with him." And thus aunt Flora passed away,—smiling, shouting, triumphing,—a "more than conqueror!"
At sunset, one day, I had strolled down to the quiet nook, by the shaded lakelet selected as Mr. L.'s family burial ground. It was on his land, and in sight from the windows, as if they could not trust their treasures further off. Judson, an infant son, and aunt Flora, lay there side by side, under those three grassy mounds.
I thought of that first, sad visit to the stricken family; of the singular way it was brought about, through the suggestions of my infidel friend; of the death on the prairie, and how this event, to which the mother was so long unreconciled, led to my removal to L.; of the subsequent labor and blessing.
Returning to the house, conversation turned to that very theme. I reminded them of the remark at the funeral, that if they would cease looking at secondary causes, they would find that the Lord had gracious designs in his dealings with them. "Now," said I, "see what has resulted! you have the gospel here, a Sabbath school, a Christian church, a revival, and in your own circle, 'the blessing that maketh rich;' you are both in the church; the family altar, over the desolation of which your son mourned, is restored, and aunt Flora is in heaven. Is it not true that—
"'God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform'?"
"Yes," replied Mr. L., "it was hard losing our boy. But it has brought great blessings to us. God has done right," adding, in a husky voice,—
"'Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.'"
A RIDE TO A WESTERN WEDDING.
AMONG the checkered scenes of missionary life on the frontier, there are not many more pleasant than a genuine Western wedding. The heartiness, the bold dash, the generous hospitality of the thing, and often the novel phases of social-life which it reveals, together, of course, with the "fee," which is rarely small in proportion to the ability of the parties, make the event quite welcome to the toiling preacher.
One day, on answering a modest knock, there stood before our log-house door a young man, barefooted, coatless, with coarse, well-patched pants and rimless straw hat, his face beaming with a bashful happiness, which would at once have suggested his errand were it not for his garb, or rather, want of garb.
"Are you the minister?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied.
Then followed a pause.
"Is there any thing," said I, breaking the silence, "that I can do for you?"
"Yes. I came to see if you could come down to Mr. Dearborn's next Thursday, and marry a couple."
"Where does Mr. Dearborn live?"
"Seven miles below here, on the other side of the river. They want you at two o'clock, Thursday afternoon."
"I will endeavor to be there at that time," said I; "but who are the parties?"
"Oh," he replied, with a look which was its own interpreter, "you will know when you get there."
After getting all the directions needful for finding the place, I was about closing the interview, but my caller lingered as if he had more to say; and, after evident embarrassment, asked what I "charged for marrying folks?"
"I generally leave that to the parties," said I.
Then ensued another pause, broken, at length, by his saying, in a depressed tone,—
"I have no money now; perhaps you wouldn't come down and marry us, and wait for your pay?"
"That I will," I replied. "And, Providence permitting, you will see me at precisely the hour named."
The cloud lifted from the sunburnt face, and smilingly thanking me, he hurried away with a light step.
Seven miles in prairie land is a short distance; but not being in a mood to walk, I engaged a horse of a neighbor. Meanwhile, for the two intervening days, it rained, or rather poured incessantly, moderating to a gentle fall on Thursday. On calling for the horse, however, the owner was reluctant to let him go.
"Elder," said he (he was a Methodist), "are you used to managing horses?"
"Somewhat—why?"
"Because," he added, "my horse is a high-spirited fellow, and has a bad trick of throwing folks. Few can ride him without getting hurt. The fact is, I didn't sleep a wink last night, worrying about consenting to let you have him; and I don't feel right to let him go without speaking of it."
"How does he throw his riders?" I asked.
"By suddenly jumping to one side. He's powerful at jumping—beats all the horses I ever saw in 'that' line," said he.
"I can look out for him!"
"He'll outwit you, elder; hope you won't try it."
But it was too late to go in search of another, and pleading urgent business and willingness to incur all risks, the formidable beast was led out—a powerful, intelligent, fiery animal, black as a raven.
What can be more inspiriting than a horseback jaunt across a rolling Northwest prairie. So, despite the cold and rain, and now and then a prodigious leap by Black Hawk, the ride was most exhilarating. It was two miles to the bridge. On arriving there, I found that the freshet had swept it away. Just in sight, however, in the margin of a fine grove, was a snug little cabin, and riding briskly there, the barking of dogs and my shouts brought the proprietor to the door, a bevy of flaxen-haired urchins at his heels, with eyes brimful of curiosity.
"Is there any way to cross the river?" I asked.
"Yes; on the bridge," he replied, curtly.
"The bridge is gone."