Woman on the American Frontier
A Valuable and Authentic History of the Heroism, Adventures, Privations, Captivities, Trials, and Noble Lives and Deaths of the "Pioneer Mothers of the Republic" (2024)

Produced by Wendy Crockett, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks

and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.This file was produced from images generously made availableby the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions.

WOMAN ON THE AMERICAN FRONTIER.

A Valuable and Authentic History

OF THE HEROISM, ADVENTURES, PRIVATIONS, CAPTIVITIES, TRIALS, AND NOBLELIVES AND DEATHS OF THE "PIONEER MOTHERS OF THE REPUBLIC."

By WILLIAM W. FOWLER, M.A.

ILLUSTRATED WITH NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS.

PREFACE.

The history of our race is the record mainly of men's achievements, in war,in statecraft and diplomacy. If mention is made of woman it is of queensand intriguing beauties who ruled and schemed for power and riches, andoften worked mischief and ruin by their wiles.

The story of woman's work in great migrations has been told only in linesand passages where it ought instead to fill volumes. Here and thereincidents and anecdotes scattered through a thousand tomes give us glimpsesof the wife, the mother, or the daughter as a heroine or as an angel ofkindness and goodness, but most of her story is a blank which never will befilled up. And yet it is precisely in her position as a pioneer andcolonizer that her influence is the most potent and her life story mostinteresting.

The glory of a nation consists in its migrations and the colonies it plantsas well as in its wars of conquest. The warrior who wins a battle deservesa laurel no more rightfully than the pioneer who leads his race into thewilderness and builds there a new empire.

The movement which has carried our people from the Atlantic to the PacificOcean and in the short space of two centuries and a half has founded thegreatest republic which the world ever saw, has already taken its place inhistory as one of the grandest achievements of humanity since the worldbegan. It is a moral as well as a physical triumph, and forms an epoch inthe advance of civilization. In this grand achievement, in this triumph ofphysical and moral endurance, woman must be allowed her share of the honor.

It would be a truism, if we were to say that our Republic would not havebeen founded without her aid. We need not enlarge on the necessary positionwhich she fills in human society every where. We are to speak of her now asa soldier and laborer, a heroine and comforter in a peculiar set of dangersand difficulties such as are met with in our American wilderness. Thecrossing of a stormy ocean, the reclamation of the soil from nature, thefighting with savage men are mere generalities wherein some vague idea maybe gained of true pioneer life. But it is only by following woman in herwanderings and standing beside her in the forest or in the cabin and bymarking in detail the thousand trials and perils which surround her in sucha position that we can obtain the true picture of the heroine in so manyunmentioned battles.

The recorded sum total of an observation like this would be a noblehistory of human effort. It would show us the latent causes from whichhave come extraordinary effects. It would teach us how much this republicowes to its pioneer mothers, and would fill us with gratitude andself-congratulation—gratitude for their inestimable services to ourcountry and to mankind, self-congratulation in that we are the lawfulinheritors of their work, and as Americans are partakers in their glory.

In the preparation of this work particular pains have been taken to avoidwhat was trite and hackneyed, and at the same time preserve historic truthand accuracy. Use has been made to a limited extent of the ancient borderbooks, selecting the most note-worthy incidents which never grow oldbecause they illustrate a heroism, that like "renown and grace cannot die."Thanks are due to Mrs. Ellet, from whose interesting book entitled "Womenof the Revolution," a few passages have been culled. The stories of Mrs.Van Alstine, of Mrs. Slocum, Mrs. McCalla, and Dicey Langston, and ofDeborah Samson, are condensed from her accounts of those heroines.

A large portion of the work is, however, composed of incidents which willbe new to the reader. The eye-witnesses of scenes which have been latelyenacted upon the border have furnished the writer with materials for manyof the most thrilling stories of frontier life, and which it has been hisaim to spread before the reader in this work.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

A VIRGINIA MATRON ENCOURAGING THE PATRIOTISM OF HER SONS AT THE DEATH-BEDOF THEIR FATHER,

LOST IN A SNOW STORM,

THE HUNTRESS OF THE LAKES SURPRISED BY INDIANS,

A HEROIC EXPLOIT IN SUPPLYING WITH POWDER A BLOCK-HOUSE BESIEGED BYINDIANS,

DARING EXPLOIT OF MISS VAN ALSTINE,

FOOD AND CLOTHING SUPPLIED TO THE REVOLUTIONARY ARMY BY PATRIOTIC WOMEN,

PERILOUS CROSSING OF THE ALLEGHANY RIVER,

WAGON TRAIN ON THE PRAIRIE,

STRATAGEM OF MRS. DAVIESS IN CAPTURING A KENTUCKY ROBBER,

TWO KENTUCKY GIRLS CAPTURED BY INDIANS,

PARTED FOR EVER,

AN EQUESTRIAN FEAT,

TREED BY A BEAR,

RESCUING A HUSBAND FROM WOLVES,

DEFEAT OF GUERILLAS,

MASTERING BANDITS,

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

WOMAN AS A PIONEER,
America's Unnamed Heroines.
Maids and Matrons of the "Mayflower."
Woman's Work in Early Days.
Devotion and Self-sacrifice.
Strange Story of Mrs. Hendee.
Face to Face with the Indians.
A Mother's Love Triumphant
Woman among the Savages.
The Massacre of Wyoming.
Sufferings of a Forsaken Household.
The Patriot Matron and her Children.
The Acmé of Heroism.
Adventures of an English Traveler.
Woman in the Rocky Mountains.
A Story of a Lonely Life.
Nocturnal Visitors and their Reception.
Life in the Far West.
Mrs. Manning's Home in Montana,
Female Emigrants on the Plains.
A True Heroine.

CHAPTER II.

WOMAN'S WORK IN FLOODS AND STORMS,
The Frontier two Centuries ago.
The Pioneer Army.
The Pilgrim "Mothers."
Story of Margaret Winthrop.
Danger in the Wilderness.
A Reckless Husband and a Watchful Wife.
Lost in a Snow-storm.
The Beacon-fire at Midnight.
Saved by a Woman.
Mrs. Noble's Terrible Story.
Alone with Famine and Death.
A Legend of the Connecticut.
What befel the Nash Family.
Three Heroic Women.
In Flood and Storm.
A Tale of the Prairies.
A Western Settler and her Fate.
Battling with an Unseen Enemy.
Emerging from the Valley of the Shadow.
Heartbroken and Alone.

CHAPTER III.

EARLY PIONEERS.—WOMAN'S ADVENTURES AND HEROISM,
In the Maine Wilderness.
Voyaging up the Kennebec.
The Huntress of the Lakes.
Extraordinary Story of Mrs. Trevor.
Two Hundred Miles from Civilization.
Sleeping in a Birch-bark Canoe.
A Fight with Five Savages.
A Victorious Heroine.
The Trail of a Lost Husband.
Only just in Time.
A Narrow Escape,
Voyaging in an Ice-boat.
Snow-bound in a Cave.
Fighting for Food.
Grappling with a Forest Monster.
Mrs. Storey, the Forester.
Alida Johnson's Thrilling Narrative.
Caught in a Death-trap.
A Desperate Measure and its Result.
The Connecticut Settlers.
Their Courage and Heroism.

CHAPTER IV.

ON THE INDIAN TRAIL
A Block-house Attacked.
Wild Pictures of Indian Warfare.
Exploits of Mrs. Howe.
A Pioneer Woman's Record.
Holding the Fort alone.
Treacherous "Lo."
Witnessing a Husband's Tortures.
The Beautiful Victim.
Forced to Carry a Mother's Scalp.
The Fate of the Glendennings.
A Feast and a Massacre.
Led into Captivity.
Elizabeth Lane's Adventures.
In Ambush.
Siege of Bryant's Station.
Outwitting the Savages.
Mrs. Porter's Combat with the Indians.
Ghastly Trophies of her Prowess.
"Long Knife Squaw."
Smoking out Redskins.
The Widows of Innis Station.
A Daring Achievement.
The Amazon of the Stockade.

CHAPTER V.

CAPTIVE SCOUTS—HEROINES OF THE MOHAWK VALLEY,
The Poetry of Border Life.
Mrs. Mack in her Forest Fort.
The Ambush in the Cornfield.
The Night-watch at the Port-hole.
A Shot in the Dark.
The Hiding Place of her Little Ones.
A Sad Discovery.
An Avenger on the Track.
Massy Herbeson's Strange Story.
On the Trail.
Miss Washburn and the Scouts.
An Extraordinary Rencontre.
A Wild Fight with the Savages.
Mysterious Aid.
Passing through an Indian Village.
Hairbreadth Escapes.
Courageous Conduct of Mrs. Van Alstine.
Settlements on the Mohawk.
Circumventing a Robber Band.
How she Saved him.
The Pioneer Woman at Home.

CHAPTER VI.

PATRIOT WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION
Times that Tried Men's Souls.
The Women of Wyoming.
Silas Deane's Sister.
Mrs. Corbin, the Cannoneer.
A Heroine on the Gun-deck.
The Schoharie Girl.
Women of the Mohawk Wars.
Concerning a Curious Siege.
The Patriot Daughter and the Bloody Scouts.
What she Dared him to do.
Brave Deeds of Mary Ledyard.
Ministering Angels.
Heroism of "Mother Bailey."
Petticoats and Cartridges.
A Thrilling Incident of Valley Forge.
Ready-witted Ladies.
Miss Geiger, the Courier.
How Miss Darrah Saved the Army.
Adventures of McCalla's Wife.
Love and Constancy.
A Clergyman's Story of his Mother.

CHAPTER VII.

GOING WEST.—PERILS BY THE WAY,
After the Revolution.
Starting for the Mississippi.
Curious Methods of Migration.
A Modern Exodus.
Incidents on the Route.
Wonderful Story of Mrs. Jameson.
Forsaking all for Love.
A Woman with One Idea.
That Fatal Stream.
Alone in the Wilderness.
A Glimpse of the Enemy.
Strength of a Mother's Love,
Saved from a Rattlesnake.
Individual Enterprise.
Migrating in a Flat-boat.
A Night of Peril on the Ohio River.
Terrifying Sounds and Sights.
A Fiery Scene of Savage Orgies.
Coolness and Daring of a Mother.
An Extraordinary Line of Mothers and Daughters.
A Pioneer Pedigree and its Heroines.

CHAPTER VIII.

HOME LIFE IN THE BACKWOODS,
The Nomads of the West.
Romance of a Pioneer's March.
How the Cabin was Built.
Where Mrs. Graves Concealed her Babes.
Husband and Wife at Home.
Rather Rough Furniture.
Forest Fortresses.
Fighting for her Children.
Mrs. Fulsom and the Ambushed Savage.
Domestic Life on the Border.
From a Wedding to a Funeral.
Among the Beasts and Savages.
Little Ones in the Wilds.
Woman takes Care of Herself.
Ann Bush's Sorrows.
The Bright Side of the Picture.
Western Hospitality.
A Traveler's Story.
"Evangeline" on the Frontier.
An Eden of the Wilderness and its Eve.

CHAPTER IX.

SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN,
Diary of a Heroine.
The Border Maid, Wife, Mother, and Widow.
Strange Vicissitudes in the Life of Mrs. W.
Adopted by an Indian Tribe.
Shrewd Plan of Escape.
The Hiding-place in the Glen.
Surprised and Surrounded, but Safe.
Successful Issue of her Enterprise.
Mrs. Marliss and her Strategy.
Combing the Wool over a Savage's Eyes.
Marking the Trail.
A Captive's Cunning Devices.
A Pursuit and a Rescue.
Extraordinary Presence of Mind.
A Robber captured by a Woman.
A Brave, Good Girl.
Helping "the Lord's People."
A Home of Love in the Wilderness.
A Singular Courtship.
The Benevolent Matron and her Errand.
Story of the Pioneer Quakeress.

CHAPTER X.

A ROMANCE OF THE BORDER,
The Honeymoon in the Mountains.
United in Life and in Death.
A Devoted Lover.
Capture of Two Young Ladies.
Discovery and Rescue.
The Captain and the Maid at the Mill.
The Chase Family in Trouble.
The Romance of a Young Girl's Life.
Danger in the Wind.
Hunter and Lover.
Treacherous Savages.
Old Chase Knocked Over.
The Fight on the Plains.
An Unexpected Meeting.
Heroism of La Bonte.
The Guard of Love.
The Marriage of Mary.
Miss Rouse and her Lover.
A Bridal and a Massacre.
Brought back to Life but not to Joy.
A Fruitless Search for a Lost Bride.
Mrs. Philbrick's Singular Experience.

CHAPTER XI

PATHETIC SCENES OF PIONEER LIFE,
Grief in the Pioneer's Home.
Graves in the Wilderness.
The Returned Captive and the Nursery Song.
The Lost Child of Wyoming
Little Frances and her Indian Captors.
Parted For Ever.
Discovery of the Lost One.
An Affecting Interview.
Striking Story of the Kansas War.
The Prairie on Fire.
Mother and Children Alone.
Homeless and Helpless.
Solitude, Famine, and Cold.
Three Fearful Days.
The Burning Cabin.
A Gathering Storm.
A Dream of Home and Happiness.
Return of Father and Son.
A Love Stronger than Death.
The Last Embrace.
A Desolate Household.

CHAPTER XII.

THE HEROINES OF THE SOUTH WEST,
Texas and the South West.
Across the "Staked Plain."
Mrs. Drayton and Mrs. Benham.
A Perilous Journey.
Sunstrokes and Reptiles.
Death From Thirst
Mexican Bandits.
A Night Gallop to the Rendezvous.
Escape of our Heroines.
A Ride for Life.
Saving Husband and Children.
Surrounded by Brigands on the Pecos.
Heroism of Mrs. Benham.
The Treacherous Envoy.
The Gold Hunters of Arizona.
Mrs. D. and her Dearly Bought Treasure.
Battling for Life in the California Desert.
The Last Survivor of a Perilous Journey.
Mrs. L., the Widow of the Colorado.
Among the Camanches.
A Prodigious Equestrian Feat.

CHAPTER XIII.

WOMAN'S EXPERIENCE ON THE NORTHERN BORDER,
March of the "Grand Army"
Peculiar Perils of the Northern Border.
Mrs. Dalton's Record.
A Dangerous Expedition.
Her Husband's Fate.
A Trance of Grief.
Between Frost and Fire.
A Choice of Deaths.
Rescued from the Flames.
One Sunny Hour.
The Storm-Fiend.
Terrific Spectacle.
In the Whirlwind's Track.
The Only Refuge.
Locked in a Dungeon.
A Fight for Deliverance.
Arrival of Friends.
Another Peril.
Walled in by Flames.
Passing Through a Fiery Lane.
Closing Days of Mrs. Dalton.
A Story of Minnesota.
What the Hunters Saw.
A Mother's Deathless Love.

CHAPTER XIV.

ENCOUNTERS WITH WILD BEASTS—COURAGE AND DARING,
Personal Combat with a Bear.
The Huntress of the Northwest.
An Intrepid Wife and her Assailant.
Combat with an Enraged Moose.
A Bloody Circus in the Snow.
Trapping Wolves—a Georgia Girl's Pluck.
A Kentucky Girl's Adventure.
A Wild Pack in Pursuit.
The Snapping of a Black Wolf's Jaws.
Female Strategy and its Success.
A Cabin Full of Wolves.
Comical Denouement.
A Young Lady Treed by a Bear.
Some of Mrs. Dagget's Exploits.
Up the Platte, and After the Grizzlies.
Catching a Bear with a Lasso.
What a Brave Woman Can Do.
Facing Death in the Desert.
A Woman's Home in Wyoming.
A Night with a Mountain Lion.

CHAPTER XV.

ACROSS THE CONTINENT.—ON THE PLAINS,
Voyaging in a Prairie Schooner.
A Cavalry Officer's Story.
The Homeless Wanderer of the Plains.
Mrs. N. Battling alone with Death.
A Fatherless and Childless Home.
The Plagues of Egypt.
Murrain, Grasshoppers, and Famine.
Following a Forlorn Hope.
A Bridal Tour and its Ending.
On the Borders of the Great Desert.
An Extraordinary Experience.
Women Living in Caves.
A Waterspout and its Consequences.
Drowning in a Drought.
Fleeing from Death.
A Woman's Partnership in a Herd of Buffaloes.
The Huntress of the Foot-hills.
A Charge by Ten Thousand Bison.
Hiding in a Sink-hole.
A Terrible Danger and a Miraculous Escape.
A Prairie Home and its Mistress.

CHAPTER XVI.

WOMAN AS A MISSIONARY TO THE INDIANS,
The Heroine and Martyr among the Heathen.
Mrs. Eliot and her Tawny Protegés.
Five Thousand Praying Indians.
Mrs. Kirkland among the Oneidas.
Prayer-meetings in Wigwams.
The Psalm-singing Squaws.
A Revolutionary Matron and her Story.
A Pioneer Sunday-school and its Teacher.
The Last of the Mohegans and their Benefactors.
Heroism of the Moravian Sisters.
The Guardians of the Pennsylvania Frontier.
A Gathering Storm.
Prayer-meetings and Massacres.
Surrounded by Flame and Carnage.
An Unexpected Assault.
The Fate of the Defenders.
A Fiery Martyrdom.
Last Scene in a Noble Life.
Closing Days of Gnadenhutten.
Massacre of Indian Converts.
The Death Hymn and Parting Prayer.

CHAPTER XVII.

WOMAN AS A MISSIONARY TO THE INDIANS, (CONTINUED),
Missionary Wives Crossing the Rocky Mountains.
Buried Alive in the Snow.
Shooting the Rapids in a Birch Canoe.
Sucked Down by a Whirlpool.
A Fearful Situation and its Issue.
A Brace of Heroines and their Expedition.
Women Doubling Cape Horn.
A Parting Hymn and Long Farewell.
A Missionary Wife's Experience in Oregon.
All Alone with the Wolves.
A Woman's Instinct in the Hour of Danger.
Dr. White's Dilemma and its Solution.
A Clean Pair of Heels and a Convenient Tree.
A Perilous Voyage and its Consequences.
A Heartrending Catastrophe.
A Mother's Lost Treasure.
A Savage Coterie and the White Stranger.
Mrs. Whitman and Mrs. Spalding.
A Murderous Suspicion.
The Benefactress and the Martyr.

CHAPTER XVIII.

WOMAN IN THE ARMY,
The Daughter of the Regiment.
A Loving Wife and a True Patriot.
Mrs. Warner in the Canadian Campaign.
The Disguised Couriers.
Deborah Samson in Buff and Blue.
A Woman in Love with a Woman.
A Wound in Front and what it Led to.
Mrs. Coolidge's Campaign in New Mexico.
Bearing Dispatches Across the Plains.
A Fight with Guerillas.
A Race for Life.
Two against Five.
Frontier Women in our Last Great War.
Their Exploits and Devotion.
Miss Wellman as Soldier and Nurse.
The Secret Revealed.
A Noble Life.
A Devoted Wife.
Life in a Confederate Fort.
The Little Soldier and her Story.
A Sister's Love.
The Last Sacrifice.

CHAPTER XIX.

ACROSS THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS,
A Woman's Adventures on the Platte River.
On a False Trail, and What it Led To.
Over a Precipice, and Down a Thousand Feet.
All Alone on the Face of the Mountain.
Mrs. Hinman's Extraordinary Situation.
Swinging Between Heaven and Earth.
What a Loving Wife Will Do.
Living or Dying Beside her Husband.
A Night on the Edge of a Precipice.
Out of the Jaws of Death.
The Two Fugitive Women of the Chapparel.
A Secret Too Dreadful to be Told.
The Specters of the Mountain Camp.
Maternal Sacrifice and Filial Love.
The Cannibals of the Canon.
The Insane Hunter and his Victims.
A Woman's Only Alternative.
Female Endurance vs. Male Courage.
Mrs. Donner's Sublime Devotion.
Dying at her Post of Duty.

CHAPTER XX.

THE COMFORTER AND THE GUARDIAN,
The Ruined Home and its Heroine.
The Angel of the Sierra Nevada.
Mrs. Maurice and the Dying Miners.
The Music of a Woman's Word.
The Young Gold Hunter and his Nurse.
Starving Camp in Idaho.
The Song in the Ears of the Dying.
The Seven Miners and their Golden Gift.
A Graveyard of Pioneer Women.
Mrs. R. and her Wounded Husband.
The Guardian Mother of the Island.
The Female Navigator and the Pirate.
A Life-boat Manned by a Girl.
A Night of Peril.
A Den of Murderers and an Unsullied Maiden.
The Freezing Soldiers of Montana.
A Despairing Cry and its Echo.
The Storm-Angel's Visit.

CHAPTER XXI.

WOMAN AS AN EDUCATOR ON THE FRONTIER,
A Mother of Soldiers and Statesmen.
A Home-school on the Border.
The Prairie Mother and her Four Children.
A Garden for Human Plants and Flowers.
The First Lesson of the Boy and Girl on the Frontier.
The Wife's School in the Heart of the Rocky Mountains.
A Leaf from the Life of Washington.
The Hero-Mothers of the Republic.
A Patriot Woman and a Martyr.
A Mother's Influence on the Life of Andrew Jackson.
Woman's Discernment of a Boy's Genius.
West, the Painter, and Webster, the Statesman.
The Place where our Great Men Learned A. B. C.
Miss M. and her Labors in Illinois.
A Martyrdom in the Cause of Education.
Woman as an Educator of Human Society.
Incident in the Life of a Millionaire.
What a Mother's Portrait Did.
A Woman's Visit to "Pandemonium Camp."
An Angel of Civilization.

CHAPTER I.

WOMAN AS A PIONEER

Every battle has its unnamed heroes. The common soldier enters the stormedfortress and, falling in the breach which his valor has made, sleeps in anameless grave. The subaltern whose surname is scarcely heard beyond theroll-call on parade, bears the colors of his company where the fight ishottest. And the corporal who heads his file in the final charge, isforgotten in the "earthquake shout" of the victory which he has helped towin. The victory may be due as much, or more, to the patriot courage of himwho is content to do his duty in the rank and file, as to the dashingcolonel who heads the regiment, or even to the general who plans thecampaign: and yet unobserved, unknown, and unrewarded the former passesinto oblivion while the leader's name is on every tongue, and perhaps goesdown in history as that of one who deserved well of his country.

Our comparison is a familiar one. There are other battles and armiesbesides those where thousands of disciplined men move over the ground tothe sounds of the drum and fife. Life itself is a battle, and no granderarmy has ever been set in motion since the world began than that which formore than two centuries and a half has been moving across our continentfrom the Atlantic to the Pacific, fighting its way through countlesshardships and dangers, bearing the banner of civilization, and building anew republic in the wilderness.

In this army WOMAN HAS BEEN TOO OFTEN THE UNNAMED HEROINE.

Let us not forget her now. Her patience, her courage, her fortitude, hertact, her presence of mind in trying hours; these are the shining virtueswhich we have to record. Woman as a pioneer standing beside herrougher, stronger companion—man; first on the voyage across a stormyocean, from England to America; then at Plymouth, and Jamestown, and allthe settlements first planted by Europeans on our Coast; then through thetrackless wilderness, onward across the continent, till every river hasbeen forded, and every chain of mountains has been scaled, the PeacefulOcean has been reached, and fifty thousand cities, towns, and hamlets allover the land have been formed from those aggregations of household lifewhere woman's work has been wrought out to its fullness.

Among all the characteristics of woman there is none more marked than theself-devotion which she displays in what she believes is a righteous cause,or where for her loved ones she sacrifices herself. In India we see herwrapped in flames and burned to ashes with the corpse of her husband. Underthe Moslem her highest condition is a life-long incarceration. Shepatiently places her shoulders under the burden which the aboriginal lordof the American forest lays upon them. Calmly and in silence she submits tothe onerous duties imposed upon her by social and religious laws.Throughout the whole heathen world she remained, in the words of an elegantFrench writer, "anonymous, indifferent to herself, and leaving no trace ofher passage upon earth."

The benign spirit of Christianity has lifted woman from the position sheheld under other religious systems and elevated her to a higher sphere. Sheis brought forward as a teacher; she displays a martyr's courage in thepresence of pestilence, or ascends the deck of the mission-ship to take herpart in "perils among the heathen." She endures the hardships and faces thedangers of colonial life with a new sense of her responsibility as a wifeand mother. In all these capacities, whether teaching, ministering to thesick, or carrying the Gospel to the heathen, she shows the sameself-devotion as in "the brave days of old;" it is this quality whichpeculiarly fits her to be the pioneer's companion in the new world, and byher works in that capacity she must be judged.

If all true greatness should be estimated by the good it performs, it ispeculiarly desirable that woman's claims to distinction should thus beestimated and awarded. In America her presence has been acknowledged, andher aid faithfully rendered from the beginning. In the era of coloniallife; in the cruel wars with the aborigines; in the struggle of theRevolution; in the western march of the army of exploration and settlement,a grateful people must now recognize her services.

There is a beautiful tradition, that the first foot which pressed thesnow-clad rock of Plymouth was that of Mary Chilton, a fair young maiden,and that the last survivor of those heroic pioneers was Mary Allerton, wholived to see the planting of twelve out of the thirteen colonies, whichformed the nucleus of these United States.

In the Mayflower, nineteen wives accompanied their husbands to awaste land and uninhabited, save by the wily and vengeful savage. On theunfloored hut, she who had been nurtured amid the rich carpets and curtainsof the mother-land, rocked her new-born babe, and complained not. She, whoin the home of her youth had arranged the gorgeous shades of embroidery,or, perchance, had compounded the rich venison pasty, as her share in thehousekeeping, now pounded the coarse Indian corn for her children's bread,and bade them ask God's blessing, ere they took their scanty portion. Whenthe snows sifted through the miserable roof-tree upon her little ones, shegathered them closer to her bosom; she taught them the Bible, and thecatechism, and the holy hymn, though the war-whoop of the Indian rangthrough the wild. Amid the untold hardships of colonial life she infusednew strength into her husband by her firmness, and solaced his weary hoursby her love. She was to him,

"——an undergoing spirit, to bear up
Against whate'er ensued."

The names of these nineteen pioneer-matrons should be engraved in lettersof gold on the pillars of American history:

The Wives of the Pilgrims.

Mrs. Catharine Carver.
Mrs. Dorothy Bradford.
Mrs. Elizabeth Winslow.
Mrs. Mary Brewster.
Mrs. Mary Allerton.
Mrs. Elizabeth Hopkins.
Mrs. ——— Tilley.
Mrs. ——— Tilley.
Mrs. ——— Ticker.
Mrs. ——— Ridgdale.
Mrs. Rose Standish.
Mrs. ——— Martin.
Mrs. ——— Mullins.
Mrs. Susanna White.
Mrs. ——— Eaton.
Mrs. ——— Chilton.
Mrs. ——— Fuller.
Mrs. Helen Billington.
Mrs. Lucretia Brewster.

Nor should the names of the daughters of these heroic women be forgotten,who, with their mothers and fathers shared the perils of that winter'svoyage, and bore, with their parents, the toils, and hardships, and changesof the infant colony.

The Daughters of the Pilgrim Mothers.

Elizabeth Carver.
Remember Allerton.
Mary Allerton.
Sarah Allerton.
Constance Hopkins.
Mary Chilton.
Priscilla Mullins.

The voyage of the Mayflower; the landing upon a desolate coast inthe dead of winter; the building of those ten small houses, with oiledpaper for windows; the suffering of that first winter and spring, in whichwoman bore her whole share; these were the first steps in the grandmovement which has carried the Anglo-Saxon race across the Americancontinent. The next steps were the penetration of the wilderness westwardfrom the sea, by the emigrant pioneers and their wives. Fighting their waythrough dense forests, building cabins, block-houses, and churches in theclearings which they had made; warred against by cruel savages; woman wasever present to guard, to comfort, to work. The annals of colonial historyteem with her deeds of love and heroism, and what are those recordedinstances to those which had no chronicler? She loaded the flint-lock inthe block-house while it was surrounded by yelling savages; she exposedherself to the scalping-knife to save her babe; in her forest-home sheworked and watched, far from the loved ones in Old England; and bydischarging a thousand duties in the household and the field, did her sharein a silent way towards building up the young Republic of the West.

Sometimes she ranged herself in battle beside her husband or brother, andfought with the steadiness and bravery of a veteran. But her heroism nevershone so brightly as in undergoing danger in defense of her children.

In the early days of the settlement of Royalton, Vermont, a sudden attackwas made upon it by the Indians. Mrs. Hendee, the wife of one of thesettlers, was working alone in the field, her husband being absent onmilitary duty, when the Indians entered her house and capturing herchildren carried them across the White river, at that place a hundred yardswide and quite deep for fording, and placed them under keepers who had someother persons, thirty or forty in number, in charge.

Returning from the field Mrs. Hendee discovered the fate of her children.Her first outburst of grief was heart-rending to behold, but this was onlytransient; she ceased her lamentations, and like the lioness who has beenrobbed of her litter, she bounded on the trail of her plunderers.Resolutely dashing into the river, she stemmed the current, planting herfeet firmly on the bottom and pushed across. With pallid face, flashingeyes, and lips compressed, maternal love dominating every fear, she strodeinto the Indian camp, regardless of the tomahawks menacingly flourishedround her head, boldly demanded the release of her little ones, andpersevered in her alternate upbraidings and supplications, till her requestwas granted. She then carried her children back through the river andlanded them in safety on the other bank.

Not content with what she had done, like a patriot as she was, sheimmediately returned, begged for the release of the children of others,again was rewarded with success, and brought two or three more away; againreturned, and again succeeded, till she had rescued the whole fifteen ofher neighbors' children who had been thus snatched away from theirdistracted parents. On her last visit to the camp of the enemy, the Indianswere so struck with her conduct that one of them declared that so brave asquaw deserved to be carried across the river, and offered to take her onhis back and carry her over. She, in the same spirit, accepted the offer,mounted the back of the gallant savage, was carried to the opposite bank,where she collected her rescued troop of children, and hastened away torestore them to their overjoyed parents.

During the memorable Wyoming massacre, Mrs. Mary Gould, wife of JamesGould, with the other women remaining in the village of Wyoming, soughtsafety in the fort. In the haste and confusion attending this act, she lefther boy, about four years old, behind. Obeying the instincts of a mother,and turning a deaf ear to the admonitions of friends, she started off on aperilous search for the missing one. It was dark; she was alone; and thefoe was lurking around; but the agonies of death could not exceed heragonies of suspense; so she hastened on. She traversed the fields which,but a few hours before,

"Were trampled by the hurrying crowd,"

where—

"——fiery hearts and armed hands, Encountered in the battle cloud,"

and where unarmed hands were now resting on cold and motionless hearts.After a search of between one and two hours, she found her child on thebank of the river, sporting with a little band of playmates. Clasping hertreasure in her arms, she hurried back and reached the fort in safety.

During the struggles of the Revolution, the privations sustained, and theefforts made, by women, were neither few nor of short duration. Many ofthem are delineated in the present volume. Yet innumerable instances offaithful toil, and patient endurance, must have been covered with oblivion.In how many a lone home, from which the father was long sundered by asoldier's destiny, did the mother labor to perform to their little onesboth his duties and her own, having no witness of the extent of her heavyburdens and sleepless anxieties, save the Hearer of prayer.

A good and hoary-headed man, who had passed the limits of fourscore, oncesaid to me, "My father was in the army during the whole eight years of theRevolutionary War, at first as a common soldier, afterwards as an officer.My mother had the sole charge of us four little ones. Our house was a poorone, and far from neighbors. I have a keen remembrance of the terrible coldof some of those winters. The snow lay so deep and long, that it wasdifficult to cut or draw fuel from the woods, or to get our corn to themill, when we had any. My mother was the possessor of a coffee-mill. Inthat she ground wheat, and made coarse bread, which we ate, and werethankful. It was not always we could be allowed as much, even of this, asour keen appetites craved. Many is the time that we have gone to bed, withonly a drink of water for our supper, in which a little molasses had beenmingled. We patiently received it, for we knew our mother did as well forus as she could; and we hoped to have something better in the morning. Shewas never heard to repine; and young as we were, we tried to make herloving spirit and heavenly trust, our example.

"When my father was permitted to come home, his stay was short, and he hadnot much to leave us, for the pay of those who achieved our liberties wasslight, and irregularly given. Yet when he went, my mother ever bade himfarewell with a cheerful face, and told him not to be anxious about hischildren, for she would watch over them night and day, and God would takecare of the families of those who went forth to defend the righteous causeof their country. Sometimes we wondered that she did not mention the coldweather, or our short meals, or her hard work, that we little ones might beclothed, and fed, and taught. But she would not weaken his hands, or saddenhis heart, for she said a soldier's life was harder than all. We saw thatshe never complained, but always kept in her heart a sweet hope, like awell of water. Every night ere we slept, and every morning when we arose,we lifted our little hands for God's blessing on our absent father, and ourendangered country.

"How deeply the prayers from such solitary homes and faithful hearts weremingled with the infant liberties of our dear native land, we may not knowuntil we enter where we see no more 'through a glass darkly, but face toface.'

"Incidents repeatedly occurred during this contest of eight years, betweenthe feeble colonies and the strong mother-land, of a courage that ancientSparta would have applauded.

"In a thinly settled part of Virginia, the quiet of the Sabbath eve wasonce broken by the loud, hurried roll of the drum. Volunteers were invokedto go forth and prevent the British troops, under the pitiless Tarleton,from forcing their way through an important mountain pass. In an old fortresided a family, all of whose elder sons were absent with our army, whichat the north opposed the foe. The father lay enfeebled and sick. By hisbedside the mother called their three sons, of the ages of thirteen,fifteen, and seventeen.

"Go forth, children," said she, "to the defence of your native clime. Go,each and all of you; I spare not my youngest, my fair-haired boy, the lightof my declining years.

"Go forth, my sons! Repel the foot of the invader, or see my face no more."

[Illustration: A VIRGINIA MATRON ENCOURAGING THE PATRIOTISM OF HER SONS AT
THE DEATH BED OF THEIR FATHER]

In order to get a proper estimate of the greatness of the part which womanhas acted in the mighty onward-moving drama of civilization on thiscontinent, we must remember too her peculiar physical constitution. Herhighly strung nervous organization and her softness of fiber make labormore severe and suffering keener. It is an instinct with her to tremble atdanger; her training from girlhood unfits her to cope with the difficultiesof outdoor life. "Men," says the poet, "must work, and women must weep."But the pioneer women must both work and weep. The toils and hardships offrontier life write early wrinkles upon her brow and bow her delicate framewith care. We do not expect to subject our little ones to the toils ordangers that belong to adults. Labor is pain to the soft fibers and unknitlimbs of childhood, and to the impressible minds of the young, dangerconveys a thousand fears not felt by the firmer natures of older persons.Hence it is that all mankind admire youthful heroism. The story ofCasabianca on the deck of the burning ship, or of the little woundeddrummer, borne on the shoulders of a musketeer and still beating therappel—while the bullets are flying around him—thrill the heart ofman because these were great and heroic deeds performed by striplings. Itis the bravery and firmness of the weak that challenges the highestadmiration. This is woman's case: and when we see her matching her strengthand courage against those of man in the same cause, with equal results,what can we do but applaud?

A European traveler lately visited the Territory of Montana—abandoning thebeaten trail, in company only with an Indian guide, for he was a bold andfearless explorer. He struck across the mountains, traveling for two dayswithout seeing the sign of a human being. Just at dusk, on the evening ofthe second day, he drew rein on the summit of one of those lofty hillswhich form the spurs of the Rocky Mountains. The solitude was awful. As faras the eye could see stretched an unbroken succession of mountain peaks,bare of forest—a wilderness of rocks with stunted trees at their base, anddeep ravines where no streams were running. In all this desolate scenethere was no sign of a living thing. While they were tethering their horsesand preparing for the night, the sharp eyes of the Indian guide caughtsight of a gleam of light at the bottom of a deep gorge beneath them.

Descending the declivity, they reached a cabin rudely built of dead wood,which seemed to have been brought down by the spring rains from thehill-sides to the west. Knocking at the door, it was opened by a woman,holding in her arms a child of six months. The woman appeared to be fiftyyears of age, but she was in reality only thirty. Casting a searching lookupon the traveler and his companion, she asked them to enter.

The cabin was divided into two apartments, a kitchen, which also served fora store-room, dining-room, and sitting-room; the other was the chamber, orrather bunk-room, where the family slept. Five children came tumbling outfrom this latter apartment as the traveler entered, and greeted him with astare of childlike curiosity. The woman asked them to be seated on blocksof wood, which served for chairs, and soon threw off her reserve and toldthem her story, while they awaited the return of her husband from thenearest village, some thirty miles distant, whither he had gone the daybefore to dispose of the gold-dust which he had "panned out" from a gulchnear by. He was a miner. Four years before he had come with his family fromthe East, and pushing on in advance of the main movement of emigration inthe territory, had discovered a rich gold placer in this lonely gorge.While he had been working in this placer, his wife had with her own handsturned up the soil in the valley below and raised all the corn and potatoesrequired for the support of the family; she had done the housework, and hadmade all the clothes for the family. Once when her husband was sick, shehad ridden thirty miles for medicine. It was a dreary ride, she said, forthe road, or rather trail, was very rough, and her husband was in a burningfever. She left him in charge of her oldest child, a girl of eleven years,but she was a bright, helpful little creature, able to wait upon the sickman and feed the other children during the two days' absence of her mother.

Next summer they were to build a house lower down the valley and would bejoined by three other families of their kindred from the East. "Have younever been attacked by the Indians?" inquired the traveler.

"Only three times," she replied. "Once three prowling red-skins came to thedoor, in the night, and asked for food. My husband handed them a loaf ofbread through the window, but they refused to go away and lurked in thebushes all night; they were stragglers from a war-party, and wanted morescalps. I saw them in the moonlight, armed with rifles and tomahawks, andfrightfully painted. They kindled a fire a hundred yards below our cabinand stayed there all night, as if they were watching for us to come out,but early in the morning they disappeared, and we saw them no more.

"Another time, a large war-party of Indians encamped a mile below us, and adozen of them came up and surrounded the house. Then we thought we werelost: they amused themselves aiming at marks in the logs, or at the chimneyand windows; we could hear their bullets rattle against the rafters, andyou can see the holes they made in the doors. One big brave took a largestone and was about to dash it against the door, when my husband pointedhis rifle at him through the window, and he turned and ran away. We shouldhave all been killed and scalped if a company of soldiers had not come upthe valley that day with an exploring party and driven the red-skins away.

"One afternoon as my husband was at work in the diggings, two red-skinscame up to him and wounded him with arrows, but he caught up his rifle andsoon made an end of them.

"When we first came there was no end of bears and wolves, and we could hearthem howling all night long. Winter nights the wolves would come and drumon the door with their paws and whine as if they wanted to eat up thechildren. Husband shot ten and I shot six, and after that we were troubledno more with them.

"We have no schools here, as you see," continued she; "but I have taught mythree oldest children to read since we came here, and every Sunday we havefamily prayers. Husband reads a verse in the Bible, and then I and thechildren read a verse in turn, till we finish a whole chapter. Then I makethe children, all but baby, repeat a verse over and over till they have itby heart; the Scripture promises do comfort us all, even the littlest onewho can only lisp them.

"Sometimes on Sunday morning I take all the children to the top of thathill yonder and look at the sun as it comes up over the mountains, and Ithink of the old folks at home and all our friends in the East. The hardestthing to bear is the solitude. We are awful lonesome. Once, for eighteenmonths, I never saw the face of a white person except those of my husbandand children. It makes me laugh and cry too when I see a strange face. ButI am too busy to think much about it daytimes. I must wash, and boil, andbake, or look after the cows which wander off in search of pasture; or gointo the valley and hoe the corn and potatoes, or cut the wood; for husbandmakes his ten or fifteen dollars a day panning out dust up the mountain,and I know that whenever I want him I have only to blow the horn and hewill come down to me. So I tend to business here and let him get gold. Infive or six years we shall have a nice house farther down and shall wantfor nothing. We shall have a saw-mill next spring started on the run below,and folks are going to join us from the States."

The woman who told this story of dangers and hardships amid the RockyMountains was of a slight, frail figure. She had evidently been oncepossessed of more than ordinary attractions; but the cares of maternity andthe toils of frontier life had bowed her delicate frame and engravedpremature wrinkles upon her face: she was old before her time, but herspirit was as dauntless and her will to do and dare for her loved ones wasas firm as that of any of the heroines whom history has made so famous. Shehad been reared in luxury in one of the towns of central New York, and tillshe was eighteen years old had never known what toil and trouble were.

Her husband was a true type of the American explorer and possessed in hiswife a fit companion; and when he determined to push his fortune among theWestern wilds she accompanied him cheerfully; already they had accumulatedfive thousand dollars, which was safely deposited in the bank; they wererearing a band of sturdy little pioneers; they had planted an outpost in aregion teeming with mineral wealth, and around them is now growing up athriving village of which this heroic couple are soon to be the patriarchs.All honor to the names of Mr. and Mrs. James Manning, the pioneers ofMontana.

The traveler and his guide, declining the hospitality which this bravematron tendered them, soon returned to their camp on the hill-top; but theEnglishman made notes of the pioneer woman's story, and pondered over it,for he saw in it an epitome of frontier life.

If a tourist were to pass to-day beyond the Mississippi River, and journeyover the wagon-roads which lead Westward towards the Rocky Mountains, hewould see moving towards the setting sun innumerable caravans of emigrants'canvas-covered wagons, bound for the frontier. In each of these wagons is aman, one or two women with children, agricultural tools, and householdgear. At night the horses or oxen are tethered or turned loose on theprairie; a fire is kindled with buffalo chips, or such fuel as can be had,and supper is prepared. A bed of prairie grass suffices for the man, whilethe women and children rest in the covered wagon. When the morning dawnsthey resume their Westward journey. Weeks, months, sometimes, roll bybefore the wagon reaches its destination; but it reaches it at last. Thenbegin the struggle, and pains, the labors, and dangers of border life, inall of which woman bears her part. While the primeval forest falls beforethe stroke of the man-pioneer, his companion does the duty of both man andwoman at home. The hearthstone is laid, and the rude cabin rises. Thevirgin soil is vexed by the ploughshare driven by the man; the garden andhouse, the dairy and barns are tended by the woman, who clasps her babewhile she milks, and fodders, and weeds. Danger comes when the man is away;the woman must meet it alone. Famine comes, and the woman must eke out theslender store, scrimping and pinching for the little ones; sickness comes,and the woman must nurse and watch alone, and without the sympathy of anyof her sex. Fifty miles from a doctor or a friend, except her weary andperhaps morose husband, she must keep strong under labor, and be patientunder suffering, till death. And thus the household, the hamlet, thevillage, the town, the city, the state, rise out of her "homely toils, anddestiny obscure." Truly she is one of the founders of the Republic.

CHAPTER II.

THE FRONTIER-LINE—WOMAN'S WORK IN FLOODS AND STORMS

The American Frontier has for more than two centuries been a vague andvariable term. In 1620-21 it was a line of forest which bounded the infantcolony at Plymouth, a few scattered settlements on the James River, inVirginia, and the stockade on Manhattan Island, where Holland hadestablished a trading-post destined to become one day the great commercialcity of the continent.

Seventy years later, in 1690, the frontier-line had become greatlyextended. In New England it was the forest which still hemmed in the coastand river settlements: far to the north stretched the wilderness coveringthat tract of country which now comprises the states of Maine, NewHampshire, and Vermont. In New York the frontier was just beyond the postson the Hudson River; and in Virginia life outside of the oldest settlementswas strictly "life on the border." The James, the Rappahannock, andthe Potomac Rivers made the Virginia frontier a series of long linesapproaching to a parallel. But the European settlements were still sparse,as compared with the area of uninhabited country. The villages, hamlets,and single homesteads were like little islands in a wild green waste: merespecks in a vast expanse of wilderness. Every line beyond musket shot was afrontier-line. Every settlement, small or large, was surrounded by a darkcircle, outside of which lurked starvation, fear, and danger. The sea andthe great rivers were perilous avenues of escape for those who dweltthereby, but the interior settlements were almost completely isolated andgirt around as if with a wall built by hostile forces to forbid access oregress.

The grand exodus of European emigrants from their native land to theseshores, had vastly diminished by the year 1690, but the westward movementfrom the sea and the rivers in America still went forward with scarcelydiminished impetus: and as the pioneers advanced and established theiroutposts farther and farther to the west, woman was, as she had been fromthe landing, their companion on the march, their ally in the presence ofdanger, and their efficient co-worker in establishing homes in thewilderness.

The heroic enterprises recorded in the history of man have generally beenremarkable in proportion to their apparent original weakness. This is truein an eminent degree of the settlement of European colonies on the westerncontinent. The sway which woman's influence exercised in these colonialenterprises is all the more wonderful when we contemplate them from thispoint of view. Three feeble bands of men and women;—the first atJamestown, Virginia, in 1609-1612; the second at Plymouth, in 1620; thethird on the Island of Manhattan, in 1624;—these were the dim nuclei fromwhich radiated those long lines of light which stretch to-day across acontinent and strike the Pacific ocean. This is a simile borrowed fromastronomy. To adopt the language of the naturalist, those three littlecolonies were the puny germs which bore within themselves a vital forcevastly more potent and wonderful than that which dwells in the heart of thegourd seed, and the acorn whose nascent swelling energies will lift hugeboulders and split the living rock asunder: vastly more potent because itwas not the blind motions of nature merely, but a force at once physical,moral, and intellectual.

These feeble bands of men and women took foothold and held themselvesfirmly like a hard-pressed garrison waiting for re-enforcements.Re-enforcements came, and then they went out from their works, and settingtheir faces westward moved slowly forward. The vanguard were men with pikesand musketoons and axes; the rearguard were women who kept watch and wardover the household treasures. Sometimes in trying hours the rearguardranged itself and fought in the front ranks, falling back to its oldposition when the crisis was past.

In order to appreciate the actual value of woman as a component part ofthat mighty impulse which set in motion, and still impels the pioneers ofour country, we must remember that she is really the cohesive power whichcements society together; that when the outward pressure is greatest, thecohesive power is strongest; that in times of sore trial woman's nativetraits of character are intensified; that she has greater tact, quickerperceptions, more enduring patience, and greater capacity for sufferingthan man; that motherly, and wifely, and sisterly love are strongest andbrightest when trials, labors, and dangers impend over the loved ones.

We must bear in mind too, that woman and man were possessed of the sameconvictions and impulses in their heroic enterprise—the sense of duty, thespirit of liberty, the desire to worship God after their own ideas oftruth, the desire to possess, though in a wilderness, homes where no onecould intrude or call them vassals; and deep down below all this, theinstincts, the gifts, and motive power of the most energetic race the worldhas ever seen—the Anglo-Saxon; thus we come to see how in each band ofpioneers and in each household were centered that solid and constant movingforce which made each man a hero and each woman a heroine in the strugglewith hostile nature, with savage man more cruel than the storm or the wildbeasts, with solitude which makes a desert in the soul; with famine, withpestilence, that "wasteth at noon-day,"—a struggle which has finally beenvictorious over all antagonisms, and has made us what we are in thiscentennial year of our existence as an independent republic.

Another powerful influence exercised by woman as a pioneer was theinfluence of religion. The whole nature certainly of the Puritan woman wastransfused with a deep, glowing, unwavering religious faith. We picturethose wives, mothers, and daughters of the New England pioneers as thesaints described by the poet,

"Their eyes are homes of silent prayer."

How the prayers of these good and honorable women were answered events haveproved.

Hardly had the Plymouth Colony landed before they were called upon tobattle with their first foes—the cold, the wind, and the storms on thebleak New England coast. Famine came next, and finally pestilence. Theblast from the sea shook their frail cabins; the frost sealed the earth,and the snow drifted on the pillow of the sick and dying. Five kernels ofcorn a day were doled out to such as were in health, by those appointed tothis duty. Woman's heart was full then, but it kept strong though itswelled to bursting.

Within five months from the landing on the Rock, forty-six men, women, andchildren, or nearly one-half of the Mayflower's passengers hadperished of disease and hardships, and the survivors saw the vessel thatbrought them sail away to the land of their birth. To the surviving womenof that devoted Pilgrim band this departure of the Mayflower musthave added a new pang to the grief that was already rending their heartsafter the loss of so many dear ones during that fearful winter. As thevessel dropped down Plymouth harbor, they watched it with tearful eyes, andwhen they could see it no more, they turned calmly back to their heroiclabors.

Mrs. Bradford, Rose Standish, and their companions were the original typesof women on our American frontier. Nobly, too, were they seconded by thematrons and daughters in the other infant colonies. Who can read theletters of Margaret Winthrop, of the Massachusetts Colony, withoutrecognizing the loving, devoted woman sharing with her noble husband thetoils and privations of the wilderness, in order that God's promise mightbe justified and an empire built on this Western Continent.

In her we have a noble type of the Puritan woman of the seventeenthcentury, representing, as she did, a numerous class of her sex in the samecondition. Reared in luxury, and surrounded by the allurements of thesuperior social circle in which she moved in her native England, shenevertheless preferred a life of self-denial with her husband on the bleakshores where the Puritans were struggling for existence. She had fullyprepared her mind for the heroic undertaking. She did not overlook thetrials, discouragements, and difficulties of the course she was about totake. For years she had been habituated to look forward to it as one of theeventualities of her life. She was now beyond the age of romance, andcherished no golden dreams of earthly happiness to be realized in thatfar-off western clime.

Two traits are most prominent in her letters: her religious faith, and herlove for and trust in her husband. She placed a high estimate on thewisdom, the energy, and the talents of her husband, and felt that he couldbest serve God and man by helping to lay broad and deep the foundations ofa new State, and to secure the present and future prosperity, both temporaland spiritual, of the colony. With admiration and esteem she blended theardent but balanced fondness of the loving wife and the sedate matron. Inno less degree do her letters show the power and attractiveness of genuinereligion. The sanctity of conjugal affection tallies with and is hallowedby the Spirit of Grace. The sense of duty is harmoniously mingled with theimpulses of the heart. That religion was the dominant principle of thoughtand action with Margaret Winthrop, no one can doubt who reflects howseverely it was tested in the trying enterprise of her life. A sincere,deep, and healthful piety formed in her a spring of energy to great andnoble actions.

There are glimpses in the correspondence between her and her husband of akind of prophetic vision, that the planting of that colony was the layingof one of the foundation-stones of a great empire. May we not suppose thatby the contemplation of such a vision she was buoyed up and soothed amidthe many trials and privations, perils and uncertainties that surroundedher in that rugged colonial life.

The influence of Puritanism to inspire with unconquerable principle, toinfuse public spirit, to purify the character from frivolity andfeebleness, to lift the soul to an all-enduring heroism and to exalt it toa lofty standard of Christian excellence, is grandly illustrated by thelife of Margaret Winthrop, one of the pioneer-matrons of the Massachusettscolony.

The narrations which we set forth in this book must of course be largelyconcerning families and individuals. The outposts of the advancing army ofsettlement were most exposed to the dangers and hardships of frontier life.Every town or village, as soon as it was settled, became a garrison againstattack and a mutual Benefit-Aid-Society, leagued together against everyenemy that threatened the infant settlement; it was also a place of refugefor the bolder pioneers who had pushed farther out into the forest.

But as time rolled on many of these more adventurous settlers foundthemselves isolated from the villages and stockades. Every hostileinfluence they had to meet alone and unaided. Cold and storm, fire andflood, hunger and sickness, savage man and savage beast, these were thefoes with which they had to contend. The battle was going on all the timewhile the pioneer and his wife were subjugating the forest, breaking thesoil, and gaining shelter and food for themselves and their children.

It is easy to see what were the added pains, privations, and hardships ofsuch a situation to the mind and heart of woman, craving, as she does,companionship and sympathy from her own sex. It is a consoling reflectionto us who are reaping the fruits of her self-sacrifice that the verymultiplicity of her toils and cares gave her less time for brooding overher hard and lonely lot, and that she found in her religious faith and hopea constant fountain of comfort and joy.

One of the greatest hardships endured by the first settlers in New Englandwas the rigorous and changeable climate, which bore most severely, ofcourse, on the weaker sex. This makes the fortitude of Mrs. Shute all themore admirable. Her story is only one of innumerable instances in earlycolonial life where wives were the preservers of their husbands.

In the spring of 1676, James Shute, with his wife and two small children,set out from Dorchester for the purpose of settling themselves on a tractof land in the southern part of what is now New Hampshire, but which thenwas an unbroken forest. The tract where they purposed making their home wasa meadow on a small affluent of the Connecticut.

Taking their household goods and farming tools in an ox-cart drawn by fouroxen and driving two cows before them, they reached their destination aftera toilsome journey of ten days. The summer was spent in building theircabin, and outhouses, planting and tending the crop of Indian corn whichwas to be their winter's food, and in cutting the coarse meadow-grass forhay.

Late in October they found themselves destitute of many articles which evenin those days of primitive housewifery and husbandry, were considered ofprime necessity. Accordingly, the husband started on foot for a smalltrading-post on the Connecticut River, about ten miles distant, at whichpoint he expected to find some trading shallop or skiff to take him toSpringfield, thirty-eight miles further south. The weather was fine and atnightfall Shute had reached the river, and before sunrise the next morningwas floating down the stream on an Indian trader's skiff.

Within two days he made his purchases, and hiring a skiff rowed slowly upthe river against the sluggish current on his return. In twelve hours hereached the trading-post. It was now late in the evening. The sky had beenlowering all day, and by dusk it began to snow. Disregarding theadmonitions of the traders, he left his goods under their care and struckout boldly through the forest over the trail by which he came, trusting tobe able to find his way, as the moon had risen, and the clouds seemed to bebreaking. The trail lay along the stream on which his farm was situated,and four hours at an easy gait would, he thought, bring him home.

The snow when he started from the river was already nearly a foot deep, andbefore he had proceeded a mile on his way the storm redoubled in violence,and the snow fell faster and faster. At midnight he had only made fivemiles, and the snow was two feet deep. After trying in vain to kindle afire by the aid of flint and steel, he prayed fervently to God, andresuming his journey struggled slowly on through the storm. It had beenagreed between his wife and himself that on the evening of this day onwhich he told her he should return, he would kindle a fire on a knoll abouttwo miles from his cabin as a beacon to assure his wife of his safety andannounce his approach.

Suddenly he saw a glare in the sky.

During his absence his wife had tended the cattle, milked the cows, cut thefirewood, and fed the children. When night came she barricaded the door,and saying a prayer, folded her little ones in her arms and lay down torest. Three suns had risen and set since she saw her husband with gun onhis shoulder disappear through the clearing into the dense undergrowthwhich fringed the bank of the stream, and when the appointed evening came,she seated herself at the narrow window, or, more properly, opening in thelogs of which the cabin was built, and watched for the beacon which herhusband was to kindle. She looked through the falling snow but could see nolight. Little drifts sifted through the chinks in the roof upon the bedwhere her children lay asleep; the night grew darker, and now and then thehowling of the wolves could be heard from the woods to the north.

Seven o'clock struck—eight—nine—by the old Dutch clock which ticked inthe corner. Then her woman's instinct told her that her husband must havestarted and been overtaken by the storm. If she could reach the knoll andkindle the fire it would light him on his way. She quickly collected asmall bundle of dry wood in her apron and taking flint, steel, and tinder,started for the knoll. In an hour, after a toilsome march, flounderingthrough the snow, she reached the spot. A large pile of dry wood hadalready been collected by her husband and was ready for lighting, and in afew moments the heroic woman was warming her shivering limbs before a firewhich blazed far up through the crackling branches and lighted the forestaround it.

For more than two hours the devoted woman watched beside the fire,straining her eyes into the gloom and catching every sound. Wading throughthe snow she brought branches and logs to replenish the flames. At last herpatience was rewarded: she heard a cry, to which she responded. It was thevoice of her husband which she heard, shouting. In a few moments he came upstaggering through the drifts, and fell exhausted before the fire. The snowsoon ceased to fall, and after resting till morning, the rescued pioneerand his brave wife returned in safety to their cabin.

[Illustration: LOST IN A SNOW STORM]

Mrs. Frank Noble, in 1664, proved herself worthy of her surname. She andher husband, with four small children, had established themselves in alog-cabin eight miles from a settlement in New Hampshire, and now known asthe town of Dover.

Their crops having turned out poorly that autumn, they were constrained toput themselves on short allowance, owing to the depth of the snow and thedistance from the settlement. As long as Mr. Noble was well, he was able toprocure game and kept their larder tolerably well stocked. But inmid-winter, being naturally of a delicate habit of body, he sickened, andin two weeks, in spite of the nursing and tireless care of his devotedwife, he died. The snow was six feet deep, and only a peck of musty cornand a bushel of potatoes were left as their winter supply. The fuel alsowas short, and most of the time Mrs. Noble could only keep herself and herchildren warm by huddling in the bedclothes on bundles of straw, in theloft which served them for a sleeping room. Below lay the corpse of Mr.Noble, frozen stiff. Famine and death stared them in the face. Two weekspassed and the supply of provisions was half gone. The heroic woman hadtried to eke out her slender store, but the cries of her children were sopiteous with hunger that while she denied herself, she gave her own portionto her babes, lulled them to sleep, and then sent up her petitions to Himwho keeps the widow and the fatherless. She prayed, we may suppose, fromher heart, for deliverance from her sore straits for food, for warmth, forthe spring to come and the snow to melt, so that she might lay away theremains of her husband beneath the sod of the little clearing.

Every morning when she awoke, she looked out from the window of the loft.Nothing was to be seen but the white surface of the snow stretching awayinto the forest. One day the sun shone down warmly on the snow and meltedits surface, and the next morning there was a crust which would bear herweight. She stepped out upon it and looked around her. She would then havewalked eight miles to the settlement but she was worn out with anxiety andwatching, and was weak from want of food. As she gazed wistfully toward theeast, her ears caught the sound of a crashing among the boughs of theforest. She looked toward the spot from which it came and saw a dark objectfloundering in the snow. Looking more closely she saw it was a moose, withits horns entangled in the branches of a hemlock and buried to its flanksin the snow.

Hastening back to the cabin she seized her husband's gun, and loading itwith buckshot, hurried out and killed the monstrous brute. Skilled inwoodcraft, like most pioneer women, she skinned the animal and cutting itup bore the pieces to the cabin. Her first thought then was of herchildren, and after she had given them a hearty meal of the tendermoose-flesh she partook of it herself, and then, refreshed andstrengthened, she took the axe and cut a fresh supply of fuel. During theday a party came out from the settlement and supplied the wants of thestricken household. The body of the dead husband was borne to thesettlement and laid in the graveyard beneath the snow.

Nothing daunted by this terrible experience, this heroic woman kept herfrontier cabin and, with friendly aid from the settlers, continued to tillher farm. In ten years, when her oldest boy had become a man, he and hisbrothers tilled two hundred acres of meadow land, most of it redeemed fromthe wilderness by the skill, strength, and industry of their noble mother.

The spring season must have been to the early settlers, particularly to thewomen, even more trying than the winter. In the latter season, except afterextraordinary falls of snow, transit from place to place was made by meansof sledges over the snow or on ox-carts over the frozen ground. Travelingcould also be done across or up and down rivers on the ice, and as bridgeswere rare in those days the crossing of rivers on the ice was much to bepreferred to fording them in other seasons of the year. Fuel too was moreeasily obtained in the winter than in the spring, and as roads weregenerally little more than passage-ways or cow-paths through the meadows orthe woods, the depth of the mud was often such as to form a barrier to thelocomotion of the heavy vehicles of the period or even to prevent travel onhorseback or on foot.

Other dangers and hardships in the spring of the year were the freshets andfloods to which the river dwellers were exposed. Woman, be it remembered,is naturally as alien to water as a mountain-fowl, which flies over astream for fear of wetting its feet. We can imagine the discomfort to whicha family of women and children were exposed who lived, for example, on thebanks of the Connecticut in the olden time. In some seasons families were,as they now are, driven to the upper stories of their houses by theoverflow of the river. But it should be remembered that the houses of thosedays were not the firm, well-built structures of modern times. Sometimesthe settler found himself and family floating slowly down stream, cabin andall, borne along by the freshet caused by a sudden thaw: as long as hiscabin held together, the family had always hopes of grounding as the floodsubsided and saving their lives though with much loss of property, besidesthe discomfort if not positive danger to which they had been exposed.

But sometimes the flood was so sudden and violent that the cabin would besubmerged or break to pieces, and float away, drowning some or all of thefamily. It might be supposed that the married portion of the pioneers wouldselect other sites than on the borders of a large river subject every yearto overflow, but the richness of the alluvial soil on the banks of theConnecticut was so tempting that other considerations were overlooked, andto no part of New England was the tide of emigration turned so strongly asto the Connecticut Valley.

In the year 1643, an adventurous family of eight persons embarked on ashallop from Hartford (to which place they had come shortly before fromWatertown, Mass), and sailing or rowing up the river made a landing on abeautiful meadow near the modern town of Hatfield.

The family consisted of Peter Nash and Hannah his wife, David, their son, ayouth of seventeen, Deborah and Mehitabel, their two daughters, agedrespectively nineteen and fourteen, Mrs. Elizabeth Nash, the mother ofPeter, aged sixty-four, and Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Nash. They found the landall ready for ploughing, and after building a spacious cabin and barns,they had nothing to do but to plant and harvest their crops and stock theirfarm with cattle which they brought from Springfield, driving them up alongthe river. For four years everything went on prosperously. They harvestedlarge crops, added to their barns, and had a great increase in stock.Although the wolves and wild cats had made an occasional foray in theirstock and poultry yard and the spring freshets had made inroads into theirfinest meadow, their general course had been only one of prosperity.

Their house and barns were built upon a tongue of land where the river madea bend, and were on higher ground than the surrounding meadow, which everyspring was submerged by the freshets. Year after year the force of thewaters had washed an angle into this tongue of land and threatened sometime to break through and leave the houses and barns of the pioneers uponan island. But the inroads of the waters were gradual, and the Nashesflattered themselves that it would be at least two generations before theriver would break through.

Mrs. Peter Nash and her daughter were women of almost masculine courage andfirmness. They all handled axe and gun as skillfully as the men of thehousehold; they could row a boat, ride horseback, swim, and drag a seinefor shad; and Mehitabel, the younger daughter, though only fourteen yearsold, was already a woman of more than ordinary size and strength. Thesethree women accompanied the men on their hunting and fishing excursions andassisted them in hoeing corn, in felling trees, and dragging home fuel andtimber.

The winter of 1647-8 was memorable for the amount of snow that fell, andthe spring for its lateness. The sun made some impression on the snow inMarch, but it was not till early in April that a decided change came in thetemperature. One morning the wind shifted to the southwest, the sun was ashot as in June; before night it came on to rain, and, before the followingnight, nearly the whole vast body of snow had been dissolved into waterwhich had swelled all the streams to an unprecedented height. The streamspoured down into the great river, which rose with fearful rapidity,converting all the alluvial meadows into a vast lake.

All this took place so suddenly that the Nash family had scarcely a warningtill they found themselves in the midst of perils. When the rain ceased, onthe evening of the second day, the water had flooded the surroundingmeadows and risen high up into the first story of the house. The force ofthe current had already torn a channel across the tongue of land on whichthe house stood and had washed away the barns and live-stock. One of theirtwo boats had been floated off but had struck broadside against a clump ofbushes and was kept in its place by the force of the current. The otherboat had been fastened by a short rope to a stout sapling, but this latterboat was ten feet under water, held down by the rope.

The water had now risen to the upper story, and the family were driven tothe roof. If the house would stand they might yet be saved. It was firmlybuilt but it shook with the force and weight of the waters. If either ofthe boats could be secured they might reach dry land by rowing out of thecurrent and over the meadows where the water was stiller. The oars of thesubmerged boat had been floated away, but in the other boat they could beseen from the roof of the house lying safely on the bottom.

It was decided that Jacob Nash should swim out and row the boat up to thehouse. He was a strong swimmer, and though the water was icy cold it wasthought the swift current would soon enable him to reach the skiff whichlay only a few rods below the house. Accordingly, he struck boldly out, andin a moment had reached the boat, when he suddenly threw up his hands andsank, the current whirling him out of sight in an instant, amid the shrieksof his young wife, who was then a nursing mother and holding her babe inher arms as her husband went down. Mrs. Nash, the elder, gazed for a momentspeechless at the spot where her son had sunk, and then fell upon herknees, the whole family following her example, and prayed fervently toAlmighty God for deliverance from their awful danger. Then rising from herkneeling posture, she bade her other son make one more trial to reach theboat.

Peter Nash and his son Daniel then plunged into the water, reached theboat, and took the oars, but the force of the current was such that theycould make, by rowing, but little headway against it. The two daughtersthen leaped into the flood, and in a few strokes reached and entered theboat. By their united force it was brought up and safely moored to thechimney of the cabin. In two trips the family were conveyed to thehillside. Then the brave girls returned and brought away a boat-load ofhousehold gear. Not content with that they rowed to the submerged boat, anddiving down, cut the rope, baled out the water, and in company with theirmother, father, and brother, brought away all the moveables in the upperstories of the house. Their courage appeared to have been rewarded inanother way, since the house stood through the flood, and in ten days theywere assisting to tear down the house and build another on a hill where thefloods never came.

As soldiers fall in battle, so in the struggles and hardships of borderlife, the delicate frame of woman often succumbs, leaving the partner ofher toils to mourn her loss and meet the onset of life alone. Such a lossnecessarily implies more than when it occurs in the comfortable homes ofrefined life, since it removes at once a loving wife, a companion insolitude, and an efficient co-worker in the severe tasks incident to lifein frontier settlements. Sometimes the husband's career is broken off whenhe loses his wife under such circ*mstances, and he gives up both hope andeffort.

About sixty years since, and while the rich prairies of Indiana began to beviewed as the promised land of the adventurous pioneer, among the emigrantswho were attracted thither by the golden dreams of happiness and fortune,was a Mr. H., a young man from an eastern city, who came accompanied by hisnewly married wife, a dark-eyed girl of nineteen. Leaving his bride at oneof the westernmost frontier-settlements, he pushed on in search of afavorable location for their new home. Near the present town of LaFayettehe found a tract which pleased his eye and promised abundant harvests, andafter his wife had been brought to view it and expressed her satisfactionand delight at the happy choice he had made, the site was selected and thehouse was built.

They moved into their prairie-home in the first flush of summer. Theircabin was built upon a knoll and faced the south. Sitting at the door ateventide they contemplated a prospect of unrivaled beauty. The sun-brightsoil remained still in its primeval greatness and magnificence, uncheckedby human hands, covered with flowers, protected and watched by the eye ofthe sun. The days were glorious; the sky of the brightest blue, the sun ofthe purest gold, and the air full of vitality, but calm; and there, in thatbrilliant light, stretched itself far, far out into the infinite, as far asthe eye could discern, an ocean-like extent, the waves of which weresunflowers, asters, and gentians, nodding and beckoning in the wind, as ifinviting millions of beings to the festival set out on the rich table ofthe earth. Mrs. H. was an impressible woman with poetic tastes, and astrong admiration for the beautiful in nature; and as she gazed upon theglorious expanse her whole face lighted up and glowed with pleasure. Hereshe thought was the paradise of which she had long dreamed.

As the summer advanced a plenteous harvest promised to reward the labors ofher husband. Nature was bounteous and smiling in all her aspects, and theyoung wife toiled faithfully and patiently to make her rough house apleasant home for her husband. She had been reared like him amid theluxuries of an eastern city, and her hands had never been trained to work.But the influences of nature around her, and the almost idolatrous lovewhich she cherished for her husband, cheered and sweetened the homely toilsof her prairie life.

Eight months sped happily and prosperously away; the winter had been mild,and open, and spring had come with its temperate breezes, telling ofanother summer of brightness and beauty.

Soon after the middle of April in that year, commenced an extraordinaryseries of storms. They occurred daily, and sometimes twice a day,accompanied by the most vivid lightning, and awful peals of thunder; therain poured down in a deluge until it seemed as if another flood was comingto purify the earth. For more than sixty days those terrible scenesrecurred, and blighted the whole face of the country for miles around thelonely cabin. The prairies, saturated with moisture, refused any longer todrink up the showers. Every hollow and even the slightest depression becamea stagnant pool, and when the rains ceased and the sun came out with theheat of the summer solstice, it engendered pestilence, which rose from thegreen plain that smiled beneath him, and stalked resistless among thedwellers throughout that vast expanse.

Of all the widely isolated and remote cabins which sent their smoke curlinginto the dank morning air of the region thereabouts, there was not one inwhich disease was not already raging with fearful malignity. Doctors orhired nurses there were none; each stricken household was forced to battlesingle-handed with the destroyer who dealt his blows stealthily, suddenly,and alas! too often, effectually. The news of the dreadful visitation soonreached the family of Mr. H.—and for a period they were in a fearfulsuspense. They were surrounded by the same malarial influences that hadmade such havoc among their neighbors, and why should they escape? Theywere living directly over a noisome cess-pool; their cellar was filled withwater which could not be drained away, nor would the saturated earth drinkit up. Centuries of vegetable accumulations forming the rich mould in whichthe cellar was dug, gave out their emanations to the water, and the fieryrays of the sun made the mixture a decoction whose steams were laden withdeath.

There was no escape unless they abandoned their house, and this they werereluctant to do, hoping that the disease would pass by them. But this was avain hope; in a few days Mr. H. was prostrated by the fever. Mrs. H. hadpreserved her courage and energy till now, but her impressible nature beganto yield before the onset of this new danger. Her life had been sunny andcare-free from a child; her new home had till recently been the realizationof her dreams of happiness; but the loss of her husband would destroy atonce every fair prospect for the future. All that a loving wife could do asa nurse or watcher or doctress, was done by her, but long before herhusband had turned the sharp corner between death and life, Mrs. H. wasattacked and both lay helpless, dependent upon the care of their only hiredman. Neighbors whose hearts had been made tender and sympathetic by theirown bereavements, came from their far-off cabins and for several weekswatched beside their bedside. The attack of the wife commenced with a feverwhich continued till after the birth of her child. For three days longershe lingered in pain, sinking slowly till the last great change came, andMr. H., now convalescent, saw her eyes closed for ever.

The first time he left the house was to follow the remains of his wife andchild to their last resting place, beneath an arbor of boughs which her ownhands had tended. We cannot describe the grief of that bereaved husband.His very appearance was that of one who had emerged from the tomb. Sicknesshad blanched his dark face to a ghastly hue, and drawn great furrows in hischeeks, which were immovable, and as if chiseled in granite. During hissickness he had seen little of her before she was stricken down, for hismind was clouded. When the light of reason dawned he was faintly consciousthat she lay near him suffering, first from the fever, and then fromwoman's greatest pain and trial, but that he was unable to soothe andcomfort her; and finally that her last hours were hours of intense agony,which he could not alleviate. He was as one in a trance; a confusedconsciousness of his terrible loss slowly took possession of him. When atlength his weakened intellect comprehended the truth with all its sadsurrounding, a great cloud of desolation settled down over his whole life.

That cloud, sad to say, never lifted. As he stood by the open grave, helifted the lid, gazed long and intently on that sweet pale face, bent andkissed the marble brow, and as the mother and child were lowered into thegrave, he turned away a broken-hearted man.

CHAPTER III.

EARLY PIONEERS—WOMAN'S ADVENTURES AND HEROISM.

For nearly one hundred years after the settlement of Plymouth, the whole ofthe territory now known as the State of Maine was, with the exception of afew settlements on the coast and rivers, a howling wilderness. From the seato Canada extended a vast forest, intersected with rapid streams and dottedwith numerous lakes. While the larger number of settlers were disinclinedto attempt to penetrate this trackless waste, some few hardy pioneers daredto advance far into the unknown land, tempted by the abundance of fish inthe streams and lakes or by the variety of game which was to be found inthe forests. It was the land for hunters rather than for tillers of thesoil, and most of its early explorers were men who were skillful marksmen,and versed in forest lore. But occasionally women joined these predatoryexpeditions against the denizens of the woods and waters.

In the history of American settlements too little credit has been given tothe hunter. He is often the first to penetrate the wilderness; he notes thegeneral features of the country as he passes on his swift course; heascertains the fertility of the soil and the capabilities of differentregions; he reconnoiters the Indian tribes, and learns their habitsand how they are affected towards the white man. When he returns to thesettlements he makes his report concerning the region which he hasexplored, and by means of the knowledge thus obtained the permanentsettlers were and are enabled to push forward and establish themselves inthe wilderness. In the glory and usefulness of these discoveries woman notunfrequently shared. Some of the most interesting narratives are those inwhich she was the companion and coadjutor of the hunter in his explorationsof the trackless mazes of our American forests.

In the year 1672 a small party of hunters arrived at the mouth of theKennebec in two canoes. The larger one of the canoes was paddled up streamby three men, the other was propelled swiftly forward by a man and a woman.Both were dressed in hunters' costume; the woman in a close-fitting tunicof deerskin reaching to the knees, with leggins to match, and the man inhunting-shirt and trowsers of the same material. Edward Pentry, for thiswas the name of the man, was a stalwart Cornishman who had spent ten yearsin hunting and exploring the American wilderness. Mrs. Pentry, his wife,was of French extraction, and had passed most of her life in thesettlements in Canada, where she had met her adventurous husband on one ofhis hunting expeditions. She was of manly stature and strength, and likeher husband, was a splendid shot and skillful fisher. Both werepassionately fond of forest life, and perfectly fearless of its dangers,whether from savage man or beast.

It was their purpose to explore thoroughly the region watered by the upperKennebec, and to establish a trading-post which would serve as theheadquarters of fur-traders, and ultimately open the country forsettlement. Their outfit was extremely simple: guns, traps, axes,fishing-gear, powder, and bullets, &c., with an assorted cargo of suchtrinkets and other articles as the Indians desired in return for peltry.

In three weeks they reached the head-waters of the Kennebec, at Moosehead
Lake. There they built a large cabin, divided into two compartments, one of
which was occupied by three of the men, the other by Mr. and Mrs. Pentry.
All of the party were versed in the Indian dialect of the region, and as
Mrs. Pentry could speak French, no trouble was anticipated from the
Indians, who in that part of the country were generally friendly to the
French.

The labors of the men in felling trees and shaping logs for the cabin, aswell as in framing the structure, were shared in by Mrs. Pentry, who inaddition did all the necessary cooking and other culinary offices. Theydecided to explore the surrounding country for the purpose of discoveringthe lay of the land and the haunts of game. No signs of any Indians had yetbeen seen, and it was thought best that the four men should start, each ina different direction, and having explored the neighboring region return tothe cabin at night, Mrs. Pentry meanwhile being left alone—a situationwhich she did not in the least dread. Accordingly, early in the morning,after eating a hunter's breakfast of salt pork, fried fish, and parchedcorn, the quartette selected their several routes, and started, taking goodcare to mark their trail as they went, that they could the more readilyfind the way back.

It was agreed that they should return by sunset, which would give themtwelve good hours for exploration, as it was the month of July, and thedays were long. After their departure Mrs. P. put things to rights aboutthe house, and barring the door against intruders, whether biped orquadruped, took her gun and fishing-tackle and went out for a little sportin the woods.

The cabin stood on the border of Moosehead Lake. Unloosing the canoes, sheembarked in one, and towing the other behind her, rowed across a part ofthe lake which jutted in shore to the southwest; she soon reached a densepiece of woods which skirted the lake, and there mooring her canoe, watchedfor the deer which came down to that place to drink. A fat buck before longmade his appearance, and as he bent down his head to quaff the water, abrace of buck-shot planted behind his left foreleg laid him low, and hiscarcase was speedily deposited in the canoe.

The sun was now well up, and as Mrs. P. had provided for the wants of theparty by her lucky shot, and no more deer made their appearance, she laydown in the bottom of the boat, and soon fell fast asleep. Hunters andsoldiers should be light sleepers, as was Mrs. Pentry upon this occasion.

How long she slept she never exactly knew, but she was awakened by asplash; lifting her head above the edge of the boat, she saw nothing but amuddy spot on the water some thirty feet away, near the shore. This was asuspicious sign. Looking more closely, she saw a slight motion beneath thelily-pads, which covered closely, like a broad green carpet, the surface ofthe lake. Her hand was on her gun, and as she leveled the barrel towardsthe turbid spot, she saw a head suddenly lifted, and at the same moment ahuge Indian sprang from the water and struggled up through the denseundergrowth that lined the edge of the lake.

It was a sudden impulse rather than a thought, which made Mrs. P. level thegun at his broad back and pull the trigger. The Indian leaped into the air,and fell back in the water dead, with half a dozen buck-shot through hisheart. At the same moment she felt a strong grasp on her shoulder, andheard a deep guttural "ugh!" Turning her head she saw the malignant face ofanother Indian standing waist-deep in the water, with one hand on the boatwhich he was dragging towards the shore.

A swift side-blow from the gun-barrel, and he tumbled into the water;before he could recover, the brave woman had snatched the paddle, and sentthe canoe spinning out into the lake. Then dropping the paddle and seizingher gun she dashed in a heavy charge of powder, dropped a dozen buck-shotdown the muzzle, rammed in some dry grass, primed the pan, and leveled itagain at the savage, who having recovered from the blow, was flounderingtowards the shore, turning and shaking his tomahawk at her, meanwhile, witha ferocious grin. Again the report of her gun awakened the forest echoes,and before the echoes had died away, the savage's corpse was floating onthe water.

[Illustration: THE HUNTRESS OF THE LAKES SURPRISED BY INDIANS]

She dared not immediately approach the shore, fearing that other savagesmight be lying in ambush; but after closely scrutinizing the bushes, shesaw no signs of others, besides the two whom she had shot. She then cutlong strips of raw hide from the dead buck, and towing the bodies of theIndians far out into the lake sunk them with the stones that served toanchor the canoes. Returning to the shore, she took their guns which layupon the shelving bank, and rapidly paddled the canoe homeward.

It was now high noon. She reached the cabin, entered, and sat down to rest.She supposed that the savages she had just, killed were stragglers from awar-party who had lagged behind their comrades, and attracted by the soundmade by her gun when she shot the buck, had come to see what it was. Thethought that a larger body might be in the vicinity, and that they wouldcapture and perhaps kill her beloved husband and his companions, was atorture to her. She sat a few moments to collect her thoughts and resolvewhat course to pursue.

Her resolution was soon taken. She could not sit longer there, while herhusband and friends were exposed to danger or death. Again she entered thecanoe and paddled across the arm of the lake to the spot where the waterswere still stained with the blood of the Indians. Hastily effacing thisbloody trace, she moored the canoes and followed the trail of the savagesfor four miles to the northwest. There she found in a ravine the embers ofa fire, where, from appearances as many as twenty redskins had spent thepreceding night. Their trail led to the northwest, and by certain signsknown to hunters, she inferred that they had started at day-break and werenow far on their way northward.

When her four male associates selected their respective routes in themorning, her husband had, she now remembered, selected one which leddirectly in the trail of the Indian war-party, and by good calculation hewould have been about six miles in their rear. Not being joined by the twosavages whose bodies lay at the bottom of the lake, what was more likelythan that they would send back a detachment to look after the safety oftheir missing comrades?

The first thing to be done was to strike her husband's trail and thenfollow it till she overtook him or met him returning. Swiftly, and yetcautiously, she struck out into the forest in a direction at right angleswith the Indian camp. Being clad in trowsers of deer skin and a short tunicand moccasins of the same material, she made her way through the woods aseasily as a man, and fortunately in a few moments discovered a trail whichshe concluded was that of her husband. Her opinion was soon verified byfinding a piece of leather which she recognized as part of hisaccoutrements. For two hours she strode swiftly on through the forest,treading literally in her husband's tracks.

The sun was now three hours above the western horizon; so taking her seatupon a fallen tree, she waited, expecting to see him soon returning on histrail, when she heard faintly in the distance the report of a gun; a momentafter, another and still another report followed in quick succession.Guided by the sound she hurried through the tangled thicket from which shesoon emerged into a grove of tall pine trees, and in the distance saw twoIndians with their backs turned toward her and shielding themselves fromsome one in front by standing behind large trees. Without being seen bythem she stole up and sheltered herself in a similar manner, while her eyeranged the forest in search of her husband who she feared was under thefire of the red-skins.

At length she descried the object of their hostility behind the trunk of afallen tree. It was clearly a white man who crouched there, and he seemedto be wounded. She immediately took aim at the nearest Indian and sent twobullets through his lungs. The other Indian at the same instant had firedat the white man and then sprang forward to finish him with his tomahawk.Mrs. Pentry flew to the rescue and just as the savage lifted his arm tobrain his foe, she drove her hunting knife to the haft into his spine.

Her husband lay prostrate before her and senseless with loss of blood froma bullet-wound in the right shoulder. Staunching the flow of blood withstyptics which she gathered among the forest shrubs, she brought water andthe wounded man soon revived. After a slow and weary march she brought himback to the cabin, carrying him part of the way upon her shoulders. Underher careful nursing he at length recovered his strength though he alwayscarried the bullet in his shoulder. It appears he had met three Indians whotold him they were in search of their two missing companions. One of themafterwards treacherously shot him from behind through the shoulder, and inreturn Pentry sent a ball through his heart. Then becoming weak from lossof blood he could only point his gun-barrel at the remaining Indians, andthis was his situation when his wife came up and saved his life.

After receiving such an admonition it is natural to suppose the whole partywere content to remain near their forest home for a season, extending theirrambles only far enough to enable them to procure game and fish for theirtable; and this was not far, for the lake was alive with fish; and wildturkeys, deer, and other game could be shot sometimes even from the cabindoor.

The party were also deterred by this experience from attempting to driveany trade with the Indians until the following spring, when they expectedto be joined by a large party of hunters.

The summer soon passed away, and the cold nights of September and Octoberadmonished our hardy pioneers that they must prepare for a rigorous winter.Mrs. Pentry made winter clothing for the men and for herself out of theskins of animals which they had shot, and snow-shoes from the sinews ofdeer stretched on a frame composed of strips of hard wood. She also felledtrees for fuel and lined the walls of the cabin with deer and bear skins;she was the most skilful mechanic of the party, and having fitted runnersof hickory to one of the boats she rigged a sail of soft skins sewedtogether, and once in November, after the river was frozen, and when thewind blew strongly from the northwest, the whole party undertook to reachthe mouth of the river by sailing down in their boat upon the ice. A boatof this kind, when the ice is smooth and the wind strong, will make fifteenmiles an hour.

They were interrupted frequently in their course by the falls and rapids,making portages necessary; nevertheless in three days and two nights theyreached the mouth of the river.

Here they bartered their peltry for powder, bullets, and various otherarticles most needed by frontiersmen, and catching a southeast wind startedon their return. In a few hours they had made seventy miles, and at night,as the sky threatened snow, they prepared a shelter in a hollow in the bankof the river. Before morning a snow-storm had covered the river-ice andblocked their passage. For three days, the snow fell continuously. Theywere therefore forced to abandon all hopes of reaching their cabin at thehead-waters of the Kennebec. The hollow or cave in the bank where they weresheltered they covered with saplings and branches cut from the bluff, andbanked up the snow round it. Their supply of food was soon exhausted, butby cutting holes in the ice they caught fish for their subsistence.

The depth of the snow prevented them from going far from their place ofshelter, and the nights were bitter cold. The ice on the river was two feetin thickness; and one day, in cutting through it to fish, their only axewas broken. No worse calamity could have befallen them, since they were nowunable to cut fuel or to procure fish. Mr. Pentry, who was still sufferingfrom the effects of his wound, contracted a cold which settled in his lameshoulder, and he was obliged to stay in doors, carefully nursed and tendedby his devoted wife. The privations endured by these unfortunates arescarcely to be paralleled. Short of food, ill-supplied with clothing, andexposed to the howling severity of the climate, the escape of any one ofthe number appears almost a miracle.

A number of bear-skins, removed from the boat to the cave, served them forbedding. Some days, when there was nothing to eat and no means of making afire, they passed the whole time huddled up in the skins. Daily they becameweaker and less capable of exertion. Wading through the snow up to thewaist, they were able now and then to shoot enough small game to barelykeep them alive.

After the lapse of a fortnight there came a thaw, succeeded by a cold rain,which froze as it fell. The snow became crusted over, to the depth of twoinches, with ice that was strong enough to bear their weight. Theyextricated their ice-boat and prepared for departure. One of the party hadgone out that morning on the crust, hoping to secure some larger game tostock their larder before starting; the rest awaited his return for twohours, and then, fearing some casualty had happened to him, followed histrail for half a mile from the river and found him engaged in a desperatestruggle with a large black she-bear which he had wounded.

The ferocious animal immediately left its prey and rushed at Mrs. Pentrywith open mouth, seizing her left arm in its jaws, crunched it, and then,rising on its hind legs, gave her a terrible hug. The rest of the partydared not fire, for fear of hitting the woman. Twice she drove her huntingknife into the beast's vitals and it fell on the crust, breaking throughinto the snow beneath, where the two rolled over in a death-struggle. Theheroic woman at length arose victorious, and the carcase of the bear wasdragged forth, skinned, and cut up. A fire was speedily kindled, Mrs.Pentry's wounds were dressed, and after refreshing themselves with a heartymeal of bearsteak, the remainder of the meat was packed in the boat.

The party then embarked, and by the aid of a stiff easterly breeze, wereenabled, in three days, to reach their cabin on the head-waters of theKennebec. The explorations made along the Kennebec by Mrs. Pentry and hercompanions attracted thither an adventurous class of settlers, andultimately led to the important settlements on the line of that river.

The remainder of Mrs. Pentry's life was spent mainly on the northernfrontier. She literally lived and died in the woods, reaching the advancedage of ninety-six years, and seeing three generation of her descendantsgrow up around her. Possessing the strength and courage of a man, she hadalso all a woman's kindness, and appears to have been an estimable personin all the relations of life—a good wife and mother, a warm friend, and agenerous neighbor. In fact, she was a representative woman of the times inwhich she lived.

The toils of a severer nature, such as properly belong to man, often fallupon woman from the necessities of life in remote and isolated settlements;she is seen plying strange vocations and undertaking tasks that bear hardlyon the soft and gentle sex. Sometimes a hunter and trapper; and again amariner; now we see her performing the rugged work of a farm, and again afighter, stoutly defending her home. The fact that habit and necessityaccustom her, in frontier life, to those employments which in older andmore conventional communities are deemed unfitting and ungraceful for womanto engage in, makes it none the less striking and admirable, because indoing so she serves a great and useful purpose; she is thereby doing herpart in forming new communities in the places that are uninhabited andwaste.

Vermont was largely settled by the soldiers who had served in the army ofthe Revolution. The settlers, both men and women, were hardy and intrepid,and seem to have been peculiarly adapted to subjugate that rugged region inour New England wilderness. The women were especially noted for thestrength and courage with which they shared the labors of the men andencountered the hardships and dangers of frontier life.

When sickness or death visited the men of the family, the mothers, wives,or widows filled their places in the woods, or on the farm, or among thecattle. Often, side by side with the men, women could be seen emulatingtheir husbands in the severe task of felling timber and making a clearingin the forest.

In the words of Daniel P. Thompson, author of "The Green Mountain Boys":—

"The women of the Green Mountains deserve as much credit for their variousdisplays of courage, endurance, and patriotism, in the early settlement oftheir State, as was ever awarded to their sex for similar exhibitions inany part of the world. In the controversy with New York and New Hampshire,which took the form of war in many instances; in the predatory Indianincursions, and in the War of the Revolution, they often displayed acapacity for labor and endurance, a spirit and firmness in the hour ofdanger, a resolution and hardihood in defending their families and theirthreatened land against all enemies, whether domestic or foreign, thatwould have done honor to the dames of Sparta."

The first man who commenced a settlement in the town of Salisbury, Vermont,on the Otter Creek, was Amos Storey, who, in making an opening in the heartof the wilderness on the right of land to which the first settler wasentitled, was killed by the fall of a tree. His widow, who had been left inConnecticut, immediately resolved to push into the wilderness with her tensmall children, to take his place and preserve and clear up his farm. Thisbold resolution she carried out to the letter, in spite of everydifficulty, hardship, and danger, which for years constantly beset her inher solitary location in the woods. Acre after acre of the dense and darkforest melted away before her axe, which she handled with the dexterity ofthe most experienced chopper. The logs and bushes were piled and burnt byher own strong and untiring hand; crops were raised, by which, with thefruits of her fishing and unerring rifle, she supported herself and herhardy brood of children. As a place of refuge from the assaults of Indiansor dangerous wild beasts, she dug out an underground room, into which,through a small entrance made to open under an overhanging thicket on thebank of the stream, she nightly retreated with her children.

Frequently during the dreary winter nights she was kept awake by thehowling of the wolves, and sometimes, looking through the chinks in thelogs, she could see them loping in circles around the cabin, whining andsnuffing the air as if they yearned for human blood. They were gaunt,fierce-looking creatures, and in the winter-time their hunger made them sobold that they would come up to the door and scratch against it. Thebarking of her mastiff would soon drive the cowardly beasts away but only afew rods, to the edge of the clearing where, sitting on their haunches,they frequently watched the house all night, galloping away into the woodswhen day broke.

Here she continued to reside, thus living, thus laboring, unassisted, till,by her own hand and the help which her boys soon began to afford her, shecleared up a valuable farm and placed herself in independent circ*mstances.

Miss Hannah Fox tells the following thrilling story of an adventure thatbefel her while engaged in felling trees in her mother's woods in RhodeIsland, in the early colonial days.

We were making fine progress with our clearing and getting ready to build ahouse in the spring. My brother and I worked early and late, often goingwithout our dinner, when the bread and meat which we brought with us wasfrozen so hard that our teeth could make no impression upon it, withouttaking too much of our time. My brother plied his axe on the largest trees,while I worked at the smaller ones or trimmed the boughs from the trunks ofsuch as had been felled.

The last day of our chopping was colder than ever. The ground was coveredby a deep snow which had crusted over hard enough to bear our weight, whichwas a great convenience in moving from spot to spot in the forest, as wellas in walking to and from our cabin, which was a mile away. My brother hadgone to the nearest settlement that day, leaving me to do my work alone.

As a storm was threatening, I toiled as long as I could see, and aftertwilight felled a sizeable tree which in its descent lodged againstanother. Not liking to leave the job half finished, I mounted the almostprostrate trunk to cut away a limb and let it down. The bole of the treewas forked about twenty feet from the ground, and one of the divisions ofthe fork would have to be cut asunder. A few blows of my axe and the treebegan to settle, but as I was about to descend, the fork split and thefirst joints of my left-hand fingers slid into the crack so that for themoment I could not extricate them. The pressure was not severe, and as Ibelieved I could soon relieve myself by cutting away the remaining portion,I felt no alarm. But at the first blow of the axe which I held in my righthand, the trunk changed its position, rolling over and closing the split,with the whole force of its tough oaken fibers crushing my fingers likepipe-stems; at the same time my body was dislodged from the trunk and Islid slowly down till I hung suspended with the points of my feet justbrushing the snow. The air was freezing and every moment growing colder; noprospect of any relief that night; the nearest house a mile away; nofriends to feel alarmed at my absence, for my mother would suppose that Iwas safe with my brother, while the latter would suppose I was by this timeat home.

The first thought was of my mother. "It will kill her to know that I diedin this death-trap so near home, almost within hearing of her voice! Theremust be some escape! but how?" My axe had fallen below me and my feet couldalmost touch it. It was impossible to imagine how I could cut myself looseunless I could reach it. My only hope of life rested on that keen bladewhich lay glittering on the snow.

Within reach of my hand was a dead bush which towered some eight feet aboveme, and by a great exertion of strength I managed to break it. Holding itbetween my teeth I stripped it of its twigs, leaving two projecting a fewinches at the lower end to form a hook. With this I managed to draw towardsme the head of the axe until my fingers touched it, when it slipped fromthe hook and fell again upon the snow, breaking through the crust andburying itself so that only the upper end of the helve could be seen.

Up to that moment the recollection of my mother and the first excitementengendered by hope had almost made me unconscious of the excruciating painin my crushed fingers, and the sharp thrills that shot through my nerves,as my body swung and twisted in my efforts to reach the axe. But now, asthe axe fell beyond my reach, the reaction came, hope fled, and I shudderedwith the thought that I must die there alone like some wild thing caught ina snare. I thought of my widowed mother, my brother, the home which we hadtoiled to make comfortable and happy. I prayed earnestly to God forforgiveness of my sins, and then calmly resigned myself to death, which Inow believed to be inevitable. For a time, which I afterwards found to beonly five minutes, but which then seemed to me like hours, I hungmotionless. The pain had ceased, for the intense cold blunted my sense offeeling. A numbness, stole over me, and I seemed to be falling into atrance, from which I was roused by a sound of bells borne to me as if froma great distance. Hope again awoke, and I screamed loud and long; the woodsechoed my cries, but no voice replied. The bells grew fainter and fainter,and at last died away. But the sound of my voice had broken the spell whichcold and despair were fast throwing over me. A hundred devices ran swiftlythrough my mind, and each device was dismissed as impracticable. The helveof the axe caught my eye, and in an instant by an association of ideas itflashed across me that in the pocket of my dress there was a smallknife—another sharp instrument by which I could extricate myself. Withsome difficulty I contrived to open the blade, and then withdrawing theknife from my pocket and gripping it as one who clings to the last hope oflife, I strove to cut away the wood that held my fingers in its terriblevise. In vain! the wood was like iron. The motion of my arm and bodybrought back the pain which the cold had lulled, and I feared that I shouldfaint.

After a moment's pause I adopted a last expedient. Nerving myself to thedreadful necessity, I disjointed my fingers and fell exhausted to theground. My life was saved, but my left hand was a bleeding stump. Theintensity of the cold stopped the flow of blood. I tore off a piece of mydress, bound up my fingers, and started for home. My complete exhaustionand the bitter cold made that the longest mile I had ever traveled. By nineo'clock that evening I had managed to drag myself, more dead than alive, tomy mother's door, but it was more than a week before I could again leavethe house.

The difficulties encountered by the first emigrant-bands fromMassachusetts, on their journey to Connecticut, may be understood best whenwe consider the face of the country between Massachusetts Bay and Hartford.It was a succession of ridges and deep valleys with swamps and rapidstreams, and covered with forests and thickets where bears, wolves, andcatamounts prowled. The journey, which occupies now but a few hours, thengenerally required two weeks to perform. The early settlers, men, women,and children, pursued their toilsome march over this rough country, pickingtheir way through morasses, wading through rivers and streams, and climbingmountains; driving their cattle, sheep, and swine before them. Some came,on horseback; the older and feebler in ox-carts, but most of them traveledon foot. At night aged and delicate women slept under trees in the forest,with no covering but the foliage and the cope of heaven.

The winter was near at hand, and the nights were already cold and frosty.Many of the women had been delicately reared, and yet were obliged totravel on foot for the whole distance, reaching their destination in acondition of exhaustion that ill prepared them for the hardships of theensuing winter. Some were nursing mothers, who sheltered themselves andtheir babes in rude huts where the wind, rain, and snow drove in throughyawning fissures which there were no means to close. Others were agedwomen, who in sore distress sent up their prayers and rolled theirquavering hymns to the wintry skies, their only canopy. The story of thesehapless families is told in the simple but effective language of the oldhistorian.

"On the 15th of October [1632] about sixty men, women, and children, withtheir horses, cattle, and swine, commenced their journey fromMassachusetts, through the wilderness, to Connecticut River. After atedious and difficult journey through swamps and rivers, over mountains andrough grounds, which were passed with great difficulty and fatigue, theyarrived safely at their respective destinations. They were so long on theirjourney, and so much time and pains were spent in passing the river, and ingetting over their cattle, that after all their exertions, winter came uponthem before they were prepared. This was an occasion of great distress anddamage to the plantation. The same autumn several other parties came fromthe east—including a large number of women and children—by differentroutes, and settled on the banks of the Connecticut river.

"The winter set in this year much sooner than usual, and the weather wasstormy and severe. By the 15th of November, the Connecticut river wasfrozen over, and the snow was so deep, and the season so tempestuous, thata considerable number of the cattle which had been driven on from theMassachusetts, could not be brought across the river. The people had solittle time to prepare their huts and houses, and to erect sheds andshelter for their cattle, that the sufferings of man and beast wereextreme. Indeed the hardships and distresses of the first planters ofConnecticut scarcely admit of a description. To carry much provision orfurniture through a pathless wilderness was impracticable. Their principalprovisions and household furniture were therefore put on several smallvessels, which, by reason of delays and the tempestuousness of the season,were cast away. Several vessels were wrecked on the coast of New England,by the violence of the storms. Two shallops laden with goods from Boston toConnecticut, were cast away in October, on Brown's Island, near theGurnet's Nose; and the men with every thing on board were lost. A vesselwith six of the Connecticut people on board, which sailed from the riverfor Boston, early in November, was, about the middle of the month, castaway in Manamet Bay. The men and women got on shore, and after wanderingten days in deep snow and a severe season, without meeting any human being,arrived, nearly spent with cold and fatigue, at New Plymouth.

"By the last of November, or beginning of December, provisions generallyfailed in the settlements on the river, and famine and death looked theinhabitants sternly in the face. Some of them driven by hunger attemptedtheir way, in that severe season, through the wilderness, from Connecticutto Massachusetts. Of thirteen, in one company, who made this attempt, onein passing the river fell through the ice and was drowned. The other twelvewere ten days on their journey, and would all have perished, had it notbeen for the assistance of the Indians.

"Indeed, such was the distress in general, that by the 3d and 4th ofDecember, a considerable part of the new settlers were obliged to abandontheir habitations. Seventy persons, men, women, and children, werecompelled, in the extremity of winter, to go down to the mouth of the riverto meet their provisions, as the only expedient to preserve their lives.Not meeting with the vessels which they expected, they all went on boardthe Rebecca, a vessel of about sixty tons. This, two days before, wasfrozen in, twenty miles up the river; but by the falling of a small rain,and the influence of the tide, the ice became so broken and was so farremoved, that she made a shift to get out. She ran, however, upon the bar,and the people were forced to unlade her to get off. She was released, andin five days reached Boston. Had it not been for these providentialcirc*mstances, the people must have perished with famine.

"The people who kept their stations on the river suffered in an extremedegree. After all the help they were able to obtain, by hunting, and fromthe Indians, they were obliged to subsist on acorns, malt, and grains.

"Numbers of the cattle which could not be got over the river before winter,lived through without anything but what they found in the woods andmeadows. They wintered as well, or better than those which were broughtover, and for which all the provision was made and pains taken of which theowners were capable. However, a great number of cattle perished. TheDorchester or Windsor people, lost in this way alone about two hundredpounds sterling. Their other losses were very considerable."

It is difficult to describe, or even to conceive, the apprehensions ordistresses of a people in the circ*mstances of our venerable ancestors,during this doleful winter. All the horrors of a dreary wilderness spreadthemselves around them. They were compassed with numerous fierce and crueltribes of wild and savage men who could have swallowed up parents andchildren at pleasure, in their feeble and distressed condition. They hadneither bread for themselves nor children; neither habitation nor clothingconvenient for them. Whatever emergency might happen, they were cut off,both by land and water, from any succor or retreat. What self-denial,firmness, and magnanimity are necessary for such enterprises! Howdistressing, in the beginning, was the condition of those now fair andopulent towns on Connecticut River!

Under the most favorable circ*mstances, the lives of the pioneer-women musthave been one long ordeal of hardship and suffering. The fertile valleyswere the scenes of the bloodiest Indian raids, while the remote and sterilehill country, if it escaped the attention of the hostile savage, was liableto be visited by other ills. Famine in such regions was always imminent,and the remoteness and isolation of those frontier-cabins often made reliefimpossible. A failure in the little crop of corn, which the thin soil ofthe hillside scantily furnished, and the family were driven to the frontfor game and to the streams for fish, to supply their wants. Then came thewinter, and the cabin was often blockaded with snow for weeks. The fuel andfood consumed, nothing seemed left to the doomed household but to struggleon for a season, and then lie down and die. Fortunately the last sadcatastrophe was of rare occurrence, owing to the extraordinary resolutionand hardihood of the settlers.

It is a striking fact that in all the records, chronicles, and letters ofthe early settlers that have come down to us, there are scarcely to befound any complaining word from woman. She simply stated her sufferings,the dangers she encountered, the hardships she endured, and that was all.No querulous or peevish complaints, no meanings over her hard lot. She boreher pains and sorrows and privations in silence, looking forward to herreward, and knowing that she was making homes in the wilderness, and thatfuture generations would rise up and call her blessed.

CHAPTER IV.

THE BLOCK HOUSE, AND ON THE INDIAN TRAIL.

The axe and the gun, the one to conquer the forces of wild nature, theother to battle against savage man and beast—these were the twin weaponsthat the pioneer always kept beside him, whether on the march or during ahalt. In defensive warfare the axe was scarcely less potent than the gun,for with its keen edge the great logs were hewed which formed theblock-house, and the tall saplings shaped, which were driven into the earthto make the stockade. We know too that woman could handle the gun and plythe axe when required so to do.

In one of our historical galleries there was exhibited not long since apainting representing a party of Indians attacking a block-house in a NewEngland settlement. The house is a structure framed, and built of enormouslogs, hexagonal in shape, the upper stories over-hanging those beneath, andpierced with loopholes. There is a thick parapet on the roof, behind whichare collected the children of the settlement guarded by women, old andyoung, some of whom are firing over the parapet at the yelling fiends whohave just emerged from their forest-ambush. A glimpse of the interior ofthe block-house shows us women engaged in casting bullets and loadingfire-arms which they are handing to the men. In the background a brave girlis returning swiftly to the garrison, with buckets of water which she hasdrawn from the spring, a few rods away from the house. A crouching savagehas leveled his gun at her, and she evidently knows the danger she is in,but moves steadily forward without spilling a drop of her precious burden.

The block-house is surrounded by the primeval forest, which is alive withsavages. Some are shaking at the defenders of the block-house fresh scalps,evidently just torn from the heads of men and women who have been overtakenand tomahawked before they could reach their forest-citadel: others havefired the stack of corn. A large fire has been kindled in the woods and ascore of savages are wrapping dry grass around the ends of long poles, withwhich to fire the wooden walls of the block-house.

Thirty or forty men women and children in a wooden fort, a hundred miles,perhaps, from any settlement, and surrounded by five times their number ofPequots or Wampanoags thirsting for their blood! This is indeed a faithfulpicture of one of the frequent episodes of colonial life in New England!

Every new settlement was brought face to face with such dangers as we havedescribed. The red-man and the white man were next door neighbors. Thesmokes of the wigwam and the cabin mingled as they rose to the sky. Fromthe first there was more or less antagonism. Life among the white settlerswas a kind of picket-service in which woman shared.

At times, as for example in the wars with the Pequots and King Philip,there was safety nowhere. Men went armed to the field, to meeting, and tobring home their brides from their father's house where they had marriedthem. Women with muskets at their side lulled their babes to sleep. Likethe tiger of the jungles, the savage lay in ambush for the women andchildren: he knew he could strike the infant colony best by thus desolatingthe homes.

The captivities of Mrs. Williams and her children, of Mrs. Shute, of Mrs.Johnson, of Mrs. Howe, and of many other matrons; as well as of unmarriedwomen, are well-conned incidents of New England colonial history. The storyof Mrs. Dustin's exploit and escape reads like a romance. "At night," touse the concise language of Mr. Bancroft, "while the household slumbers,the captives, each with a tomahawk, strike vigorously, and fleetly, andwith division of labor,—and of the twelve sleepers, ten lie dead; of onesquaw the wound was not mortal; one child was spared from design. The loveof glory next asserted its power; and the gun and tomahawk of the murdererof her infant, and a bag heaped full of scalps were choicely kept astrophies of the heroine. The streams are the guides which God has set forthe stranger in the wilderness: in a bark canoe the three descend theMerrimac to the English settlement, astonishing their friends by theirescape and filling the land with wonder at their successful daring."

The details of Mrs. Rowlandson's sufferings after her capture at Lancaster,Mass., in 1676, are almost too painful to dwell upon. When the Indiansbegan their march the day after the destruction of that place, Mrs.Rowlandson carried her infant till her strength failed and she fell. Towardnight it began to snow; and gathering a few sticks, she made a fire.Sitting beside it on the snow, she held her child in her arms, through thelong and dismal night. For three or four days she had no sustenance butwater; nor did her child share any better for nine days. During this timeit was constantly in her arms or lap. At the end of that period, the frostof death crept into its eyes, and she was forced to relinquish it to bedisposed of by the unfeeling sextons of the forest.

She went through almost every suffering but death. She was beaten, kicked,turned out of doors, refused food, insulted in the grossest manner, and attimes almost starved. Nothing but experience can enable us to conceive whatmust be the hunger of a person by whom the discovery of six acorns and twochestnuts was regarded as a rich prize. At times, in order to make hermiserable, they announced to her the death of her husband and her children.

On various occasions they threatened to kill her. Occasionally, but forshort intervals only, she was permitted to see her children, and sufferedher own anguish over again in their miseries. She was obliged, while hardlyable to walk, to carry a heavy burden, over hills, and through rivers,swamps, and marshes; and in the most inclement seasons. These evils wererepeated daily; and, to crown them all, she was daily saluted with the mostbarbarous and insolent accounts of the burning and slaughter, the torturesand agonies, inflicted by them upon her countrymen. It is to be rememberedthat Mrs. Rowlandson was tenderly and delicately educated, and ill fittedto encounter such distresses; and yet she bore them all with a fortitudetruly wonderful.

Instances too there were, where a single woman infused her own dauntlessspirit into a whole garrison, and prevented them from abandoning theirpost. Mrs. Heard, "a widow of good estate a mother of many children, and adaughter of Mr. Hull, a revered minister formerly settled in Piscataqua,"having escaped from captivity among the Indians, about 1689, returned toone of the garrisons on the extreme frontier of New Hampshire. By herpresence and courage this out-post was maintained for ten years and duringthe whole war, though frequently assaulted by savages. It is stated that ifshe had left the garrison and retired to Portsmouth, as she was solicitedto do by her friends, the out-post would have been abandoned, greatly tothe damage of the surrounding country.

Long after the New England colonies rested in comparative security from theattacks of the aboriginal tribes, the warfare was continued in the Middle,Southern, and Western States, and even at this hour, sitting in ourpeaceful homes we read in the journals of the day reports of Indianatrocities perpetrated against the families of the pioneers on our extremewestern frontier.

Our whole history from the earliest times to the present, is full ofinstances of woman's noble achievements. East, west, north, south, whereverwe wander, we tread the soil which has been wearily trodden by her feet asa pioneer, moistened by her tears as a captive, or by her blood as a martyrin the cause of civilization on this western continent.

The sorrows of maidens, wives, and mothers in the border wars of ourcolonial times, have furnished themes for the poet, the artist, and thenovelist, but the reality of these scenes as described in the simple wordsof the local historians, often exceeds the most vivid dress in whichimagination can clothe it.

One of the most deeply rooted traits of woman's nature is sympathy, and theoutflow of that emotion into action is as natural as the emotion itself.When a woman witnesses the sufferings of others it is instinctive with herto try and relieve them, and to be thwarted in the exercise of this facultyis to her a positive pain.

We may judge from this of what her feelings must have been when she saw, asshe often did, those who were dearest to her put to torture and deathwithout being permitted to rescue them or even alleviate their agonies.

Such was the position in which Mrs. Waldron was placed, on the northernborder, during the French and Indian war of the last century. She and herhusband occupied a small block-house which they had built a few miles fromCherry Valley, New York, and here she was doomed to suffer all that a wifecould, in witnessing the terrible fate of her husband and being at the sametime powerless to rescue him.

"One fatal evening," to use the quaint words of our heroine, "I was allalone in the house, when I was of a sudden surprised with the fearfulwar-whoop and a tremendous attack upon the door and the palisades around. Iflew to the upper window and seizing my husband's gun, which I had learnedto use expertly, I leveled the barrel on the window-sill and took aim atthe foremost savage. Knowing their cruelty and merciless disposition, andwishing to obtain some favor, I desisted from firing; but how vain andfruitless are the efforts of one woman against the united force of so many,and of such merciless monsters as I had here to deal with! One of them thatcould speak a little English, threatened me in return, 'that if I did notcome out, they would burn me alive in the house.' My terror and distractionat hearing this is not to be expressed by words nor easily imagined by anyperson unless in the same condition. Distracted as I was in such deplorablecirc*mstances, I chose to rely on the uncertainty of their protection,rather than meet with certain death in the house; and accordingly went outwith my gun in my hand, scarcely knowing what I did. Immediately on myapproach, they rushed on me like so many tigers, and instantly disarmed me.Having me thus in their power, the merciless villians bound me to a treenear the door.

"While our house and barns were burning, sad to relate, my husband justthen came through the woods, and being spied by the barbarians, they gavechase and soon overtook him. Alas! for what a fate was he reserved! Digginga deep pit, they tied his arms to his side and put him into it and thenrammed and beat the earth all around his body up to his neck, his head onlyappearing above ground. They then scalped him and kindled a slow fire nearhis head.

"I broke my bonds, and running to him kissed his poor bleeding face, andthrew myself at the feet of his barbarous tormentors, begging them to sparehis life. Deaf to all my tears and entreaties and to the piercing shrieksof my unfortunate husband, they dragged me away and bound me more firmly tothe tree, smiting my face with the dripping scalp and laughing at myagonies.

"Thank God! I then lost all consciousness of the dreadful scene; and when Iregained my senses the monsters had fled after cutting off the head of thepoor victim of their cruel rage."

When the British formed an unholy alliance with the Indians during theRevolutionary War and turned the tomahawk and scalping knife against theirkinsmen, the beautiful valley of Wyoming became a dark and bloodybattle-ground. The organization and disciplined valor of the white man,leagued with the cunning and ferocity of the red man, was a combinationwhich met the patriots at every step in those then remote settlements, andspread rapine, fire, and murder over that lovely region.

The sufferings of the captive women, the dreadful scenes they witnessed,and the fortitude and courage they displayed, have been rescued fromtradition and embodied in a permanent record by more than one historian.The names of Mrs. Bennet, Mrs. Myers, Mrs. Marcy, Mrs. Franklin, and a hostof others, are inseparably associated with the household legends of theWyoming Valley.

Miss Cook, after witnessing the barbarous murder and mutilation of abeautiful girl, whose rosy cheeks were gashed and whose silken tresses weretorn from her head with the scalping knife, was threatened with instantdeath unless she would assist in dressing a bundle of fresh, reeking scalpscut from the heads of her friends and relatives. As she handled the gorytrophies, expecting every moment that her own locks would be added to theghastly heap, she saw something in each of those sad mementos that remindedher of those who were near and dear to her. At last she lifted one whichshe thought was her mother's; she gazed at the long tresses sprinkled withgray and called to mind how often she had combed and caressed them inhappier hours: shuddering through her whole frame, the wretched girl burstinto a passion of tears. The ruthless savage who stood guard over her withbrandished tomahawk immediately forced her to resume and complete herhorrible task.

In estimating the heroism of American women displayed in their conflictswith the aborigines, we must take into account her natural repugnance torepulsive and horrid spectacles. The North American savage streaked withwar-paint, a bunch of reeking scalps at his girdle, his snaky eyes gleamingwith malignity, was a direful sight for even a hardened frontiers-man; howmuch more, then, to his impressionable and delicate wife and daughter. Thevery appearance of the savage suggested thoughts of the tomahawk, thescalping knife, the butchered relations, the desolated homestead. Nothingcan better illustrate the hardihood of these bold spirited women than thefact that they showed themselves not seldom superior to these feelings ofdread and abhorrence, daring even in the midst of scenes of blood todenounce personally and to their face the treachery and cruelty of theirfoes.

[Footnote: DeHass.] In the year 1763 a party of Shawnees visited theBlock-House at Big Levels, Virginia, and after being hospitably entertainedby the inhabitants, turned treacherously upon them and massacred everywhite man in the house. The women and children were carried away ascaptives, including Mrs. Glendenning, the late wife, and now the widow ofone of the leading settlers. Notwithstanding the dreadful scenes throughwhich she had passed, Mrs. Glendenning was not intimidated. Her husband andfriends had been butchered before her eyes; but though possessed of keensensibilities, her spirit was undaunted by the awful spectacle. Filled withindignation at the treachery and cruelty of the Indians, she loudlydenounced them, and tauntingly told them that they lacked the hearts ofgreat warriors who met their foes in fair and open conflict. The savageswere astounded at her audacity; they tried to frighten her into silence byflapping the bloody scalp of her husband in her face and by flourishingtheir tomahawks above her head. The intrepid woman still continued toexpress her indignation and detestation. The savages, admiring her courage,refrained from inflicting any injury upon her. She soon after managed toeffect her escape and returned to her desolate home, where she gave decentinterment to the mangled remains of her husband. During all the tryingscenes of the massacre and captivity Mrs. Glendenning proved herself worthyof being ranked with the bravest women of our Colonial history.

The region watered by the upper Ohio and its tributary streams was forfifty years the battle-ground where the French and their Indian allies, andafterwards the Indians alone, strove to drive back the Anglo-Saxon race asit moved westward. The country there was rich and beautiful, but what madeits possession especially desirable was the fact that it was the strategickey to the great West. The French, understanding its importance,established their fortresses and trading-posts as bulwarks against the armyof English settlers advancing from the East, and also instructed theirsavage allies in the art of war.

The Indian tribes in that region were warlike and powerful, and for someyears it seemed as if the country would be effectually barred against theaccess of the Eastern pioneer. But the same school that reared and trainedthe daughters and grand-daughters of the Pilgrims, and of the settlers ofJamestown, and fitted them to cope with the perils and hardships of thewilderness, and to battle with hostile aboriginal tribes, also fitted theirdescendants for new struggles on a wider field and against more desperateodds. The courage and fortitude of men and women alike rose to theoccasion, and in those scenes of danger and carnage, the presence of minddisplayed by women especially, have been frequent themes of panegyric bythe border annalists.

[Footnote: DeHass.] The scene wherein Miss Elizabeth Zane, one of theseheroines, played so conspicuous a part, was at Fort Henry, near the presentcity of Wheeling, Virginia, in the latter part of November, 1782. Of theforty-two men who originally composed the garrisons, nearly all had beendrawn into an ambush and slaughtered. The Indians, to the number of severalhundred, surrounded the garrison which numbered no more than twelve men andboys.

A brisk fire upon the fort was kept up for six hours by the savages, who attimes rushed close up to the palisades and received the reward of theirtemerity from the rifles of the frontiersmen. In the afternoon the stock ofpowder was nearly exhausted. There was a keg in a house ten or twelve rodsfrom the gate of the fort, and the question arose, who shall attempt toseize this prize? Strange to say, every soldier proffered his services, andthere was an ardent contention among them for the honor. In the weak stateof the garrison, Colonel Shepard, the commander, deemed it advisable thatonly one person could be spared; and in the midst of the confusion, beforeany one could be designated, Elizabeth Zane interrupted the debate, sayingthat her life, was not so important at that time as any one of thesoldiers, and claiming the privilege of performing the contested services.The Colonel would not at first listen to her proposal, but she was soresolute, so persevering in her plea, and her argument was so powerful,that he finally suffered the gate to be opened, and she passed out. TheIndians saw her before she reached her brother's house, where the keg wasdeposited; but for some cause unknown, they did not molest her until shereappeared with the article under her arm. Probably, divining the nature ofher burden, they discharged a volley as she was running towards the gate,but the whizzing balls only gave agility to her feet, and herself and theprize were quickly safe within the gate.

The successful issue of this perilous enterprise infused new spirit intothe garrison; re-enforcements soon reached them, the assailants were forcedto beat a precipitate retreat, and Fort Henry and the whole frontier wassaved, thanks to the heroism of Elizabeth Zane!

[Footnote: McClung's Sketches of Western Adventure.] The heroines ofBryant's Station deserve a place on the roll of honor, beside the name ofthe preserver of Fort Henry, since like her their courage preserved agarrison from destruction. We condense the story from the several sourcesfrom which it has come down to us.

The station, consisting of about forty cabins ranged in parallel lines,stood upon a gentle rise on the southern banks of the Elkhorn, nearLexington, Kentucky. One morning in August, 1782, an army of six hundredIndians appeared before it as suddenly as if they had risen out of theearth. One hundred picked warriors made a feint on one side of the fort,trying to entice the men out from behind the stockade, while the remainderwere concealed in ambush near the spring with which the garrison wassupplied with water. The most experienced of the defenders understood thetactics of their wily foes, and shrewdly guessed that an ambuscade had beenprepared in order to cut off the garrison from access to the spring. Thewater in the station was already exhausted, and unless a fresh supply couldbe obtained the most dreadful sufferings were apprehended. It was thoughtprobable that the Indians in ambush would not unmask themselves until theysaw indications that the party on the opposite side of the fort hadsucceeded in enticing the soldiers to an open engagement.

[Footnote: McClung's Sketches of Western Adventure.] Acting upon thisimpression, and yielding to the urgent necessity of the case, they summonedall the women, without exception, and explaining to them the circ*mstancesin which they were placed, and the improbability that any injury would bedone them, until the firing had been returned from the opposite side of thefort, they urged them to go in a body to the spring, and each to bring up abucket full of water. Some, as was natural, had no relish for theundertaking; they observed they were not bulletproof, and asked why the mencould not bring the water as well as themselves; adding that the Indiansmade no distinction between male and female scalps.

To this it was answered, that women were in the habit of bringing waterevery morning to the fort, and that if the Indians saw them engaged asusual, it would induce them to believe that their ambuscade wasundiscovered, and that they would not unmask themselves for the sake offiring at a few women, when they hoped, by remaining concealed a fewmoments longer to obtain complete possession of the fort; that if menshould go down to the spring, the Indians would immediately suspect thatsomething was wrong, would despair of succeeding by ambuscade, and wouldinstantly rush upon them, follow them into the fort, or shoot them down atthe spring. The decision was soon made.

A few of the boldest declared their readiness to brave the danger, and theyounger and more timid rallying in the rear of these veterans, they allmarched down in a body to the spring, within point blank shot of more thanfive hundred Indian warriors! Some of the girls could not help betrayingsymptoms of terror, but the married women, in general, moved with asteadiness and composure which completely deceived the Indians. Not a shotwas fired. The party were permitted to fill their buckets, one afteranother, without interruption, and although their steps became quicker andquicker, on their return, and when near the gate of the fort, degeneratedinto a rather un-military celerity, attended with some little crowding inpassing the gate, yet only a small portion of the water was spilled. Thebrave water carriers were received with open arms and loud cheers by thegarrison, who hailed them as their preservers, and the Indians shortlyafter retired, baffled and cursing themselves for being outwitted by the"white squaws."

The annals of the border-wars in the region of which we have been speakingabound in stories where women have been the victors in hand-to-hand fightswith savages. In all these combats we may note the spirit that inspiredthose brave women with such wonderful strength and courage, transformingthem, from gentle matrons into brave soldiers. It was love for theirchildren, their husbands, their kindred, or their homes rather than theselfish instinct of self-preservation which impelled Mrs. Porter, the twoMrs. Cooks, Mrs. Merrill, and Mrs. Bozarth to perform those feats ofprowess and daring which will make their names live for ever in thethrilling story of border-warfare.

The scene where Mrs. Porter acted her amazing part was in Huntingdoncounty, Pennsylvania, and the time was during the terrible war instigatedby the great Pontiac. While sitting by the window of her cabin, awaitingthe return of her husband, who had gone to the mill, she caught sight of anIndian approaching the door. Taking her husband's sword from the wall whereit hung, she planted herself behind the door; and when the Indian enteredshe struck with all her might, splitting his skull and stretching him acorpse upon the floor. Another savage entered and met the same fate. Athird seeing the slaughter of his companions prudently retired.

Dropping the bloody weapon, she next seized the loaded gun which stoodbeside her and retreated to the upper story looking for an opportunity toshoot the savage from the port-holes. The Indian pursued her and as he setfoot upon the upper floor received the contents of her gun full in thechest and fell dead in his tracks. Cautiously reconnoitering in alldirections and seeing the field clear she fled swiftly toward the mill andmeeting her husband, both rode to a neighboring block-house where theyfound refuge and aid. The next morning it was discovered that other Indianshad burned their cabin, partly out of revenge and partly to conceal theirdiscomfiture by a woman. The bones of the three savages found among theashes were ghastly trophies of Mrs. Porter's extraordinary achievement.

In Nelson county, Kentucky, on a midsummer night, in 1787, just before thegray light of morning, John Merrill, attracted by the barking of his dog,went to the door of his cabin to reconnoiter. Scarcely had he left thethreshold, when he received the fire of six or seven Indians, by which hisarm and thigh were both broken. He managed to crawl inside the cabin andshouted to his wife to shut the door. Scarcely had she succeeded in doingso when the tomahawks of the enemy were hewing a breach into the apartment.

[Footnote: McClung's Sketches of Western Adventure.] Mrs. Merrill, withAmazonian courage and strength, grasped a large axe and killed, or badlywounded, four of the enemy in succession as they attempted to force theirway into the cabin.

The Indians then ascended the roof and attempted to enter by way of thechimney, but here, again, they were met by the same determined enemy. Mrs.Merrill seized the only feather-bed which the cabin afforded, and hastilyripping it open, poured its contents upon the fire. A furious blaze andstifling smoke ascended the chimney, and quickly brought down two of theenemy, who lay for a few moments at the mercy of the lady. Seizing the axe,she despatched them, and was instantly summoned to the door, where the onlyremaining savage appeared, endeavoring to effect an entrance, while Mrs.Merrill was engaged at the chimney. He soon received a gash in the cheekwhich compelled him with a loud yell to relinquish his purpose, and returnhastily to Chillicothe, where, from the report of a prisoner, he gave anexaggerated account of the fierceness, strength, and courage of the "Longknife squaw!"

The wives of Jesse and Hosea Cook, the "heroines of Innis station"(Kentucky), as they have been styled, are shining examples of a firmness ofspirit which sorrow could not blench nor tears dim.

While the brothers Cook were peacefully engaged in the avocations of thefarm beside their cabins, in April, 1792, little dreaming of the proximityof the savages, a sharp crack of rifles was heard and they both layweltering in their blood. The elder fell dead, the younger was barely ableto reach his cabin.

The two Mrs. Cooks with three children were instantly collected in thehouse and the door made fast. The thickness of the door resisted the hailof rifle-balls which fell upon it, and the Indians tried in vain to cutthrough it with their tomahawks.

While the assault was being made on the outside of the cabin, within washeart-rending sorrow mingled with fearless determination and high resolve.The younger Cook while the door was being barred breathed his last in thearms of his wife, and the two Mrs. Cooks, thus sadly bereaved of theirpartners, were left the sole defenders of the cabin and the three children.

There was a rifle in the house but no balls could be found. In thisextremity one of the women took a musket-ball and placing it between herteeth bit it into pieces. Her eyes streaming with tears, she loaded therifle and took her position at an aperture from which she could watch themotions of the savages. She dried her tears and thought of vengeance on herhusband's murderers and of saving the innocent babes which she wasguarding.

After the failure of the Indians to break down the door, one of them seatedhimself upon a log, apprehending no danger from the "white squaws" who, heknew, were the only defenders of the cabin. A ball sped from the rifle inthe hands of Mrs. Cook, and with a loud yell the savage bounded into theair and fell dead.

The Indians, infuriated at the death of their comrade, threatened, inbroken English, the direst vengeance on the inmates of the cabin. A halfdozen of the yelling fiends instantly climbed to the roof of the cabin andkindled a fire upon the dry boards around the chimney. As the flames beganto take effect the destruction of the cabin and the doom of the unfortunateinmates seemed certain.

But the self-possession and intrepidity of the brave women were equal tothe occasion. While one stood in the loft the other handed her water withwhich she extinguished the fire. Again and again the roof was fired, and asoften extinguished. When the water was exhausted, the dauntless pair heldthe flames at bay by breaking eggs upon them. The Indians, at lengthfatigued by the obstinacy and valor of the brave defenders, threw the bodyof their comrade into the creek and precipitately fled.

The exploits of Mrs. Bozarth in defending her home and family againstsuperior numbers, has scarcely been paralleled in ancient or modernhistory. Relying upon her firmness and courage, two or three families hadgathered themselves for safety at her house, on the Pennsylvania border, inthe spring of 1779. The forest swarmed with savages, who soon made theirappearance near the stockade, severely wounding one of the only two men inthe house. [Footnote: Doddridge's Notes.] The Indian who had shot him,springing over his prostrate body, engaged with the other white man in astruggle which ended in his discomfiture. A knife was wanting to dispatchthe savage who lay writhing beneath his antagonist. Mrs. Bozarth seized anaxe and with one blow clove the Indian's skull. Another entered and shotthe white man dead. Mrs. Bozarth, with unflinching boldness, turned to thisnew foe and gave him several cuts with the axe, one of which laid bare hisentrails. In response to his cries for help, his comrades, who had beenkilling some children out of doors, came rushing to his relief. The head ofone of them was cut in twain by the axe of Mrs. Bozarth, and the othersmade a speedy retreat through the door. Rendered furious by the desperateresistance they had met, the Indians now besieged the house, and forseveral days they employed all their arts to enter and slay the weakgarrison. But all their efforts were futile. Mrs. Bozarth and her woundedcompanion employed themselves so vigorously and vigilantly that the enemywere completely baffled. At length a party of white men arrived, put theIndians to flight, and relieved Mrs. Bozarth from her perilous situation.

CHAPTER V.

THE CAPTIVE SCOUTS—THE GUARDIAN MOTHER OF THE MOHAWK.

The part that woman has taken in so many ways and under so many conditions,in securing the ultimate results represented by our present status as anation, is given too small a place in the general estimate of those who penthe record of civilization on the North American continent. This is nodoubt partly due to her own distaste for notoriety. While man stands as afront figure in the temple of fame, and celebrates his own deeds with penand voice, she takes her place in the background, content and happy so longas her father, or husband, or son, is conspicuous in the glory to which shehas largely contributed. Thus it is that in the march of grand events thehistorian of the Republic often passes by the woman's niche withoutdwelling upon its claims to our attention. But notwithstanding theself-chosen position of the weaker sex, their names and deeds are not allburied in oblivion. The filial, proud, and patriotic fondness of sons anddaughters have preserved in their household traditions the memory of braveand good mothers; the antiquarian and the local historian, with loving zealhave wiped the dust from woman's urn, and traced anew the names andinscriptions which time has half effaced.

As we scan the pages of Woman's Record the roll of honor lengthens,stretching far out like the line of Banquo's phantom-kings. Their namesbecome impressed on our memory; their acts dilate, and their whole livesgrow brighter the more closely we study them.

Among the many duties which from necessity or choice were assigned to womanin the remote and isolated settlements, was that of standing guard. She waspar excellence the vigilant member of the household, a sentinel everon the alert and ready to give alarm at the first note of danger. Thepioneers were the pickets of the army of civilization: woman was a picketof pickets, a sentinel of sentinels, watchful of danger and the quickest toapprehend it. She was always a guardian, and not seldom the preserver ofher home and of the settlement. Such duties as these, faithfully performed,contribute perhaps to the success of a campaign more even than greatbattles. As soon as the front line or picket-force of the pioneers wasfairly established in the enemies' country, the work was more than halfdone, and the whole army—center, right, and left wings—could move forwardwith little danger, though labor, hard and continuous, was still required.In successive regions the same sentinel and picket duties were performed;in New England and on the Atlantic coast first; then in the interiordistricts, in the middle States; and already, a hundred years ago, theflying skirmish-line had crossed the great Appalachian range, and wasfording the rivers of the western basin. On the march, on the halt, in thecamp, that is, in the permanent settlement, woman was a sentinel keepingperpetual guard over the household treasures.

What materials for romance—for epic and tragic poetry—in the lives ofthose pioneer women! The lonely cabin in the depths of the forest; thefather away; the mother rocking her babe to sleep; the howling of thewolves; the storm beating on the roof; the crafty savage lying in ambush;the war-whoop in the night; the attack and the repulse; or perchance themassacre and the cruel captivity; and all the thousand lights and shadowsof border life!

During the French and Indian war, and while the northern border was beingdesolated by savage raids, a hardy settler named Mack, with his wife andtwo children, occupied a cabin and clearing in the forest a few miles southof Lake Pleasant, in Hamilton County, New York. For some months after thebreaking out of the war no molestation was offered to Mr. Mack or hisfamily, either owing to the sequestered situation in which they lived, orfrom the richer opportunities for plunder offered in the valleys somedistance below the lonely and rock-encompassed forest where the Mackhomestead lay. Encouraged by this immunity from attack, and placingunbounded confidence in the vigilance and courage of his wife, Mr. Mack,when summoned to accompany Sir William Johnson's forces on one of theirmilitary expeditions, obeyed the call and prepared to join hisfellow-borderers. Mrs. Mack cheerfully and patriotically acquiesced in herhusband's resolution, assuring him that during his absence she wouldprotect their home and children or perish in attempt.

The cabin was a fortress, such as befitted the exposed situation in whichit lay, and was supplied by the provident husband before his departure withprovisions and ammunition sufficient to stand a siege: it was furnished oneach side with, a loop-hole through which a gun could be fixed or areconnoisance made in every direction.

Yielding to the dictates of prudence and desirous of redeeming the pledgewhich she had made to her husband, Mrs. Mack stayed within doors most ofthe time for some days after her husband had bade her farewell, keeping avigilant look-out on every side for the prowling foe. No sound but thevoices of nature disturbed the stillness of the forest. Everything aroundspoke of peace and repose. Lulled into security by these appearances andurged by the necessities of her out-door duties, she gradually relaxed hervigilance until she pursued the labors of the farm with as much regularityas she would have done if her husband had been at home.

One day while plucking ears of corn for roasting, she caught a glimpse of amoccasin and a brawny limb fringed with leggins, projecting behind a clumpof bushes not twenty paces from her. Repressing the shriek which rose toher lips, she quietly and leisurely strolled back to the house with herbasket of ears. Once she thought she heard the stealthy tread of the savagebehind her and was about to break into a run; but a moment's reflectionconvinced her that her fears were groundless. She steadily pursued hercourse till she reached the cabin. With a vast weight of fear taken fromher mind she now turned and cast a rapid, glance towards the bushes wherethe foe lay in ambush; nothing was visible there, and having closed andbarred the door she made a reconnoisance from each of the four loop-holesof her fortress, but saw nothing to alarm her.

It seemed to her probable that it was only a single prowling savage who wasseeking an opportunity to plunder the cabin. Accordingly with a loaded gunby her side, she sat down before the loop-hole which commanded the spotwhere the savage lay concealed and watched for further developments. Fortwo hours all was still and she began to imagine that he had left hishiding place, when she noticed a rustling in the bushes and soon afterdescried the savage crawling on his belly and disappearing in thecornfield. Night found her still watching, and as soon as her children hadbeen lulled to sleep she returned to her post and straining her eyes intothe darkness, listened for the faintest sound that might give note of theapproach of the enemy. It was near midnight when overcome with fatigue sheleaned against the log wall and fell asleep with her gun in her hand.

She was conscious in her slumbers of some mesmeric power exerting aninfluence upon her, and awakening with a start saw for an instant by thefaint light, a pair of snaky eyes looking directly into hers through theloop-hole. They were gone before she was fairly awake, and she tried toconvince herself that she had been dreaming. Not a sound was audible, andafter taking an observation from each of the loop-holes she becamepersuaded that the fierce eyes that seemed to have been watching her wasthe figment of a brain disturbed by anxiety and vigils.

Once more sleep overcame her and again she was awakened by a rattling soundfollowed by heavy breathing. The noise seemed to proceed from the chimneyto which she had scarcely began to direct her attention, when a large bodyfell with a thud into the ashes of the fire-place, and a deep guttural"ugh" was uttered by an Indian who rose and peered around the room.

The first flickering light which follows the blackness of midnight, gavehim a glimpse of the heroic matron who stood with her piece co*cked andleveled directly at his breast. Brandishing his tomahawk he rushed towardsher yelling so as to disconcert her aim. The brave woman with unshakennerves pulled the trigger, and the savage fell back with a screech, deadupon the floor. Almost simultaneously with the report of the gun, atriumphant war-whoop was sounded outside the cabin, and peering through theaperture in the direction from which it proceeded she saw three savagesrushing toward the door. Rapidly loading her piece she took her position atthe loop-hole that commanded the entrance to the cabin, and taking aim,shot one savage dead, the ball passing completely through his body andwounding another who stood in range. The third made a precipitate retreat,leaving his wounded comrade who crawled into the cornfield and there died.

After the occurrence of these events we may well suppose that the life ofMrs. Mack was one of constant vigilance. For some days and nights she stoodsentinel over her little ones, and then in her dread lest the Indiansshould return and take vengeance upon her and her children for theslaughter of their companions, she concluded the wisest course would be totake refuge in the nearest fort thirty miles distant. Accordingly thefollowing week she made all her preparations and carrying her gun startedfor the fort with her children.

Before they had proceeded a mile on their course she had the misfortune todrop her powder-horn in a stream: this compelled her to return to the cabinfor ammunition. Hiding her children in a dense copse and telling them topreserve silence during her absence, she hastened back, filled herpowder-horn and returned rapidly upon her trail.

But what was her agony on discovering that her children were missing fromthe place where she left them! A brief scrutiny of the ground showed herthe tracks of moccasins, and following them she soon ascertained that herchildren had been carried away by two Indians. Like the tigress robbed ofher young, she followed the trail swiftly but cautiously and soon came upwith the savages, whose speed had been retarded by the children. Stealingbehind them she shot one of them and clubbing her gun rushed at the otherwith such fierceness that he turned and fled.

Pursuing her way to the fort she met her husband returning home from thewar. The family then retraced their steps and reached their home, the sceneof Mrs. Mack's heroic exploit.

It was during their captivities that women often learned the arts andpracticed the perilous profession of a scout. Their Indian captors weresometimes the first to suffer from the knowledge which they themselves hadtaught their captive pupils. In this rugged school of Indian life wasnurtured a brave girl of New England parentage, who acted a conspicuouspart in protecting an infant settlement in Ohio.

[Footnote: Finley's Autobiography.] In the year 1790, the block-house andstockade above the mouth, of the Hockhocking river in Ohio, was a refugeand rallying point for the hardy frontiersmen of that region. The valley ofthe Hockhocking was preëminent for the richness and luxuriance of nature'sgifts, and had been from time immemorial the seat of powerful and warliketribes of Indians, which still clung with desperate tenacity to a regionwhich had been for so many years the chosen and beloved abode of the redman.

The little garrison, always on the alert, received intelligence early inthe autumn that the Indian tribes were gathering in the north for thepurpose of striking a final and fatal blow on this or some other importantout-post. A council was immediately held by the garrison, and two scoutswere dispatched up the Hockhocking, in order to ascertain the strength ofthe foe and the probable point of attack.

The scouts set out one balmy day in the Indian summer, and threading thedense growth of plum and hazel bushes which skirted the prairie, stealthilyclimbed the eastern declivity of Mount Pleasant, and cast their eyes overthe extensive prairie-country which stretches from that point far to thenorth. Every movement that took place upon their field of vision wascarefully noted day by day. The prairie was the campus martius wherean army of braves had assembled, and were playing their rugged games andperforming their warlike evolutions. Every day new accessions of warriorswere hailed by those already assembled, with terrific war-whoops, which,striking the face of Mount Pleasant, were echoed and re-echoed till itseemed as if a myriad of yelling demons were celebrating the orgies of theinfernal pit.

To the hardy scouts these well-known yells, so terrible to softer ears,were only martial music which woke a keener watchfulness and strung theiriron nerves to a stronger tension. Though well aware of the ferocity of thesavages, they were too well practiced in the crafty and subtle arts oftheir profession to allow themselves to be circumvented by their wily foes.

On several occasions small parties of warriors left the prairies andascended the mount. At these times the scouts hid themselves in fissures ofthe rocks or beneath sere leaves by the side of some prostrate tree,leaving their hiding places when the unwelcome visitors had taken theirdeparture. Their food was jerked beef and cold corn-bread, with which theirknapsacks had been well stored. Fire they dared not kindle for the smokewould have brought a hundred savages on their trail. Their drink was therain-water remaining in the excavations in the rocks. In a few days thiswater was exhausted, and a new supply had to be obtained, as theirobservations were still incomplete. McClelland, the elder of the two,accordingly set out alone in search of a spring or brook from which theycould replenish their canteens. Cautiously descending the mount to theprairie, and skirting the hills on the north, keeping as much as possiblewithin the hazel-thickets, he reached at length a fountain of cool limpidwater near the banks of the Hockhocking river. Filling the canteens herejoined his companion.

The daily duty of visiting the spring and obtaining a fresh supply, wasafter this performed alternately by the scouts. On one of these diurnalvisits, after White had filled his canteens, he sat watching the limpidstream that came gurgling out of the bosom of the earth. The light sound offootsteps caught his practiced ear, and turning round he saw two squawswithin a few feet of him. The elder squaw at the same moment spying White,started back and gave a far reaching war-whoop. He comprehended at once hisperilous situation. If the alarm should reach the camp, he and hiscompanion must inevitably perish.

A noiseless death inflicted upon the squaws, and in such a manner as toleave no trace behind, was the only sure course which the instinct ofself-preservation suggested. With men of his profession action followsthought as the bolt follows the flash. Springing upon his victims with therapidity and power of a tiger, he grasped the throat of each and spranginto the Hockhocking river. The head of the elder squaw he easily thrustunder the water, and kept it in that position; but the younger womanpowerfully resisted his efforts to submerge her. During the brief struggleshe addressed him to his amazement in the English language, though ininarticulate sounds. Relaxing his hold she informed him that she had beenmade a prisoner ten years before, on Grave Creek Flats, that the Indians inher presence had butchered her mother and two sisters, and that an onlybrother had been captured with her, but had succeeded on the second nightin making his escape, since which time she had never heard of him.

During this narrative, White, unobserved by the girl, had released his gripon the throat of the squaw, whose corpse floated slowly down stream, and,directing the girl to follow him, he pushed for the Mount with the greatestspeed and energy. Scarcely had they proceeded two hundred yards from thespring before an Indian alarm-cry was heard some distance down the river. Aparty of warriors returning from a hunt had seen the body of the squaw asit floated past. White and the girl succeeded in reaching the Mount wherethey found McClelland fully awake to the danger they were in. From hiseyrie he had seen parties of warriors strike off in every direction onhearing the shrill note of alarm first sounded by the squaw, and beforeWhite and the girl had joined him, twenty warriors had already gained theeastern acclivity of the Mount and were cautiously ascending, keeping theirbodies under cover. The scouts soon caught glimpses of their swarthy facesas they glided from tree to tree and from rock to rock, until the hidingplace of the luckless two was surrounded and all hope of escape was cutoff.

The scouts calmly prepared to sell their lives as dearly as they could, butstrongly advised the girl to return to the Indians and tell them that shehad been captured by scouts. This she refused to do, saying that deathamong her own people was preferable to captivity such as she had beenenduring. "Give me a rifle," she continued, "and I will show you that I canfight as well as die! On this spot will I remain, and here my bones shallbleach with yours! Should either of you escape, you will carry the tidingsof my fate to my remaining relatives."

All remonstrances with the brave girl proving useless, the two scoutsprepared for a vigorous defense. The attack by the Indians commenced infront, where from the nature of the ground they were obliged to advance insingle file, sheltering themselves as they best could, behind rocks andtrees. Availing themselves of the slightest exposure of the warriorsbodies, the scouts made every shot tell upon them, and succeeded for a timein keeping them in check.

The Indians meanwhile made for an isolated rock on the southern hillside,and having reached it, opened fire upon the scouts at point blank range.The situation of the defenders was now almost hopeless; but the brave neverdespair. They, calmly watched the movements of the warriors and calculatedthe few chances of escape which remained. McClelland saw a tall, swarthyfigure preparing to spring from cover to a point from which their positionwould be completely commanded. He felt that much depended upon one luckyshot, and although but a single inch of the warrior's body was exposed, andat a distance of one hundred yards, yet he resolved to take the risk of ashot at this diminutive target. Coolly raising the rifle to his eye, andshading the sight with his hand, he threw a bead so accurately that he feltperfectly confident that his bullet would pierce the mark; but when thehammer fell, instead of striking fire, it crushed his flint into a hundredfragments. Rapidly, but with the utmost composure, he proceeded to adjust anew flint, casting meantime many a furtive glance towards the criticalpoint. Before his task was completed he saw the warrior strain every musclefor the leap, and, with the agility of a deer, bound towards the rock; butinstead of reaching it, he fell between and rolled fifty feet down hill. Hehad received a death-shot from some unseen hand, and the mournful whoops ofthe savages gave token that they had lost a favorite warrior.

The advantage thus gained was only momentary. The Indians slowly advancedin front and on the flank, and only the incessant fire of the scoutssufficed to keep them in check. A second savage attempted to gain theeminence which commanded the position where the scouts were posted, butjust as he was about to attain his object, McClelland saw him turn asummerset, and, with a frightful yell, fall down the hill, a corpse. Themysterious agent had again interposed in their behalf. The sun was nowdisappearing behind the western hills, and the savages, dismayed by theirlosses, retired a short distance for the purpose of devising some new modeof attack. This respite was most welcome to the scouts, whose nerves hadbeen kept in a state of severe tension for several hours. Now for the firsttime they missed the girl and supposed that she had either fled to her oldcaptors or had been killed in the fight. Their doubts were soon dispelledby the appearance of the girl herself, advancing toward them from among therocks, with a rifle in her hand.

During the heat of the fight she had seen a warrior fall, who had advancedsome fifty yards in front of the main body; she at once resolved to possessherself of his rifle, and crouching in the undergrowth, she crept to thespot and succeeded in her enterprise, being all the time exposed to thecross-fire of the defenders and assailants; her practiced eye had earlynoticed the fatal rock, and hers was the mysterious hand by which the twowarriors had fallen—the last being the most wary, untiring, andbloodthirsty brave of the Shawanese tribe. He it was who ten years beforehad scalped the family of the girl, and had led her into captivity. Theclouds which had been gathering now shrouded the whole heavens, and, nightcoming on, the darkness was intense. It was feared that in the contemplatedretreat they might lose their way or accidentally fall in with the enemy,which latter contingency was highly probable, if not almost inevitable.After consultation it was agreed that the girl, from her intimate knowledgeof the localities, should lead the way, a few paces in advance.

Another advantage might be derived from this arrangement, for in case theyshould fall in with an outpost of savages, the girl's knowledge of theIndian tongue might enable them to deceive and elude the sentinel. Theevent proved the wisdom of the plan, for they had scarcely descended anhundred feet from their eyrie when a low "hush!" from the girl warned themof the presence of danger. The scouts threw themselves silently upon theearth, where by previous agreement they were to remain until another signalwas given them by the girl, who glided away in the darkness. Her absencefor more than a quarter of an hour had already begun to excite seriousapprehensions for her safety, when she reappeared and told them that shehad succeeded in removing two sentinels who were directly in their route,to a point one hundred feet distant.

The descent was noiselessly resumed, the scouts following their braveguide for half a mile in profound silence, when the barking of a small dog,almost at their feet, apprised them of a new danger. The click of thescout's rifle caught the ear of the girl, who quickly approached and warnedthem against making the least noise, as they were now in the midst of anIndian village, and their lives depended upon their implicitly followingher instructions.

A moment afterwards the head of a squaw was seen at an opening in a wigwam,and she was heard to accost the girl, who replied in the Indian language,and without stopping pressed forward. At length she paused and assured thescouts that the village was cleared, and that they were now in safety. Shehad been well aware that every pass leading out through the prairies wasguarded, and resolved to push boldly through the midst of the village asthe safest route.

After three days rapid marching and great suffering from hunger, the triosucceeded in reaching the block-house in safety. The Indians finding thatthe scouts had escaped, and that their plan of attack was discovered, soonafter withdrew to their homes; the girl, who by her courage, fortitude, andskill, thus preserved the little settlement from destruction, proved to bea sister of Neil Washburn, one of the most renowned scouts upon thefrontier.

The situation of the earlier pioneers who settled on the outskirts of theMississippi basin was one of peculiar peril. In their isolation andweakness, they were able to keep their position rather by incessantwatchfulness, than by actual combat. How to extricate themselves from thesnares and escape from the dangers that beset them, was the constant studyof their lives. The knowledge and the arts of a scout were a part of theeducation, therefore, of the women as well as of the men.

Massy Herbeson and her husband were of those bold pioneers who crossed theAlleghany Mountains and joined the picket-line, whose lives were spent inreconnoitering and watching the motions of the savage tribes which roamedover Western Pennsylvania.

[Footnote: Massey Herbeson's Deposition.] They lived near Reed'sblock-house, about twenty-five miles from Pittsburgh. Mr. Herbeson, beingone of the spies, was from home; two of the scouts had lodged with her thatnight, but had left her house about sunrise, in order to go to theblock-house, and had left the door standing wide open. Shortly after thetwo scouts went away, a number of Indians came into the house, and drew herout of bed, by the feet.

The Indians then scrambled to secure the articles in the house. Whilst theywere at this work, Mrs. Herbeson went out of the house, and hallooed to thepeople in the block-house. One of the Indians then ran up and stopped hermouth, another threatened her with his tomahawk, and a third seized thetomahawk as it was about to fall upon her head, and called her his squaw.

Hurried rapidly away by her captor, she remembered the lessons taught byher husband, the scout, and marked the trail as she went on. Now breaking abush, now dropping a piece of her dress, and when she crossed a stream,slyly turning over a stone, she hoped thus to guide her husband in pursuitor enable herself to find her way back to the block-house. The vigilance ofthe Indians was relaxed by the nonchalance with which she bore hercaptivity, and in a few days she succeeded in effecting her escape andpursuing the trail which she had marked, reached home after a weary marchof two days and nights, during which it rained incessantly.

These and countless other instances illustrate the watchfulness and courageof woman when exposed to dangers of such a description. In the westespecially, the distances to be traversed, the sparseness of thepopulation, and the perils to which settlers are exposed, render theprofession of a scout a useful and necessary one, and woman's versatilityof character enables her, when necessary, to practice the art.

The traveler of to-day, passing up the Mohawk Valley will be struck by itsfertility, beauty, and above all by the air of quiet repose that broodsover it. One hundred years ago how different the scene! It was then thebattle-ground where the fierce Indian waged an incessant warfare with thefrontier settlers. Every rood of that fair valley was trodden by the wilyand sanguinary foe. The people who then inhabited that region were amixture of adventurous New Englanders and of Dutch, with a preponderance ofthe latter, who were a brave, steadfast, hardy race; the women vieing withthe men in deeds of heroism and devotion.

Womanly tact and presence of mind was often as serviceable amid thosescenes of danger and carnage, as valor in combat; and when woman combinedthese traits of her sex with courage and firmness she became the "guardianangel" of the settlement.

Such preeminently was the title deserved by Mrs. Van Alstine, the "Patriotmother of the Mohawk Valley."

All the early part of her long life, (for she counted nearly a century ofyears before she died,) was passed on the New York frontier, during themost trying period of our colonial history. Here, dwelling in the midst ofalarms, she reared her fifteen children; here more than once she saved thelives of her husband and family, and by her ready wit, her daring courage,and her open handed generosity shielded the settlement from harm.

Born near Canajoharie, about the year 1733, and married to Martin J. VanAlstine, at the age of eighteen, she settled with her husband in the valleyof the Mohawk, where the newly wedded pair occupied the Van Alstine familymansion.

In the month of August, 1780, an army of Indians and Tories, led on byBrant, rushed into the Mohawk Valley, devastated several settlements, andkilled many of the inhabitants; during the two following months, Sir JohnJohnson made a descent and finished the work which Brant had begun. The twoalmost completely destroyed the settlements throughout the valley. It wasduring those trying times that Mrs. Van Alstine performed a portion of herexploits.

During these three months, and while the hostile forces were making theirheadquarters at Johnstown, the neighborhood in which Mrs. Van Alstine livedenjoyed a remarkable immunity from attack, although in a state of continualalarm. Intelligence at length came that the enemy, having ravaged thesurrounding country, was about to fall upon the little settlement, and theinhabitants, for the most part women and children, were almost besidethemselves with terror.

Mrs. Van Alstine's coolness and intrepidity, in this critical hour, werequickly displayed. Calling her neighbors together, she tried to relievetheir fears and urged them to remove with their effects to an islandbelonging to her husband, near the opposite side of the river, believingthat the savages would either not discover their place of refuge or wouldbe in too great haste to cross the river and attack them.

Her suggestion was speedily adopted, and in a few hours the seven familiesin the neighborhood were removed to their asylum, together with a store ofprovisions and other articles essential to their comfort. Mrs. Van Alstinewas the last to cross and assisted to place out of reach of the enemy, theboat in which the passage had been made. An hour after they had been allsnugly bestowed in their bushy retreat, the war-whoop was heard and theIndians made their appearance. Gazing from their hiding place theunfortunate women and children soon saw their loved homes in flames, VanAlstine's house alone being spared, owing to the friendship borne the ownerby Sir John Johnson.

The voices and even the words of the Indian raiders could be distinctlyheard on the island, and as Mrs. Van Alstine gazed at the mansion untouchedby the flames she rejoiced that she would now be able to give shelter tothe homeless families by whom she was surrounded. In the following year theVan Alstine mansion was pillaged by the Indians, and although the house wascompletely stripped of furniture and provisions and clothing, none of thefamily were killed or carried away as prisoners.

The Indians came upon them by surprise, entered the house without ceremony,and plundered and destroyed everything in their way. "Mrs. Van Alstine sawher most valued articles, brought from Holland, broken one after another,till the house was strewed with fragments. As they passed a large mirrorwithout demolishing it, she hoped it might be saved; but presently two ofthe savages led in a colt from the stables and the glass being laid in thehall, compelled the animal to walk over it. The beds which they could notcarry away they ripped open, shaking out the feathers and taking the tickswith them. They also took all the clothing. One young Indian, attracted bythe brilliancy of a pair of inlaid buckles on the shoes of the agedgrandmother seated in the corner, rudely snatched them from her feet, toreoff the buckles, and flung the shoes in her face. Another took her shawlfrom her neck, threatening to kill her if resistance was offered."

The eldest daughter, seeing a young savage carrying off a basket containinga hat and cap her father had brought her from Philadelphia, and which shehighly prized, followed him, snatched her basket, and after a strugglesucceeded in pushing him down. She then fled to a pile of hemp and hidherself, throwing the basket into it as far as she could. The other Indiansgathered round, and as the young girl rose clapped their hands, shouting"Brave girl," while he skulked away to escape their derision. During thestruggle Mrs. Van Alstine had called to her daughter to give up thecontest; but she insisted that her basket should not be taken.

[Illustration: DARING EXPLOIT OF MISS VAN ALSTINE]

Winter coming on, the family suffered severely from the want of bedding,woolen clothes, cooking utensils, and numerous other articles which hadbeen taken from them. Mrs. Van Alstine's arduous and constant labors coulddo but little toward providing for so many destitute persons. Theirneighbors were in no condition to help them; the roads were almostimpassable besides being infested with the Indians, and all their besthorses had been driven away.

This situation appealing continually to Mrs. Van Alstine as a wife and amother, so wrought upon her as to induce her to propose to her husband toorganize an expedition, and attempt to recover their property from theIndian forts eighteen or twenty miles distant, where it had been carried.But the plan seemed scarcely feasible at the time, and was thereforeabandoned.

The cold soon became intense and their necessities more desperate thanever. Mrs. Van Alstine, incapable longer of witnessing the sufferings ofthose dependent upon her, boldly determined to go herself to the Indiancountry and bring back the property. Firm against all the entreaties of herhusband and children who sought to move her from her purpose, she left homewith a horse and sleigh accompanied by her son, a youth of sixteen.

Pushing on over wretched roads and through the deep snow she arrived at herdestination at a time when the Indians were all absent on a huntingexcursion, the women and children only being left at home. On entering theprincipal house where she supposed the most valuable articles were, she wasmet by an old squaw in charge of the place and asked what she wanted."Food," she replied; the squaw sullenly commenced preparing a meal and indoing so brought out a number of utensils that Mrs. Van Alstine recognizedas her own. While the squaw's back was turned she took possession of thearticles and removed them to her sleigh. When the custodian of the plunderdiscovered that it was being reclaimed, she was about to interfere forciblywith the bold intruders and take the property into her possession. But Mrs.Van Alstine showed her a paper which she averred was an order signed by"Yankee Peter," a man of great influence among the savages, and succeededin convincing the squaw that the property was removed by his authority.

She next proceeded to the stables and cut the halters of the horsesbelonging to her husband: the animals recognized their mistress with loudneighs and bounded homeward at full speed. The mother and son then droverapidly back to their house. Reaching home late in the evening they passeda sleepless night, dreading an instant pursuit and a night attack from theinfuriated savages.

The Indians came soon after daylight in full war-costume armed with riflesand tomahawks. Mrs. Van Alstine begged her husband not to show himself butto leave the matter in her hands. The Indians took their course to thestables when they were met by the daring woman alone and asked what theywanted. "Our horses," replied the marauder. "They are ours," she saidboldly, "and we mean to keep them."

The chief approached in a threatening manner, and drawing her away pulledout the plug that fastened the door of the stable, but she immediatelysnatched it from his hand, and pushing him away resumed her position infront of the door. Presenting his rifle, he threatened her with instantdeath if she did not immediately move. Opening her neck-handkerchief shetold him to shoot if he dared.

The Indians, cowed by her daring, or fearing punishment from their alliesin case they killed her, after some hesitation retired from the premises.They afterwards related their adventure to one of the settlers, and saidthat were fifty such women as she in the settlement, the Indians neverwould have molested the inhabitants of the Mohawk Valley.

On many subsequent occasions Mrs. Van Alstine exhibited the heroicqualities of her nature. Twice by her prudence, courage, and address, shesaved the lives of her husband and family. Her influence in settlingdifficulties with the savages was acknowledged throughout the region, andbut for her it may well be doubted whether the little settlement in whichshe lived would have been able to sustain itself, surrounded as it was bydeadly foes.

Her influence was felt in another and higher way. She was a Christianwoman, and her husband's house was opened for religious worship everySunday when the weather would permit. She was able to persuade many of theIndians to attend, and as she had acquired their language she was wont tointerpret to them the word of God and what was said by the minister. Manytimes their rude hearts were touched, and the tears rolled down theirswarthy faces, while she dwelt on the wondrous story of our Redeemer's lifeand death, and explained how the white man and the red man alike could besaved by the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ. In after years the savagesblessed her as their benefactress.

Nearly a hundred summers have passed since the occurrence of the events wehave been describing. The war-whoop of the cruel Mohawk sounds no more fromthe forest-ambush, nor in the clearing; the dews and rains have washed awaythe red stains on the soft sward, and green and peaceful in the sunshinelies the turf by the beautiful river and on the grave where the patriotmother is sleeping; but still in the memory of the sons and daughters ofthe region she once blessed, lives the courage, the firmness, and thegoodness of Nancy Van Alstine, the guardian of the Mohawk Valley.

CHAPTER VI.

PATRIOT WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION.

During the dangers and trials of early colonial life, the daughters learnedfrom the example of their mothers the lesson and the power of self-trust;they learned to endure what their parents endured, to face the perils whichenvironed the settlement or the household, and grew up to woman's estateversed in that knowledge and experience of border-life which well fittedthem to repeat, in wilder and more perilous scenes, the heroism of theirforefathers and foremothers.

The daughters again taught these, and added other lessons, to theirchildren. The grand-daughters of the first emigrants seemed topossess—with the traits and virtues of woman—the wisdom, courage, andstrength of their fathers and brothers. Each succeeding generation seemedto acquire new features of character, added force, and stronger virtues,and thus woman became a heroine endowed with manly vigor and capable ofperforming deeds of masculine courage and resolution.

The generation of daughters, fourth in descent from the first settlers,lived during the stormy days of the Revolution; and right worthily did theyperform their part on that stage of action, and prove by their deeds thatthey were lineal descendants of the first mothers of the Republic.

If we were to analyze the characters and motives of the women who lived andacted in that great crisis of our history, we should better understand andappreciate, in its nature, height, and breadth, their singular patriotism.Untainted by selfish ambition, undefiled by greed of gain, and purged ofthe earthy dross that too often alloys the lofty impulses of soldiers andstatesmen in the path of fame, hers was a love of country that looked notfor gain or glory, imperiled much, and was locked fast in a bittercompanionship with anxiety, fear, and grief. Her heroism was not sordid orsecular. Dearly did she prize the blessings of peace—household calm, thesecurity of her loved ones, and the comforts and amenities of an unbrokensocial status. But she cheerfully surrendered them all at the call of hercountry in its hour of peril. For one hundred and fifty years she hadtoiled and suffered. She had won the right to repose, but this was not yetto be hers. A new ordeal awaited her which would test her courage andfortitude still more keenly, especially if her lot was cast in the frontiersettlements.

It is easy to see that border-life in—"the times that tried men'ssouls"—was surrounded by double dangers and hardships. Indeed it isdifficult to conceive of a more trying situation than that of woman in theoutlying settlements in the days of the Revolution. Left alone by hernatural protector, who had gone far away to fight the battles of hiscountry; exposed to attacks from the red men who lurked in the forest, orfrom the British soldiers marching up from the coast; wearied by the laborsof the farm and the household; harassed by the cares of motherhood; forlong years in the midst of dangers, privations, and trials; with serenepatience, and with dauntless courage, she went on nobly doing her part inthe great work which resulted in the glorious achievement of AmericanIndependence.

The wonder is that the American wives and mothers of that day did not sinkunder their burdens. Their patient endurance of accumulated hardships didnot arise from a slavish servility or from insensibility to their rightsand comforts. They justly appreciated the situation and nobly encounteredthe difficulties which could not be avoided.

Possessing all the affections of the wife, the tenderness of the mother,and the sympathies of the woman, their tears flowed freely for others'griefs, while they bore their own with a fortitude that none but a womancould display. In the absence of the father the entire education devolvedupon the mother, who, in the midst of the labors and sorrows of herisolated existence, taught them to read, and instructed them in theprinciples of Christianity.

The countless roll of these unnamed heroines is inscribed in the Book ofthe Most Just. Their record is on high. But the names and deeds of not afew are preserved as a bright example to the men and women of to-day.

While the husbands and fathers of Wyoming were on public duty the wives anddaughters cheerfully assumed a large portion of the labor which women couldperform. They assisted to plant, to make hay, to husk, and to garner thecorn. The settlement was mainly dependent on its own resources for powder.To meet the necessary demand, the women boiled together a lye ofwood-ashes, to which they added the earth scraped from beneath the floorsof their house, and thus manufactured saltpeter, one of the most essentialingredients. Charcoal and sulphur were then mingled with it, and powder wasproduced "for the public defense."

One of the married sisters of Silas Deane, that eminent Revolutionarypatriot, while her husband, Captain Ebenezer Smith, was with the army, wasleft alone with six small children in a hamlet among the hills ofBerkshire, Massachusetts. Finding it difficult to eke out a subsistencefrom the sterile soil of their farm, and being quick and ingenious with herneedle, she turned tailoress and made garments for her little ones, and forall the families in that region. She wrote her husband, telling him to beof good cheer, and not to give himself anxiety on his wife's or hischildren's account, adding that as long as her fingers could hold a needle,food should be provided for them. "Fight on for your country," she said;"God will give us deliverance."

Each section of the country had its special burdens, trials, and dangers.The populous districts bore the first brunt of the enemy's attack; thethinly settled regions were drained of men, and the women were left in apitiable condition of weakness and isolation. This was largely thecondition of Massachusetts and Connecticut, where nearly every family sentsome, if not all, of its men to the war. In the South the patriots wereforced to practice continual vigilance in consequence of the dividedfeeling upon the question of the propriety of separation from themother-country. New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania were battle grounds,and here, perhaps more fully than elsewhere, were experienced war's woesand desolation. But in every State throughout the thirteen colonies, and inevery town, hamlet, or household, where there were patriot wives, mothers,or daughters, woman's claims to moral greatness in that crisis weregloriously vindicated.

If we were to search for traits and incidents to illustrate the wholecircle of both the stronger and the gentler virtues, we might find them inwoman's record during the American Revolution.

In scenes of carnage and death women not seldom displayed a cool couragewhich made them peers of the bravest soldiers who bore flint-locks atBunker Hill or Trenton. Of such bravery, the following quartette ofheroines will serve as examples.

During the attack on Fort Washington, Mrs. Margaret Corbin, seeing herhusband, who was an artillery man, fall, unhesitatingly took his place andheroically performed his duties. Her services were appreciated by theofficers of the army, and honorably noticed by Congress. This body passedthe following resolution in July, 1779:

Resolved, That Margaret Corbin, wounded and disabled at the battleof Fort Washington while she heroically filled the post of her husband, whowas killed by her side, serving a piece of artillery, do receive during hernatural life, or continuance of said disability, one half the monthly paydrawn by a soldier in the service of these States; and that she now receiveout of public store one suit of clothes, or value thereof in money.

Soon after the commencement of the Revolutionary War, the family of a Dr.Channing, being in England, removed to France, and shortly afterwardssailed for the United States. The vessel, said to be stout and well armed,was attacked on the voyage by a privateer, and a fierce engagement ensued.During its continuance, Mrs. Channing stood on the deck, exhorting the crewnot to give up, encouraging them with words of cheer, handing themcartridges and aiding such of them as were disabled by wounds. When atlength the colors of the vessel were struck, she seized her husband'spistol and side arms and flung them into the sea, declaring that she wouldprefer death to the spectacle of their surrender into the hands of the foe.

At the siege of one of the forts of the Mohawk Valley, it is related by theauthor of the "Border Wars of the American Revolution," that an interestingyoung woman, whose name yet lives in story among her own mountains,perceiving, as she thought, symptoms of fear in a soldier who had beenordered to fetch water from a well, without the ranks and within range ofthe enemy's fire, snatched the bucket from his hands and ran to the wellherself. Without changing color or giving the slightest evidence of fear,she drew and brought back bucket after bucket to the thirsty soldiers, andprovidentially escaped without injury.

Four or five miles north of the village of Herkimer, N. Y., stood theblock-house of John Christian Shell, whose wife acted a heroic part whenattacked by the Tories, in 1781. From two o'clock in the afternoon untiltwilight, the besieged kept up an almost incessant firing, Mrs. Shellloading the guns for her husband and older sons to discharge. During thesiege, McDonald, the leader of the Tories, attempted to force the doorwith, a crow-bar, and was shot in the leg, seized by Shell, and drawnwithin doors. Exasperated by this bold feat, the enemy soon attempted tocarry the fortress by assault; five of them leaping upon the walls andthrusting their guns through the loop-holes. At that moment the coolcourageous woman, Mrs. Shell, seized an axe, smote the barrels, bent andspoiled them. The enemy soon after shouldered their guns, crooked barrelsand all, and quickly buried themselves in the dense forest.

Heroism in those days was confined to no section of our country. MollPitcher, at Monmouth, battle-stained, avenged her husband by thedeath-dealing cannon which she loaded and aimed. Cornelia Beekman, atCroton, faced down the armed Tories with the fire of her eye; AngelicaVrooman, at Schoharie, moulded bullets amid the war and carnage of battle,while Mary Hagidorn defended the fort with a pike; Mrs. Fitzhugh, ofMaryland, accompanied her blind and decrepit husband when taken prisoner atmidnight and carried into the enemy's lines.

Dicey Langston, of South Carolina, also showed a "soul of love andbravery." Living in a frontier settlement, and in the midst of Tories, andbeing patriotically inquisitive, she often learned by accident, ordiscovered by strategy, the plottings so common in those days against theWhigs. Such intelligence she was accustomed to communicate to the friendsof freedom on the opposite side of the Ennosee river.

Learning one time that a band of loyalists—known in those days asthe—"Bloody Scouts"—were about to fall upon the "Elder Settlement," aplace where a brother of hers and other friends were residing, she resolvedto warn them of their danger. To do this she must hazard her own life.Regardless of danger she started off alone, in the darkness of the night;traveled several miles through the woods, over marshes, across creeks,through a country where foot-logs and bridges were then unknown; came tothe Tyger, a rapid and deep stream, into which she plunged and waded tillthe water was up to her neck. She then became bewildered, and zigzagged thechannel for some time, finally reaching the opposite shore, for a helpinghand was beneath, a kind Providence guided her. She then hastened on,reached the settlement, and her brother and the whole community were saved.

She was returning one day from another settlement of Whigs, in theSpartanburg district, when a company of Tories met her and questioned herin regard to the neighborhood she had just left; but she refused tocommunicate the desired information. The leader of the band then put apistol to her breast, and threatened to shoot her if she did not make thewished-for disclosure.

"Shoot me if you dare! I will not tell you!" was her dauntless reply, asshe opened a long handkerchief that covered her neck and bosom, thusmanifesting a willingness to receive the contents of the pistol, if theofficer insisted on disclosure or life.

The dastard, enraged at her defying movement, was in the act of firing, butone of the soldiers threw up the hand holding the weapon, and the uncoveredheart of the girl was permitted to beat on.

The brothers of Dicey were no less patriotic than she; and they having, bytheir active services on the side of freedom, greatly displeased theloyalists, these latter were determined to be revenged. A desperate bandaccordingly went to the house of their father, and finding the sons absent,were about to wreak vengeance on the old man, whom they hated for the sons'sake. With this intent one of the party drew a pistol; but just as it wasaimed at the breast of the aged and infirm old man, Dicey rushed betweenthe two, and though the ruffian bade her get out of the way or receive inher own breast the contents of the pistol, she regarded not his threats,but flung her arms round her father's neck and declared she would receivethe ball first, if the weapon must be discharged. Such fearlessness andwillingness to offer her own life for the sake of her parent, softened theheart of the "Bloody Scout," and Mr. Langston lived to see his nobledaughter perform other heroic deeds.

At one time her brother James, while absent, sent to the house for a gunwhich he had left in Dicey's care, with orders to deliver it to no one,except by his direction. On reaching the house one of the party who weredirected to call for it, made known their errand. Whereupon she brought andwas about to deliver the weapon. At this moment it occurred to her that shehad not demanded the countersign agreed on between herself and brother.With the gun still in her hand, she looked the company sternly in the face,and remarking that they wore a suspicious look, called for the countersign.Thereupon one of them, in jest, told her she was too tardy in herrequirements; that both the gun and its holder were in their possession."Do you think so," she boldly asked, as she co*cked the disputed weapon andaimed it at the speaker. "If the gun is in your possession," she added,"take charge of it!" Her appearance indicated that she was in earnest, andthe countersign was given without further delay.

In these women of the Revolution were blended at once the heroine and the"Ministering Angel." To defend their homes they were men in courage andresolution, and when the battle was over they showed all a woman'stenderness and devotion. Love was the inspiring principle which nervedtheir arm in the fight, and poured balm into the wounds of those who hadfallen. Should we have ever established our Independence but for thecountless brave, kind, and self-sacrificing acts of woman?

After the massacre of Fort Griswold, when it was found that several of theprisoners were still alive, the British soldiers piled their mangled bodiesin an old cart and started it down the steep and rugged hill, towards theriver, in order that they might be there drowned. Stumps and stones howeverobstructed the passage of the cart, and when the enemy had retreated—forthe aroused inhabitants of that region soon compelled them to thatcourse—the friends of the wounded came to their aid, and thus severallives were saved.

One of those heroic women who came the next morning to the aid of thethirty-five wounded men, who lay all night freezing in their own blood, wasMrs. Mary Ledyard, a near relative of the Colonel. "She brought warmchocolate, wine, and other refreshments, and while Dr. Downer, of Preston,was dressing the wounds of the soldiers, she went from one to another,administering her cordials, and breathing gentle words of sympathy andencouragement into their ears. In these labors of kindness she was assistedby another relative of the lamented Colonel Ledyard—Mrs. John Ledyard—whohad also brought her household stores to refresh the sufferers, andlavished on them the most soothing personal attentions. The soldiers whor*covered from their wounds, were accustomed, to the day of their death, tospeak of these ladies in terms of fervent gratitude and praise."

Another "heroine and ministering angel" at the same massacre was AnnaWarner, wife of Captain Bailey. She received from the soldiers theaffectionate sobriquet of "Mother Bailey." Had "Mother Bailey" livedin the palmy days of ancient Roman glory no matron in that mighty empirewould have been more highly honored. Hearing the British guns, at theattack on Fort Griswold, she hurried to the scene of carnage, where shefound her uncle, one of the brave defenders, mortally wounded. With hisdying lips he prayed to see his wife and child—once more; hastening home,she caught and saddled a horse for the feeble mother, and taking the childin her arms ran three miles and held it to receive the kisses and blessingof its dying father. At a later period flannel being needed to use forcartridges, she gave her own undergarment for that purpose. This patrioticsurrender showed the noble spirit which always actuated "Mother Bailey" andwas an appropriation to her country of which she might justly be proud.

The combination of manly daring and womanly kindness was admirablydisplayed in the deeds of a maiden, Miss Esther Gaston, and of a marriedlady, Mrs. Slocum, whose presence upon battlefields gave aid and comfort,in several ways, to the patriot cause.

On the morning of July 30th, 1780, the former, hearing the firing, rode tothe scene of conflict in company with her sister-in-law. Meeting threeskulkers retreating from the fight, Esther rebuked them sharply, and,seizing the gun from the hands of one of them, exclaimed, "Give us yourguns, and we will stand in your places!" The cowards, abashed and filledwith shame, thereupon turned about, and, in company with the females,hurried back to face the enemy.

While the battle was raging, Esther and her companion busied themselves indressing and binding up the wounds of the fallen, and in quenching theirthirst, not even forgetting their helpless enemies, whose bodies strewedthe ground.

During another battle, which occurred the following week, she converted achurch into a hospital, and administered to the wants of the wounded.

Our other heroine, Mrs. Slocum, of Pleasant Green, North Carolina, having apresentiment that her husband was dead or wounded in battle, rose in thenight, saddled her horse, and rode to the scene of conflict. We continuethe narrative in the words of our heroine.

"The cool night seemed after a gallop of a mile or two, to bring reflectionwith it, and I asked myself where I was going, and for what purpose. Againand again I was tempted to turn back; but I was soon ten miles from home,and my mind became stronger every mile I rode that I should find my husbanddead or dying—this was as firmly my presentiment and conviction as anyfact of my life. When day broke I was some thirty miles from home. I knewthe general route our army expected to take, and had followed them withouthesitation. About sunrise I came upon a group of women and children,standing and sitting by the road-side, each one of them showing the sameanxiety of mind which I felt.

"Stopping a few minutes I enquired if the battle had been fought. They knewnothing, but were assembled on the road-side to catch intelligence. Theythought Caswell had taken the right of the Wilmington road, and gone towardthe northwest (Cape Fear). Again was I skimming over the ground through acountry thinly settled, and very poor and swampy; but neither my own spiritnor my beautiful nag's failed in the least. We followed the well-markedtrail of the troops.

"The sun must have been well up, say eight or nine o'clock, when I heard asound like thunder, which I knew must be a cannon. It was the first time Iever heard a cannon. I stopped still; when presently the cannon thunderedagain. The battle was then fighting. What a fool! my husband could not bedead last night, and the battle only fighting now! Still, as I am so near,I will go on and see how they come out. So away we went again, faster thanever; and I soon found, by the noise of the guns, that I was near thefight. Again I stopped. I could hear muskets, rifles, and shouting. I spoketo my horse and dashed on in the direction of the firing and the shouts,which were louder than ever.

"The blind path I had been following, brought me into the Wilmington roadleading to Moore's creek bridge, a few hundred yards below the bridge. Afew yards from the road, under a cluster of trees, were lying perhapstwenty men. They were wounded. I knew the spot; the very tree; and theposition of the men I knew as if I had seen it a thousand times. I had seenit all night! I saw all at once; but in an instant my whole soulcentered in one spot; for there wrapped in a bloody guard cloak, was myhusband's body! How I passed the few yards from my saddle to the place Inever knew. I remember uncovering his head and seeing a face crusted withgore from a dreadful wound across the temple. I put my hand on the bloodyface; 'twas warm; and an unknown voice begged for water; a smallcamp-kettle was lying near, and a stream of water was close by. I broughtit; poured some in his mouth, washed his face; and behold—it was not myhusband but Frank Cogdell. He soon revived and could speak. I was washingthe wound in his head. Said he, 'It is not that; it is the hole in my legthat is killing me.' A puddle of blood was standing on the ground about hisfeet I took the knife, and cut away his trousers and stockings, and foundthe blood came from a shot hole through and through the fleshy part of hisleg. I looked about and could see nothing that looked as if it would do fordressing wounds, but some heart-leaves. I gathered a handful and bound themtight to the holes; and the bleeding stopped. I then went to others; Idressed the wounds of many a brave fellow who did good service long afterthat day! I had not enquired for my husband; but while I was busy Caswellcame up. He appeared very much surprised to see me; and was with his hat inhand about to pay some compliment; but I interrupted him by asking—'Whereis my husband?'

"'Where he ought to be, madam; in pursuit of the enemy. But pray,' said he,'how came you here?'

"'O, I thought,' replied I, 'you would need nurses as well as soldiers.See! I have already dressed many of these good fellows; and here isone'—and going up to Frank and lifting him up with my arm under his headso that he could drink some more water—'would have died before any of youmen could have helped him.'

"Just then I looked up, and my husband, as bloody as a butcher, and asmuddy as a ditcher, stood before me.

"'Why, Mary!' he exclaimed, 'what are you doing there? Hugging Frank
Cogdell, the greatest reprobate in the army?'

"'I don't care,' I said. 'Frank is a brave fellow, a good soldier, and atrue friend of Congress.'

"'True, true! every word of it!' said Caswell. 'You are right, madam,' withthe lowest possible bow.

"I would not tell my husband what brought me there I was so happy; and sowere all! It was a glorious victory; I came just at the height of theenjoyment. I knew my husband was surprised, but I could see he was notdispleased with me. It was night again before our excitement had at allsubsided.

"Many prisoners were brought in, and among them some very obnoxious; butthe worst of the Tories were not taken prisoners. They were, for the mostpart, left in the woods and swamps wherever they were overtaken. I beggedfor some of the poor prisoners, and Caswell told me none should be hurt butsuch as had been guilty of murder and house-burning.

"In the middle of the night I again mounted my horse and started for home.Caswell and my husband wanted me to stay till next morning, and they wouldsend a party with me; but no! I wanted to see my child, and I told themthey could send no party who could keep up with me. What a happy ride I hadback! and with what joy did I embrace my child as he ran to meet me!"

The winter at Valley Forge was the darkest season in the Revolutionarystruggle. The American army were sheltered by miserable huts, through whichthe rain and sleet found their way upon the wretched cots where thepatriots slept. By day the half-famished soldiers in tattered regimentalswandered through their camp, and the snow showed the bloody tracks of theirshoeless feet. Mutinous mutterings disturbed the sleep of Washington, andone dark, cold day, the soldiers at dusk were on the point of open revolt.Nature could endure no more, and not from want of patriotism, but from wantof food and clothes, the patriotic cause seemed likely to fail. Pinchedwith cold and wasted with hunger, the soldiers pined beside their dyingcamp-fires. Suddenly a shout was heard from the sentinels who paced theouter lines, and at the same time a cavalcade came slowly through the snowup the valley. Ten women in carts, each cart drawn by ten pairs of oxen,and bearing tons of meal and other supplies, passed through the lines amidcheers that rent the air. Those devoted women had preserved the army, andIndependence from that day was assured.

[Illustration: FOOD AND CLOTHING SUPPLIED TO THE REVOLUTIONARY ARMY BY
PATRIOTIC WOMEN]

Fortitude and patience were exemplified in a thousand homes from whichmembers of the family had gone to battle for Independence. Straitened formeans wherewith to keep their strong souls in their feeble bodies, wornwith toil, tortured with anxiety for the safety of the soldier-father orson, or husband or brother, and fighting the conflict of life alone, womanproved in that great ordeal her claim to those virtues which are by commonconsent assigned to her as her peculiar characteristics.

We may well suppose, too, that ready wit and address had ample scope fortheir exercise in those perilous times. And who but woman could bestdisplay those qualities?

While Ann Elliott, styled by her British admirers, "the beautiful rebel,"was affianced to Col. Lewis Morris, of New York, the house where he wasvisiting her was suddenly surrounded by a detachment of "Black Dragoons."They were in pursuit of the Colonel, and it was impossible for him toescape by flight. What to do he knew not, but, quick as thought, she ran tothe window, opened it, and, fearlessly putting her head out, in a composedmanner demanded what was wanted. The reply was, "We want the rebel." "Thengo," said she, "and look for him in the American army;" adding, "how dareyou disturb a family under the protection of both armies?" She was so cool,self-possessed, firm, and resolute, as to triumph over the dragoons, wholeft without entering the house.

While the conflict was at its height in South Carolina, Captain Richardson,of Sumter district, was obliged to conceal himself for a while in thethickets of the Santee swamp. One day he ventured to visit his family—aperilous movement, for the British had offered a reward for hisapprehension, and patrolling parties were almost constantly in search ofhim. Before his visit was ended a small party of soldiers presentedthemselves in front of the house. Just as they were entering, with a greatdeal of composure and presence of mind, Mrs. Richardson appeared at thedoor, and found so much to do there at the moment, as to make itinconvenient to leave room for the uninvited guests to enter. She was socalm, and appeared so unconcerned, that they did not mistrust the cause ofher wonderful diligence, till her husband had rushed out of the back door,and safely reached the neighboring swamp.

The bearing of important dispatches through an enemy's country is anenterprise that always requires both courage and address. Such a feat wasperformed by Miss Geiger, under circ*mstances of peculiar difficulty.

At the time General Greene retreated before Lord Rawdon from Ninety-Six,when he passed Broad river, he was desirous to send an order to GeneralSumter, who was on the Wateree, to join him, that they might attack Rawdon,who had divided his force. But the General could find no man in that partof the state who was bold enough to undertake so dangerous mission. Thecountry to be passed through for many miles was full of blood-thirstyTories, who, on every occasion that offered, imbrued their hands in theblood of the Whigs. At length Emily Geiger presented herself to GeneralGreene, and proposed to act as his messenger: and the general, bothsurprised and delighted, closed with her proposal. He accordingly wrote aletter and delivered it, and at the same time communicated the contents ofit verbally, to be told to Sumter in case of accidents.

She pursued her journey on horseback, and on the second day was interceptedby Lord Rawdon's scouts. Coming from the direction of Greene's army and notbeing able to tell an untruth without blushing, Emily was suspected andconfined to a room; and the officer sent for an old Tory matron to searchfor papers upon her person. Emily was not wanting in expedients, and assoon as the door was closed and the bustle a little subsided, she ate upthe letter, piece by piece. After a while the matron arrived, and uponsearching carefully, nothing was found of a suspicious nature about theprisoner, and she would disclose nothing. Suspicion being then allayed, theofficer commanding the scouts suffered Emily to depart. She then took aroute somewhat circuitous to avoid further detentions and soon after struckinto the road leading to Sumter's camp, where she arrived in safety. Emilytold her adventure, and delivered Greene's verbal message to Sumter, who inconsequence, soon after joined the main army at Orangeburgh.

The salvation of the army was due more than once to the watchfulness andtact of woman.

When the British army held possession of Philadelphia, a superior officersupposed to have been the Adjutant General, selected a back chamber in thehouse of Mrs. Lydia Darrah, for private conference. Suspecting that someimportant movement was on foot, she took off her shoes, and putting her earto the key-hole of the door, overheard an order read for all the Britishtroops to march out, late in the evening of the fourth, and attack GeneralWashington's army, then encamped at White Marsh. On hearing this, shereturned to her chamber and laid herself down. Soon after, the officersknocked at her door, but she rose only at the third summons, having feignedto be asleep. Her mind was so much agitated that, from this moment, shecould neither eat nor sleep, supposing it to be in her power to save thelives of thousands of her countrymen, but not knowing how she was to carrythe necessary information to General Washington, nor daring to confide iteven to her husband. The time left was short, and she quickly determined tomake her way as soon as possible, to the American outposts. She informedher family, that, as they were in want of flour, she would go to Frankfortfor some; her husband insisted that she should take with her the servantmaid; but, to his surprise, she positively refused. Gaining access toGeneral Howe, she solicited what he readily granted—a pass through theBritish troops on the lines. Leaving her bag at the mill, she hastenedtowards the American lines, and encountered on her way an American,Lieutenant Colonel Craig, of the light horse, who, with some of his men,was on the lookout for information. He knew her, and inquired whither shewas going. She answered, in quest of her son, an officer in the Americanarmy; and prayed the Colonel to alight and walk with her. He did so,ordering his troops to keep in sight. To him she disclosed her momentoussecret, after having obtained from him the most solemn promise never tobetray her individually, since her life might be at stake. He conducted herto a house near at hand, directed a female in it to give her something toeat, and hastened to head-quarters, where he made General Washingtonacquainted with what he had heard. Washington made, of course, allpreparation for baffling the meditated surprise, and the contemplatedexpedition was a failure.

Mrs. Murray of New York, the mother of Lindley Murray, the grammarian, byher ceremonious hospitality detained Lord Howe and his officers, while theBritish forces were in pursuit of General Putnam, and thus prevented thecapture of the American army. In fine, not merely the lives of manyindividuals, but the safety of the whole patriot army, and even the causeof independence was more than once due to feminine address and strategy.

Patriotic generosity and devotion were displayed without stint, and womenwere ready to submit to any sacrifice in behalf of their country.

These qualities are well illustrated by the three following instances.

Mrs. William Smith, when informed that in order to dislodge the enemy thenin possession of Fort St. George, Long Island, it would be necessary toburn or batter down her dwelling-house, promptly told Major Tallmadge toproceed without hesitation in the work of destruction, if the good of thecountry demanded the sacrifice.

While General Greene was retreating, disheartened and penniless, from theenemy, after the disastrous defeat at Camden, he was met at Catawba ford byMrs. Elizabeth Steele, who, in her generous ardor in the cause of freedom,drew him aside, and, taking two bags of specie from under her apron,presented them to him, saying, "Take these, for you will want them, and Ican do without them."

While Fort Motte, on the Congaree River, was in the hands of the British,in order to effect its surrender, it became necessary to burn a largemansion standing near the center of the trench. The house was the propertyof Mrs. Motte. Lieut. Colonel Lee communicated to her the contemplated workof destruction with painful reluctance, but her smiles, half anticipatinghis proposal, showed at once that she was willing to sacrifice her propertyif she could thereby aid in the least degree towards the expulsion of theenemy and the salvation of the land.

Pennsylvania had the honor of being the native State of Mrs. McCalla, whoseaffectionate and devoted efforts to liberate her invalid husband,languishing in a British dungeon, have justly given her a high rank amongthe patriot women of the Revolution.

Weeks elapsed after the capture of Mr. McCalla, before she was able, withthe most assiduous inquiries, to ascertain the place of his confinement. Inthe midst of her torturing anxiety and suspense her children fell sick ofsmall-pox. She nursed them alone and unaided, and as soon as they were outof danger, resumed her search for her husband.

Mounting her horse, she succeeded in forcing her way to the head-quartersof Lord Rawdon, at Camden, and obtained reluctant permission to visit herhusband for ten minutes only in his wretched prison-pen. Though almostovercome by the interview, she hastened home, having altogether riddenthrough the wilderness one hundred miles in twenty four hours.

She proceeded immediately to prepare clothing and provisions for herhusband and the other prisoners. Her preparations having been completed,she set out on her return to Camden, in company with one of her neighbors,Mrs. Mary Nixon. Each of the brave women drove before her a pack-horse,laden with clothes and provisions for the prisoners. These errands of mercywere repeated every month, often in company with other women who wereengaged in similar missions, and sometimes alone.

Meanwhile she did not relax her efforts to effect the release of herhusband. After many months she succeeded in procuring an order for thedischarge of her husband with ten other prisoners, whose handcuffs andankle chains were knocked off, and who left the prison in company withtheir heroic liberator.

Examples are not wanting, in our Revolutionary annals, of a stern and loftyspirit of self-sacrifice in behalf of country, that will vie with thatdisplayed by the first Brutus.

We are told by the orator of the Society of the Cincinnati that when theBritish officers presented to Mrs. Rebecca Edwards the mandate whicharrested her sons as "objects of retaliation," less sensitive of privateaffection than attached to her honor and the interest of her country, shestifled the tender feelings of the mother and heroically bade them despisethe threats of their enemies, and steadfastly persist to support theglorious cause in which they had engaged—that if the threatened sacrificeshould follow they would carry a parent's blessing, and the good opinion ofevery virtuous citizen with them, to the grave; but if from the frailty ofhuman nature—of the possibility of which she would not suffer an idea toenter her mind—they were disposed to temporize and exchange this libertyfor safety, they must forget her as a mother, nor subject her to the miseryof ever beholding them again.

As among the early Puritan settlers, so among the women of the Revolution,nothing was more remarkable than their belief in the efficacy of prayer.

In the solitude of their homes, in the cool and silence of the forest, andin the presence of the foe, Christian women knelt down and prayed forpeace, for victory, for rescue from danger, and for deliverance from theenemies which beset them. Can we doubt that the prayers of these noblepatriot women were answered?

Early in the Revolutionary War, the historian of the border relates thatthe inhabitants of the frontier of Burke County, North Carolina, beingapprehensive of an attack by the Indians, it was determined to seekprotection in a fort in a more densely populated neighborhood, in aninterior settlement. A party of soldiers was sent to protect them on theirretreat. The families assembled; the line of march was taken towards theirplace of destination, and they proceeded some miles unmolested—thesoldiers forming a hollow square with the refugee families in the center.The Indians had watched these movements, and had laid a plan for thedestruction of the migrating party. The road to be traveled lay through adense forest in the fork of a river, where the Indians concealed themselvesand waited till the travelers were in the desired spot.

Suddenly the war-whoop sounded in front and on either side; a large body ofpainted warriors rushed in, filling the gap by which the whites hadentered, and an appalling crash of fire-arms followed. The soldiers,however, were prepared. Such as chanced to be near the trees darted behindthem, and began to ply the deadly rifle; the others prostrated themselvesupon the earth, among the tall grass, and crawled to trees. The familiesscreened themselves as best they could. The onset was long and fiercelyurged; ever and anon, amid the din and smoke, the braves would rush out,tomahawk in hand, towards the center; but they were repulsed by the coolintrepidity of the backwoods riflemen. Still they fought on, determined onthe destruction of the destined victims who offered such desperateresistance. All at once an appalling sound greeted the ears of the womenand children in the center; it was a cry from their defenders—a cry forpowder! "Our powder is giving out!" they exclaimed. "Have you any? Bring ussome, or we can fight no longer."

A woman of the party had a good supply. She spread her apron on the ground,poured her powder into it, and going round from soldier to soldier, as theystood behind the trees, bade each who needed powder put down his hat, andpoured a quantity upon it. Thus she went round the line of defense till herwhole stock, and all she could obtain from others, was distributed. At lastthe savages gave way, and, pressed by their foes, were driven off theground. The victorious whites returned to those for whose safety they hadventured into the wilderness. Inquiries were made as to who had beenkilled, and one, running up, cried, "Where is the woman that gave us thepowder? I want to see her!" "Yes! yes!—let us see her!" responded anotherand another; "without her we should have been all lost!" The soldiers ranabout among the women and children, looking for her and making inquiries.Others came in from the pursuit, one of whom, observing the commotion,asked the cause, and was told.

"You are looking in the wrong place," he replied.

"Is she killed? Ah, we were afraid of that!" exclaimed many voices.

"Not when I saw her," answered the soldier. "When the Indians ran off; shewas on her knees in prayer at the root of yonder tree, and there Ileft her."

There was a simultaneous rush to the tree—and there, to their great joy,they found the woman safe and still on her knees in prayer. Thinking not ofherself, she received their applause without manifesting any other feelingthan gratitude to Heaven for their great deliverance.

An eminent divine whose childhood was passed upon our New England frontier,during the period of the Revolution, narrated to the writer many yearssince, the story of his mother's life while her husband was absent in thepatriot army. Their small farm was on the sterile hill-side, and with theutmost pains, barely yielded sufficient for the wants of the lone wife andher three little ones. There was no house within five miles, and the wholeregion around was stripped of its male inhabitants, such was the patrioticardor of the people. All the labors in providing for the household fellupon the mother. She planted and hoed the corn, milked the cow and tendedthe farm, at the same time not neglecting the inside duties of thehousehold, feeding and clothing the children, nursing them when sick andinstructing them in the rudiments of education.

"I call to mind, though after the lapse of eighty years," said thevenerable man, "the image of my mother as distinctly as of yesterday, andshe moves before me as she did in my childhood's home among those bleakhills—cheerful and serene through all, though even with my young eyes Icould see that a brooding sorrow rested upon her spirit. I remember the daywhen my father kissed my brothers and me, and told us to be good boys, andhelp mother while he was gone: I remember too, that look upon my mother'sface as she watched him go down the road with his musket and knapsack.

"When evening came, that day, and she had placed us in our little beds, Isaw her kneeling and praying in a low tone, long and fervently, and heardher after she had pleaded that victory might crown our arms, intercede atthe throne of grace for her absent husband and the father of her children.

"Then she rose and kissed us good-night, and as she bent above us I shallnever forget till my latest hour the angelic expression upon her face.Sorrow, love, resignation, and holy trust were blended and beamed forth inthat look which seemed to transfigure her countenance and her wholebearing.

"During all those trying years while she was so patiently toiling to feedand clothe us, and bearing the burdens and privations of her lonely lot,never did she omit the morning and evening prayer for her country and forthe father of her children.

"One day we saw her holding an open letter in her hand and looking pale andas if she were about to faint. We gathered about her knees and gazed withwondering eyes, silently into her sad and care-worn face, for even then wehad been schooled to recognize and respect the sorrows of a mother. Twoweeks before that time, a battle had been fought in which father had beenseverely wounded. The slow mail of those days had only just brought thissad intelligence. As we stood beside her she bent and clasped us to herheart, striving to hide the great tears that coursed down her wastedcheeks.

"We begged her not to cry and tried to comfort her with our infantilecaresses. At length we saw her close her eyes and utter a low prayer. Ereher lips had ceased to intercede with the Father of mercies, a knock washeard at the door and one of the neighboring settlers entered. He had justreturned from the army and had come several miles on foot from his home,expressly to tell us that father was rapidly recovering from his wounds. Itseemed as if he were a messenger sent from heaven in direct answer to thesilent prayers of a mother, and all was joy and brightness in the house."

The patriot father returned to his family at the close of the war with therank of Captain, which he had nobly won by his bravery in the battle's van.The sons grew up and became useful and honored citizens of a Republic whichtheir father had helped to make free; and ever during their lives theyfondly cherished the memory of the mother who had taught them so manyexamples of brave self-denial and pious devotion.

And still as we scan the pages of Revolutionary history, or revive the oralevidence of family tradition, the names and deeds of these brave and goodwomen fill the eye and multiply in the memory. Through the fires, thefrosts, the rains, the suns of one hundred years, they come back to usnow, in the midst of our great national jubilee, vivid as with thelife of yesterday. That era, which they helped to make glorious, is "withthe years that are beyond the flood."

"Another race shall be, and other palms are won,"

but never, while our nation or our language endures, shall the memory ofthose names and deeds pass away. In every succeeding year that registersthe history of the Republic which they contributed to build, brighter andbrighter shall grow the record of the Patriot Women of the Revolution.

CHAPTER VII.

MOVING WEST—PERILS OF THE JOURNEY

In regarding or in enjoying an end already accomplished by others, we aretoo apt to pass by the means through which that end was reached. America ofto-day represents a grand result. We see that our land is great, rich, andpowerful; we see that the flag waves from ocean to ocean, over a peoplefurnished with all the appliances of civilization, and happy in theirenjoyment; we are conscious that all this has come from the toils and thesufferings of many men and of many women who have lived and loved beforeus, and passed away, leaving behind them their country growing greater andricher, happier and more powerful, for what they have borne and done. Butour views of the means by which that mighty end was reached are apt to bealtogether too vague and general. While we are enjoying what others haveworked to attain, let us not selfishly and forgetfully pass by the toils,the struggles, the firm endurance of those who went before us andaccomplished this vast aggregate of results.

Each stage in the process by which these results were wrought out, had itspeculiar trials, its special service. Looking back to that far-off past,and in the light of our own knowledge and conceptions, we find it almostimpossible to decide which stage was encompassed with the deadliestdangers, the severest labors, the keenest sorrows, the largest list ofdiscomforts. But certainly to woman, the breaking up of her eastern home,and the removal to the far west, was not the least burdensome and trying.

No characteristic of woman is more remarkable than the strength of herlocal associations and attachments. In making the home she learns to loveit, and this feeling seems to be often strongest when the surroundings arethe bleakest, the rudest, and the most comfortless. The Highlander and theSwitzer pine amid the luxuriant scenes of tropical life, when theirthoughts revert to the smoky shieling or to the rock-encompassedchalet of their far-off mountains. Such, too, doubtless, was theclinging fondness with which, the women regarded their rude cabins on thefrontier of the Atlantic States. They had toiled and fought to make theserude abodes the homes for those dearest to them; here children, thefirst-born of the Republic, had been nurtured; here, too, were the gravesof the first fathers and mothers of America. Humble and comfortless asthose dwelling-places would have seemed to the men and women of to-day,they were dear to the wives and mothers of colonial times.

Comprehending, as we may, this feeling, and knowing the peculiardifficulties of long journeys in those days, into a wild and hostilecountry, we can understand why the westward march of emigration andsettlement was so slow during the first one hundred and fifty or sixtyyears of our history. New England had, it is true, been largely subjugatedand reclaimed; a considerable body of emigrants, wedge-like, were drivingslowly up through the Mohawk Valley towards Niagara; a weak, thin line, wasstraggling with difficulty across the Alleghanies in Pennsylvania, towardsthe Ohio, and a more compact and confident battalion in Virginia, waspushing into Kentucky. But how scattered and feeble that picket-linecompared to the army which was soon to follow it.

For a season, and while the British were trying to force their yoke on thereluctant colonists, the westward movement had a check. The danger was inthe rear. His old home in the east was threatened, and the pioneer turnedabout and faced the rising sun, until the danger was past and he couldpursue his journey.

The close of the Revolutionary struggle gave a new impulse to the westwardmarch of the American people, which had been arrested for the time being bythe War of Independence.

The patriot soldiers found themselves, upon the advent of peace,impoverished in fortune; but with high hopes and stout hearts theyimmediately set about repairing the ravages of the long war. Nurtured inthe rugged school of danger and hardship, they had ceased to regard theWest with dread. Curiosity, blended with the hope of bettering theircondition, turned their faces to that "fresh, unbounded, magnificentwilderness." Accustomed to camp life and scenes of exciting interest, thehumdrum days at the old homestead became distasteful. The West was thehunter's paradise. The toil held beneath it the potency of harvests ofextraordinary richness, and the soldier who had faced the disciplinedbattalions of Great Britain recked little of the prowling red man.

During the Revolution, the women, left alone by their husbands and fathers,who were with the army, were more than ever thrown on their own resources.They tilled the farm, reared their swarthy and nimble broods of children,and sent the boys in blue and buff all they could spare from their slenderstore. During all this trying period they were fitting themselves for thatnew life in the western wilds which had been marked out for them by thehand of an overruling Providence.

And yet, hard and lonely as the lives of these devoted women must have beenin their eastern homes, and bright as their imaginations may have picturedthe richness of the West, it must have given them many a pang when thehusband and father told them that the whole family must be removed at oncefrom their beloved homestead, which they or their fathers had redeemed fromthe wilderness after so many years of toil. We may imagine the resolutionthat was required to break up the old attachments which bind women to theirhomes and firesides.

It must have required a heroic courage to do this for the purpose ofseeking a new home, not only among strangers, but among wild beasts andsavages. But the fathers and mothers a hundred years ago possessed a spiritwhich rose above the perils of their times. They went forward,unhesitatingly, in their long and toilsome journeys westward, driving theirslow-footed oxen and lumbering-wagons hundreds of miles, over ground whereno road was; through woods infested with bears and wolves, panthers andwarlike tribes of Indians; settling in the midst of those dangerousenemies, and conquering them all.

The army of pioneers, like the skirmishers who had preceded them, movedforward in three columns; the northernmost passed through New York State;the middle column moved westward through Pennsylvania; the southernmostmarched through Virginia. Within ten years after the treaty of Versailles,the three columns had met in Ohio and Kentucky, and spreading out over thatbeautiful region, were fighting with nature and savage men to subjugateboth and bring them within the bounds of civilization. No more sublimespectacle has ever greeted the eye of the historian than the march of thatarmy. Twenty or thirty thousand men and women, bearing, like the Israelitesof old, their ark across the desert and waste places—that ark which borethe blessings of civilization and religion within its holy shrine! Agedmatrons, nursing mothers, prattling infants, hoary patriarchs, and strongveterans fresh from the fields of their country's glory, marching to form amighty empire in the wilderness!

In this present age of rapid and easy transition from place to place, it isdifficult to form a just conception of the tediousness, hardships, andduration of those early emigrations to the West. The difference inconveyance is that between a train of cars drawn by a forty-ton locomotiveand a two-horse wagon, without springs, and of the most lumbering andprimitive construction. This latter was the best conveyance that theemigrant could command. A few were so fortunately situated on the banks ofrivers that they could float down with the current in flat-boats, whiletheir cattle were being driven along the shore; or, if it was necessary toascend toward the head-waters of a river, they could work their wayup-stream with setting-poles. But most of the emigrants traveled withteams. Some of those who went part of the way in boats had to begin or endtheir journey in wagons. The vehicles which they provided on such occasionsfor land carriage were curiosities of wheel-craft—I speak of the Jerseywagons.

The old-fashioned Jersey wagon has, years ago, given place to more showyand flexible vehicles; but long before such were invented the Jersey wagonwas an established institution, and was handed down, with the family name,from father to son. It was the great original of the modern emigrant wagonof the West; but as I have elsewhere pictured its appearance upon thearrival of a band of pioneers at their final destination, it is unnecessaryto enter here upon any further description.

The spring of the year was the season usually selected for moving, andduring many weeks previous to the appointed time, the emigrants had beenactively providing against the accidents and discomforts of the road. Whenall was ready, the wagon was loaded, the oxen yoked and hooked to the neap;the women and children took their places on the summit of the huge load,the baby in its mother's lap, the youngest boy at his grandmother's feet,and off they started. The largest boy walked beside and drove the team, theother boys drove the cows, the men trudged behind or ahead, and the wholecavalcade passed out of the great gate, the grandmother peering through herspectacles, and the mother smiling through her tears and looking back morethan once at the home which she had made but was now to leave for ever.

In this manner the earlier emigrants went forward, driving their heavilyladen wagon by day and sleeping at night by the camp. After they had passedthe region of roads and bridges they had to literally hew their way;cutting down bushes, prying their wagon out of bog-holes, building bridgesor poling themselves across streams on rafts. But, in defiance of everyobstacle, they pressed forward.

Neither rivers nor mountains stayed the course of the emigrant. Guiding hiscourse by the sun, and ever facing the West, he went slowly on. When thatluminary set, his parting rays lit the faces of the pioneer family, andwhen it rose it threw their long shadows before them on the soft, spongyturf of the forest glades. Sweating through the undergrowth; climbing overfallen trees; sinking knee-deep in marshes; at noon they halted to take arest in the shade of the primeval forest, beside a brook, and there eattheir mid-day meal of fried pork and corn cakes, which the women prepared;then on again, till the shadows stretched far back toward their old homes.

Sometimes a storm burst upon them, and the women and children huddledbeneath the cart as the thunderbolts fell, shivering the huge trunks of theforest monarchs; and the lightning crimsoned the faces of the forlorn partywith its glare. Then the heavens cleared; the sun came out; and the ox-cartwent rumbling and creaking onward. No doubt the first days of that wearytramp had in them something of pleasurable excitement; the breezes ofspring fanned the brows of the wayfarers, and told of the health andfreedom of woodland life; the magnificence of the forest, the summits ofthe mountains, tinged with blue, the sparkling waters of lake and stream,must have given joy to even the most stolid of those households. Butemotions of this description soon became strangers to their souls.

But the emigrants ere long found that the wilderness had lost the charms ofnovelty. Sights and sounds that were at first pleasing, and had lessenedthe sense of discomfort, soon ceased to attract attention. Their minds,solely occupied with obstacles, inconveniences, and obstructions, at everystep of the way, became sullen, or, at least, indifferent.

To the toils and discomforts incident to their journey were often addedcasualties and great personal risks. An unlucky step might wrench an ankle;the axe might glance from a twig and split a foot open; and a broken leg,or a severed artery, is a frightful thing where no surgeon can be had.Exposure to all the changes of the weather—sleeping upon the damp ground,frequently brought on fevers; and sickness, at all times a great calamity,was infinitely more so to the pioneer. It must have been appalling in thewoods. Many a mother has carried her wailing, languishing child in herarms, to lessen the jolting of the wagon, without being able to render itthe necessary assistance. Many a family has paused on the way to gather aleafy couch for a dying brother or sister. Many a parent has laid in thegrave, in the lonely wilderness, the child they should meet no more tillthe morning of the resurrection. Many a heart at the West has yearned atthe thought of the treasured one resting beneath the spreading tree.After-comers have stopped over the little mound, and pondered upon the rudememorial carved in the bark above it; and those who had sustained a similarloss have wrung their hands and wept over it, for their own wounds wereopened afresh.

Among the chapters of accident and casualty which make up the respectivediaries of the families who left their eastern homes after the Revolutionand joined the ranks of the Western immigrants there is none moreinteresting than that of Mrs. Jameson. She was the child of wealthyparents, and had been reared in luxury in the city of New York. Soon afterpeace was declared she was married to Edward Jameson, a brave soldier inthe war, who had nothing but his stout arms and intrepid heart to battlewith the difficulties of life. Her father, dying soon after, his estate wasdiscovered to have been greatly lessened by the depreciation in value whichthe war had produced. Gathering together the remains of what was once alarge fortune, the couple purchased the usual outfit of the emigrants ofthat period and set out to seek their fortunes in the West.

All went well with them until they reached the Alleghany River, which theyundertook to cross on a raft. It was the month of May; the river had beenswollen by rains, and when they reached the middle of the stream, the partof the raft on which Mr. Jameson sat became detached, the logs separated,and he sank to rise no more. The other section of the raft, containing Mrs.Jameson, her babe of eight months, and a chest of clothing and householdgear, floated down-stream at the mercy of the rapid current.

[Illustration: PERILOUS CROSSING OF THE ALLEGHANY RIVER]

Bracing herself against the shock, Mrs. Jameson managed to paddle to theside of the river from which she had just before started. She was landednearly a mile below the point where had been left the cattle, and also theox-cart in which their journey had been hitherto performed, and which herhusband expected to carry over the river on the raft, returning for them assoon as his wife and babe had been safely landed on the western bank. Thedesolate mother succeeded in mooring the remains of the raft to the shore;then clasping her babe to her bosom, followed the bank of the river tillshe reached the oxen and cart, which she drove down to the place where shelanded, and by great exertions succeeded in hauling the chest upon thebank. Her strength was now exhausted, and, lying down in the bottom of thecart, she gave way to grief and despair.

Her situation may be easily imagined: alone in the forest, thirty milesfrom the nearest settlement, her husband torn from her in a moment, and herbabe smiling as though he would console his mother for her terrible loss.In her sad condition self-preservation would have been too feeble a motiveto impel her to make any further effort to save herself; but maternallove—the strongest instinct in a woman's heart—buoyed her up andstimulated her to unwonted exertions.

The spot where she found herself was a dense forest, stretching back to arocky ledge on the east, and terminated on the north by an alluvial meadownearly bare of trees. Along the banks of the river was a thick line of highbushes and saplings, which served as a screen against the observations ofsavages passing up and down the river in their canoes. The woods were justbursting into leaf; the spring-flowers filled the air with odor, andchequered the green foliage and grass; the whole scene was full of vernalfreshness, life, and beauty. The track which the Jamesons had followed wasabout midway between the northern and southern routes generally pursued byemigrants, and it was quite unlikely that others would cross the river atthat point. The dense jungle that skirted the river bank was an impedimentin the way of reaching the settlements lower down, and there was danger ofbeing lost in the woods if the unfortunate woman should start alone.

"On this spot," she said, "I must remain till some one comes to my help."

The first two years of her married life had been spent on a farm inWestchester County, New York, where she had acquired some knowledge offarming and woodcraft, by assisting her husband in his labors, or byaccompanying him while hunting and fishing. She was strong and healthy; andquite, unlike her delicate sisters of modern days, her lithe frame washardened by exercise in the open air, and her face was tinged by the kissesof the sun.

Slowly recovering from the terrible anguish of her loss, she cast about forshelter and sustenance. The woods were swarming with game, both large andsmall, from the deer to the rabbit, and from the wild turkey to the quail.The brooks were alive with trout. The meadow was well suited for Indiancorn, wheat, rye, or potatoes. The forest was full of trees of everydescription. To utilize all these raw materials was her study.

A rude hut, built of boughs interlaced, and covered thickly with leaves anddry swamp grass, was her first work. This was her kitchen. The cart, whichwas covered with canvas, was her sleeping-room. A shotgun, which she hadlearned the use of, enabled her to keep herself supplied with game. Sheexamined her store of provisions, consisting of pork, flour, and Indianmeal, and made an estimate that they would last eight months, with prudentuse. The oxen she tethered at first, but afterwards tied the horns to oneof their fore feet, and let them roam. The two cows having calved soonafter, she kept them near at hand by making a pen for the calves, who bytheir bleating called their mothers from the pastures on the banks of theriver. In the meadow she planted half an acre of corn and potatoes, whichsoon promised an amazing crop.

Thus two months passed away. In her solitary and sad condition she wascheered by the daily hope that white settlers would cross her track or seeher as they passed up and down the river. She often thought of trying toreach a settlement, but dreaded the dangers and difficulties of the way.Like the doe which hides her fawn in the secret covert, this young motherdeemed herself and her babe safer in this solitude than in trying unknownperils, even with the chance of falling in with friends. She thereforecontented herself with her lot, and when the toils of the day were over,she would sit on the bank and watch for voyagers on the river. Once sheheard voices in the night on the river, and going to the bank she strainedher eyes to gaze through the darkness and catch sight of the voyagers; shedared not hail them for fear they might be Indians, and soon the voicesgrew fainter in the distance, and she heard them no more. Again, whilesitting in a clump of bushes on the bank one day, she saw with horror sixcanoes with Indians, apparently directing their course to the spot whereshe sat. They were hideously streaked with war-paint, and came so near thatshe could see the scalping knives in their girdles. Turning their course asthey approached the eastern shore they silently paddled down stream,scanning the hanks sharply as they floated past. Fortunately they sawnothing to attract their attention; the cart and hut being concealed by thedense bushes, and there being no fire burning.

Fearing molestation from the Indians, she now moved her camp a hundred rodsback, near a rocky ledge, from the base of which flowed a spring of purewater. Here, by rolling stones in a circle, she made an enclosure for hercattle at night, and within in it built a log cabin of rather frailconstruction; another two weeks was consumed in these labors, and it wasnow the middle of August.

At night she was at first much alarmed by the howling of wolves, who camesniffing round the cart where she slept. Once a large grey wolf put itspaws upon the cart and poked its nose under the canvas covering, but asmart blow on the snout drove it yelping away. None of the cattle wereattacked, owing to the bold front showed to these midnight intruders. Thewolf is one of the most cowardly of wild beasts, and will rarely attack ahuman being, or even an ox, unless pressed by hunger, and in the winter.Often she caught glimpses of huge black bears in the swamps, while she wasin pursuit of wild turkeys or other game; but these creatures neverattacked her, and she gave them a wide berth.

One hot day in August she was gathering berries on the rocky ledge besidewhich her house was situated, when seeing a clump of bushes heavily loadedwith the finest blackberries, she laid her babe upon the ground, andclimbing up, soon filled her basket with the luscious fruit. As shedescended she saw her babe sitting upright and gazing with fixed eyeballsat some object near by; though what it was she could not clearly make out,on account of an intervening shrub. Hastening down, a sight met her eyesthat froze her blood. An enormous rattlesnake was coiled within three feetof her child, and with its head erect and its forked tongue vibrating, itsburning eyes were fixed upon those of the child, which sat motionless as astatue, apparently fascinated by the deadly gaze of the serpent.

Seizing a stick of dry wood she dealt the reptile a blow, but the stickbeing decayed and brittle, inflicted little injury on the serpent, and onlycaused it to turn itself towards Mrs. Jameson, and fix its keen andbeautiful, but malignant eyes, steadily upon her. The witchery of theserpent's eyes so irresistibly rooted her to the ground, that for a momentshe did not wish to remove from her formidable opponent.

The huge reptile gradually and slowly uncoiled its body; all the whilesteadily keeping its eye fixed on its intended victim. Mrs. Jameson couldonly cry, being unable to move, "Oh God! preserve me! save me, heavenlyFather!" The child, after the snake's charm was broken, crept to her motherand buried its little head in her lap.

We continue the story in Mrs. Jameson's own words:—

"The snake now began to writhe its body down a fissure in the rock, keepingits head elevated more than a foot from the ground. Its rattle made verylittle noise. It every moment darted out its forked tongue, its eyes becamereddish and inflamed, and it moved rather quicker than at first. It was nowwithin two yards of me. By some means I had dissipated the charm, and,roused by a sense of my awful danger, determined to stand on the defensive.To run away from it, I knew would be impracticable, as the snake wouldinstantly dart its whole body after me. I therefore resolutely stood up,and put a strong glove on my right hand, which I happened to have with me.I stretched out my arm; the snake approached slowly and cautiously towardsme, darting out its tongue still more frequently. I could now onlyrecommend myself fervently to the protection of Heaven. The snake, whenabout a yard distant, made a violent spring. I quickly caught it in myright hand, directly under its head; it lashed its body on the ground, atthe same time rattling loudly. I watched an opportunity, and suddenlyholding the animal's head, while for a moment it drew in its forked tongue,with my left hand I, by a violent contraction of all the muscles in myhand, contrived to close up effectually its jaws!

"Much was now done, but much more was to be done. I had avoided muchdanger, but I was still in very perilous circ*mstances. If I moved my righthand from its neck for a moment, the snake, by avoiding suffocation, couldeasily muster sufficient power to force its head out of my hand; and if Iwithdrew my hand from its jaws, I should be fatally in the power of itsmost dreaded fangs. I retained, therefore, my hold with both my hands; Idrew its body between my feet, in order to aid the compression and hastensuffocation. Suddenly, the snake, which had remained quiescent for a fewmoments, brought up its tail, hit me violently on the head, and then dartedits body several times very tightly around my waist. Now was the very acmeof my danger. Thinking, therefore, that I had sufficient power over itsbody, I removed my right hand from its neck, and in an instant drew myhunting-knife. The snake, writhing furiously again, darted at me; but,striking its body with the edge of the knife, I made a deep cut, and beforeit could recover its coil, I caught it again by the neck; bending its headon my knee, and again recommending myself fervently to Heaven, I cut itshead from its body, throwing the head to a great distance. The bloodspouted violently in my face; the snake compressed its body still tighter,and I thought I should be suffocated on the spot, and laid myself down. Thesnake again rattled its tail and lashed my feet with it. Gradually,however, the creature relaxed its hold, its coils fell slack around me, anduntwisting it and throwing it from me as far as I was able, I sank down andswooned upon the bank.

"When consciousness returned, the scene appeared like a terrible dream,till I saw the dead body of my reptile foe and my babe crying violently andnestling in my bosom. The ledge near which my cabin was built was infestedwith rattlesnakes, and the one I had slain seemed to be the patriarch of anumerous family. From that day I vowed vengeance against the whole tribe ofreptiles. These creatures were in the habit of coming down to the spring todrink, and I sometimes killed four or five in a day. Before the summer wasover I made an end of the whole family."

In September, two households of emigrants floating down the river on aflatboat, caught sight of Mrs. Jameson as she made a signal to them fromthe bank, and coming to land were pleased with the country, and werepersuaded to settle there. The little community was now swelled to fifteen,including four women and six children. The colony throve, receivedaccessions from the East, and, surviving all casualties, grew at last intoa populous town. Mrs. Jameson was married again to a stalwart backwoodsmanand became the mother of a large family. She was always known as the"Mother of the Alleghany Settlement."

Not a few of the pioneer women penetrated the West by means of boats. TheLakes and the River Ohio were the water-courses by which the advance guardof the army of emigrants was enabled to reach the fertile regions adjacentthereto. This mode of travel, while free from many of the hindrances andhardships of the land routes, was subject to other casualties and dangers.Storms on the lakes, and snags and shoals on the rivers, often made thepioneers regret that they had left the forests for the waters. The banks ofthe rivers were infested with savages, who slaughtered and scalped the menand carried the women and children into a captivity which was worse thandeath. The early annals of the West are full of the sad stories of suchcaptivities, and of the women who took part in these terrible scenes.

The following instances will be interesting to the reader:

In the latter part of April, 1784, one Mr. Rowan, with his own and fiveother families, set out from Louisville, in two flat-bottomed boats, forthe Long Falls of Green River. Their intention was to descend the Ohio tothe mouth of Green River, then ascend that stream to their place ofdestination. At that time there were no settlements in Kentucky within onehundred miles of Long Falls, afterwards called Vienna.

Having driven their cattle upon one of the boats they loaded the other withtheir household goods, farming implements, and stores. The latter wasprovided with covers under which the six families could sleep, with theexception of three of the men who took charge of the cattle boat.

The first three days of their journey were passed in ease and gaiety.Floating with the current and using the broad oars only to steer with, theykept their course in the main channel where there was little danger ofshoals and snags. The weather was fine and the scenery along the banks ofthe majestic river had that placid beauty that distinguishes the countrythrough which the lower Ohio rolls its mighty mass of waters on their wayto the Mississippi. These halcyon days of the voyage were destined,however, to be soon abruptly terminated. They had descended the river aboutone hundred miles, gliding along in peace and fancied security; the womenand children had retired to their bunks, and all of the men except thosewho were steering the boat were composing themselves to sleep, whensuddenly the placid stillness of the night was broken by a fearful soundwhich came from the river far below them. The steersmen at first supposedit was the howling of wolves. But as they neared the spot from which thesound proceeded, on rounding a bend in the river, they saw the glare offires in the darkness; the sounds at the same time redoubled in shrillnessand volume, and they knew then that a large body of Indians were below themand would almost inevitably discover their boats. The numerous fires on theIllinois shore and the peculiar yells of the savages led them to believethat a flat-boat which preceded them had been captured and that the Indianswere engaged in their cruel orgies of torture and massacre. The two boatswere immediately lashed together, and the best practical arrangements weremade for defending them. The men were distributed by Mr. Rowan to the bestadvantage in case of an attack; they were seven in number. The boats wereneared to the Kentucky shore, keeping off from the bank lest there might beIndians on that shore also. When they glided by the uppermost fire theyentertained a faint hope that they might escape unperceived. But they werediscovered when they had passed about half of the fires and commanded tohalt. They however remained silent, for Mr. Rowan had given strict ordersthat no one should utter any sound but that of the rifle; and not thatuntil the Indians should come within reach. The savages united in a mostterrific yell, rushed to their canoes and pursued them. They floated on insilence—not an oar was pulled. The enemy approached the boats within ahundred yards, with a seeming determination to board them.

Just at this moment Mrs. Rowan rose from her seat, collected the axes andplaced one by the side of each man, where he stood with his gun, touchinghim on the knee with the handle of the axe as she leaned it up beside himagainst the edge of the boat, to let him know it was there. She thenretired to her seat, retaining a hatchet for herself.

None but those who have had a practical acquaintance with Indian warfare,can form a just idea of the terror which their hideous yelling iscalculated to inspire. When heard that night in the mighty solitude throughwhich those boats were passing, we are told that most of the voyagers werepanic-stricken and almost nerveless until Mrs. Rowan's calm resolution andintrepidity inspired them with a portion of her own undaunted spirit. TheIndians continued hovering on their rear and yelling, for nearly threemiles, when awed by the inference which they drew from the silence of theparty in the boat, they relinquished farther pursuit.

Woman's companionship and influence are nowhere more necessary than on thelong and tedious journey of the pioneer to the West. Man is a born rover.He sails over perilous seas and beneath unfamiliar constellations. Hepenetrates the trackless forest and scales the mountains for gain or gloryor out of mere love of motion and adventure. A life away from the fettersand conventionalities of civilized society also has its charms to the manlyheart. The free air of the boundless wilderness acts on many natures as astimulus to effort; but it seems also to breed a spirit of unrest. "I willnot stay here! whither shall I go?" Thus the spirit whispers to itself.Motion, only motion! Onward! ever onward! The restless foot of the pioneerhas reached and climbed the mountains. He pauses but a moment to gaze atthe valley and presses forward. The valley reached and he must cross theriver, and now the unbounded expanse of the plain spreads before him.Traversing this after many weary days he stands beneath a mightiermountain-range towering above him. Up! up! Struggling upward but everonward he has reached the snowy summit and gazes upon wider valleys lit bya kinglier sun and spanned by kindlier skies; and far off he sees sparklingin the evening light another and grander ocean on whose shores he mustpause. Thus by various motives and impulses the line which bounds the areaof civilized society is constantly being extended.

But all through this tumult of the mind and heart, through this rush ofmotion and life there is heard another voice. Soft and penetrating itsounds in the hour of calm and stillness and tells of happiness and repose.As in the beautiful song one word is its burden, Home! Home! Sweet Home!where the lonely heart and toil-worn feet may find rest. That voice musthave its answer, that aspiration must be reached by the aid of woman. It isshe, and only she that makes the home. Around her as a beaming nucleus areattracted and gather the thousand lesser lights of the fireside. She is thecentral figure of the domestic group, and where she is not, there is nohome. Man may explore a continent, subjugate nature and conquer savageraces, but no permanent settlement can be made nor any new empire formedwithout the alliance of woman.

She must therefore be the companion of the restless rover on his westwardmarch, in order that the secret cravings of his soul may be at lastsatisfied in that home of happiness and rest, which woman alone can form.

Nothing will better illustrate the restless and indomitable spirit thatinspires the western pioneer, and at the same time display the constantcompanionship and tireless energy of woman, than the singular history of afamily named Moody. The emigrant ancestors of this family lived and died ineastern Massachusetts, where after arriving from England, in 1634, theyfirst settled. In 1675, two of the daughters were living west of theConnecticut river. A grand-daughter of the emigrant was settled near theNew York boundary line in 1720. Her daughter marrying a Dutch farmerof Schoharie made her home in the valley of the Mohawk during the Frenchand Indian wars and the Revolution. In 1783, although an aged woman, shemoved with her husband and family to Ohio, where she soon after died,leaving a daughter who married a Moody, a far away cousin, and moved firstinto Indiana and finally into Illinois, where she and her husband diedleaving a son, J. G. Moody, who inherited the enterprising spirit of hispredecessors, and, marrying a female relative who inherited the family nameand spirit, before he was of age resumed the family march towards thePacific.

The first place where the family halted was in the territory ofIowa. Here they lived for ten years tilling a noble farm on the Des Moinesriver. Then they sold their house and land, and pushed one hundred milesfurther westward. Here again new toils and triumphs awaited them. With thehandsome sum derived from the sale of their farm on the Des Moines, theywere enabled to purchase an extensive domain of both prairie and woodland.In ten years they had a model farm, and the story of their successfullabors attracted other settlers to their neighborhood. A large pricetempted them and again they disposed of their farm.

We have traced genealogically the successive stages in the history of thispioneer family for the purpose of noting, not merely the cheerfulness withwhich so many generations of daughters accompanied their husbands on theirwestward march, but the energy which they displayed in making so many homesin the waste places, and preparing the way for the less bold andadventurous class of settlers who follow where the pioneer leads.

The family, after disposing of their second Iowa farm, immediately took uptheir line of march for Nebraska, where they bought and cultivated a largetract of land on one of the tributaries of the Platte. In due time thecurrent of emigration struck them. A favorable offer for their house andcattle ranche was speedily embraced, and again they took up their line ofmarch which extended this time into the heart of the Rocky Mountains, inColorado, of which State they were among the earliest settlers.

Here Mr. Moody died; but his widow with her large family successfullymaintained her cattle and sheep ranche till a rich gold mine was discoveredupon her land. A sale was soon effected of both the mine and the ranche. Intwo weeks after the whole family, mother, sons, and daughters were enroute to California, where their long wanderings terminated. There theyare now living and enjoying the rich fruits of their energy and enterprise,proving for once the falsity of the proverb that "a rolling stone gathersno moss."

[Illustration: WAGON TRAIN ON THE PRAIRIE]

The women of this family are types of a class—soldiers, scouts, laborers,nurses in the "Grand Army," whose mission it is to reclaim the waste placesand conquer uncivilized man.

If they fight, it is only for peace and safety. If they destroy, it is onlyto rebuild nobler structures in the interest of civilization. If they toiland bleed and suffer, it is only that they may rest on their arms, at last,surrounded by honorable and useful trophies, and look forward to ages ofhome-calm which have been secured for their posterity.

CHAPTER VIII.

HOMESTEAD-LIFE IN THE BACKWOODS AND ON THE PRAIRIE

The first stage in pioneer-life is nomadic: a half-score of men, women, andchildren faring on day after day, living in the open air, encamping atnight beside a spring or brook, under the canopy of the forest, it is onlywhen they reach their place of destination, that the germ of a communityfixes itself to the soil, and rises obedient to those laws of social andcivil order which distinguish the European colonist from the Asiatic nomad.

The experiences of camp life form the initial steps to the thoroughbackwoods education which a woman must at length acquire, to fit her forthe duties and trials incident to all remote settlements. Riding, driving,or tramping on, now through stately groves, now over prairies which losethemselves in the horizon, now fording shallow streams, or polingthemselves on rafts across rivers, skirting morasses or wallowing throughthem, and climbing mountains, as they breathe the fresh woodland air andcatch glimpses of a thousand novel scenes and encounter the dangers orendure the hardships of this first stage in their pilgrimage, they learnthose first hard lessons which stand them in such good stead when they havesettled in their permanent abodes in the heart of the wilderness which itis the work of the pioneer to subdue.

To the casual observer there is an air of romance and wild enjoyment inthis journey through that magnificent land. Many things there doubtless areto give zest and enjoyment to the long march of the pioneer and his family.The country through which they pass deserves the title of "the garden ofGod." The trees of the forest are like stately columns in some verduroustemple; the sun shines down from an Italian sky upon lakes set like jewelsflashing in the beams of light, the sward is filled with exaggeratedvelvet, through whose green the purple and scarlet gleams of fruit andflowers appear, and everything speaks to the eye of the splendor, richness,and joy of wild nature. Traits of man in this scene are favorite themes forthe painter's art. The fire burning under the spreading oak or chestnut,the horses, or oxen, or mules picketed in the vistas, Indian wigwams andsquaws with children watching curiously the pioneer household sitting bytheir fire and eating their evening meal; this is the picture framed by theimagination of a poet or artist, but this is but a superficial sketch,—amere glimpse of one of the many thousand phases of the long and wearyjourney. The reality is quite another thing.

The arrival of the household at their chosen seat marks the second stage inbackwoods-life, a stage which calls for all the powers of mind and body,tasks the hands, exercises the ingenuity, summons vigilance, and awakensevery latent energy. Woman steps at once into a new sphere of action, andhand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, with her stronger but not more resolutecompanion, enters on that career which looks to the formation ofcommunities and states. It is the household which constitutes the primalatom, the aggregation whereof makes the village, town, or city; the stateitself rests upon the household finally, and the household is what thefaithful mother makes it.

The toilsome march at length ended, we see the great wagon, with its loadof household utensils and farming implements, bedsteads walling up thesides, a wash-tub turned up to serve as a seat for the driver, a broom andhoe-handle sticking out behind with the handles of a plough, pots andkettles dangling below, bundles of beds and bedding enthroning children ofall the smaller sizes, stopping at last "for good," and the whole cortegeof men, women, and boys, cattle, horses, and hogs, resting after theirmighty tramp.

Shelter and food are the first wants of the settler; the log-cabin rises tosupply the one; the axe, the plough, the spade, the hoe, prepare the other.

The women not seldom joined in the work of felling trees and trimming logsto be used in erecting the cabins.

Those who have never witnessed the erection of log-cabins, would besurprised to behold the simplicity of their mechanism, and the rapiditywith which they are put together. The axe and the auger are often the onlytools used in their construction, but usually the drawing-knife, thebroad-axe, and the crosscut-saw are added.

The architecture of the body of the house is sufficiently obvious, but itis curious to notice the ingenuity with which the wooden fireplace andchimney are protected from the action of the fire by a lining of clay, tosee a smooth floor formed from the plain surface of hewed logs, and a doormade of boards split from the log, hastily smoothed with the drawing-knife,united firmly together with wooden pins, hung upon wooden hinges, andfastened with a wooden latch. Not a nail nor any particle of metal entersinto the composition of the building—all is wood from top to bottom, allis done by the woodsman without the aid of any mechanic. These primitivedwellings are by no means so wretched as their name and rude workmanshipwould seem to imply. They still frequently constitute the dwelling of thefarmers in new settlements; they are often roomy, tight, and comfortable.If one cabin is not sufficient, another and another is added, until thewhole family is accommodated, and thus the homestead of a respectablefarmer often resembles a little village. The dexterity of the backwoodsmanin the use of the axe is also remarkable, yet it ceases to be so regardedwhen we reflect on the variety of uses to which this implement is applied,and that in fact it enters into almost all the occupations of the pioneer,in clearing land, building houses, making fences, providing fuel; the axeis used in tilling his fields; the farmer is continually obliged to cutaway the trees that have fallen in his enclosure, and the roots that impedehis plough; the path of the surveyor is cleared by the axe, and his linesand corners marked by this instrument; roads are opened and bridges made bythe axe, the first court houses and jails are fashioned of logs with thesame tool. In labor or hunting, in traveling by land or water, the axe isever the companion of the backwoodsman.

Most of these cabins were fortresses in themselves, and were capable ofbeing defended by a family for several days. The thickness of the walls andnumerous loop-poles were sometimes supplemented by a clay covering upon theroof, so as to resist the fiery arrows of the savages. Sometimes places ofconcealment were provided for the women and children beneath the floor,with a closely fitting trap door leading to it. Such a place of refuge wasprovided by Mrs. Graves, a widow who lost her husband in Braddock'sretreat. In a large pit beneath the floor of the cabin every night she laidher children to sleep upon a bed of straw, and there, replacing one of thefloor logs, she passed the weary hours in darkness, seated by the windowwhich commanded a view of the clearing through which the Indians would haveto approach. When her youngest child required nursing she would lift thefloor-log and sit on the edge of the opening until it was lulled to sleep,and then deposit the nursling once more in its secret bed.

Once, while sitting without a light, knitting, before the window, she sawthree Indians approaching stealthily. Retreating to the hiding placebeneath the floor, she heard them enter the cabin, and, having struck alight, proceed to help themselves to such eatables as they found in thepantry. After remaining for an hour in the house, and appropriating sucharticles as Indians most value, viz., knives, axes, etc., they took theirdeparture.

More elaborate fortresses were often necessary, and, for purposes of mutualdefence in a country which swarmed with Indians, the settlers bandedtogether and erected stations, forts, and block-houses.

[Footnote: DeHass.] A station may be described as a series of cabinsbuilt on the sides of a parallelogram and united with palisades, so as topresent on the outside a continuous wall with only one or two doors, thecabin doors opening on the inside into a common square.

A fort was a stockade enclosure embracing cabins, etc., for theaccommodation of several families. One side was formed by a range of cabinsseparated by divisions, or partitions of logs; the walls on the outsidewere ten or twelve feet high, with roofs sloping inward. Some of thesecabins were provided with puncheon-floors, i.e., floors made of logs splitin half and smoothed, but most of the floors were earthen. At the angles ofthese forts were built the block-houses, which projected about two feetbeyond the outer walls of the cabins and stockade; these upper stories wereabout eighteen feet, or two inches every way larger than the under one,leaving an opening at the commencement of the second story, to prevent theenemy from making a lodgment under the walls.

These block-houses were devised in the early days of the first settlementsmade in our country, and furnished rallying points for the settlers whenattacked by the Indians. On the Western frontier they were enlarged andimproved to meet the military exigencies arising in a country which swarmedwith savages.

[Footnote: Doddridge's Notes.] In some forts, instead of block-houses, theangles were furnished with bastions; a large folding gate, made of thickslabs nearest the spring, closed the forts; the stockade, bastion, cabin,and block-house walls were furnished with port-holes at proper heights anddistances. The whole of the outside was made completely bullet-proof; thefamilies belonging to these forts were so attached to their own cabins ontheir farms that they seldom moved into the forts in the spring untilcompelled by some alarm, i.e., when it was announced by some murder thatIndians were in the settlement.

We have described thus in detail the fortified posts established along thefrontier for the purpose of showing that the life of the pioneer woman,from the earliest times, was, and now is, to a large extent, a militaryone. She was forced to learn a soldier's habits and a soldier's virtues.Eternal vigilance was the price of safety, and during the absence of themale members of the household, which were frequent and sometimesprotracted, the women were on guard-duty, and acted as the sentinels oftheir home fortresses. Watchful against stratagem as against violentattack, they passed many a night all alone in their isolated cabins,averting danger with all a woman's fertility of resource, and meeting itwith all the courage of a man.

On one occasion a party of Indians approached a solitary log-house with theintention of murdering the inmates. With their usual caution, one of theirnumber was sent forward to reconnoiter, who, discovering the only personswithin to be a woman, two or three children, and a negro man, rushed in byhimself and seized the negro. The woman caught up the axe and with a singleblow laid the savage warrior dead at her feet, while the children closedthe door, and, with ready sagacity, employed themselves fastening it. Therest of the Indians came up and attempted to force an entrance, but thenegro and the children kept the door closed, and the intrepid mother,having no effective weapon, picked up a gun-barrel which had neither stocknor lock and pointed it at the savages through the apertures between thelogs. The Indians, deceived by the appearance of a gun, and daunted by thedeath of their companion, retired.

The station, the fort, and the block-house were the only refuge of theisolated settlers when the Indians became bolder in their attacks.

When the report of the four-pounder, or the ringing of the fort bell, or avolley of musketry sounded the alarm, the women and children hurried to thefortification. Sometimes, while threading the mazes of the forest, thehapless mother and her children would fall into an ambush. Springing fromtheir cover, the prowling savages would ply their tomahawks and scalpingknives amid the shrieks of their helpless victims, or bear them away into acaptivity more cruel than death.

One summer's afternoon, while Mrs. Folsom, with her babe in her arms, washasting to Fort Stanwig in the Black River Country, New York, after hearingthe alarm, she caught sight of a huge Indian lying behind a log, with hisrifle leveled apparently directly at her. She quickly sprang to one sideand ran through the woods in a course at right angles with the point ofdanger, expecting every moment to be pierced with a rifle ball. Casting ahorror-stricken glance over her shoulder as she ran, she saw her husbandhastening on after her, but directly under the Indian's rifle. Shriekingloudly, she pointed to the savage just in time to warn her husband, whostepped behind a tree as the report of the rifle rang through the forest.In an instant he drew a bead upon the lurking foe, who fell with a bulletthrough his brain.

Before the family could reach the fort a legion of savages, roused by thereport of the rifles, were on their trail. The mother and child fledswiftly towards their place of refuge, which they succeeded in reachingwithout harm; but the brave father, while trying to keep the savages atbay, was shot and scalped almost under the walls of the fort.

Ann Bush, another of these border heroines, was still more unfortunate thanMrs. Folsom. While she and her husband were fleeing for safety to one ofthe stations on the Virginia borders, they were overtaken and captured bythe Indians, who shot and scalped her husband; and although she soonescaped from captivity, yet in less than twelve months after, while againattempting to find refuge in the same station, she was captured a secondtime, with an infant in her arms. After traveling a few hours the savagesbent down a young hickory, sharpened it, seized the child, scalped it andspitted it upon the tree; they then scalped and tomahawked the mother andleft her for dead. She lay insensible for many hours; but it was the willof Providence that she should survive the shock. When she recovered hersenses she bandaged her head with her apron, and wonderful to tell, in twodays staggered back to the settlement with the dead body of her infant.

The transitions of frontier life were often startling and sad. From awedding to a funeral, from a merrymaking to a massacre, were frequentvicissitudes. One of these shiftings of the scene is described by an actorand eye-witness as follows:

"Father had gone away the day before and mother and the children werealone. About nine o'clock at night we saw two Indians approaching. Motherimmediately threw a bucket of water on the fire to prevent them from seeingus, made us lie on the floor, bolted and barred the door, and postedherself there with an axe and rifle: We never knew why they desisted froman attack or how father escaped. In two or three days all of us set out forClinch Mountain to the wedding of Happy Kincaid, a clever young fellow fromHolston, and Sally McClure, a fine girl of seventeen, modest and pretty,yet fearless. We knew the Shawnees were about; that our fort and householdeffects must be left unguarded and might be destroyed; that we incurred therisk of a fight or an ambuscade, a capture, and even death, on the route;but in those days, and in that wild country, folks did not calculateconsequences closely, and the temptation to a frolic, a wedding, a feast,and a dance till daylight and often for several days together, was not tobe resisted. Off we went. Instead of the bridal party, the well spreadtable, the ringing laughter, and the sounding feet of buxom dancers, wefound a pile of ashes and six or seven ghastly corpses tomahawked andscalped." Mrs. McClure, her infant, and three other children, includingSally, the intended bride, had been carried off by the savages. They soontore the poor infant from the mother's arms and killed and scalped it, thatshe might travel faster. While they were scalping this child, PeggyMcClure, a girl twelve years old, perceived a sink-hole immediately at herfeet and dropped silently into it. It communicated with a ravine, downwhich she ran and brought the news to the settlement. The same night Sally,who had been tied and forced to lie down between two warriors, contrived toloosen her thongs and make her escape. She struck for the canebrake, thenfor the river, and to conceal her trail resolved to descend it. It was deepwading, and the current was so rapid she had to fill her petticoat withgravel to steady herself. She soon, however, recovered confidence, returnedto shore, and finally reached the still smoking homestead about dark nextevening. A few neighbors well armed had just buried the dead; the lastprayer had been said, when the orphan girl stood before them.

Yielding to the entreaties of her lover, who was present, and to the adviceand persuasion of her friends, the weeping girl gave her consent to animmediate marriage; and beside the grave of the household and near theruins of the cabin they were accordingly made one.

These perilous adventures were episodes, we should remember, in a life ofextraordinary labor and hardship. The luxuries and comforts of oldercommunities were unknown to the settlers on the border-line, either in NewEngland two centuries ago or in the West within the present generation.Plain in every way was the life of the borderer—plain in dress, inmanners, in equipage, in houses. The cabins were furnished in the mostprimitive style. Blocks or stumps of trees served for chairs and tables.Bedsteads were made by laying rows of saplings across two logs, forming aspring bed for the women and children, while the men lay on the floor withtheir feet to the fire and a log under their heads for a pillow.

The furniture of the cabin in the West, for several years after thesettlement of the country, consisted of a few pewter dishes, plates, andspoons, but mostly of wooden bowls, trenchers, and noggins; if these lastwere scarce, gourds and hard-shell squashes made up the deficiency; theiron pots, knives, and forks were brought from the East, with the salt andiron on pack-horses. The articles of furniture corresponded very well withthe articles of diet. "Hog and hominy" was a dish of proverbial celebrity;Johnny cake or pone was at the outset of the settlement the only form ofbread in use for breakfast or dinner; at supper, milk and mush was thestandard dish; when milk was scarce the hominy supplied its place, and mushwas frequently eaten with sweetened water, molasses, bear's oil, or thegravy of fried meat.

In the display of furniture, delft, china, or silver were unknown; theintroduction of delft-ware was considered by many of the backwoods peopleas a wasteful innovation; it was too easily broken, and the plates dulledtheir scalping and clasp knives.

The costume of the women of the frontier was suited to the plainness of thehabitations where they lived and the furniture they used. Homespun,linsey-woolsey and buckskin were the primitive materials out of which theireveryday dresses were made, and only on occasions of social festivity werethey seen in braver robes. Rings, broaches, buckles, and ruffles wereheir-looms from parents or grand-parents.

But this plainness of living and attire was a preparation for, and almostnecessary antecedent of hardihood, endurance, courage, patience, qualitieswhich made themselves manifest in the heroic acting of these women of theborder. With such a state of society we can readily associate assiduouslabor, a battling with danger in its myriad shapes, a subjugation of thehostile forces of nature, and a developing of a strange and peculiarcivilization.

Here we see woman in her true glory, not a doll to carry silks and jewels,not a puppet to be dandled by fops, an idol of profane adoration reverencedto-day, discarded to-morrow, admired but not respected, desired but notesteemed, ruling by passion not affection, imparting her weakness not herconstancy, to the sex she should exalt—the source and marrow of vanity. Wesee her as a wife partaking of the cares and guiding the labors of herhusband and by domestic diligence spreading cheerfulness all around for hissake; sharing the decent refinements of civilization without being injuredby them; placing all her joy, all her happiness in the merited approbationof the man she loves; as a mother, we find her affectionate, the ardentinstructress of the children she has reared from infancy and trained up tothought and to the practice of virtue, to meditation and benevolence and tobecome strong and useful men and women.

"Could there be happiness or comfort in such dwellings and such a state ofsociety. To those who are accustomed to modern refinement the truth appearslike fable. The lowly occupants of log cabins were often among the mosthappy of mankind. Exercise and excitement gave them health, they werepractically equal; common danger made them mutually dependent; brillianthopes of future wealth and distinction led them on, and as there was ampleroom for all, and as each new comer increased individual and generalsecurity, there was little room for that envy, jealousy, and hatred whichconstitutes a large portion of human misery in older societies. Never werethe story, the joke, the song, and the laugh better enjoyed than upon thehewed blocks or puncheon-stools around the roaring log-fire of the earlywestern settler. The lyre of Apollo was not hailed with more delight inprimitive Greece than the advent of the first fiddler among the dwellers ofthe wilderness, and the polished daughters of the East never enjoyedthemselves half so well moving to the music of a full band upon the elasticfloor of their ornamented ball-room, as did the daughters of the westernemigrants keeping time to the self-taught fiddler on the bare earth orpuncheon floor of the primitive log cabin—the smile of the polished beautyis the wave of the lake where the breeze plays gently over it, and hermovement the gentle stream which drains it; but the laugh of the log cabinis the gush of nature's fountain and its movement the leaping water."

Amid the multifarious toils of pioneer-life, woman has often proved thatshe is the last to forget the stranger that is within the gates. Shewelcomes the coming as she speeds the parting guest.

Let us suppose travelers caught in a rain storm, who reach at last one ofthese western homes. There is a roof, a stick chimney, drenched cattlecrowding in beneath a strawy barrack, and some forlorn fowls huddling undera cart. The log-house is a small one, though its neat corn-crib andchicken-coop of slender poles bespeaks a careful farmer. No gate is seen,but great bars which are let down or climbed over, and the cabin has onlya back door.

Within, everything ministers to the useful; nothing to the beautiful.Flitches of bacon, dried beef, and ham depend from the ceiling; pots andkettles are ranged in a row in the recess on one side the fireplace; andabove these necessary utensils are plates and heavy earthen nappies. Theaxe and gun stand together in one corner.

The good woman of the house is thin as a shadow, and pinched and wrinkledwith hard labor. Little boys and girls are playing on the floor likekittens.

A free and hospitable welcome is given to the travelers, their wet garmentsare ranged for drying on those slender poles usually seen above the amplefireplace of a log-cabin in the West, placed there for the purpose ofdrying sometimes the week's wash when the weather is rainy, sometimes wholerows of slender circlets of pumpkins for next spring's pies, or festoons ofsliced apples.

The good woman, after busying herself in those little offices which evincea desire to make guests welcome, puts an old cloak on her head and fliesout to place tubs, pails, pans, and jars under the pouring eaves,intimating that as soap was scarce, she "must try and catch rain wateranyhow."

The "old man" has the shakes, so the woman has all to do; throws more woodon the fire and fans it with her apron; cuts rashers of bacon, runs out tothe hen-coop and brings in new-laid eggs; mixes a johnny-cake and sets itin a pan upon the embers.

While the supper is cooking the rain subsides to a sprinkle, and thetravelers look at the surroundings of this pioneer household.

The cabin stands in a prairie, skirted by a forest. A stream gurgles by.The prairie is broken with patches of corn and potatoes, which are justemerging from the rich black mould. Pig-pens, a barn, and corn-houses, ahalf-dozen sheep in an enclosure, cows and calves and oxen in a barn-yard,a garden patch, and hen-coops, and stumps of what were once mighty trees,tell the story of the farmer's labors; and the cabin, with all itsappurtenances and surroundings, show how much the good woman hascontributed to make it the abode of rustic plenty, all provided by theunaided toil of this pioneer couple.

They had come from the East ten years before, and their cabin was theinitial point from which grew up a numerous settlement. Other cabins sentup their smoke in the prairie around them. A school-house and church hadbeen built, and a saw-mill was at work on the stream near by, and surveyorsfor a railroad had just laid out a route for the iron horse.

Two little boys come in now, skipping from school, and at the same time thegood woman, who is all patience and civility, announces supper. Sage-tea,johnny-cake, fried eggs, and bacon, seasoned with sundry invitations of thehostess to partake freely, and then the travelers are in a mood for rest.

The sleeping arrangements are of a somewhat perplexing character. These areone large bed and a trundle bed, the former is given up to the travelers,the trundle bed suffices for the little ones; the hostess prepares a cottonsheet partition for the benefit of those who choose to undress, and thenbegins to prepare herself for the rest which she stands sorely in need of.She and her good man repose upon the floor, with buffalo robes for pillows,and with their feet to the fire.

The hospitality of the frontier woman is bounded only by their means ofaffording it. Come when you may, they welcome you; give you of their bestwhile you remain, and regret your departure with simple and unfeignedsincerity. If you are sick, all that sympathy and care can devise is donefor you, and all this is from the heart.

Homestead-life, and woman's influence therein, is modified to some extentby the different races that contributed their quotas to the pioneer army.The early French settlements in our western States furnish a picturesomewhat different from those of the emigrants of English blood: apatriarchal state of society, self-satisfied and kindly, with brightsuperficial features, but lacking the earnest purpose and restlessaggressive energy of the Anglo-American, whose very amusem*nts andfestivals partook of a useful character.

Those French pioneer-women made thrifty and industrious housewives, andentered, with all the gaiety and enthusiasm of their race, into all themerry-makings and social enjoyments peculiar to those neighborhoods. Onfestive occasions, the blooming damsels wound round their foreheadsfancy-colored handkerchiefs, streaming with gay ribbons, or plumed withflowers. The matrons wore the short jacket or petticoat. The foot was leftuncovered and free, but on holidays it was adorned with the light moccasin,brilliant with porcupine quills, shells, beads, and lace.

A faithful picture of life in these French settlements possesses an
indescribable charm, such as that conveyed by the perusal of Longfellow's
Acadian Romance of "Evangeline," when we see in a border settlement the
French maiden, wife, and widow.

Different types, too, of homestead-life are of course to be looked for indifferent sections. On the ocean's beach, on the shores of the inland seas,on the banks of great rivers, in the heart of the forest, on the ruggedhills of New England, on southern Savannas, on western prairies, or amongthe mountains beyond, the region, the scenery, the climate, the social lawsmay be diverse, yet homestead-life on the frontier, widely varying as itdoes in its form and outward surroundings, is in its spirit everywhereessentially the same. The sky that bends over all, and the sun that shedsits light for all, are symbols of the oneness of the animating principle inthe home where woman is the bright and potent genius.

We have spoken of the western form of homestead-life because thefrontier-line of to-day lies in the occident. But in each stage of themovement that carried our people onward in their destined course from oceanto ocean, the wife and the mother were centers from which emanated a forceto impel forward, and to fix firmly in the chosen abode those organisms ofsociety which forms the molecular atoms out of which, by the laws of ourbeing, is built the compact structure of civilization.

In approximating towards some estimate of woman's peculiar influence inthose lonely and far-off western homes, we must not fail to take intoaccount the humanizing and refining power which she exerts to soften therugged features of frontier-life. Different classes of women all worked intheir way towards this end.

"The young married people, who form a considerable part of the pioneerelement in our country, are simple in their habits, moderate in theiraspirations, and hoard a little old-fashioned romance—unconsciouslyenough—in the secret nooks of their rustic hearts. They find no fault withtheir bare loggeries, with a shelter and a handful of furniture, they haveenough." If there is the wherewithal to spread a warm supper for the "oldman" when he comes in from work, the young wife forgets the long, solitary,wordless day and asks no greater happiness than preparing it by the help ofsuch materials and utensils as would be looked at with utter contempt inthe comfortable kitchens of the East.

They have youth, hope, health, occupation, and amusem*nt, and when you haveadded "meat, clothes, and fire," what more has England's queen?

We should, however, remember that there is another large class of womenwho, for various reasons, have left comfortable homes in older communities,and risked their happiness and all that they have in enterprises of pioneerlife in the far West. What wonder that they should sadly miss the thousandold familiar means and appliances! Some utensil or implement necessary totheir husbandry is wanting or has been lost or broken, and cannot bereplaced. Some comfort or luxury to which she has been used from childhoodis lacking, and cannot be furnished. The multifarious materials upon whichhousehold art can employ itself are reduced to the few absolute essentials.These difficulties are felt more by the woman than the man. To quote thewords of a writer who was herself a pioneer housewife in the West:

"The husband goes to his work with the same axe or hoe which fitted hishand in his old woods and fields; he tills the same soil or perhaps a farricher and more hopeful one; he gazes on the same book of nature which hehas read from his infancy and sees only a fresher and more glowing page,and he returns home with the sun, strong in heart and full ofself-congratulation on the favorable change in his lot. Perhaps he findsthe home bird drooping and disconsolate. She has found a thousanddifficulties which her rougher mate can scarcely be taught to feel asevils. She has been looking in vain for any of the cherished features ofher old fireside. What cares he if the time-honored cupboard is meagerlyrepresented by a few oak boards lying on pegs called shelves. His teaequipage shines as it was wont, the biscuits can hardly stay on thebrightly glistening plates. His bread never was better baked. What does hewant with the great old-fashioned rocking chair? When he is tired he goesto bed, for he is never tired till bed-time. The sacrifices in moving Westhave been made most largely by women."

It is this very dearth of so many things that once made her life easy andcomfortable which throws her back upon her own resources. Here again iswoman's strength. Fertile in expedients, apt in device, an artisan toconstruct and an artist to embellish, she proceeds to supply what islacking in her new home. She has a miraculous faculty for creating much outof little, and for transforming the coarse into the beautiful. Barrels areconverted into easy chairs and wash-stands, spring beds are manufacturedwith rows of slender, elastic saplings; a box covered with muslin stuffedwith hay serves for a lounge. By the aid of considerable personal exertion,while she adds to the list of useful and necessary articles, she alsoenlarges the circle of luxuries. An hour or two of extra work now and thenenables her to hoard enough to buy a new looking-glass, and to make fromtime to time small additions to the showy part of the household.

After she has transformed the rude cabin into a cozy habitation, she turnsher attention to the outside surroundings. Woodbine and wild cucumber aretrailed over the doors and windows; little beds of sweet-williams andmarigolds line the path to the clearing's edge or across the prairie-swardto the well; and an apple or pear tree is put in here and there. In allthese works, either of use or embellishment, if not done by her own handshe is at least the moving spirit. Thus over the rugged and homely featuresof her lot she throws something of the magic of that ideal of which thepoet sings:

"Nymph of our soul and brightener of our being
She makes the common waters musical—
Binds the rude night-winds in a silver thrall,
Bids Hybla's thyme and Tempe's violet dwell
Round the green marge of her moon-haunted cell."

It is the thousand nameless household offices performed by woman that makesthe home: it is the home which moulds the character of the children andmakes the husband what he is. Who can deny the vast debt of gratitude duefrom the present generation of Americans to these offices of woman inrefining and ameliorating the rude tone of frontier life? It may well besaid that the pioneer women of America have made the wilderness bud andblossom like the rose. Under their hands even nature itself, no longer awild, wayward mother, turns a more benign face upon her children. A landbright with flowers and bursting with fruitage testifies to the labors andinfluence of those who embellish the homestead and make it attractive totheir husbands and children.

A traveler on the vast prairies of Kansas and Nebraska will often seecabins remote from the great thoroughfares embowered in vines and shrubberyand bright with beds of flowers. Entering he will discern the ruggedfeatures of frontier life softened in a hundred ways by the hand of woman.The steel is just as hard and more serviceable after it is polished, andthe oak-wood as strong and durable when it is trimmed and smoothed. Thechildren of the frontier are as hardy and as manly though the gentle voiceof woman schools their rugged ways and her kind hand leads them through thepaths of refinement and moulds them in the school of humanity.

CHAPTER IX.

SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN

Of all the tens of thousands of devoted women who have accompanied thegrand army of pioneers into the wilderness, not one but that has beeneither a soldier to fight, or a laborer to toil, or a ministering angel tosoothe the pains and relieve the sore wants of her companions. Not seldomhas she acted worthily in all these several capacities, fighting, toiling,and ministering by turns. If a diary of the events of their pioneer-liveshad been kept by each of these brave and faithful women, what a record oftoil and warfare and suffering it would present. How many different typesof female character in different spheres of action it would show—theself-sacrificing mother, the tender and devoted wife, the benevolentmatron, the heroine who blenched not in battle! Unnumbered thousands havepassed beautiful, strenuous and brave lives far from the scenes ofcivilization, and gone down to their graves leaving only local, feeblevoices, if any, to celebrate their praises and to-day we know not the placeof their sepulcher. Others have had their memories embalmed by the pens offaithful biographers, and a few also have left diaries containing a recordof the wonderful vicissitudes of their lives.

Woman's experience of life in the wilderness is never better told than inher own words. More impressible than man, to passing events; moresusceptible to pain and pleasure; enjoying and sorrowing more keenly thanher sterner and rougher mate, she possesses often a peculiarly graphicpower in expressing her own thoughts and feelings, and also in delineatingthe scenes through which she passes.

A woman's diary of frontier-life, therefore, possesses an intrinsic valuebecause it is a faithful story, and at the same time one of surpassinginterest, in consequence of her personal and active participation in thetoils, sufferings, and dangers incident to such a life.

Such a diary is that of Mrs. Williamson which in the quaint style of theolden time relates her thrilling experience in the wilds of Pennsylvania.We see her first as an affectionate, motherless girl accompanying herfather to the frontier, assisting him to prepare a home for his old age inthe depths of the forest and enduring with cheerful resolution the manifoldhardships and trials of pioneer-life, and finally closing her aged parent'seyes in death. Then we see her as a wife, the partner of her husband'scares and labors, and as a mother, the faithful guardian of her sons; andagain as a widow, her husband having been torn from her arms and butcheredby a band of ruthless savages. After her sons had grown to be sturdy menand had left her to make homes for themselves, she shows herself the strongand self-reliant matron of fifty still keeping her outpost on the border,and cultivating her clearing by the assistance of two negroes. At lastafter a life of toil and danger she is attacked by a band of savages, anddefends her home so bravely that after making her their captive they spareher life and in admiration of her courage adopt her into their tribe. Shedissembles her reluctance, humors her savage captors and forces herself toaccompany them on their bloody expeditions wherein she saves many lives andmitigates the sufferings of her fellow-captives.

The narrative of her escape we give in her own quaint words.

"One night the Indians, very greatly fatigued with their day's excursion,composed themselves to rest as usual. Observing them to be asleep, I triedvarious ways to see whether it was a scheme to prove my intentions or not,but, after making a noise, and walking about, sometimes touching them withmy feet, I found there was no fallacy. My heart then exulted with joy atseeing a time come that I might, in all probability be delivered from mycaptivity; but this joy was soon dampened by the dread of being discoveredby them, or taken by any straggling parties; to prevent which, I resolved,if possible, to get one of their guns, and, if discovered, to die in mydefense, rather than be taken. For that purpose I made various efforts toget one from under their heads (where they always secured them), but invain.

"Frustrated in this my first essay towards regaining my liberty, I dreadedthe thought of carrying my design into execution: yet, after a littleconsideration, and trusting myself to the divine protection, I set forward,naked and defenceless as I was; a rash and dangerous enterprise! Such wasmy terror, however, that in going from them, I halted and paused every fouror five yards, looking fearfully toward the spot where I had left them,lest they should awake and miss me; but when I was about two hundred yardsfrom them, I mended my pace, and made as much haste as I could to the footof the mountains; when on sudden I was struck with the greatest terror andamaze, at hearing the wood-cry, as it is called, they make when anyaccident happens them. However, fear hastened my steps, and though theydispersed, not one happened to hit upon the track I had taken. When I hadrun near five miles, I met with a hollow tree, in which I concealed myselftill the evening of the next day, when I renewed my flight, and next nightslept in a canebrake. The next morning I crossed a brook, and got moreleisurely along, returning thanks to Providence, in my heart, for my happyescape, and praying for future protection. The third day, in the morning, Iperceived two Indians armed, at a short distance, which I verily believedwere in pursuit of me, by their alternately climbing into the highesttrees, no doubt to look over the country to discover me. This retarded myflight for that day; but at night I resumed my travels, frightened andtrembling at every bush I passed, thinking each shrub that I touched, asavage concealed to take me. It was moonlight nights till near morning,which favored my escape. But how shall I describe the fear, terror andshock that I felt on the fourth night, when, by the rustling I made amongthe leaves, a party of Indians, that lay round a small fire, nearly out,which I did not perceive, started from the ground, and seizing their arms,ran from the fire among the woods. Whether to move forward, or to restwhere I was, I knew not, so distracted was my imagination. In thismelancholy state, revolving in my thoughts the now inevitable fate Ithought waited on me, to my great astonishment and joy, I was relieved bya parcel of swine that made towards the place where I guessed the savagesto be; who, on seeing the hogs, conjectured that their alarm had beenoccasioned by them, and directly returned to the fire, and lay down tosleep as before. As soon as I perceived my enemies so disposed of, withmore cautious step and silent tread, I pursued my course, sweating (thoughthe air was very cold) with the fear I had just been relieved from.Bruised, cut, mangled and terrified as I was, I still, through divineassistance, was enabled to pursue my journey until break of day, when,thinking myself far off from any of those miscreants I so much dreaded, Ilay down under a great log, and slept undisturbed until about noon, when,getting up, I reached the summit of a great hill with some difficulty; andlooking out if I could spy any inhabitants of white people, to myunutterable joy I saw some, which I guessed to be about ten miles distance.This pleasure was in some measure abated, by my not being able to get amongthem that night; therefore, when evening approached I again re-commendedmyself to the Almighty, and composed my weary mangled limbs to rest. In themorning I continued my journey towards the nearest cleared lands I had seenthe day before; and about four o'clock in the afternoon I arrived at thehouse of John Bell."

Mrs. Daviess was another of these women who, like Mrs. Williamson, was aborn heroine, of whom there were many who acted a conspicuous part in theterritorial history of Kentucky. Large and splendidly formed, she possessedthe strength of a man with the gentle loveliness of the true woman. In thehour of peril, and such hours were frequent with her, she was firm, cool,and fertile of resource; her whole life, of which we give only a fewepisodes, was one continuous succession of brave and noble deeds. Both sheand Mrs. Williamson appear to have been real instances of the poet's ideal:

"A perfect woman nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command."

[Footnote: Collins' Historical Sketches.] Her husband, Samuel Daviess, wasan early settler at Gilmer's Lick, in Lincoln County, Kentucky. In themonth of August, 1782, while a few rods from his house, he was attackedearly one morning by an Indian, and attempting to get within doors he foundthat his house was already occupied by the other Indians. He succeeded inmaking his escape to his brother's station, five miles off, and giving thealarm was soon on his way back to his cabin in company with five stout,well armed men.

Meanwhile, the Indians, four in number, who had entered the house while thefifth was in pursuit of Mr. Daviess, roused Mrs. Daviess and the childrenfrom their beds and gave them to understand that they must go with them asprisoners. Mrs. Daviess occupied as long a time as possible in dressing,hoping that some relief would come. She also delayed the Indians nearly twohours by showing them one article of clothing and then another, explainingtheir uses and expatiating on their value.

While this was going on the Indian who had been in pursuit of her husbandreturned with his hands stained with pokeberries, waving his tomahawk withviolent gestures as if to convey the belief that he had killed Mr. Daviess.The keen-eyed wife soon discovered the deception, and was satisfied thather husband had escaped uninjured.

After plundering the house, the savages started to depart, taking Mrs.Daviess and her seven children with them. As some of the children were tooyoung to travel as rapidly as the Indians wished, and discovering, as shebelieved, their intention to kill them, she made the two oldest boys carrythe two youngest on their backs.

In order to leave no trail behind them, the Indians traveled with thegreatest caution, not permitting their captives to break a twig or weed asthey passed along, and to expedite Mrs. Daviess' movements one of themreached down and cut off with his knife a few inches of her dress.

Mrs. Daviess was accustomed to handle a gun and was a good shot, like manyother women on the frontier. She contemplated as a last resort that, if notrescued in the course of the day, when night came and the Indians hadfallen asleep, she would deliver herself and her children by killing asmany of the Indians as she could, believing that in a night attack the restwould fly panic-stricken.

Mr. Daviess and his companions reaching the house and finding it empty,succeeded in striking the trail of the Indians and hastened in pursuit.They had gone but a few miles before they overtook them. Two Indian spiesin the rear first discovered the pursuers, and running on overtook theothers and knocked down and scalped the oldest boy, but did not kill him.The pursuers fired at the Indians but missed. The latter became alarmed andconfused, and Mrs. Daviess taking advantage of this circ*mstance jumpedinto a sink-hole with her infant in her arms. The Indians fled and everychild was saved.

Kentucky in its early days, like most new countries, was occasionallytroubled with men of abandoned character, who lived by stealing theproperty of others, and after committing their depredations, retired totheir hiding-places, thereby eluding the operation of the law. One of thesemarauders, a man of desperate character, who had committed extensive theftsfrom Mr. Daviess, as well as from his neighbors, was pursued by Daviess anda party whose property he had taken, in order to bring him to justice.

While the party were in pursuit, the suspected individual, not knowing thatany one was pursuing him, came to the house of Daviess, armed with his gunand tomahawk,—no person being at home but Mrs. Daviess and her children.After he had stepped into the house, Mrs. Daviess asked him if he woulddrink something; and having set a bottle of whiskey upon the table,requested him to help himself. The fellow not suspecting any danger, sethis gun by the door, and while he was drinking Mrs. Daviess picked it up,and placing herself in the doorway had the weapon co*cked and leveled uponhim by the time he turned around, and in a peremptory manner ordered him totake a seat or she would shoot him. Struck with terror and alarm, he askedwhat he had done. She told him he had stolen her husband's property, andthat she intended to take care of him herself. In that condition she heldhim prisoner until the party of men returned and took him into theirpossession.

[Illustration: STRATAGEM OF MRS. DAVIESS IN CAPTURING A KENTUCKY ROBBER.]

These are only a few out of many similar acts which show the character ofMrs. Daviess. She became noted all through the frontier settlements of thatregion during the troublous times in which she lived, not only for hercourage and daring, but for her shrewdness in circumventing the stratagemsof the wily savages by whom her family were surrounded. Her oldest boyinherited his mother's character, and promised to be one of the most famousIndian fighters of his day, when he met his death at the hands of hissavage foes in early manhood.

If Mrs. Williamson and Mrs. Daviess were representative women in the morestormy and rugged scenes of frontier life, Mrs. Elizabeth Estaugh may standas a true type of the gentle and benevolent matron, brightening her foresthome by her kindly presence, and making her influence felt in a thousandways for good among her neighbors in the lonely hamlet where she chose tolive.

Her maiden name was Haddon; she was the oldest daughter of a wealthy andwell educated but humble-minded Quaker of London. She was endowed by naturewith strength of mind, earnestness, energy, and with a heart overflowingwith kindness and warmth of feeling. The education bestowed upon her, was,after the manner of her sect, a highly practical one, such as might beexpected to draw forth her native powers by careful training of the mind,without quenching the kindly emotions by which she was distinguished fromher early childhood.

At the age of seventeen she made a profession of religion, uniting herselfwith the Quakers. During her girlhood William Penn visited the house of herfather, and greatly interested her by describing his adventures with theIndians in the wilds of Pennsylvania. From that hour her thoughts weredirected towards the new world, where so many of her sect had emigrated,and she longed to cross the ocean and take up her abode among them. Shepictured to herself the toils and privations of the Quaker-pioneers in thatnew country, and ardently desired to join them and share their labors anddangers, and alleviate their sufferings by charitably dispensing a portionof that wealth which she was destined to possess.

Her father sympathized with her views and aims, and was at length inducedto buy a large tract of land in New Jersey, where he proposed to go andsettle in company with his daughter Elizabeth, and there carry out theplans which she had formed. His affairs in England took such a turn that hedecided to remain in his native land.

This was a sad disappointment to Elizabeth. She had arrived at theconviction that among her people in the new world was to be her sphere ofduty; she felt a call thither which she could not disregard; and when herfather, who was unwilling that the property should lie unimproved, offeredthe tract of land in New Jersey to any relative who would settle upon it,she gladly availed herself of the proffer, and begged that she might goherself as a pioneer into that far-off wilderness.

It was a sore trial for her parents to part with their beloved daughter;but her character was so stable, and her convictions of duty so unswerving,that at the end of three months and after much prayer, they consentedtearfully that Elizabeth should join "the Lord's people in the new world."

Arrangements were accordingly made for her departure, and all that wealthcould provide or thoughtful affection devise, was prepared, both for thelong voyage across that stormy sea and against the hardships and trials inthe forest home which was to be hers. In the spring of 1700 she set sail,accompanied by a poor widow of good sense and discretion, who had beenchosen to act as her friend and housekeeper, and two trustworthymen-servants, members of the Society of Friends.

Among the many extraordinary manifestations of strong faith and religiouszeal connected with the early settlement of this country, few are moreremarkable than this enterprise of Elizabeth Estaugh. Tenderly reared in adelightful home in a great city, where she had been surrounded withpleasing associations from infancy, and where as a lovely young lady shewas the idol of the circle of society in which she moved, she was stillwilling and desirous at the call of religious duty, to separate herselffrom home, friends, and the pleasures of civilization, and depart to adistant clime and a wild country. Hardly less remarkable and admirable wasthe self-sacrificing spirit of her parents in giving up their child inobedience to the promptings of her own conscience. We can imagine theparting on the deck of the vessel which was spreading its sails to bearthis sweet missionary away from her native land and the beloved of her oldhome. Angelic love beams and sorrow darkles from the serene countenances ofthe father, and mother, and daughter, and yet no tear is shed on eitherside. The vessel drops down the harbor, and the family stand on the wharfstraining their eyes to catch the last look from the departing maiden, wholeans on the bulwark and answers the silent and sorrowful faces with aheavenly smile of love and pity. Even during the long and tedious voyageElizabeth never wept. Her sense of duty controlled every other emotion ofher soul, and she maintained her martyr-like cheerfulness and serenity tothe end.

That part of New Jersey where the Haddon tract lay was at that period analmost unbroken wilderness. Scarcely more than twenty years had thenelapsed since the twenty or thirty cabins had been built which formed thegerm-settlement out of which grew the city of Brotherly Love, and ninemiles of dense forest and a broad river separated the maiden and herhousehold from the people in the hamlet across the Delaware.

The home prepared for her reception stood in a clearing of the forest,three miles from any other dwelling. She arrived in June, when thelandscape was smiling in youthful beauty, and it seemed to her as if thearch of heaven was never before so clear and bright, the carpet of theearth never so verdant. As she sat at her window and saw evening close inupon her in that broad forest home, and heard for the first time themournful notes of the whippoorwill, and the harsh scream of the jay in thedistant woods, she was oppressed with a sense of vastness, of infinity,which she never before experienced, not even on the ocean. She remainedlong in prayer, and when she lay down to sleep beside her matron-friend, nowords were spoken between them. The elder, overcome with fatigue, soon sankinto a peaceful slumber; but the young enthusiast lay long awake, listeningto the lone voice of the whippoorwill complaining to the night. Yet,notwithstanding this prolonged wakefulness, she arose early and looked outupon the lovely landscape. The rising sun pointed to the tallest trees withhis golden finger, and was welcomed with a gush of song from a thousandwarblers. The poetry in Elizabeth's soul, repressed by the severe plainnessof her education, gushed up like a fountain. She dropped on her knees, andwith an outburst of prayer, exclaimed fervently, "Oh, Father, verybeautiful hast thou made this earth! How beautiful are thy gifts, O Lord!"

To a spirit less meek and brave, the darker shades of the picture wouldhave obscured these cheerful gleams; for the situation was lonely, and theinconveniences innumerable. But Elizabeth easily triumphed over allobstacles, by practical good sense and by the quick promptings of heringenuity. She was one of those clear, strong natures, who always have adefinite aim in view, and who see at once the means best suited to the end.Her first inquiry was, what grain was best adapted to the soil of her farm;and being informed that rye would yield the best, "Then, I shall eat ryebread," was the answer.

When winter came, and the gleaming snow spread its unbroken silence overhill and plain, was it not dreary then? It would have been dreary indeed toone who entered upon this mode of life for mere love of novelty, or a vaindesire to do something extraordinary. But the idea of extended usefulness,which had first lured this remarkable girl into a path so unusual,sustained her through all her trials. She was too busy to be sad, andleaned too trustingly on her Father's hand to be doubtful of her way. Theneighboring Indians soon loved her as a friend, for they always found hertruthful, just, and kind. From their teachings she added much to herknowledge of simple medicines. So efficient was her skill, and so prompther sympathy, that for many miles round, if man, woman, or child werealarmingly ill, they were sure to send for Elizabeth Haddon; and wherevershe went, her observing mind gathered some hint for the improvement of farmor dairy. Her house and heart were both large, and as her residence was onthe way to the Quaker meeting-house in Newtown, it became a place ofuniversal resort to Friends from all parts of the country traveling thatroad, as well as an asylum for benighted wanderers.

Late one winter's evening a tinkling of sleigh-bells was heard at theentrance of the clearing, and soon the hoofs of horses were crunching thesnow as they passed through the great gate towards the barn. The arrival ofstrangers was a common occurrence, for the home of Elizabeth Haddon wascelebrated far and near as the abode of hospitality. The toil worn orbenighted traveler there found a sincere welcome, and none who enjoyed thatfriendly shelter and abundant cheer ever departed without regret. But nowthere was an unwonted stir in that well-ordered family; great logs werepiled in the capacious fireplace, and hasty preparations were made as if toreceive guests who were more than ordinarily welcome. Elizabeth, lookingfrom the window, had recognized one of the strangers in the sleigh as JohnEstaugh, with whose preaching years before in London she had been deeplyimpressed, and ever since she had treasured in her memory many of hiswords. It was almost like a glimpse of her dear old English home to see himenter, and stepping forward with more than usual cordiality she greetedhim, saying,

"Thou art welcome, friend Estaugh, the more so for being entirelyunexpected."

"And I am glad to see thee, Elizabeth," he replied, with a friendly shakeof the hand, "it was not until after I had landed in America that I heardthe Lord had called thee hither before me; but I remember thy father toldme how often thou hadst played the settler in the woods, when thou wastquite a little girl."

"I am but a child still," she replied, smiling.

"I trust thou art," he rejoined; "and as for those strong impressions inchildhood, I have heard of many cases when they seemed to be propheciessent from the Lord. When I saw thy father in London, I had even then anindistinct idea that I might sometime be sent to America on a religiousvisit."

"And hast thou forgotten, friend John, the ear of Indian corn which myfather begged of thee for me? I can show it to thee now. Since then I haveseen this grain in perfect growth; and a goodly plant it is, I assure thee.See," she continued, pointing to many bunches of ripe corn which hung intheir braided husks against the wall of the ample kitchen; "all that, andmore, came from a single ear, no bigger than the one thou didst give myfather. May the seed sown by thy ministry be as fruitful!" "Amen," repliedboth the guests.

That evening a severe snow-storm came on, and all night the blast howledround the dwelling. The next morning it was discovered that the roads wererendered impassable by the heavy drifts. The home of Elizabeth had alreadybeen made the center of a settlement composed mainly of poor families, whor*lied largely upon her to aid them in cases of distress. That winter theyhad been severely afflicted by the fever incident to a new settled country,and Elizabeth was in the habit of making them daily visits, furnishing themwith food and medicines.

The storm roused her to an even more energetic benevolence than ordinary.Men, oxen, and sledges were sent out, and pathways were opened; the wholeforce of Elizabeth's household, under her immediate superintendence,joining in the good work. John Estaugh and his friend tendered theirservices joyfully, and none worked harder than they. His countenance glowedwith the exercise, and a cheerful childlike outbeaming honesty of soulshone forth, attracting the kind but modest regards of the maiden. Itseemed to her as if she had found in him a partner in the good work whichshe had undertaken.

When the paths had been made, Elizabeth set out with a sled-load ofprovisions to visit her patients, and John Estaugh asked permission toaccompany her.

While they were standing together by the bedside of the aged and suffering,she saw her companion in a new and still more attractive guise. Hiscountenance expressed a sincerity of sympathy warmed by rays of love fromthe Sun of mercy and righteousness itself. He spoke to the feeble and theinvalid words of kindness and consolation, and his voice was modulated to adeep tone of tenderness, when he took the little children in his arms.

The following "first day," which world's people call the Sabbath, meetingwas attended at Newtown by the whole family, and then John Estaugh wasmoved by the Spirit to speak words that sank into the hearts of hishearers. It was a discourse on the trials and temptations of daily life,drawing a contrast between this course of earthly probation, with itstoils, sufferings, and sorrows, and that higher life, with its rewards tothe faithful beyond the grave.

Elizabeth listened to the preacher with meek attention; he seemed to bespeaking to her, for all the lessons of the discourse were applicable toherself. As the deep tones of the good man ceased to vibrate in her ears,and there was stillness for a full half hour in the house, she ponderedover it deeply. The impression made by the young preacher seemed to open anew window in her soul; he was a God-sent messenger, whose character andteachings would lift still higher her life, and sanctify her mission with aholier inspiration.

A few days of united duties and oneness of heart made John and Elizabethmore thoroughly acquainted with each other than they could have been byyears of ordinary fashionable intercourse.

They were soon obliged to separate, the young preacher being called toother meetings of his sect in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. When they badeeach other farewell, neither knew that they would ever meet again, for JohnEstaugh's duty might call him from the country ere another winter, and hisavocations in the new world were absorbing and continuous. With a fullheart, but with the meekness characteristic of her sect, Elizabeth turnedaway to her daily round of good works with a new and holier zeal.

In May following they met again. John Estaugh, in company with numerousother Friends, stopped at her house to lodge while on their way to thequarterly meeting at Salem. The next day a cavalcade started from herhospitable door on horseback, for that was before the days of wagons inJersey.

John Estaugh, always kindly in his impulses, busied himself with helping alame and very ugly old woman, and left his hostess to mount her horse asshe could. Most young women would have felt slighted; but in Elizabeth'snoble soul the quiet, deep tide of feeling rippled with an inward joy. "Heis always kindest to the poor and neglected," thought she; "verily he is agood youth."

She was leaning over the side of her horse, to adjust the buckle of thegirth, when he came up on horseback and enquired if anything was out oforder. She thanked him, with slight confusion of manner, and a voice lesscalm than her usual utterance. He assisted her to mount, and they trottedalong leisurely behind the procession of guests, speaking of the soil andclimate of this new country, and how wonderfully the Lord had here provideda home for his chosen people. Presently the girth began to slip, and thesaddle turned so much on one side that Elizabeth was obliged to dismount.It took some time to readjust the girth, and when they again started, thecompany were out of sight. There was brighter color than usual in themaiden's cheeks, and unwonted radiance in her mild, deep eyes.

After a short silence, she said, in a voice slightly tremulous, "FriendJohn, I have a subject of importance on my mind, and one which nearlyinterests thee. I am strongly impressed that the Lord has sent thee to meas a partner for life, I tell thee my impression frankly, but not withoutcalm and deep reflection, for matrimony is a holy relation, and should beentered into with all sobriety. If thou hast no light on the subject, wiltthou gather into the stillness and reverently listen to thy own inwardrevealings? Thou art to leave this part of the country to-morrow, and notknowing when I should see thee again, I felt moved to tell thee what layupon my mind."

The young man was taken by surprise. Though accustomed to that suppressionof emotion which characterizes his religious sect, the color came and wentrapidly in his face, for a moment. But he soon, became calmer, and replied,"This thought is new to me, Elizabeth, and I have no light thereon. Thycompany has been right pleasant to me, and thy countenance ever reminds meof William Penn's title-page, 'Innocency with her open face.' I haveseen thy kindness to the poor, and the wise management of thy household. Ihave observed, too, that thy warm-heartedness is tempered with a mostexcellent discretion, and that thy speech is ever sincere. Assuredly, suchis the maiden I would ask of the Lord as a most precious gift; but I neverthought of this connection with thee. I came to this country solely on areligious visit, and it might distract my mind to entertain this subject atpresent. When I have discharged the duties of my mission, we will speakfurther."

"It is best so," rejoined the maiden, "but there is one thing disturbs myconscience. Thou hast spoken of my true speech; and yet, friend John, Ihave deceived thee a little, even now, while we conferred together on asubject so serious. I know not from what weakness the temptation came, butI will not hide it from thee. I allowed thee to suppose, just now, that Iwas fastening the girth of my horse securely; but, in plain truth, I wasloosening the girth, John, that the saddle might slip, and give me anexcuse to fall behind our friends; for I thought thou wouldst be kindenough to come and ask if I needed thy services."

They spoke no further upon this topic; but when John Estaugh returned to
England in July, he pressed her hand affectionately, as he said, "Farewell,
Elizabeth: if it be the Lord's will I shall return to thee soon."

The young preacher made but a brief sojourn in England. The Society ofFriends in London appreciated his value as a laborer among them and wouldhave been pleased to see him remain, but they knew how fruitful of good hadbeen his labors among the brethren in the wilderness, and deemed it a wiseresolution when he informed them that he should shortly return to America.Early in September he set sail from London and reached New York thefollowing month. A few days after landing he journeyed on horseback to thedwelling where Elizabeth was awaiting him, and they were soon after marriedat Newtown Meeting according to the simple form of the Society of Friends.Neither of them made any change of dress for the occasion; there was nowedding feast; no priest or magistrate was present; in the presence ofwitnesses they simply took each other by the hand and solemnly promised tobe kind and faithful to each other. The wedded pair then quietly returnedto their happy home, prepared to resume together that life of good wordsand kind deeds which each had thus far pursued alone.

Thrice during the long period of their union did she cross the Atlantic tovisit her aged parents, and not seldom he left her for a season when calledto preach abroad. These temporary separations were hard for her to bear,but she cheerfully gave him up to follow in the path of his duty whereverit might lead him. Amid her cares and pleasures as a wife she neither grewself-absorbed nor, like many of her sex, bounded her benevolence within thearea of the household. Her heart was too large, her charity too abounding,to do that, and her sense of duty to her fellow-men always dominated thatnarrow feeling which concentrates kindness on self or those nearest to one.While her husband performed his noble work in the care of souls, shepursued her career within the sphere where it was so allotted. As ahousewife she was notable; to her might be applied the words of KingLemuel, in the Proverbs of Solomon, celebrating and describing the goodwife, "and her works praised her in the gates." As a neighbor she wasgenerous and sympathetic; she stretched out her hand to the poor and needy;she was at once a guardian and a minister of mercy to the settlement.

When, after forty years of happiness in wedlock, her husband was taken fromher, she gave evidence of her appreciation of his worth in a preface whichshe published to one of his religious tracts entitled, "Elizabeth Estaugh'stestimony concerning her beloved husband, John Estaugh." In this prefaceshe says:

"Since it pleased Divine Providence so highly to favor me with being thenear companion to this dear worthy, I must give some small account of him.Few, if any, in a married state, ever lived in sweeter harmony than we did.He was a pattern of moderation in all things; not lifted up with anyenjoyments, nor cast down at disappointments; a man endowed with many goodgifts, which rendered him very agreeable to his friends, and much more tome, his wife, to whom his memory is most dear and precious."

Elizabeth survived her excellent husband twenty years, useful and honoredto the last. The monthly meeting of Haddonfield, in a publishedtestimonial, speaks of her thus:

"She was endowed with great natural abilities, which, being sanctified bythe Spirit of Christ, were much improved; whereby she became qualified toact in the affairs of the church, and was a serviceable member, having beenclerk to the woman's meeting nearly fifty years, greatly to theirsatisfaction She was a sincere sympathizer with the afflicted; of abenevolent disposition, and in distributing to the poor, was desirous to doit in a way most profitable and durable to them, and, if possible, not tolet the right hand know what the left did. Though in a state of affluenceas to this world's wealth, she was an example of plainness and moderation.Her heart and house were open to her friends, whom to entertain seemed oneof her greatest pleasures. Prudently cheerful and well knowing the value offriendship, she was careful not to wound it herself nor to encourage othersin whispering supposed failings or weaknesses. Her last illness broughtgreat bodily pain, which she bore with much calmness of mind and sweetnessof spirit. She departed this life as one falling asleep, full of days,'like unto a shock of corn fully ripe.'"

The maiden name of this gentle and useful woman has been preserved inHaddonfield, thus appropriately commemorating her manifold services in theearly days of the settlement of which she was the pioneer-mother.

CHAPTER X.

ROMANCE OF THE BORDER.

The romance of border-life is inseparably associated with woman, being hernatural attendant during her wanderings through the wilderness. Adistinguished American orator has suggested that a series of novels mightbe written founded upon the true stories of the border-women of ourcountry. Such a contribution to our literature has thus far been made onlyto a limited extent. The reason for this deficiency will be obvious on amoment's reflection. The true stories of the pioneer wives andmothers are often as interesting as any work of fiction, and need noembellishment from the imagination of a writer, because they are crowdedwith incidents and situations as thrilling as those which form the stapleout of which novels are fabricated; love and adventure, hair-breadthescapes, heart-rending tragedies on the frontier, are thus woven into anarrative of absorbing and permanent interest, permanent because itis part of the history and biography of America. Some of the truest ofthese stories are those which are most deeply fraught with tenderness andromance. What is more calculated to move the mind and heart of man forexample than a story of two lovers environed by some deadly danger, or ofseparation and reunion, or a love faithful unto death?

Many years ago a young pioneer traveling across the plains met a lady towhom he became attached, and after a short courtship they were united inmarriage. A trip over the plains in those days was not one to be chosen fora honey-moon excursion but the pair bore their labors and privationscheerfully; perils and hardships only seemed to draw them closer together,and they were looking forward to a home on the Pacific slope where inplenty and repose they would be indemnified for the pains and fatigues ofthe journey. But their life's romance was destined, alas! to a sudden andmournful end. While crossing one of the rapid mountain streams their boatfilled with water, and though the young man struggled manfully to gain theshore with his bride, the rush of the torrent bore them down and they sankto rise no more. An hour later their bodies were found locked together in alast embrace. The rough mountaineers had not the heart to unclasp thatembrace but buried them by the side of the river in one grave.

The Indian was of course an important factor in the composition of theseborder romances. He was generally the villain in the plot of the story, andtoo often a successful villain whose wiles or open attacks were the meansof separating two lovers. These tales have often a tragical catastrophe,but sometimes the denouement is a happy one, thanks to the courageand constancy of the heroine or hero.

[Footnote: Potters Life of Daniel Boone] Among the adventurers whom DanielBoone the famous hunter and Indian fighter of Kentucky, describes as havingre-inforced his little colony was a young gentleman named Smith, who hadbeen a major in the militia of Virginia, and possessed a full share of thegallantry and noble spirit of his native State. In the absence of Boone hewas chosen, on account of his military rank and talent, to command the rudecitadel which contained all the wealth of this patriarchal band, theirwives, their children, and their herds. It held also an object particularlydear to this young soldier—a lady, the daughter of one of the settlers, towhom he had pledged his affections. It came to pass upon a certain day whena siege was just over, tranquillity restored, and the employment ofhusbandry resumed, that this young lady, with a lady companion, strolledout, as young ladies in love are very apt to do, along the bank of theKentucky River.

Having rambled about for some time they espied a canoe lying by the shore,and in a frolic stepped into it, with the determination of visiting aneighbor on the opposite bank. It seems that they were not so well skilledin navigation as the Lady of the Lake who paddled her own canoe verydexterously; for instead of gliding to the point of destination they werewhirled about by the stream, and at length thrown on a sandbar from whichthey were obliged to wade to the shore. Full of the mirth excited by theirwild adventure they hastily arranged their dresses and were proceeding toclimb the bank, when three Indians rushed from a neighboring covert, seizedthe fair wanderers, and forced them away. Their savage captors evincing nosympathy for their distress, nor allowing them time for rest or reflection,hurried them along during the whole day by rugged and thorny paths. Theirshoes were worn off by the rocks, their clothes torn, and their feet andlimbs lacerated and stained with blood. To heighten their misery one of thesavages began to make love to Miss ———, (the intended of Major S.) andwhile goading her along with a pointed stick, promised in recompense forher sufferings to make her his squaw. This at once roused all the energiesof her mind and called its powers into action. In the hope that her friendswould soon pursue them she broke the twigs as she passed along and delayedthe party as much as possible by tardy and blundering steps. The day andthe night passed, and another day of agony had nearly rolled over the headsof these afflicted girls, when their conductors halted to cook a hastyrepast of buffalo meat.

The ladies meanwhile were soon missed from the garrison. The naturalcourage and sagacity of Smith now heightened by love, gave him the wings ofthe wind and the fierceness of the tiger. The light traces of feminine feetled him to the place of embarkation; the canoe was traced to the oppositeshore; the deep prints of the moccasin in the sand told the rest of thestory.

The agonized Smith, accompanied by a few of his best woodsmen, pursued thespoil-encumbered foe. The track once discovered they kept it with thatunerring sagacity so peculiar to our hunters. The bended grass, thedisentangled briars, and the compressed shrubs afforded the only, but tothem the certain indication of the route of the enemy. When they hadsufficiently ascertained the general course of the retreat of the Indians,Smith quitted the trace, assuring his companions that they would fall inwith them at the pass of a certain stream-head for which he now struck adirect course, thus gaining on the foe who had taken the most difficultpaths.

Having arrived at the stream, they traced its course until they discoveredthe water newly thrown upon the rocks. Smith, leaving his party, now creptforward upon his hands and knees, until he discovered one of the savagesseated by a fire, and with a deliberate aim shot him through the heart. Thewomen rushed towards their deliverer, and recognizing Smith, clung to himin the transport of newly awakened joy and gratitude; while a second Indiansprang towards him with his tomahawk. Smith, disengaging himself from theladies, aimed a blow at his antagonist with his rifle, which the savageavoided by springing aside, but at the same moment the latter received amortal wound from another hand. The other and only remaining Indian fell inattempting to escape. Smith with his interesting charge returned in triumphto the fort where his gallantry no doubt was repaid by the sweetest ofall rewards.

The May flower, or trailing arbutus, has been aptly styled our nationalflower. It lifts its sweet face in the desolate and rugged hillside, andflourishes in the chilly air and earth of early spring. So amid the rudescenes of frontier-life, love and romance peep out, and courtship isconducted in log cabins and even in more untoward places.

A tradition of the early settlement of Auburn, New York, relates that whileCaptain Hardenberg, the stout young miller, was busy with his sacks ofgrain in his little log-mill, he was unexpectedly assaulted and overwhelmedwith the arrows not of the savages but of love. The sweet eyes as well asthe blooming health and courage of the daughter of Roeliffe Brinkerhoff whohad been sent by her father to the mill, made young Hardenberg capitulate,and during the hour while she was waiting for the grist he managedthoroughly to assure her of the state of his affections; the courtship thuswell begun resulted soon after in a wedding.

The imagination of the poet garnering the anecdotes and early traditions ofthe frontier around which lingers an aroma of love, has clothed them withnew life, adorned them with bright colors, endowed them with fresh andvernal perfume and then woven them into a wreath with the magic art ofpoesy. From out of a group of stern features on Plymouth rock, graven withthe deep lines of austere and almost cruel duty, the sweet face of RoseStandish looks winningly at us. The rugged captain of the Pilgrim bandwooes Priscilla Mullins, through his friend John Alden, and finds too latethat love does not prove fortunate when made by proxy; and Evangeline,maid, wife and widow comes back to us in beauty and sorrow from the farAcadian border. These romances of our eastern country have been fortunatein having a poet to make them immortal. But the West is equally fruitful inincidents which furnish material, and only lack the poet or novelist towork them up into enduring form.

The western country seems naturally fitted in many ways for love andromance. In that region the mind is uncramped and unfettered by theexcessive schooling and over-training which prevails in the oldersettlements of the East. The heart heats more freely and warmly when itscurrent is unchecked by conventionalities. Life is more intense in theWest. The transitions of life are more frequent and startling. Both men andthings are continually changing. In such a society impulse governs largely:the cooler and more selfish faculties of man's nature are less dominant.When we add to these conditions, the changes, hardships, and enforcedseparations of the frontier as frequent concomitants, we have exactly astate of society which is fruitful in romantic incidents—brides torn fromtheir husband's embrace and hurried away; but restored as suddenly andstrangely; two faithful lovers parted forever or re-united miraculously;and thrilling scenes in love's melodrama acted and re-acted on differentstages but always with startling effect.

The effects of the romantic incidents in the lives of our pioneer women arealso heightened by the extraordinary freshness and ever-changing scenery ofthe wilderness. Nature there spreads out like a mighty canvas: the forest,the mountains, and the prairies show clear and distinct through the crystalair so that peak and tree and even the tall blades of grass are outlinedwith a microscopic nearness. Over this vivid surface bison are browsing,and antelopes gambolling; plumed warriors flit by on their ponies, as thepioneer-men and women with wagons, oxen and horses are moving westward.This is the scene where love springs spontaneously out of the closecompanionship which danger enforces.

The story of the Chase family is an illustration of the adage that truth isoften stranger than fiction, and might readily furnish the groundwork uponwhich the genius of some future Cooper could construct an American romanceof thrilling interest.

The stage whereon this drama of real life was acted lay in that rich, broadexpanse between the Arkansas and the South Platte Rivers. The time, 1847.The principal actors were the Chase family, consisting of old Mr. Chase,his wife, sons, and grandsons, Mary, his daughter, La Bonte and Kilbuck twofamous hunters and mountaineers, Antoine a guide and Arapahoe Indians.

The scene opens with a view of three white-tilted Conestoga wagons or"prairie schooners," each drawn by four pair of oxen rumbling along througha plain enameled with the verdure and many tinted flowers of spring. Theday is drawing to its close, and the rays of the sinking sun throw a mellowlight over a waving sea of vernal herbage. The wagons are driven by thesons of Mr. Chase and contain the women and the household goods of thefamily. Behind the great swaying "schooners" walk the men with shoulderedrifles, and a troup of mounted men have just galloped up to bid adieu tothe departing emigrants. From out this group, the mild face of Mary Chasebeams with a parting smile in response to rough but kindly farewells ofthese her old friends and neighbors. The last words of warning andGod-speed are spoken by the mounted men, who gallop away and leave themmaking their first stage on a journey which will carry them northward andwestward more than two thousand miles from their old home in Missouri.

And now the sun has set, and still in the twilight the train moves on,stopping as the darkness falls, at a rich bottom, where the loose cattle,starting some hours before them, have been driven and corralled. The oxenare unyoked, the wagons drawn up, so as to form the sides of a smallsquare. A huge fire is kindled, the women descend and prepare the eveningmeal, boiling great kettles of coffee, and baking corn-cakes in the embers.The whole company stretch themselves around the fire, and having finishedtheir repast, address themselves to sweet sleep, such as tired voyagersover the plains can so well enjoy. The men of the party are soon soundlyslumbering; but the women, depressed with the thoughts that they areleaving their home and loved friends and neighbors, perhaps forever, theirhearts filled with forebodings of danger and misfortune, cast only wakefuleyes upon the darkened plain or up to the inscrutable stars that areshining with marvelous brightness in the azure firmament. Far into thenight they wake and watch, silently weeping until nature is exhausted, anda sleep, troubled with sad dreams, visits them.

With the first light of morning the camp is astir, and as the sun rises,the wagons are again rolling along across the upland prairies, to strikethe trail leading to the south fork of the Platte. Slowly and hardly,fifteen miles each day, they toil on over the heavy soil. At night, whilein camp, the hours are beguiled by Antoine, their Canadian guide, who tellsstories of wild life and perilous adventures among the hunters and trapperswho make the prairies and mountains their home. His descriptions of Indianfights and slaughters, and of the sufferings and privations endured by thehunters in their arduous life, fix the attention of the women of the party,and especially of Mary Chase, who listens with greater interest because sheremembers that such was the life led by one very dear to her—one longsupposed to be dead, and of whom, since his departure, fifteen yearsbefore, she has heard not a syllable. Her imagination now pictures himanew, as the most daring of these adventurous hunters, and conjures up hisfigure charging through the midst of yelling savages, or as stretched onthe ground, perishing of wounds, or of cold and famine.

Among the characters that figure in Antoine's stories is a hunter named LaBonte, made conspicuous by his deeds of hardihood and daring. At the firstmention of his name Mary's face is suffused with blushes; not that she fora moment dreamed that it could be her long lost La Bonte, for she knowsthat the name is a common one, but because from associations which stilllinger in her memory, it recalled a sad era in her former life, to whichshe could not revert without a strange mingling of pleasure and pain. Sheremembers the manly form of La Bonte as she first saw him, and the lovewhich sprang up between them; and then the parting, with the hope of speedyreunion. She remembers how two years passed without tidings of her lover,when, one bitter day, she met a mountaineer, just returned from the farWest to settle in his native State; and, inquiring tremblingly after LaBonte, he told how he had met his death from the Blackfeet Indians in thewild gorges of the Yellowstone country.

Now, on hearing once more that name, a spring of sweet and bitterrecollections is opened and a vague hope is raised in her breast that thelover of her youth is still alive. She questions the Canadian, "Who wasthis La Bonte who you say was such a brave mountaineer?" Antoine replies,"He was a fine fellow—strong as a buffalo-bull, a dead shot, cared not arush for the Indians, left a girl that he loved in Missouri, said the girldid not love him, and so he followed the trail to the mountains. He hasn'tgone under yet; be sure of that," says the good natured guide, observingthe emotion which Mary showed, and suspecting that she took a more thanordinary interest in the young hunter.

As the guide ceased to speak, Mary turns away and bursts into a flood oftears. The mention of the name of one whom she had long believed dead, andthe recital of his praiseworthy qualities, awake the strongest feelingswhich she had cherished towards one whose loss she still bewails.

The scene now changes to the camp of a party of hunters almost withinrifle-shot of the spot where the Chase family are sitting around theirevening fire. There are three in this party: one is Kilbuck, so known onthe plains, another is a stranger who has chanced to join them, the thirdis a hunter named La Bonte.

The conversation turning on the party encamped near them, the strangerremarks that their name is Chase. La Bonte looks up a moment from the lockof his rifle, which he is cleaning, but either does not hear, or, hearing,does not heed, for he resumes his work. "Traveling alone to the Plattevalley," continues the stranger, "they'll lose their hair, sure." "I hopenot," rejoins Kilbuck, "for there's a girl among them worth more thanthat." "Where does she come from, stranger," inquires La Bonte. "Down belowMissouri, from Tennessee, I hear." "And what's her name?" The colloquy isinterrupted by the entrance into the camp of an Arapahoe Indian. Thehunters address him in his own language. They learn from him that awar-party of his people was out on the Platte-trail to intercept thetraders on their return from the North Fork. He cautions them againstcrossing the divide, as the braves, he says, are "a heap mad, and takewhite scalp." The Indian, rewarded for his information with a feast ofbuffalo-meat, leaves the camp and starts for the mountains. The hunterspursue their journey the next day, traveling leisurely along, and stoppingwhere good grass and abundant game is found, until, one morning, theysuddenly strike a wheel-track, which left the creek-bank and pursued acourse at right angles to it in the direction of the divide. Kilbuckpronounces it but a few hours old, and that of three wagons drawn by oxen."These are the wagons of old Chase," says the strange hunter: "they'regoing right into the Rapahoe trap," cries Kilbuck. "I knew the name ofChase years ago," says La Bonte in a low tone, "and I should hate the worstkind to have mischief happen to any one that bore it. This trail is freshas paint, and it goes against me to let these simple critters help theRapahoes to their own hair. This child feels like helping them out of thescrape. What do you say, old hos?" "I think with you, my boy," repliesKilbuck, "and go in for following the wagon-trail and telling the poorcritters that there's danger ahead of them." "What's your talk, stranger?""I'm with you," answered the latter; and both follow quickly after LaBonte, who gallops away on the trail.

Returning now to the Chase family, we see again the three white-toppedwagons rumbling slowly over the rolling prairie and towards the uplandridge of the divide which rose before them, studded with dwarf pines andcedar thickets. They are evidently traveling with caution, for the quickeye of Antoine, the guide, has discovered recent Indian signs upon thetrail, and with the keenness of a mountaineer he at once sees that it isthat of a war-party, for there were no horses with them and after one ortwo of the moccasin tracks there was the mark of a rope which trailed uponthe ground. This was enough to show him that the Indians were provided withthe usual lassoes of skin with which to secure the horses stolen on theexpedition. The men of the party accordingly are all mounted and thoroughlyarmed, the wagons are moving in a line abreast, and a sharp lookout is kepton all sides. The women and children are all consigned to the interior ofthe wagons and the former also hold guns in readiness to take part in thedefense should an attack be made. As they move slowly on their course noIndians make their presence visible and the party are evidently losingtheir fears if not their caution.

As the shadows are lengthening they reach Black Horse Creek, and corralltheir wagons, kindle a fire, and are preparing for the night, when three orfour Indians suddenly show themselves on the bluff and making friendlysignals approach the camp. Most of the men are away attending to the cattleor collecting fuel, and only old Chase and a grandson fourteen years of ageare in the camp. The Indians are hospitably received and regaled with asmoke, after which they gratify their curiosity by examining the articleslying around, and among others which takes their fancy the pot boiling overthe fire, with which one of them is about very coolly to walk off, when oldChase, snatching it from the Indian's hands, knocks him down. One of hiscompanions instantly begins to draw the buckskin cover from his gun and isabout to take summary vengeance for the insult offered to his companion,when Mary Chase, courageously advancing, places her left hand on the gunwhich he is in the act of uncovering and with the other points a pistol athis breast.

Whether daunted by this bold act of the girl, or admiring her devotion toher father, the Indian, drawing back with a deep grunt, replaces the coveron his piece and motioning to the other Indians to be peaceable, shakeshands with old Chase, who all this time looks him steadily in the face.

The other whites soon return, the supper is ready, and all hands sit downto the repast. The Indians then gather their buffalo-robes about them andquickly withdraw. In spite of their quiet demeanor, Antoine says they meanmischief. Every precaution is therefore taken against surprise; the mulesand horses are hobbled, the oxen only being allowed to run at large; aguard is set around the camp; the fire is extinguished lest the savagesshould aim by its light at any of the party; and all slept with rifles andpistols ready at their side.

The night, however, passes quietly away, and nothing disturbs thetranquility of the camp except the mournful cry of the prairie wolf chasingthe antelope. The sun has now risen; they are yoking the cattle to thewagons and driving in the mules and horses, when a band of Indians showthemselves on the bluff and descending it approach the camp with an air ofconfidence. They are huge braves, hideously streaked with war-paint, andhide the malignant gleams that shoot from their snaky eyes with assumedsmiles and expressions of good nature.

Old Chase, ignorant of Indian treachery and in spite of the warnings ofAntoine, offering no obstruction to their approach, has allowed them toenter the camp. What madness! They have divested themselves of theirbuffalo-robes, and appear naked to the breech-clout and armed with bows andarrows, tomahawks, and scalping knives. Six or seven only come in at first,but others quickly follow, dropping in by twos and threes until a score ormore are collected around the wagons.

Their demeanor, at first friendly, changes to insolence and then tofierceness. They demand powder and shot, and when they are refused begin tobrandish their tomahawks. A tall chief, motioning to the band to keep back,now accosts Mr. Chase, and through Antoine as an interpreter, informs himthat unless the demands of his braves are complied with he will not beresponsible for the consequences; that they are out on the war-trail andtheir eyes red with blood so that they cannot distinguish between whiteman's and Utah's scalps; that the party and all their women and wagons arein the power of the Indian braves; and therefore that the white chief'sbest plan will be to make what terms he can; that all they require is thatthey shall give up their guns and ammunition on the prairie and all theirmules and horses, retaining only the medicine-buffaloes (the oxen) to drawtheir wagons. By this time the oxen have been yoked to the teams and theteamsters stand whip in hand ready for the order to start. Old Chasetrembles with rage at the insolent demand. "Not a grain of powder to savemy life," he yells; "put out boys!" As he turns to mount his horse whichstands ready saddled, the Indians leap upon the wagons and others rushagainst the men who make a brave fight in their defence. Mary, who sees herfather struck to the ground, springs with a shrill cry to his assistance atthe moment when a savage, crimson with paint and looking like a red demon,bestrides his prostrate body, brandishing a glittering knife in the airpreparatory to plunging it into the old man's heart. All is wild confusion.The whites are struggling heroically against overpowering numbers. A singlevolley of rifles is heard and three Indians bite the dust. A moment laterand the brave defenders are disarmed amid the shrieks of the women and thechildren and the triumphant whoops of the savages.

Mary, flying to her father's rescue, has been overtaken by a huge Indian,who throws his lasso over her shoulders and drags her to the earth, thendrawing his scalping-knife he is about to tear the gory trophy from herhead. The girl, rising upon her knees, struggles towards the spot where herfather lies, now bathed in blood. The Indian jerks the lariat violently anddrags her on her face, and with a wild yell rushes to complete the bloodywork.

At that instant a yell as fierce as his own is echoed from the bluff, andlooking up he sees La Bonte charging down the declivity, his long hair andthe fringes of his garments waving in the breeze, his trusty riflesupported in his right arm, and hard after him Kilbuck and the strangergalloping with loud shouts to the scene of action. As La Bonte races madlydown the side of the bluff, he catches sight of the girl as the ferocioussavage is dragging her over the ground. A cry of horror and vengeanceescapes his lips, as driving his spurs to the rowels into his steed hebounds like an arrow to the rescue. Another instant and he is upon his foe;pushing the muzzle of his rifle against the broad chest of the Indian hepulled the trigger, literally blowing out the savage's heart. Cropping hisrifle, he wheels his trained horse and drawing a pistol from his belt hecharges the enemy among whom Kilbuck and the stranger are dealingdeath-blows. The Indians, panic-stricken by the suddenness of the attack,turn and flee, leaving several of their number dead upon the field.

Mary, with her arms bound to her body by the lasso, and with her eyesclosed to receive the fatal stroke, hears the defiant shout of La Bonte,and glancing up between her half-opened eyelids, sees the wild figure ofthe mountaineer as he sends the bullet to the heart of her foe. When theIndians flee, La Bonte, the first to run to her aid, cuts the skin-rope,raises her from the ground, looks long and intently in her face, and seeshis never-to-be-forgotten Mary Chase. "What! can it be you, Mary?" heexclaims, gazing at the trembling maiden, who hardly believes her eyes asshe returns his gaze and recognizes in her deliverer her former lover. Sheonly sobs and clings closer to him in speechless gratitude and love.

Turning from these lovers reunited so miraculously, we see stretched on thebattle-field the two grandsons of Mr. Chase, fine lads of fourteen orfifteen, who after fighting like men fall dead pierced with arrows andlances. Old Chase and his sons are slightly wounded, and Antoine shotthrough the neck and half scalped. The dead boys are laid tenderly beneaththe prairie-sod, the wounds of the others are dressed, and the followingmorning the party continue their journey to the Platte. The three huntersguide and guard them on their way, Mary riding on horseback by the side ofher lover.

For many days they pursued their journey, but with feelings far differentfrom those with which they had made its earlier stages. Old Mr. Chasemarches on doggedly and in silence; his resolution to seek a new home onthe banks of the Columbia has been shaken more by the loss of hisgrandsons, than by the fatigues and privations incident to the march. Theunbidden tears often steal down the cheeks of the women, who cast many alonging look behind them towards the southeastern horizon, far beyond whosepurple rim lay their old home. The South Fork of the Platte has beenpassed, Laramie reached, and for a fortnight the lofty summits of themountains which overhang the "pass" to California have been in sight; butwhen they strike the broad trail which would conduct them to their promisedland in the valley of the Columbia, the party pause, gaze for a momentsteadfastly at the mountain-summits, and then as if by a common impulse,the heads of the horses and oxen are faced to the east, and men, women, andchildren toss their hats and bonnets in the air, hurrahing lustily for homeas the huge wagons roll down along the banks of the river Platte. Theclosing scene in this romantic melodrama was the marriage of Mary and LaBonte, in Tennessee, four months after the rescue of the Chase family fromthe Indians.

The following "romance of the forest" we believe has never before beenpublished. The substance of it was communicated to the writer by agentleman who received it from his grandfather, one of the early settlersof Michigan.

In the year 1762 the Great Pontiac, the Indian Napoleon of the Northwest,had his headquarters in a small secluded island at the opening of Lake St.Clair. Here he organized, with wonderful ability and secrecy, awide-reaching conspiracy, having for its object the destruction of everyEnglish garrison and settlement in Michigan. His envoys, with blood-stainedhatchets, had been despatched to the various Indian tribes of the region,and wherever these emblems of butchery had been accepted the savage hordeswere gathering, and around their bale-fires in the midnight pantomimes ofmurder were concentrating their excitable natures into a burning focuswhich would light their path to carnage and rapine.

While these lurid clouds, charged with death and destruction, weregathering, unseen, about the heads of the adventurous pioneers, who hadpenetrated that beautiful region, a family of eastern settlers, namedRouse, arrived in the territory, and, disregarding the admonitions of theofficers in the fort at Detroit, pushed on twenty miles farther west andplanted themselves in the heart of one of those magnificent oak-openingswhich the Almighty seems to have designed as parks and pleasure-grounds forthe sons and daughters of the forest.

Miss Anna Rouse, the only daughter of the family, had been betrothed beforeher departure from New York State to a young man named James Philbrick, whohad afterward gone to fight the French and Indians. It was understood thatupon his return he was to follow the Rouse family to Michigan, where, uponhis arrival, the marriage was to take place.

In a few months young Philbrick reached the appointed place, and in thefollowing week married Miss Rouse in the presence of a numerous assemblageof soldiers and settlers, who had come from the military posts and thenearest plantations to join in the festivities.

All was gladness and hilarity; the hospitality was bounteous, the companyjoyous, the bridegroom brave and manly, and the bride lovely as a wildrose. When the banquet was ready the guests trooped into the room where itwas spread, and even the sentinels who had been posted beside the musketsin the door-yard, seeing no signs of prowling savages, had entered thehouse and were enjoying the feast. Scarcely had they abandoned their postwhen an ear-piercing war-whoop silenced in a moment the joyous sound of therevelers. The soldiers rushed to the door only to be shot down. A fewsucceeded in recovering their arms, and made a desperate fight. Meanwhilethe savages battered down the doors, and leaped in at the windows. Thebridegroom was shot, and left for dead, as he was assisting to conceal hisbride, and a gigantic warrior, seizing the latter, bore her away into thedarkness. After a short but terrific struggle, the savages were driven outof the house, but the defenders were so crippled by their losses and by thewant of arms which the enemy had carried away, that it was judged best notto attempt to pursue the Indians, who had disappeared as suddenly as theycame.

When the body of the bridegroom was lifted up it was discovered that hisheart still beat, though but faintly. Restoratives were administered, andhe slowly came back to life, and to the sad consciousness that all thatcould make life happy to him was gone for ever.

The family soon after abandoned their new home and moved to Detroit, owingto the danger of fresh attacks from Pontiac and his confederates. Yearsrolled away; young Philbrick, as soon as he recovered from his wounds, tookpart in the stirring scenes of the war, and strove to forget, in turmoiland excitement, the loss of his fair young bride. But in vain. Herremembrance in the fray nerved his arm to strike, and steadied his eye tolaunch the bullet at the heart of the hated foes who had bereft him of hisdearest treasure; and in the stillness of the night his imaginationpictured her, the cruel victim of her barbarous captors.

Peace came in 1763, and he then learned that she had been carried toCanada. He hastened down the St. Lawrence and passed from settlement tosettlement, but could gain no tidings of her. After two years, spent inunavailing search, he came back a sad and almost broken-hearted man.

Her image, as she appeared when last he saw her, all radiant in youth andbeauty, haunted his waking hours, and in his dreams she was with him as avisible presence. Months, years rolled away; he gave her up as dead, but hedid not forget his long-lost bride.

One summer's day, while sitting in his cabin in Michigan, in one of thosebeautiful natural parks, where he had chosen his abode, he heard a lightstep, and, looking up, saw his bride standing before him, beautiful still,but with a chastened beauty which told of years of separation and grief.

Her story was a long one. When she was borne away from the marriage feastby her savage captor, she was seen by an old squaw, the wife of a famouschief who had just lost her own daughter, and being attracted by the beautyof Miss Rouse, she protected her from violence, and finally adopted her.Twice she escaped, but was recaptured. The old squaw afterwards took her athousand miles into the wilderness, and watched her with the ferocioustenderness that the tigress shows for her young. At length, after nearlysix years, her Indian mother died. She succeeded then in making her escape,traveled four hundred miles on foot, reached the St. Lawrence, and afterpassing through great perils and hardships, arrived at Detroit. There shesoon found friends, who relieved her wants and conveyed her to her husband,whom she had remembered with fondness and loved with constancy during allthe weary years of her captivity.

CHAPTER XI.

PATHETIC PASSAGES OF PIONEER LIFE.

A hundred ills brood over the cabin in the wilderness. Some areever-present; others lie in wait, and start forth at intervals.

Labor, Solitude, Fear; these are the companions of woman on the border: tothese come other visitants—weariness, and that longing, yearning, piningof the heart which the Germans so beautifully term sehn-sucht—hunger,vigils, bodily pain and sickness, the biting cold, the drenching storm, thefierce heat, with savage eyes of man and beast glaring from the thicket.Then sorrow takes bodily shape and enters the house; loved ones are borneaway—the child, or the father, or saddest of all, the mother; the longstruggle is over, and the devoted woman of the household lays her wastedform beneath the grassy sod of the cabin yard.

Bereavement is hard to bear in even the houses where comfort, ease, andluxury surround the occupants, where friends and kinsfolk crowd to pour outsympathy and consolation. But what must it be in the rude cabin on thelonely border? The grave hollowed out in the hard soil of the littleinclosure, the rough shell-coffin hewn with tears from the forest tree, thesorrowing household ranged in silence beside the form which will gladdenthe loneliness of that stricken family no longer, and then the mournersturn away and go back to their homely toils.

If from the time of the landing we could recall the long procession of theactors and the events of border-life, and pass them before the eye in onegreat moving panorama, how somber would be the colors of that picture! Allalong the grand march what scenes of captivity, suffering, bereavement,sorrow, and in these scenes, woman the most prominent figure, for she wasthe constant actress in this great drama of woe!

The carrying away and the return of captives in war has furnished themes bywhich poets and artists in all ages have moved the heart of man. Thebreaking up of homes, the violent separations of those who are kindred byblood, and the sundering for ever of family ties were ordinary and everyday incidents in the border-wars of our country: but the frequency of suchoccurrences does not detract from the mournful interest with which they arealways fraught.

At the close of the old French and Indian War, Colonel Henry Bouquetstipulated with the Indian tribes on the Ohio frontier as one of theconditions of peace that they should restore all the captives which theyhad taken. This was agreed to, and on his return march he was met by agreat company of settlers in search of their lost relatives. "Husbandsfound their wives and parents their children, from whom they had beenseparated for years. Women frantic between hope and fear, were runninghither and thither, looking piercingly into the face of every child, tofind their own, which, perhaps, had died—and then such shrieks of agony!Some of the little captives shrank from their own forgotten mothers, andhid in terror in the blankets of the squaws that had adopted them. Somethat had been taken away young, had grown up and married Indian husbands orIndian wives, and now stood utterly bewildered with conflicting emotions. Ayoung Virginian had found his wife; but his little boy, not two years oldwhen captured, had been torn from her, and had been carried off, no oneknew whither. One day a warrior came in, leading a child. No one seemed toown it. But soon the mother knew her offspring and screaming with joy,folded her son to her bosom. An old woman had lost her granddaughter in theFrench war, nine years before. All her other relatives had died under theknife. Searching, with trembling eagerness, in each face, she at lastrecognized the altered features of her child. But the girl who hadforgotten her native tongue, returned no answer, and made no sign. The oldwoman groaned, wept, and complained bitterly, that the daughter she had sooften sung to sleep on her knees, had forgotten her in her old age.Soldiers and officers were alike overcome. 'Sing,' whispered Bouquet, 'singthe song you used to sing.' As the low, trembling tones began to ascend,the wild girl gave one sudden start, then listening for a moment longer,her frame shaking like an ague, she burst into a passionate flood of tears.That was sufficient. She was the lost child. All else had been effaced fromher memory, but the music of the nursery-song. During her captivity she hadheard it in her dreams."

Another story of the same character is that of Frances Slocum, the "Lostchild of Wyoming," which though perhaps familiar to some of our readers,will bear repeating.

In the time of the Revolution the house of Mr. Slocum in the Wyomingvalley, was attacked by a party of Delawares. The inmates of the house, atthe moment of the surprise, were Mrs. Slocum and four young children, theeldest of whom was a son aged thirteen, the second, a daughter aged nine,the third, Frances Slocum, aged five, and a little son aged two and a half.

The girl, aged nine years old, appears to have had the most presence ofmind, for while the mother ran into a copse of wood near by, and Francesattempted to secrete herself behind a staircase, the former seized herlittle brother, the youngest above mentioned, and ran off in the directionof the fort. True she could not make rapid progress, for she clung to thechild, and not even the pursuit of the savages could induce her to drop hercharge. The Indians did not pursue her far, and laughed heartily at thepanic of the little girl, while they could not but admire her resolution.Allowing her to make her escape, they returned to the house, and afterhelping themselves to such articles as they chose, prepared to depart.

The mother seems to have been unobserved by them, although, with a yearningbosom, she had so disposed of herself that while she was screened fromobservation she could notice all that occurred. But judge of her feelingsat the moment when they were about to depart, as she saw her little Francestaken from her hiding place, and preparations made to carry her away intocaptivity. The sight was too much for maternal tenderness to endure.Rushing from her place of concealment, she threw herself upon her knees atthe feet of the captors, and with the most earnest entreaties pleaded forthe restoration of the child. But their bosoms were made of sterner stuffthan to yield even to the most eloquent and affectionate entreaties of amother, and with characteristic stoicism they prepared to depart. Deafalike to the cries of the mother, and the shrieks of the child, Frances wasslung over the shoulder of a stalwart Indian with as much indifference asthough she were a slaughtered fawn.

The long, lingering look which the mother gave to her child, as her captorsdisappeared in the forest, was the last glimpse of her sweet features thatshe ever had. But the vision was for many a long year ever present to herfancy. As the Indian threw the child over his shoulder, her hair fell overher face, and the mother could never forget how the tears streamed down hercheeks, when she brushed it away as if to catch a last sad look of themother from whom, her little arms outstretched, she implored assistance invain.

These events cast a shadow over the remaining years of Mrs. Slocum. Shelived to see many bright and sunny days in that beautiful valley—brightand sunny, alas! to her no longer. She mourned for the lost one, of whom notidings, at least during her pilgrimage, could be obtained. After her sonsgrew up, the youngest of whom, by the way, was born but a few monthssubsequent to the events already narrated, obedient to the charge of theirmother, the most unwearied efforts were made to ascertain what had been thefate of the lost sister. The forest between the Susquehanna and the GreatLakes, and even the most distant wilds of Canada, were traversed by thebrothers in vain, nor could any information respecting her be derived fromthe Indians. Once, indeed, during an excursion of one of the brothers intothe vast wilds of the West, a white woman, long ago captive, came to him inthe hopes of finding a brother; but after many anxious efforts to discoverevidences of relationship, the failure was as decisive as it was mutuallysad.

There was yet another kindred occurrence, still more painful. One of themany hapless female captives in the Indian country becoming acquainted withthe inquiries prosecuted by the Slocum family, presented herself to Mrs.Slocum, trusting that in her she might find her long lost mother. Mrs.Slocum was touched by her appearance, and fain would have claimed her. Sheled the stranger about the house and yards to see if there were anyrecollections by which she could be identified as her own lost one. Butthere was nothing written upon the pages of memory to warrant the desiredconclusion, and the hapless captive returned in bitter disappointment toher forest home. In process of time these efforts were all relinquished ashopeless. The lost Frances might have fallen beneath the tomahawk or mighthave proved too tender a flower for transplantation into the wilderness.Conjecture was baffled, and the mother, with a sad heart, sank into thegrave, as did also the father, believing with the Hebrew patriarch that the"child was not."

Long years passed away and the memory of little Frances was forgotten, saveby two brothers and a sister, who, though advanced in the vale of life,could not forget the family tradition of the lost one. Indeed it had beenthe dying charge of their mother that they must never relinquish theirexertions to discover Frances.

Fifty years and more had passed since the disappearance of little Frances,when news came to the surviving members of the bereaved family that she wasstill alive. She had been adopted into the tribe of the Miami Indians, andwas passing her days as a squaw in the lodges of that people.

The two surviving brothers and their sister undertook a journey to see, andif possible, to reclaim, the long lost Frances. Accompanied by aninterpreter whom they had engaged in the Indian country, they reached atlast the designated place and found their sister. But alas! how changed!Instead of the fair-haired and laughing girl, the picture yet living intheir imagination, they found her an aged and thoroughbred squaw ineverything but complexion. She was sitting when they entered her lodge,composed of two large log-houses connected by a shed, with her twodaughters, the one about twenty-three years old, and the other aboutthirty-three, and three or four pretty grandchildren. The closing hours ofthe journey had been made in perfect silence, deep thoughts struggling inthe bosoms of all. On entering the lodge, the first exclamation of one ofthe brothers was,—"Oh, God! is that my sister!" A moment afterward, andthe sight of her thumb, disfigured in childhood, left no doubt as to heridentity. The following colloquy, conducted through the interpreter,ensued:

"What was your name when a child?"

"I do not recollect."

"What do you remember?"

"My father, my mother, the long river, the staircase under which I hid whenthey came."

"How came you to lose your thumb-nail?"

"My brother hammered it off a long time ago, when I was a very little girlat my father's house."

"Do you know how many brothers and sisters you had?"

She then mentioned them, and in the order of their ages.

"Would you know your name if you should hear it repeated?"

"It is a long time since, and perhaps I should not."

"Was it Frances?"

At once a smile played upon her features, and for a moment there seemed topass over the face what might be called the shadow of an emotion, as sheanswered, "Yes."

Other reminiscences were awakened, and the recognition was complete. Buthow different were the emotions of the parties! The brothers paced thelodge in agitation. The civilized sister was in tears. The other, obedientto the affected stoicism of her adopted race, was as cold, unmoved, andpassionless as marble.

The brothers and sister returned unable, after urgent and lovingentreaties, to win back their tawny sister from her wilds. Her Indianhusband and children were there; there was the free, open forest, and sheclung to these; and yet the love of her kinsfolk for her, and her's forthem, was not quenched.

[Illustration: PARTED FOREVER.]

Transporting ourselves far from the beautiful valley of Wyoming, where thegrief-stricken mother will wake never more to the consciousness of the lossof her sweet Frances, we stand on the prairies of Kansas. The time is 1856.One of the settlers who, with his wife, was seeking to build up a communityin the turmoil, which then made that beautiful region such dangerousground, has met his death at the hands of a rival faction. We enter thewidow's desolated home. A shelter rather than a house, with but twowretched rooms, it stands alone upon the prairie. The darkness of a stormywinter's evening was gathering over the snow-clad slopes of the wide, bareprairie, as, in company with a sympathizing friend, we enter that lonelydwelling.

In the scantily-furnished apartment into which we are shown, two or threewomen and as many children are crowding around a stove, for the night isbitter cold, and even the large wood-fire scarcely heated a space so thinlywalled. Behind a heavy pine table, on which stands a flickeringtallow-candle, and leaning against a half-curtained window on which thesleet and winter's blast beat drearily, sits a woman of some forty years ofa*ge, clad in a dress of dark, coarse stuff, resting her head on her hand,and seeming unmindful of all about her.

She was the widow of Thomas W. Barber, one of the victims of the Kansaswar. The attenuated hand supporting the aching head, and half shielding thetear-dimmed eyes, the silent drops trickling down the wasted cheeks, toldbut too well the sad story.

"They have left me," she cried, "a poor, forsaken creature, to mourn all mydays! Oh, my husband, my husband, they have taken from me all that I holddear! one that I loved better than I loved my own life!"

Thomas W. Barber was a careful and painstaking farmer, a kind neighbor, andan inoffensive, amiable man. His "untimely taking off" was indeed a sadloss to the community at large, but how much more to his wife! She hadloved him with a love that amounted to idolatry. When he was returning fromhis daily toil she would go forth to meet him. When absent from home, ifhis stay was prolonged, she would pass the whole night in tears; and whenill, she would hang over his bed like a mother over her child. With apresentiment of evil, when he left his home for the last time, afterexhausting every argument to prevent him from going, she had said to him,"Oh, Thomas! if you should be shot, I shall be left all alone, with nochild and nothing in the wide world to fill your place!" This was theirlast parting.

The intelligence of his death was kept in mercy from her, through thekindness of friends, who hoped to break it to her gently. This thoughtfuland sympathetic purpose was marred by the unthinking act of a young man,who had been sent with a carriage to convey her to the hotel where herhusband's body lay. As he rode up he shouted, "Thomas Barber is killed!"His widow half-caught the dreadful words, and rushing to the door cried,"Oh, God! What do I hear?" Seeing the mournful and sympathetic faces of thebystanders, she knew the truth and filled the house with her shrieks. Whenthey brought her into the apartment where her husband lay, she threwherself upon his corpse, and kissing the dead man's face, called downimprecations on the heads of those who had bereaved her of all she helddear.

The prairies of the great West resemble the ocean in more respects than intheir level vastness, and the travelers who pass over them are likemariners who guide themselves only by the constellations and the greatluminaries of heaven. The trail of the emigrant, like the track of theship, is often uncrossed for days by others who are voyaging over thismighty expanse. Distance becomes delusive, and after journeying for daysand failing to reach the foot-hills of the mountains, whose peaks haveshone to his eyes in so many morning suns, the tired emigrant is tempted bythe abounding richness of the country to pause. He is one hundred milesfrom the nearest settlement. Beside a stream he builds his cabin. He islike a voyager whose ship has been burned, leaving him in a strange landwhich he must conquer or die.

Such was the situation of that household on the prairie of Illinois,concerning whom is told a story full of mournful pathos. We should note, inpassing on to our story, one of the dangers to which prairie-dwellers areexposed. They live two or three months every year in a magazine ofcombustibles. One of the peculiarities of the climate in those regions isthe dryness of its summers and autumns. A drought often commences in Augustwhich, with the exception of a few showers towards the close of that month,continues, with little interruption, throughout the full season. Theimmense mass of vegetation with which the fertile soil loads itself duringthe summer is suddenly withered, and the whole earth is covered withcombustible materials. A single spark of fire falling anywhere upon theseplains at such a time, instantly kindles a blaze that spreads on everyside, and continues its destructive course as long as it finds fuel, thesefires sweeping on with a rapidity which renders it hazardous even to flybefore them.

The flames often extend across a wide prairie and advance in a long line;no sight can be more sublime than to behold at night a stream of fireseveral miles in breadth advancing across these plains, leaving behind it ablack cloud of smoke, and throwing before it a vivid glare which lights upthe whole landscape with the brilliancy of noonday. A roaring and cracklingsound is heard like the rushing of the hurricane; the flame, which, ingeneral, rises to the height of about twenty feet, is seen sinking anddarting upward in spires precisely as the waves dash against each other,and as the spray flies up into the air; the whole appearance is often thatof a boiling and flaming sea violently agitated. Woe to the farmer whoseripe corn-field extends into the prairie, and who has carelessly sufferedthe tall grass to grow in contact with his fences; the whole labor of ayear is swept away in a few hours.

More than sixty years since, and before the beautiful wild gardens ofIllinois had been tilled by the hand of the white man, an emigrant with hisfamily came thither from the East in search of a spot whereon to make hishome. One bright spring day his white-topped wagon entered a prairie richerin its verdure and more brilliant in its flowers, than any that had yet methis eyes. At night-fall it halted beside a clump of trees not far from acreek. On this site a log-cabin soon rose and sent its smoke curlingthrough the overhanging boughs.

The only neighbors of the pioneers were the rambling Indians. Theirhabitation was the center of a vast circle not dwelt in, and rarely evencrossed by white settlers; oxen, cows, and a dog were their only domesticanimals. For many months after their cabin was built they depended on wildgame and fruits for subsistence; the rifle of the father, and traps set bythe boys, brought them an abundant supply of meat. The wife and motherwrought patiently for those she loved. Her busy hands kept a well-orderedhouse by day, and at night she plied the needle to repair the wardrobe ofher little household band. It was already growing scanty, and materials toreplace it could only be procured at a distance, and means to procure itwere limited. Patching and darning until their garments were beyond repair,she then supplied their place with skins stripped from the deer which thefather had shot. Far into the night, by the flickering light of a singlecandle, this gentle housewife plied "her busy care," while her husband,worn out with his day's work, and her children, tired by their rambles,were slumbering in the single chamber of the cabin.

October came, and a journey to the nearest settlement for winter goods andstores, must be made. After due preparation the father and his eldest sonstarted in the emigrant wagon, and expected to be absent many days, duringwhich the mother and her children, with only the dog for their protection,looked hourly forth upon the now frost-embrowned prairie, and fondly hopedfor their return.

Day after day passed, and no sign of life was visible upon the plain savethe deer bounding over the sere herbage, or the wolf loping stealthilyagainst the wind which bore the scent of his prey. A rising haze began toenvelope the landscape, betokening the approach of the Indian summer,

"The melancholy days had come,
The saddest of the year,"

and the desolation of nature found an answering mood in the soul of thatlone woman. One day she was visited by a party of Indian warriors, and fromthem she learned that there was a war between the tribes through whosecountry the journey of her husband lay. A boding fear for his safety tookpossession of her, and after the warriors had partaken of her hospitalityand departed, and night came, she laid her little ones in their bed, andsat for hours on the threshold of the cabin door, looking out through thedarkness and praying silently for the return of her loved ones. The windwas rising and driving across the sky black masses of clouds which lookedlike misshapen specters of evil. The blast whistled through the leaflesstrees and howled round the cabin. Hours passed, and still the sorrowfulwife and mother sat gazing into the gloom as if her eyes would pierce itand lighten on the wished-for object.

But what is that strange light which far to the north gleams on theblackened sky? It was not the lightning's flash, for it was a steadybrightening glow. It was not the weird flash of the aurora borealis, but aredder and more lurid sheen; nor was it the harbinger of the rising sunwhich lit that northern sky. From a tinge it brightens to a gleam, anddeepened at last into a broad glare. That lonely heart was overwhelmed withthe dreadful truth. The prairie is on fire! Often had they talked ofprairie fires as a spectacle of grandeur. But never had she dreamed of thered demon as an enemy to be encountered in that dreadful solitude.

Her heart sank within her as she saw the danger leaping toward her likesome fiery and maddened race-horse. Was there no escape? Her children weresweetly sleeping, and the faithful dog, her only guardian, was gazing as ifwith mute sympathy into her face. Within an hour she calculates theconflagration would be at her very door. All around her is one dry ocean ofcombustibles. She cannot reach the tree-tops, and if she could, to clingthere would be impossible amid those towering flames. The elements seemedto grow madder as the fire approached; fiercer blew the blast, intermittingfor a moment only to gather fresh potency and mingle its own strength withthat of the flames. She still had a faint hope that a creek a few milesaway would be a barrier over which the blaze could not leap. She saw by thebroad light which made even the distant prairie like noonday, the tops ofthe trees that fringed the creek but for a few moments, and then they wereswallowed up in that crimson furnace. Alas! the stream had been crossed bythe resistless flames, and her last hope died away.

Bewildered and half stupefied by the terrors of her situation, she had notyet wakened her children. But now no time was to be lost. Already inimagination she felt the hot breath of her relentless foe. It was with muchdifficulty that she awoke them and aroused them to a sense of their awfuldanger. Hastily dressing them she encircled them in her arms and kissed andfondled them as if for a last farewell. Now for the first time she missedthe dog, the faithful companion and guardian of her solitude, and on whoseaid she still counted in the hour of supreme peril. She called him loudly,but in vain. Turning her face northward she saw one unbroken line of flameas far as the eye could reach, and forcing its way towards her like aninfuriated demon, roaring, crackling, sending up columns of dun-coloredsmoke as it tore along over the plain. A few minutes more and her fatewould be decided. Falling on her knees she poured out her heart in prayer,supplicating for mercy and commending herself and her helpless babes toAlmighty God. As she rose calmed and stayed by that fervent supplication alow wistful bark fell on her ear; the dog came bounding to her side;seizing her by the dress as if he would drag her from the spot, he leapedaway from her, barking and whining, looking back towards her as he ran.Following him a few steps and seeing nothing, she returned and resumed herseat, awaiting death beside her children.

Again the dog returned, pawing, whining, howling, and trying in every wayto attract her attention. What could he mean? Then for the first timeflashed upon her the thought which had already occurred to the sagaciousinstinct of the dumb brute! The ploughed field! Yes, there alone was hopeof safety! Clasping the two youngest children with one arm she almostdragged the eldest boy as she fled along the trodden path, the dog goingbefore them showing every token of delight. The fire was at their heels,and its hot breath almost scorched their clothes as they ran. They gainedthe herbless ploughed field and took their station in its center just asthe flames darted round on each side of them.

The exhausted mother, faint with the sudden deliverance, dropped on theground among her helpless babes. Father of mercies! what an escape!

In a few moments the flames attacked the haystack, which was but a morselto its fury, and then seizing the house devoured it more slowly, while thegreat volume of the fire swept around over the plain. Long did the light ofthe burning home blight the eye of the lone woman after the flames had donetheir worst on the prairie around her and gone on bearing ruin anddevastation to the southern plains and groves.

The vigils and the terrors of that fearful night wrought their work on thelonely woman, and she sank into a trance-like slumber upon the naked earth,with her babes nestling in her lap and the dog, her noble guardian,crouching at her feet. She awoke with the first light of morning to theterrible realities from which for a few brief hours she had had a blessedoblivion. She arose as from a dream and cast a dazed look southward over acharred and blackened expanse stretching to the horizon, over which thesmoke was hanging like a pall. Turning away, stunned by the fearfulrecollection, her eyes fell upon the smouldering ruins of her once happyhome. She tottered with her chilled and hungry children towards the heap ofsmoking rafters and still glowing embers of the cabin, with which themorning breezes were toying as in merry pastime, and sat down upon a moundwhich stood before what had once been the door. Here, at least, was warmth,but whither should she go for shelter and food. There was no house withinforty miles and the cruel flames had spared neither grain nor meat. Therewas no shelter but the canopy of heaven and no food but roots andhalf-burned nuts.

Wandering hither and thither under the charred and leafless trees, shepicked up with her numb and nerveless fingers the relics of the autumn nutsor feebly dug in the frost-stiffened ground for roots. But these were rare;here and there she found a nut shielded by a decayed log, and the edibleroots were almost hidden by the ashes of the grass. She returned to thefire, around which her innocent children had begun to frolic with childlikethoughtlessness. The coarse morsels which she gave them seemed for themoment to quiet their cravings, and the strange sight of their home inruins diverted their minds. The mother saw with joy that they were amusingthemselves with merry games and had no part in her bitter sorrows andfears. Long and earnestly did she bend her eyes on the wide, black plainsto see if she could discern the white-topped wagon moving over that darkexpanse. Noon came and passed but brought not the sight for which sheyearned: only the brown deer gamboling and the prairie hen wheeling herflight over the scorched waste!

Night came with its cold, its darkness, its hunger, its dreadful solitude!The chilled and shelterless woman sat with the heads of her sleepingchildren pillowed in her lap, and listened to the howling of the starvedwolves, the dog her only guardian. She had discovered a few ground-nuts,which she had divided among the children, reserving none for herself; shehad stripped off nearly all her clothing in order to wrap them up warmlyagainst the frosty air, and with pleasant words, while her head wasbursting, she had soothed them to sleep beside the burning pile; and there,through the watches of the long night, she gazed fondly at them and prayedto the Father of mercies that they, at least, might be spared.

The night was dark: beyond the circle of the burning embers nothing couldbe discerned. At intervals, her blood was curdled by the long, mournfulhowl of the gaunt gray wolf calling his companions to their prey. The coldwind whistled around her thinly clad frame and chilled it to the core. Asthe night grew stiller a drowsiness against which she contended in vain,overcame her, her eyelids drooped, her shivering body swayed to and fro,until by the tumbling down of the embers she was again aroused, and wouldbrace herself for another hour's vigil. At last the darkness becameprofoundly silent and even the wind ceased to whisper, the nocturnalmarauders stole away, and night held her undisputed reign. Then came aheavy dreamless sleep and overpowered the frame of the watcher, chilled asit was, and faint with hunger, and worn with fatigue and vigils: she curledher shivering limbs around her loved ones and became oblivious to all.

It was the cry of her babes that waked her from slumber. The fire wasslowly dying; the sun was looking down coldly from the leaden sky; slowlyhis beams were obscured by dark, sullen masses of vapor, which at lastcurtained the whole heavens. Rain! When she sat watching in the darkness, afew hours before, she thought nothing could make her condition worse. Butan impending rain-storm which, thirty-six hours before, would have beenhailed as merciful and saving, would now only aggravate their situation.Darker and darker grew the sky. She must hasten for food ere the cloudsshould burst. Her limbs were stiff with cold, her sight was dim, and herbrain reeled as she rose to her feet and tottered to the grove to searchfor sustenance to keep her wailing babes alive. Her own desire for food wasgone, but all exhausted as she was she could not resist the pleadings ofthe loved ones who hung upon her garments and begged for food.

Gleaning a few more coarse morsels on the ground so often searched, shetottered back to the spot which still seemed home though naught of home wasthere. Strange, racking pains wrung her wasted body, and sinking downbeside her children she felt as if her last hour had come. Yes! she wouldperish there beside those consecrated ashes with her little ones aroundher. A drizzling rain was falling faster and faster. The fire was dying andshe pushed the brands together, and gathered her trembling babes about herknees, and between the periods of her agony told them not to forget theirmamma nor how they had lost her; she gave the eldest boy many tendermessages to carry to her husband and to her first born. With wondering andtearful face he promised to do as she desired, but begged her to tell himwhere she would be when his father came and whether his little brotherwould go with her and leave him all alone.

The rain poured down mercilessly and chilly blew the blast. The embershissed and blackened and shed no more warmth on the suffering group. Keenerand heavier grew the mother's pangs, and there beside the smoking ruins ofher home, prone on the drenched soil, with the pitiless sky bending aboveher, her helpless children wailing around her writhing form, the haplesswoman gave birth to a little babe, whose eyes were never opened to thedesolation of its natal home.

Unconscious alike to the cries of the terror stricken children and of themoaning caresses of her dumb friend, that poor mother's eyes were onlyopened on the dreadful scene when day was far advanced. Through the coldrain, still pouring steadily down, the twilight seemed to her faint eyes tobe creeping over the earth. Sweet sounds were ringing in her ears. Thesewere but dreams that deluded her weakened mind and senses. She strove torise, but fell back and again relapsed into insensibility. Once again hereyes opened. This time it was no illusion. The eldest of the littlewatchers was shouting, in her ear, "Mother, I see father's wagon!" There itwas close at hand. All day it had been slowly moving across the blackenedprairie. The turf had been softened by the rain and the last few miles hadbeen inconceivably tedious. The charred surface of the plain had filled theheart of both father and son with terror, which increased as they advanced.

When they were within a mile of the spot where the cabin stood and couldsee no house, they both abandoned the wagon, and leaving the animals tofollow as they chose, they flew shouting loudly as they sped on till theystood over the perishing group. They could not for the moment comprehendthe dreadful calamity, but stared at the wasted faces of the children, theinfant corpse, the dying wife, the desolate home.

Cursing the day that he had been lured by the festal beauty of thoseprairies, the father lifted the dying woman in his arms, gazed with anagonized face upon her glassy eyes, and felt the faint fluttering in herbreast that foretold the last and worst that could befall him. Slowly, wordby word, with weak sepulchral voice, she told the dreadful story.

He slipped off his outer garments and wrapped them around her, and wipingoff the rain-drops from her face drew her to his heart. But storm orshelter was all the same to her now, and the death-damp on her brow wascolder than the pelting shower. He accused himself of her cruel murder andwildly prayed her forgiveness. From these accusations she vindicated him,besought him not to grieve for her, and with many prayers for her dearchildren and their father, she resigned her breath with the parting lightof that sad autumnal day.

After two days and nights of weeping and watching, he laid her remains deepdown below the prairie sod, beside the home which she had loved and madebright by her presence.

CHAPTER XII.

THE HEROINES OF THE SOUTHWEST

No portion of our country has been the scene of more romantic and dangerousadventures than that region described under the broad and vague term the"Southwest." Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, are vast, remote, and variedfields with which danger and hardship, wonder and mystery are everassociated. The country itself embraces great contrarieties of scenery andtopography—the rich farm, the expansive cattle ranch, the broad lonelyprairie watered by majestic rivers, the barren desert, the lofty plateau,the secluded mining settlement, and vast mountain ranges furrowed bytorrents into black cañons where sands of gold lie heaped in inaccessible,useless riches.

The forms of human society are almost equally diverse. Strange andmysterious tribes, each with different characteristics, here live side byside. Vile mongrel breeds of men multiply to astonish the ethnologist andthe moralist. Here roam the Comanches and the Apaches, the most remorselessand bloodthirsty of all the North American aboriginal tribes. Mexicanbandits traverse the plains and lurk in the mountain passes, and Americanoutlaws and desperadoes here find a refuge from justice.

As the Anglo-Saxon after fording the Sabine, the Brazos, and the ColoradoRiver of Texas, advances westward, he is brought face to face with thesedifferent races with whom is mixed in greater or less proportion the bloodof the old Castilian conquerors. Each of these races is widely alien from,and most of them instinctively antagonistic to the North European people.

Taking into view the immense distances to be traversed, the naturaldifficulties presented by the face of the country, the remoteness of theregion from civilization, and the mixed, incongruous and hostile characterof the inhabitants, we might naturally expect that its occupation bypeaceful settlers,—by those forms of household life in which woman is anessential element—would be indefinitely postponed. But that energy andardor which marks alike the men and the women of our race has carried thefamily, that germ of the state, over all obstacles and planted it in theinhospitable soil of the most remote corners of this region, and there itwill flourish and germinate doubtless till it has uprooted everyneighboring and noxious product.

The northeastern section of this extensive country is composed of thatstupendous level tract known as the "Llano Estacado," or "Staked Plain."Stretching hundreds of miles in every direction, this sandy plain,treeless, arid, with only here and there patches of stunted herbage,whitened by the bones of horses and mules, and by the more ghastlyskeletons of too adventurous travelers, presents an area of desolationscarcely more than paralleled by the great African Desert.

In the year 1846, after news had reached the States that our troops were inpeaceful occupation of New Mexico, a party of men and women set out fromthe upper valley of the Red River of Louisiana, with the intention ofsettling in the valley of the river Pecos, in the eastern part of the newlyconquered territory. The company consisted of seven persons, viz.: Mr. andMrs. Benham and their child of seven years, Mr. and Mrs. Braxton and twosons of fifteen and eighteen years respectively.

They made rapid and comfortable progress through the valley of the RedRiver, and in two weeks reached the edge of the "Staked Plain," which theynow made preparations to cross, for the difficulties and dangers of theroute were not unknown to them. Disencumbering their pack-mules of alluseless burdens and supplying themselves with water for two days, theypushed forward on their first stage which brought them on the evening ofthe second day to a kind of oasis in this desert where they found wood,water, and grass. From this point there was a stretch of ninety milesperfectly bare of wood and water, and with rare intervals of scanty herbagefor the beasts. After this desolate region had been passed they would havea comparatively easy journey to their destination.

On the evening of the second day of their passage across this arid tractthey had the misfortune to burst their only remaining water cask, and tosee the thirsty sands drink up in a moment every drop of the preciousliquid. They were then forty miles from the nearest water. Their beastswere jaded and suffering from thirst. The two men were incapacitated forexertion by slight sun-strokes received that day, and one of the boys hadbeen bitten in the hand by a rattlesnake while taking from its burrow aprairie dog which he had shot.

The next day they pursued their march only with the utmost difficulty; thetwo men were barely able to sit on their horses, and the boy which had beenbitten was faint and nerveless from the effect of the poison. The heat wasfelt very severely by the party as they dragged themselves slowly acrossthe white expanse of sand, which reflected the rays of the sun with apainful glare into the haggard eyes of the wretched wanderers. Before theyhad made fifteen miles, or little more than one-third of the distance thatwould have to be accomplished before reaching water, the horses and mulesgave out and at three o'clock in the afternoon the party dismounted andpanting with heat and thirst stretched themselves on the sand. The skyabove them was like brass and the soil was coated with a fine alkalideposit which rose in clouds at their slightest motion, filling theirnostrils and eyes, and increasing the agonies they were suffering.

Their only hope was that they would be discovered by some passing train ofhunters or emigrants. This hope faded away as the sun declined and nothingbut the sky and the long dreary dazzling expanse of sand met their eyes.

The painful glare slowly softened, and with sunset came coolness; this wassome slight mitigation to their sufferings; sleep too, promised to bringoblivion; and hope, which a merciful Providence has ordained to cast itshalo over the darkest hours, told its flattering tale of possible relief onthe morrow.

The air of that desert is pellucid as crystal, and the last beams of thesun left on the unclouded azure of the sky a soft glow, through which everything in the western horizon was outlined as if drawn by some magic pencil.Casting their eyes in that direction the wretched wayfarers saw far away adun-colored haze through which small black specks seemed to be moving.Growing larger and more distinct it approached them slowly over the vastexpanse until its true nature was apparent. It was a cloud of dust such asa party of horsem*n make when in rapid motion over a soil as fine and lightas ashes. Was it friend or foe? Was it American cavalry or was it a band ofMexican guerrillas that was galloping so fiercely over that arid plain?These torturing doubts were soon solved. Skimming over the ground likeswallows, six sunburnt men with hair as black as the crow's wing, gailydressed, and bearing long lances, soon reined in their mustangs withintwenty paces of the party and gazed curiously at them. One of the bandthen rode up and asked in broken English if they were "Americans:" havingthus made a reconnoisance and seeing their helplessness, without waitingfor a reply, he beckoned to his companions who approached and demanded thesurrender of the party. Under other circ*mstances a stout resistance wouldhave been made; but in their present forlorn condition they could donothing.

Their guns, a part of their money, and whatever the unfortunate familieshad that pleased the guerrillas, was speedily appropriated, the throats oftheir horses and mules were cut, Mrs. Braxton and Mrs. Benham were seized,and in spite of their struggles and shrieks each of them was placed infront of a swarthy bandit, and then the Mexicans rode away cursing "LosAmericanos," and barbarously leaving them to die of hunger and thirst.

After a four hours' gallop, the marauders reached an adobe house on PicosaCreek, a tributary of the Rio Pecos. This was the headquarters of the gang,and here they kept relays of fresh horses, mustangs, fiery, and full ofspeed and bottom. Mrs. Benham and Mrs. Braxton were placed in a room bythemselves on the second story, and the door was barricaded so that escapeby that avenue was impossible; but the windows were only guarded by stoutoaken bars, which the women, by their united strength, succeeded inremoving. Their captors were plunged in a profound slumber, when Mrs.Benham and her companion dropped themselves out of the window and succeededin reaching the stable without discovery. Here they found six fresh horsesready saddled and bridled, the others on which the bandits had made theirraid being loose in the enclosure.

It was a cruel necessity which impelled our brave heroines to draw theirknives across the hamstrings of the tired horses, thus disabling them so asto prevent pursuit. Then softly leading out the six fresh mustangs, each ofour heroines mounted one of the horses man-fashion and led the otherslashed together with lariats; walking the beasts until out of hearing, theythen put them to a gallop, and, riding all night, came, at sunrise, to thespot where their suffering friends lay stretched on the sand, havingabandoned all hope.

After a brief rest, the whole party pushed rapidly forward on theirjourney, arriving that evening at a place of safety. Two days after, theyreached the headwaters of the Pecos. Here they purchased a large adobehouse, and an extensive tract, suitable both for grazing and tillage.

These events occurred early in the autumn. During the following winter theMexicans revolted, and massacred Governor Bent and his military household.On the same day seven Americans were killed at Arroyo Hondo; a largeMexican force was preparing to march on Santa Fé, and for a time it seemedas if the handful of American soldiers would be driven out of theterritory. This conspiracy was made known to the authorities by an Americangirl, who was the wife of one of the Mexican conspirators, and becoming,through her husband, acquainted with the plan of operations, divulged themto General Price in season to prevent a more general outbreak. As it was,the American settlers were in great danger.

The strong and spacious house in which the Benhams and Braxtons lived hadformerly been used as a stockade and fortification against Indian attack.Its thick walls were pierced with loop-holes, and its doors, of double oakplanks, were studded with wrought-iron spikes, which made it bullet-proof.A detachment of United States troops were stationed a short distance fromtheir ranch, and the two families, in spite of the disturbed condition ofthe country, felt reasonably secure. The troops were withdrawn, however,after the revolt commenced, leaving the new settlers dependent upon theirown resources for protection. Their cattle and horses were driven into theenclosure, and the inmates of the house kept a sharp lookout againsthostile parties of marauders, whether Indian or Mexican.

Early on the morning of January 24th a mounted party of twelve Mexicansmade their appearance in front of the enclosure, which they quickly scaled,and discharged a volley of balls, one of which passed through a loop-hole,and, entering Mr. Braxton's eye as he was aiming a rifle at the assailants,laid him dead at the feet of his wife. Mrs. Braxton, with streaming eyes,laid the head of her husband in her lap and watched his expiring throeswith agony, such as only a wife and mother can feel when she sees the dearpartner of her life and the father of her sons torn in an instant from herembrace. Seeing that her husband was no more, she dried her tears andthought only of vengeance on his murderers.

The number of the besieged was twelve at the start, viz.: Mr. and Mrs.Braxton, Mr. and Mrs. Benham and their children, three Irish herders, and ahalf-breed Mexican and his wife, who were house servants. The death of Mr.Braxton had reduced their number to eleven. A few moments later theMexican half-breed disappeared, but was not missed in the excitement of thedefense.

The besieged returned with vigor the fire of their assailants, two of whomhad already bit the dust. The women loaded the guns and passed them to themen, who kept the Mexicans at a respectful distance by the rapidity oftheir fire. Mrs. Benham was the first to mark the absence of Juan theMexican half-breed, and, suspecting treachery, flew to the loft with ahatchet in one hand and a revolver in the other. Her suspicion was correct.Juan had opened an upper window, and, letting down a ladder, had assistedtwo of the attacking party to ascend, and they were preparing to make anassault on those below by firing through the cracks in the floor, when theintrepid woman despatched Juan with a shot from her revolver and clove theskull of another Mexican; the third leaped from the window and escaped.

As Mrs. Benham was about to descend from the loft, after drawing up theladder and closing the window, she was met by the wife of the treacheroushalf-breed, who aimed a stroke at her breast with a machete or largeknife, such as the Mexicans use. She received a flesh wound in the left armas she parried the blow, and it was only with the mixed strength of Mrs.Braxton and one of the herders, who had now ascended to the loft, that theinfuriated Mexican whom Mrs. Benham had made a widow, could be mastered andbound.

Three of the attacking party had now been killed and three others placedhors de combat; the remnant were apparently about to retire from thesiege, when six more swarthy desperadoes, mounted on black mustangs, camegalloping up and halted on a hill just out of rifle shot.

Mrs. Braxton and Mrs. Benham, looking through a field glass, at oncerecognized them as the band which had made them captives a few monthsbefore.

After a few moments of consultation one of the band, who appeared to beonly armed with a bow and arrow, advanced towards the house waving a whiteflag. Within thirty paces of the door stood a large tree, and behind thisthe envoy, bearing the white flag, ensconced himself, and, striking alight, twanged his bow and sent a burning arrow upon the roof of the house,which, being dry as tinder, in a moment was in a blaze.

Both of the women immediately carried water to the roof and extinguishedthe flames. Another arrow, wrapped in cotton steeped in turpentine, againset the roof on fire, and as one of the intrepid matrons threw a bucket ofwater upon the blaze, the dastard stepped from behind the tree and sent apistol ball through her right arm, but at the same moment received tworifle balls in his breast, and fell a corpse.

Mrs. Benham, for it was she who had been struck, was assisted by herhusband to the ground floor, where her wound was examined and found to befortunately not a dangerous one. A new peril, however, now struck terror totheir hearts; the water was all exhausted. The fire began to make headway.Mrs. Braxton, calling loudly for water to extinguish it, and meeting noresponse, descended to the ground floor, where the defenders were about togive up all hope, and either resign themselves to the flames, or byemerging from the house, submit to massacre at the hands of the nowinfuriated foe. As Mrs. Braxton rolled her eyes hither and thither insearch of some substitute for water, they fell on the corpse of herhusband. His coat and vest were completely saturated with blood. It wasonly the sad but terrible necessity which immediately suggested to her theuse to which these garments could be put. Shuddering, she removed themquickly but tenderly from the body, flew to the roof and succeeded, bythese dripping and ghastly tokens of her widowhood, in finallyextinguishing the flames.

The attack ceased at night-fall, and the Mexicans withdrew. The outbreakhaving been soon quelled by the United States forces, the territory wasbrought again into a condition of peace and comparative security.

At the close of the war in 1848, Mrs. Braxton married a dischargedvolunteer named Whitley, and having disposed of the late Mr. Braxton'sinterest in the New Mexican ranche, removed, in 1851, with her husband andfamily, to California, where they lived for two years in the Sacramentovalley.

Whitley was possessed of one of those roving and adventurous spirits whichis never happy in repose, and when he was informed by John Crossman, an oldcomrade, of the discovery of a rich placer which he had made during hismarch as a United States soldier across the territory of Arizona, at thattime known as the Gadsden purchase, he eagerly formed a partnership withthe discoverer, who was no longer in the army, and announced to his wifehis resolution to settle in Arizona. She endeavored by every argument shecould command to dissuade him from this rash step, but in vain, and findingall her representations and entreaties of no avail, she consented, thoughwith the utmost reluctance, to accompany him. They accordingly sold theirplace and took vessel with their household goods, for San Diego, from whichpoint they purposed to advance across the country three hundred miles tothe point where Crossman had located his placer.

The territory of Arizona may be likened to that wild and rugged mountainregion in Central Asia, where, according to Persian myth, untold treasuresare guarded by the malign legions of Ahriman, the spirit of evil. Two ofthe great elemental forces have employed their destructive agencies uponthe surface of the country until it might serve for an ideal picture ofdesolation. For countless centuries the water has seamed and gashed theface of the hills, stripping them of soil, and cutting deep gorges andcañons through the rocks. The water then flowed away or disappeared in thesands, and the sun came with its parching heat to complete the work ofruin. Famine and thirst stalk over those arid plains, or lurk in thewaterless and gloomy cañons; as if to compensate for these evils, the soilof the territory teems with mineral wealth. Grains of gold glisten in thesandy débris of ancient torrents, and nuggets are wedged in thefaces of the precipices. Mountains of silver and copper are waiting for theminer who is bold enough to venture through that desolate region in questof these metals.

The journey from San Diego was made with pack mules and occupied thirtydays, during which nearly every hardship and obstacle in the pioneer'scatalogue was encountered. When they reached the spot described by Crossmanthey found the place, which lay at the bottom of a deep ravine, had beencovered with boulders and thirty feet of sand by the rapid torrents of fiverainy seasons. They immediately commenced "prospecting." Mrs. Braxton hadthe good fortune to discover a large "pocket," from which Crossman and herhusband took out in a few weeks thirty thousand dollars in gold. Thiscontented the adventurers, and being disgusted with the appearance of thecountry, they decided to go back to California.

Instead of returning on the same route by which they came, they resolved tocross the Colorado river higher up and in the neighborhood of the SantaMaria. They reached the Colorado river after a toilsome march, but whilesearching for a place to pass over, Crossman lost his footing and fellsixty feet down a precipice, surviving only long enough to bequeath hisshare of the treasure to his partner. Here, too, they had the misfortune tolose one of their four pack-mules, which strayed away. Pressing on in anorthwesterly direction they passed through a series of deep valleys andgorges where the only water they could find was brackish and bitter, andreached the edge of the California desert. They had meanwhile lost anothermule which had been dashed to pieces by falling down a cañon. Mr. Whitley'sstrength becoming exhausted his wife gave up to him the beast she had beenriding, and pursued her way on foot, driving before her the other mule,which bore the gold-dust with their scanty supply of food and their onlyremaining cooking utensils. Their tents and camp furniture having been lostthey had suffered much from the chilly nights in the mountains, and afterthey had entered the desert, from the rays of the sun. Before they couldreach the Mohave river Mr. Whitley became insane from thirst and hunger,and nothing but incessant watchfulness on the part of his wife couldprevent him from doing injury to himself. Once while she was gatheringcactus-leaves to wet his lips with the moisture they contained, he bit hisarm and sucked the blood. Upon reaching the river he drank immoderately ofthe water and in an hour expired, regaining his consciousness before death,and blessing his devoted wife with his last breath. Ten days later thebrave woman had succeeded in reaching Techichipa in so wasted a conditionthat she looked like a specter risen from the grave. Here by carefulnursing she was at length restored to health. The gold-dust which had costso dearly was found after a long search, beneath the carcass of the mule,twenty miles from Techichipa.

The extraordinary exploits of Mrs. Braxton can only be explained bysupposing her to be naturally endowed with a larger share of nerve andhardihood than usually falls to the lot of her sex. Some influence, too,must be ascribed to the peculiarly wild and free life that prevails in thesouthwest. Living so much of the time in the open air in a climatepeculiarly luxuriant and yet bracing, and environed with dangers inmanifold guise, all the latent heroism in woman's nature is brought out toview, her muscular and nervous tissues are hardened, and her moralendurance by constant training in the school of hardship and danger, restsupon a strong and healthy physique. Upon this theory we may also explainthe following incident which is related of another border-woman of thesouthwest.

[Footnote: Marcy's Border Reminiscences.] Beyond the extreme outer line ofsettlements in western Texas, near the head waters of the Colorado River,and in one of the remotest and most sequestered sections of that sparselypopulated district, there lived in 1867, an enterprising pioneer by thename of Babb, whose besetting propensity and ambition consisted in pushinghis fortunes a little farther toward the setting sun than any of hisneighbors, the nearest of whom, at the time specified, was some fifteenmiles in his rear.

The household of the borderer consisted of his wife, three small children,and a female friend by the name of L———, who, having previously lost herhusband, was passing the summer with the family. She was a veritable typeof those vigorous, self-reliant border women, who encounter danger or thevicissitudes of weather without quailing.

Born and nurtured upon the remotest frontier, she inherited a robustconstitution, and her active life in the exhilarating prairie air served todevelop and mature a healthy womanly physique. From an early age she hadbeen a fearless rider, and her life on the frontier had habituated her tothe constant use of the horse until she felt almost more at home in thesaddle than in a chair.

Upon one bright and lovely morning in June, 1867, the adventurous bordererbefore mentioned, set out from his home with some cattle for a distantmarket, leaving his family in possession of the ranch, without any maleprotectors from Indian marauders.

They did not, however, entertain any serious apprehensions of molestationin his absence, as no hostile Indians had as yet made their appearance inthat locality, and everything passed on quietly for several days, until onemorning, while the women were busily occupied with their domestic affairsin the house, the two oldest children, who were playing outside, called totheir mother, and informed her that some mounted men were approaching fromthe prairie. On looking out, she perceived, to her astonishment, that theywere Indians coming upon the gallop, and already very near the house. Thisgave her no time to make arrangements for defense; but she screamed to thechildren to run in for their lives, as she desired to bar the door, beingconscious of the fact that the prairie warriors seldom attack a house thatis closed, fearing, doubtless, that it may be occupied by armed men, whomight give them an unwelcome reception.

The children did not, however, obey the command of their mother, believingthe strangers to be white men, and the door was left open. As soon as thealarm was given, Mrs. L——— sprang up a ladder into the loft, andconcealed herself in such a position that she could, through cracks in thefloor, see all that passed beneath.

Meantime the savages came up, seized and bound the two children outdoors,and, entering the house, rushed toward the young child, which theterror-stricken mother struggled frantically to rescue from their clutches;but they were too much for her, and tearing the infant from her arms, theydashed it upon the floor; then seizing her by the hair, they wrenched backher head and cut her throat from ear to ear, putting her to deathinstantaneously.

Mrs. L———, who was anxiously watching their proceedings from the loft,witnessed the fiendish tragedy, and uttered an involuntary shriek ofhorror, which disclosed her hiding-place to the barbarians, and theyinstantly vaulted up the ladder, overpowered and tied her; then draggingher rudely down, they placed her, with the two elder children, upon horses,and hurriedly set off to the north, leaving the infant child unharmed, andclasping the murdered corpse of its mangled parent.

In accordance with their usual practice, they traveled as rapidly as theirhorses could carry them for several consecutive days and nights, onlymaking occasional short halts to graze and rest their animals, and get alittle sleep themselves, so that the unfortunate captives necessarilysuffered indescribable tortures from harsh treatment, fatigue, and want ofsleep and food. Yet they were forced by the savages to continue on dayafter day, and night after night, for many, many weary miles toward the"Staked Plain," crossing en route the Brazos, Wachita, Red,Canadian, and Arkansas Rivers, several of which were at swimming stages.

The warriors guarded their captives very closely, until they had gone sogreat a distance from the settlements that they imagined it impossible forthem to make their escape and find their way home, when they relapsed theirvigilance slightly, and they were permitted to walk about a little withinshort limits from the bivouacs; but they were given to understand byunmistakable pantomime that death would be the certain penalty of the firstattempt to escape.

In spite of this, Mrs. L———, who possessed a firmness of purpose trulyheroic, resolved to seize the first favorable opportunity to get away, andwith this resolution in view, she carefully observed the relative speed andpowers of endurance of the different horses in the party, and noted themanner in which they were grazed, guarded, and caught; and upon a darknight, after a long, fatiguing day's ride, and while the Indians weresleeping soundly, she noiselessly and cautiously crawled away from the bedof her young companions, who were also buried in profound slumber, andgoing to the pasture-ground of the horses, selected the best, leaped uponhis back à la garçon, with only a lariat around his neck, andwithout saddle or bridle, quietly started off at a slow walk in thedirection of the north star, believing that this course would lead her tothe nearest white habitations. As soon as she had gone out of hearing fromthe bivouac, without detection or pursuit, she accelerated the speed of thehorse into a trot, then to a gallop, and urged him rapidly forward duringthe entire night.

At dawn of day on the following morning she rose upon the crest of aneminence overlooking a vast area of bald prairie country, where, for thefirst time since leaving the Indians, she halted, and, turning round,tremblingly cast a rapid glance to the rear, expecting to see the savageblood-hounds upon her track; but, to her great relief, not a singleindication of a living object could be discerned within the extended scopeof her vision. She breathed more freely now, but still did not feel safefrom pursuit; and the total absence of all knowledge of her whereabouts inthe midst of the wide expanse of dreary prairie around her, with theuncertainty of ever again looking upon a friendly face, caused her torealize most vividly her own weakness and entire dependence upon theAlmighty, and she raised her thoughts to Heaven in fervent supplication.

The majesty and sublimity of the stupendous works of the great Author andCreator of the Universe, when contrasted with the insignificance of thepowers and achievements of a vivified atom of earth modeled into humanform, are probably under no circ*mstances more strikingly exhibited andfelt than when one becomes bewildered and lost in the almost limitlessamplitude of our great North American "pampas," where not a singlefoot-mark or other trace of man's presence or action can be discovered, andwhere the solitary wanderer is startled at the sound even of his own voice.

The sensation of loneliness and despondency resulting from the appallingconsciousness of being really and absolutely lost, with the realization ofthe fact that but two or three of the innumerable different points ofdirection embraced within the circle of the horizon will serve to extricatethe bewildered victim from the awful doom of death by starvation, and inentire ignorance as to which of these particular directions should befollowed, without a single road, trail, tree, bush, or other landmark toguide or direct—the effects upon the imagination of this formidable arrayof disheartening circ*mstances can be fully appreciated only by those whohave been personally subjected to their influence.

A faint perception of the intensity of the mental torture experienced bythese unfortunate victims may, however, be conjectured from the fact thattheir senses at such junctures become so completely absorbed andoverpowered by the cheerless prospect before them, that they oftentimeswander about in a state of temporary lunacy, without the power ofexercising the slightest volition of the reasoning faculties.

The inflexible spirit of the heroine of this narrative did not, however,succumb in the least to the imminent perils of the situation in which shefound herself, and her purposes were carried out with a determination asresolute and unflinching as those of the Israelites in their protractedpilgrimage through the wilderness, and without the guidance of pillars offire and cloud.

The aid of the sun and the broad leaves of the pilot-plant by day, with thelight of Polaris by night, enabled her to pursue her undeviating course tothe north with as much accuracy as if she had been guided by the magneticneedle.

She continued to urge forward the generous steed she bestrode, who, inobedience to the will of his rider, coursed swiftly on hour after hourduring the greater part of the day, without the least apparent labor orexhaustion.

It was a contest for life and liberty that she had undertaken, a strugglein which she resolved to triumph or perish in the effort: and still thebrave-hearted woman pressed on, until at length her horse began to showsigns of exhaustion, and as the shadows of evening began to appear hebecame so much jaded that it was difficult to coax or force him into atrot, and the poor woman began to entertain serious apprehensions that hemight soon give out altogether and leave her on foot.

At this time she was herself so much wearied and in want of sleep that shewould have given all she possessed to have been allowed to dismount andrest; but, unfortunately for her, those piratical quadrupeds of the plains,the wolves, advised by their carnivorous instincts that she and herexhausted horse might soon fall an easy sacrifice to their voraciousappetites, followed upon her track, and came howling in great numbers abouther, so that she dared not set her feet upon the ground, fearing they woulddevour her; and her only alternative was to continue urging the poor beastto struggle forward during the dark and gloomy hours of the long night,until at length she became so exhausted that it was only with the utmosteffort of her iron will that she was enabled to preserve her balance uponthe horse.

Meantime the ravenous pack of wolves, becoming more and more emboldened andimpatient as the speed of her horse relaxed, approached nearer and nearer,until, with their eyes flashing fire, they snapped savagely at the heels ofthe terrified horse, while at the same time they kept up their hideousconcert like the howlings of ten thousand fiends from the infernal regions.

Every element in her nature was at this fearful juncture taxed to itsgreatest tension, and impelled her to concentrate the force of all herremaining energies in urging and coaxing forward the wearied horse, until,finally, he was barely able to reel and stagger along at a slow walk; andwhen she was about to give up in despair, expecting every instant that theanimal would drop down dead under her, the welcome light of day dawned inthe eastern horizon, and imparted a more cheerful and encouraging influenceover her, and, on looking around, to her great joy, there were no wolves insight.

She now, for the first time in about thirty-six hours, dismounted, andknowing that sleep would soon overpower her, and the horse, if not secured,might escape or wander away, and there being no tree or other object towhich he could be fastened, she, with great presence of mind, tied one endof the long lariat to his neck, and, with the other end around her waist,dropped down upon the ground in a deep sleep, while the famished horseeagerly cropped the herbage around her.

She was unconscious as to the duration of her slumber, but it must havebeen very protracted to have compensated the demands of nature, for theexhaustion induced by her prodigious ride.

Her sleep was sweet, and she dreamed of happiness and home, losing allconsciousness of her actual situation until she was suddenly startled andaroused by the pattering sound of horses' feet, beating the earth on everyside.

Springing to her feet in the greatest possible alarm, she found herselfsurrounded by a large band of savages, who commenced dancing around,flouting their war-clubs in terrible proximity to her head, while givingutterance to the, most diabolical shouts of exultation.

Her exceedingly weak and debilitated condition at this time, resulting fromlong abstinence from food, and unprecedented mental and physical trials,had wrought upon her nervous system to such an extent that she imagined themoment of her death had arrived, and fainted.

The Indians then approached, and, after she revived, placed her again upona horse, and rode away with her to their camp, which, fortunately, was notfar distant. They then turned their prisoner over to the squaws, who gaveher food and put her to bed; but it was several days before she wassufficiently recovered to be able to walk about the camp.

She learned that her last captors belonged to "Lone Wolf's" band of Kiowas.

Although these Indians treated her with more kindness than the Comancheshad done, yet she did not for an instant entertain the thought that theywould ever voluntarily release her from bondage; neither had she theremotest conception of her present locality, or of the direction ordistance to any white settlement; but she had no idea of remaining a slavefor life, and resolved to make her escape the first practicable moment thatoffered.

During the time she remained with these Indians a party of men went away tothe north, and were absent six days, bringing with them, on their return,some ears of green corn. She knew the prairie tribes never planted a seedof any description, and was therefore confident the party had visited awhite settlement, and that it was not over three days' journey distant.This was encouraging intelligence for her, and she anxiously bided her timeto depart.

Late one night, after all had become hushed and quiet throughout the camp,and every thing seemed auspicious for the consummation of her purposes, shestole carefully away from her bed, crept softly out to the herd of horses,and after having caught and saddled one, was in the act of mounting, when anumber of dogs rushed out after her, and by their barking, created such adisturbance among the Indians that she was forced, for the time, to foregoher designs and crawl hastily back to her lodge.

On a subsequent occasion, however, fortune favored her. She secured anexcellent horse and rode away in the direction from which she had seen theIndians returning to camp with the green corn. Under the certain guidanceof the sun and stars she was enabled to pursue a direct bearing, and afterthree consecutive days of rapid riding, anxiety, fatigue, and hunger, shearrived upon the border of a large river, flowing directly across hertrack. The stream was swollen to the top of its banks; the water coursedlike a torrent through its channel, and she feared her horse might not beable to stem the powerful current; but after surmounting the numerousperils and hardships she had already encountered, the dauntless woman wasnot to be turned aside from her inflexible purpose by this formidableobstacle, and she instantly dashed into the foaming torrent, and, by dintof encouragement and punishment, forced her horse through the stream andlanded safely upon the opposite bank.

After giving her horse a few moments' rest, she again set forward, and hadridden but a short distance when, to her inexpressible astonishment anddelight, she struck a broad and well-beaten wagon-road, the first and onlyevidence or trace of civilization she had seen since leaving her home inTexas.

Up to this joyful moment the indomitable inflexibility of purpose of ourheroine had not faltered for an instant, neither had she suffered theslightest despondency, in view of the terrible array of dishearteningcirc*mstances that had continually confronted her, but when she realizedthe hopeful prospect before her of a speedy escape from the reach of herbarbarous captors, and a reasonable certainty of an early reunion withpeople of her own sympathizing race, the feminine elements of her naturepreponderated, her stoical fortitude yielded to the delightfulanticipation, and her joy was intensified and confirmed by seeing, at thismoment, a long train of wagons approaching over the distant prairie.

The spectacle overwhelmed her with ecstasy, and she wept tears of joy whileoffering up sincere and heartfelt thanks to the Almighty for delivering herfrom a bondage more dreadful than death.

She then proceeded on until she met the wagons in charge of Mr. RobertBent, whom she entreated to give her food instantly, as she was in a statebordering upon absolute starvation. He kindly complied with her request,and after the cravings of her appetite had been appeased he desired togratify his curiosity, which had been not a little excited at the unusualexhibition of a beautiful white woman appearing alone in that wild country,riding upon an Indian saddle, with no covering on her head save her longnatural hair, which was hanging loosely and disorderly about her shoulders.Accordingly, he inquired of her where she lived, to which she replied, "InTexas." Mr. B. gave an incredulous shake of his head at this response,remarking at the same time that he thought she must be mistaken, as Texashappened to be situated some five or six hundred miles distant. Shereiterated the assurance of her statement, and described to him briefly theleading incidents attending her capture and escape; but still he wasinclined to doubt, believing that she might possibly be insane.

He informed her that the river she had just crossed was the Arkansas, andthat she was then on the old Santa Fé road, about fifteen miles west of BigTurkey Creek, where she would find the most remote frontier house. Then,after thanking him for his kindness, she bade him adieu, and started awayin a walk toward the settlements, while he continued his journey in theopposite direction.

On the arrival of Mr. Bent at Fort Zara, he called upon the Indian agent,and reported the circ*mstance of meeting Mrs. L———, and, by a singularcoincidence, it so happened that the agent was at that very time holding acouncil with the chiefs of the identical band of Indians from whom she hadlast escaped, and they had just given a full history of the entire affair,which seemed so improbable to the agent that he was not disposed to creditit until he received its confirmation through Mr. Bent. He at oncedispatched a man to follow the woman and conduct her to Council Grove,where she was kindly received, and remained for some time, hoping throughthe efforts of the agents to gain intelligence of the two children she hadleft with the Comanches, as she desired to take them back to their fatherin Texas; but no tidings were gained for a long while.

The two captive children were afterwards ransomed and sent home to theirfather.

It will readily be seen, by a reference to the map of the country overwhich Mrs. L——— passed, that the distance from the place of her captureto the point where she struck the Arkansas river could not have been shortof about five hundred miles, and the greater part of this immense expanseof desert plain she traversed alone, without seeing a single civilizedhuman habitation.

It may well be questioned whether any woman either in ancient or moderntimes ever performed such a remarkable equestrian feat, and the storyitself would be almost incredible were we not in possession of so many wellauthenticated instances of the hardihood and powers of endurance shown bywoman on the frontiers of our country.

CHAPTER XIII.

WOMAN'S EXPERIENCE ON THE NORTHERN BORDER.

The vanguard of the "Great Army" which for nearly three centuries has beenhewing its pathway across the continent, may be divided into certaincorps d'armée, each of which moves on a different line, thus actingon the Napoleonic tactics, and subjugating in detail the various regionsthrough which it passes. One corps, spreading out in broad battalions,marches across the great prairies and winding through the gorges of theRocky mountains, encamps on the shore of Peaceful sea: another, skirtingthe waves of the gulfs and fording the wide rivers of the South, plants itsoutposts on the Rio Grande; a third cuts its way through the tracklessforests on the northern border till it strikes the lakes, and then crossingthese inland seas or passing round them, pauses and breathes for a seasonin that great expanse known as the country of the Red River of the North.

Each of these mighty pioneer divisions has its common toils, dangers, andsufferings. Each, too, has toils, dangers, and sufferings peculiar toitself. The climate is the deadly foe of the northern pioneer. Thescorching air of a brief summer is followed closely by the biting frost ofa long winter. The snow, piled in drifts, blocks his passage and binds himto his threshold. Sometimes by a sudden change in the temperature a thawconverts the vast frozen mass into slush. In the depth of those arcticwinters sometimes fire, that necessary but dangerous serf, breaks itschains and devastates its master's dwelling; then frost allies its power tothat of fire, and the household often succumbs to disaster, or barelysurvives it.

Fire, frost, starvation, and wild beasts made frantic by winter's hunger,are the imminent perils of the northern pioneer!

The record of woman in these regions on the northern frontier is crowdedwith incidents which display a heroism as stern, a hardihood as rugged, afortitude as steadfast, as was ever shown by her sex under the most tryingsituations into which she is brought by the exigencies of border life.

Such a record is that of Mrs. Dalton, who spent her life from earlywomanhood in that region.

Naturally of a frail and delicate organization, reared in the ease andluxury of an eastern home, and possessed of those strong local attachmentswhich are characteristic of females of her temperament, it was with theutmost reluctance that she consented to follow her husband into thewilderness. Having at last consented, she showed the greatest firmness incarrying out a resolution which involved the loss of a happy home at theplace of her nativity, and consigned her to a life of hardship and danger.

Her first experience in this life was in the wilds of northern New York,her husband having purchased a small clearing and a log-cabin in thatregion on the banks of the Black river. She was transported thither,reaching her destination one cold rainy evening early in May, after awearisome journey, for this was before the days of rapid transit.

Her first impressions must have been gloomy indeed. Without was pouringrain and a black sky; the forest was dark as Erebus; within no fire blazedon the hearth in the only room on the first floor of the cabin, and theflickering light of a tallow candle made the darkness but the more visible;a rude table and settles made out of rough planks, were all the furniturethe cabin could boast; there was no ladder to reach the loft which was tobe her sleeping room; the only window, without sash or glass, was a mereopening in the side of the cabin; the rain beat in through the cracks inthe door and through the open window, and trickled through the roof, whichwas like a sieve, while the wind blew keenly through a hundred seams andapertures in the log walls.

The night, the cold, the storm, the dark and cheerless abode, were too muchto bear; the delicate young wife threw herself upon a settle and burst intoa flood of tears. This was but a momentary weakness. Rising above thedepression produced by the dreary scene, the woman's genius for creatingcomfort out of the slenderest materials and bringing sunshine intodarkness, soon began to manifest itself.

We will not detail the various trials and cares by which that forlorn cabinwas transformed into a comfortable home, nor how fared Mrs. Dalton thefirst rather uneventful year of her life in the woods. The second springsaw her a mother, and the following autumn she became again a homelesswestward wanderer. Her husband had sold the cabin and clearing in New York,and having purchased an extensive tract of forest-land a few miles south ofGeorgian Bay in Upper Canada, decided to move thither.

The family with their household goods took sloop on Lake Ontario late inOctober, and sailed to Toronto; from this place on the 15th day ofNovember, they proceeded across the peninsula in sleighs. Their partyconsisted of Mr. and Mrs. Dalton and their child, and John McMurray, theirhired man, and his wife.

The first forty miles of their journey lay over a well-beaten road, andthrough a succession of clearings, which soon began to diminish until theyreached a dense forest, which rose in solemn stillness around them and castacross their path a shadow which seemed to the imagination of Mrs. Daltonan omen of coming evil.

The sun had now set, but the party still drove on through theforest-shadows; the moon having risen giving a new and strange beauty tothe scenery. The infant had fallen asleep. A deep silence fell upon theparty; night was above them with her mysterious stars; the ancient foreststretched around them on every side; nature lay wrapped in a snowy windingsheet; the wind was rising, and a drifting scud of clouds from thenortheast passed across the moon, and gave a still more weird and sombercharacter to the scene. A boding sadness sank into the heart of Mrs. Daltonas the sleighs drove up to the cabin in the clearing where they were topass the night. It was occupied by an old negro and his wife, who had foundin the Canadian woods a safe refuge from servitude.

Hardly had they and their horses been safely bestowed under shelter whenthe sky became entirely overcast, the wind rose to a gale, and a drivingstorm of snow and sleet filled the air. All night, and the following daythe tempest raged without intermission, and on the morning of the secondday the sun struggling through the clouds looked down on the vast drifts ofsnow, some of them nearly twenty feet in depth, completely blocking theirfarther passage, and enforcing a sojourn of some days in their presentquarters.

During this time the babe fell ill, and grew worse so rapidly that Mr.Dalton determined to push through the snow-drifts on horseback to thenearest settlement, which lay eight miles south of them, and procure theservices of a physician. He started early in the morning, expecting toreturn in the afternoon. But afternoon and evening passed, and still Mr.Dalton did not return. His course was a difficult one through forest andthicket, and when evening came, and night passed with its bitter cold, Mrs.Dalton's anxiety was increased to torture. Her only hope was that herhusband had reached the settlement in safety, and had been induced toremain there till the following morning before undertaking to return.

Soon after the sun rose that morning, Mrs. Dalton and the hired man set outon horseback in search of the missing one. Tracing his course through thesnow for four miles they at length caught sight of him standing up to hiswaist in a deep drift, beside his horse. His face was turned toward them.So lifelike and natural was his position that it was only when his wifegrasped his cold rigid fingers that she knew the terrible truth. Herhusband and the horse were statues of ice thus transformed by the deadlycold as they were endeavoring to force a passage through those immensedrifts.

From the speechless, tearless trance of grief into which Mrs. Dalton wasthrown by the shock of her awful loss, she was roused only by therecollection of the still critical condition of her child and the necessitythat she should administer to its wants. Its recovery from illness a fewdays after, enabled the desolate widow to cast about her in grief anddoubt, and decide what course she should pursue.

As her own marriage portion as well as the entire fortune of her latehusband was embarked in the purchase of the forest tract, she concluded tocontinue her journey twenty miles farther to the point of her originaldestination, and there establish herself in the new house which had beenprovided for her in the almost unbroken wilderness.

A thaw which a few days after removed a large body of the snow, enabled herwith her companions, the McMurrays, to reach her destination, a large andcommodious cabin built of cedar-logs in a spacious clearing by the formerowner of the tract.

Her first impressions of her new home were scarcely more prepossessing thanthose experienced upon reaching the dreary cabin on the banks of the Blackriver. A small lake hard by was hemmed in by a somber belt of pine-woods.The clearing was dotted by charred and blackened stumps, and covered withpiles of brushwood. The snowy shroud in which lifeless nature was wrappedand the utter stillness and solitude of the scene, completed the funerealpicture which Mrs. D. viewed with eyes darkened by grief anddisappointment.

The cares and labors of pioneer-life are the best antidotes to thecorrosion of sorrow and regret, and Mrs. Dalton soon found such a relief inthe myriad toils and distractions which filled those wintry days. Athousand duties were to be discharged: a thousand wants to be provided for:night brought weariness and blessed oblivion: morning again supplied itsdaily tasks and labor grew to be happiness.

Midwinter was upon them with its bitter cold and drifting snows; but withabundant stores of food and fuel, Mrs. D. was thanking God nightly for hismany mercies, little dreaming that a new calamity impended over herhousehold.

One bitter day in January the two women were left alone in the cabin,McMurray having gone a mile away to fell trees for sawing into boards. Mrs.McM. had stuffed both the stoves full of light wood; the wind blowingsteadily from the northwest, produced a powerful draught, and in a fewmoments the roaring and crackling of the fire and the suffocating smell ofburning soot attracted Mrs. Dalton's attention. To her dismay, both thestoves were red hot from the front plates to the topmost pipes which passedthrough the plank-ceiling and projected three feet above the roof. Throughthese pipes the flames were roaring as if through the chimney of a blastfurnace.

A blanket snatched from the nearest bed, that stood in the kitchen, andplunged into a barrel of cold water was thrust into the stove, and a fewshovels full of snow thrown upon it soon made all cool below. The two womenimmediately hastened to the loft and by dashing pails full of water uponthe pipes, contrived to cool them down as high as the place where theypassed through the roof. The wood work around the pipes showed a circle ofglowing embers, the water was nearly exhausted and both the women runningout of the house discovered that the roof which had been covered the daybefore by a heavy fall of snow, showed an area of several square feet fromwhich the intense heat had melted the snow; the sparks falling upon theshingles had ignited them, and the rafters below were covered by a sheet offlame.

A ladder, which, for some months, had stood against the house, had beenmoved two days before to the barn which stood some thirty rods away; thereseemed no possibility of reaching the fire. Moving out a large table andplacing a chair upon it, Mrs. D. took her position upon the chair and triedto throw water upon the roof, but only succeeded in expending the lastdipper full of water that remained in the boiler, without reaching thefire.

Mrs. McMurray now abandoned herself to grief and despair, screeching andtearing her hair. Mrs. D., still keeping her presence of mind, told her torun after her husband, and to the nearest house, which was a mile away, andbring help.

Mrs. McM., after a moment's remonstrance, on account of the depth of thesnow, regained her courage, and, hastily putting on her husband's boots,started, shrieking "fire!" as she passed up the road, and disappeared atthe head of the clearing.

Mrs. D. was now quite alone, with the house burning over her head. Shegazed at the blazing roof, and, pausing for one moment, reflected whatshould first be done.

The house was built of cedar-logs, and the suns and winds of four years hadmade it as dry as tinder; the breeze was blowing briskly and all theatmospheric conditions were favorable to its speedy destruction. The coldwas intense, the thermometer registering eighteen degrees below zero. Theunfortunate woman thus saw herself placed between two extremes of heat andcold, and apprehended as much danger from the one as from the other.

In the bewilderment of the moment, the direful extent of the calamity neverstruck her, though it promised to put the finishing stroke to hermisfortune, and to throw her naked and houseless upon the world.

"What shall I first save?" was the question rapidly asked, and as quicklyanswered. Anything to serve for warmth and shelter—bedding, clothing, toprotect herself and babe from that cruel cold! All this passed her mindlike a flash, and the next moment she was working with a right good will tosave what she could of these essential articles from her burning house.

Springing to the loft where the embers were falling from the burning roof,she quickly threw the beds and bedding from the window, and emptying trunksand chests conveyed their contents out of reach of the flames and of theburning brands which the wind was whirling from the roof. The loft was likea furnace, and the heat soon drove her, dripping with perspiration, to thelower room, where, for twenty minutes, she strained every nerve to drag outthe movables. Large pieces of burning pine began to fall through theboarded ceiling about the lower rooms, and as the babe had been placedunder a large dresser in the kitchen, it now became absolutely necessary toremove it. But where? The air was so bitter that nothing but the fierceexcitement and rapid motion had preserved Mrs. Dalton's hands and feet fromfreezing. To expose the tender nursling to that direful cold was almost ascruel as leaving it to the mercy of the fire.

A mother's wit is not long at fault where the safety of her child isconcerned. Emptying out all the clothes from a large drawer which she haddragged a safe distance from the house, she lined it with blankets andplaced the child inside, covering it well over with bedding, and keeping itwell wrapped up till help should arrive.

The roof was now burning like a brush heap; but aid was near at hand. Asshe passed out of the house for the last time, dragging a heavy chest ofclothes, she looked once more despairingly up the clearing and saw a manrunning at full speed. It was McMurray. Her burdened heart uttered a deepthanksgiving, as another and another figure came skipping over the snowtowards her burning house.

She had not felt the intense cold, although without bonnet or shawl, andwith hands bare and exposed to the biting air. The intense anxiety to saveall she could had so diverted her thoughts from herself that she took noheed of the peril in which she stood from fire and frost. But now thereaction came; her knees trembled under her, she grew giddy and faint, anddark shadows swam before her.

The three men sprang on the roof and called for water in vain; it had longbeen exhausted. "Snow! snow! Hand us up pails full of snow!" they shouted.

It was bitter work filling the pails with frozen snow, but the two women(for Mrs. McMurray had now returned) scooped up pails full of snow withtheir bare hands and passed them to the men on the roof.

By spreading this on the roof, and on the floor of the loft, the violenceof the fire was checked. The men then cast away the smoldering rafters andflung them in the snow-drifts.

The roof was gone, but the fire was at last subdued before it had destroyedthe walls. Within one week from the time of the fire the neighboringsettlers built a new roof for Mrs. Dalton in spite of the intense cold, andwhile it was building Mrs. D. and her household were sheltered at thenearest cabin.

The warm breath of spring brought with it some halcyon days, as if toreconcile Mrs. Dalton to her life of solitude and toil. The pure beauty ofthe crystal waters, the august grandeur of the vast forest, and thearomatic breezes from the pines and birches, cast a magic spell upon herspirit. She soon learned the use of the rifle, the paddle, and the fishingrod. Charming hours of leisure and freedom were passed upon the water ofthe lake, or in rambles through the arches of the forest. In thesepleasures, enhanced by the needful toils of the household or the field, thesummer sped away.

August came, and the little harvest of oats and corn were all safelyhoused. For some days the weather had been intensely hot, although the sunwas entirely obscured by a bluish haze, which seemed to render the unusualheat of the atmosphere more oppressive. Not a breath of air stirred thevast forest, and the waters of the lake took on a leaden hue.

Before the sun rose on the morning of the 12th the heavens were coveredwith hard looking clouds of a deep blue-black color, fading away to whiteat their edges, and in form resembling the long, rolling waves of a heavysea, but with the difference that the clouds were perfectly motionless,piled in long curved lines, one above the other.

As the sun rose above the horizon, the sky presented a magnificentspectacle. Every shade of saffron, gold, rose-color, scarlet, and crimson,mottled with the deepest violet, were blended there as on some enormoustapestry. It was the storm-fiend who shook that gorgeous banner in the faceof the day-god!

As the day advanced the same blue haze obscured the sun, which frownedredly through his misty veil. At ten o'clock the heat was suffocating. Thethermometer in the shade ranged after midday from ninety-six toninety-eight degrees. The babe stretched itself upon the floor of thecabin, unable to jump about or play, the dog lay panting in the shade, thefowls half-buried themselves in the dust, with open beaks and outstretchedwings. All nature seemed to droop beneath the scorching heat. At threeo'clock the heavens took on a sudden change. The clouds, that had beforelain so still, were now in rapid motion, hurrying and chasing each otherround the horizon. It was a strangely awful sight. Before a breath had beenfelt of the mighty blast that had already burst on the other side of thelake, branches of trees, leaves, and clouds of dust were whirled across thewater, which rose in long, sharp furrows, fringed with foam, as if moved intheir depths by some unseen but powerful agent.

The hurricane swept up the hill, crushing and overturning everything in itscourse. Mrs. Dalton, standing at the open door of her cabin, speechless andmotionless, gazed at the tremendous spectacle. The babe crept to itsmother's feet, its cheeks like marble, and appealed to her for protection.Mrs. McMurray, in helpless terror, had closed her eyes and ears to thestorm, and sat upon a chest, muffled in a shawl.

The storm had not yet reached its acme. The clouds, in huge cumuli, werehurrying as to some great rendezvous, from which they were to be let loosefor their work of destruction. The roaring of the blast and the pealing ofthe thunder redoubled in violence. Turning her eyes to the southwest, Mrs.Dalton now saw, far down the valley, the tops of the huge trees twisted andbowed, as if by some unseen but terrible power. A monstrous dun-coloredcloud marked the course of this new storm-titan. Nearer and nearer it came,with a menacing rumble, and swifter than a race-horse.

The cabin lay directly in its track. In a moment it would be upon them.Whither should they fly? One place of safety occurred on the instant to theunfortunate woman; clasping her babe to her breast and clutching the gownof her companion, she ran to the trap-door which conducted to the cellarand raising it pushed Mrs. McMurray down the aperture and quickly followingher, Mrs. Dalton closed the trap.

Not five seconds later the hurricane struck the cabin with such force thatevery plank, rafter, beam, and log was first dislocated and then caught upin the whirlwind and scattered over the forest in the wake of the storm. Asthe roar of the blast died away the rain commenced pouring in torrentsaccompanied by vivid flashes of lightning and loud peals of thunder.

The air in the close shallow cellar, where the women were, soon grewsuffocating, and as the fury of the tempest was spent, they took courageand pushed at the trap. It stuck fast; again they both applied theirshoulders to it but only succeeded in raising it far enough to see that thetrunk of an enormous tree lay directly across the door.

The cellar in which they were, was little more than a large pit, eight feetby six, and served as a receptacle for their winter's stores; as it laydirectly in the center of the floor which was formed of large logs split inhalves and their surfaces smoothed, there was no mode of egress except bydigging underneath the floor as far as the walls of the cabin and soemerging; but this was a work of extreme difficulty, owing to the fact thatthe soil was full of the old roots of trees which had been cut down to makeroom for the cabin.

The first danger, however, was from suffocation; to meet this Mrs. Daltonand her companion pried open the door as far as the fallen trunk wouldallow, and kept it in position by means of a large chip which they found inthe pit. This gave them sufficient air through a chink three inches inwidth; and they next looked about them for means of egress. After trying invain to dislodge one of the floor logs, they proceeded to dig a passagethrough the earth underneath the floor. Discouraged by the slowness oftheir progress in this undertaking, and drenched with the rain which pouredin through the crevice in the door, they began to give themselves up forlost. Their only hope was that McMurray or some one of the neighbors wouldcome to their relief.

The rain lasted only one hour, and the sun soon made its appearance. Thiswas after six o'clock, as the prisoners judged from the shadows cast overthe ruins of the cabin. The shades of evening fell and at last utterdarkness; still no one came. No sound was borne to the ears of the women intheir earthly dungeon save that of the rushing waters of the creek and themournful howling of wolves who, like jackals, were prowling in the track ofthe tempest. Several of these animals, attracted by the infant's cries,came and put their noses at the door of the pit and finding that it heldprey, paced the floor above it all night: but with the first light ofmorning they scampered away into the woods.

Meanwhile the women resumed their efforts to burrow their way out, takingturns in working all night. By daybreak the passage lacked only four feetof the point where an outlet could be had. Ere noon, if their strength heldout, they would reach the open air.

But after four hours more of severe toil they met an unexpected obstacle:their progress was blocked by a huge boulder embedded in the soil. Wearywith their protracted toil and loss of sleep, and faint from want of food,they desisted from further efforts and sat down upon the damp earth of thatdungeon which now promised to be their tomb.

Sinking upon her knees Mrs. Dalton lifted her heart to God in prayer thathe might save her babe, her faithful domestic and herself from the doomwhich, threatened them. Hardly had she risen from her knees, when, as if amessenger had been sent in answer to her prayer, voices were heard andsteps sounded upon the floor above them. The party had come from aneighboring settlement for the express purpose of relieving the sufferersfrom the recent storm. A few blows with an axe and the prisoners were free.Recognizing their preservation as a direct answer to prayer, and with deepgratitude both of the women fell on their knees and lifted up their heartsin humble thanksgiving to that God who had saved them by an act of hisprovidence from an awful death. When all hope was gone His hand wasstretched forth, making his strength manifest in the weakness of thosehapless women and that helpless babe.

Before the first of October a new cabin had been built for Mrs. D. by hergenerous neighbors, and the other ravages of the storm had been repaired.Once more fortune, so often adverse, turned a smiling face upon thehousehold. Two weeks sped away and then the fickle goddess frowned againupon this much enduring family.

A long continued drought had parched the fields and woods until but a sparkwas needed to kindle a conflagration. Two parties of hunters on the 16th ofOctober, had rested one noon on opposite sides of Mrs. Dalton's clearingand carelessly dropped sparks from their pipes into the dried herbage. Twohours after their departure, the flames, fanned by a gentle breeze, hadformed a junction and encircled the cabin with a wall of fire. A densecanopy of smoke hung over the clearing, and as it lifted, tongues of flamecould be seen licking the branches of the tall pines. Showers of sparksfell upon the roof. The atmosphere grew suffocating with the pitchy smokeand it became a choice of deaths, either that of choking or that ofburning.

Only one avenue of escape was left open to the family; if they could reachthe lake and embark in the canoe which lay moored near the shore they wouldbe safe: a single passage conducted to the water, and that was a burninglane lined with trees and bushes which were bursting into fiercer flamesevery moment as they gazed down it.

Nearer and nearer crept the fire, and hotter and hotter grew the chokingair. There was no other choice. McMurray threw water on the gowns of hiswife and Mrs. Dalton until they were drenched; then wrapping the baby in ablanket and enveloping their heads in shawls, the whole party abandonedtheir house to destruction, and ran the gauntlet of the flames. They passedthe spot of ordeal in safety, reached the canoe and embarking pushed offinto the lake. From this point of security they caught glimpses of theelement as it crept steadily on its way towards the cabin. Through therifts in the smoke they saw the fiery tongues licking the lower timbers anddarting themselves into the cracks between the logs like some gluttonousmonster preparing to gorge himself. The women clasped their hands andlooked up. Both were supplicating the Father of All that their home mightbe spared.

A rescue was coming from an unlooked for source. While Mrs. Dalton's facewas upturned to heaven in silent prayer, a large drop splashed upon herbrow; another followed—the first glad heralds of a pouring rain whichextinguished the fire just as it had begun to feed on that unluckyhabitation.

After such an almost unbroken series of disasters and losses, we might wellinquire whether the subsequent life of Mrs. Dalton was saddened anddarkened by similar experiences.

"Every cloud has a silver lining." The hardest and saddest lives have theirhours of softness, their gleams of sunshine. It is a wise and beautifularrangement in the economy of Divine Providence that the law of physicaland moral compensation is always operating to equalize the pains and thepleasures, the hardships and the comforts, the joys and the sorrows ofhuman life. Before continuous, patient, and conscientious endeavors, theobstacles that fill the pathway of the pioneer through the wilderness aresurmounted, the rough places are made smooth, and the last days of thedwellers in the desert and forest become like the latter days of thepatriarch, "more blessed than the beginning."

We may truly say of Mrs. Dalton, that her "latter days were more blessedthan the beginning." A happy marriage which she entered into the followingspring, and a long life of prosperity and peace after her escape from thelast great danger, as we have narrated, were the fitting reward of thecourage, diligence, and devotion displayed during the two first summers andwinters which she passed in the northern wilderness.

The wide region, lying between the sources of the Mississippi and the bendsof the Missouri in Dakota, and stretching thence far up to the Saskatchewanin the north, has been appropriately styled "the happy hunting ground." Therendezvous to which the mighty nimrods of the northwest return fromthe chase are huge cabins, built to stand before the howling blasts, andgive shelter against the arctic regions of the winter. In these abodesdwell the wives and children of many of those rugged men, and create eventhere, by their devoted toils and gentle companionship, at least thesemblance of a home. Almost whelmed in the snow, and when even the mercuryfreezes in the bulb of the thermometer, these anxious and loving housewivesfeed the lamp and keep the fire burning on the hearth. Dressing the skinsof the deer, they keep their husbands well shod and clothed. The longwinter of eight months passes monotonously away; the men, accustomed to alife of excitement, chafe and grow surly under their enforced imprisonment;but the women, by their kind offices and sweet words, act as a constantsedative upon these morose outbreaks. The hunters, it is said, grow softerin their manners as the winter wanes. They are unconscious scholars in therefining school of woman.

Among the diversions which serve to while away the tediousness of thosewinter nights are included the narration of personal adventures passedthrough by the different hunters in their wild life. Tales of narrowescapes, of Indian fights, of desperate encounters with beasts of theforests; and through the rough texture of these narratives now and thenappears a pathetic incident in which woman is the prominent figure.Sometimes it is a hunter's wife who is the heroine, and again the scene islaid in the home of the settler, where woman faces some dreadful danger forher loved ones, or endures extraordinary suffering faithfully to the end.Such an incident as the following was preserved in the memory of a hunter,who recently communicated the essential facts to the writer.

Minnesota well deserves the name of the pioneer's paradise. Occupying as itdoes that high table-land out of which gush into the pure bracing air, thethousand fountains of the Father of waters and of the majestic Red river;studded with lakes that glisten like molten silver in the sunshine;shadowed by primeval forests; now stretching out in prairies which losethemselves in the horizon; now undulating with hills and dales dotted withgroves and copses, nature here, like some bounteous and imperial mother,seems to have prepared with lavish hand a royal park within which herroving sons and daughters may find a permanent abode.

The country through which the Red river flows from Otter Tail lake towardsRichville, is unsurpassed for rural beauty. Trending northward it thenpasses along towards Pembina, a border town on our northern boundary,through a plain of vast extent, dotted with groves of oak planted as if byhand. Voyaging down this noble river in midsummer, between its banksembowered with wild roses we breathe an air loaded with perfume and view ascene of wild but enchanting loveliness. Here summer celebrates her briefbut splendid reign, then lingering for a while in the lap of dreamy, balmyautumn, flies at length into southern exile, abdicating her throne towinter, which stalks from the frozen zone and rules the region withundisputed and rigorous sway.

In the month of March, 1863, a party of four hunters set out from Pembina,where they had passed the winter, and undertook to reach Shyenne, a smalltrading post on the west bank of the Red river, in the territory of Dakota.A partial thaw, followed by a cold snap, had coated the river in manyplaces with ice, and by the alternate aid of skates and snow-shoes, theyreached on the third evening after their departure, Red Lake river inMinnesota, some eighty miles distant from Pembina. Clearing away the snowin a copse, they scooped a shallow trench in the frozen soil with theirhatchets, and kindling a fire so as to cover the length and breadth of theexcavation, they prepared their frugal repast of hunters' fare. Thenremoving the fire to the foot of the trench and piling logs upon it, theylay down side by side on the warmed soil, and wrapping their blanketsaround them slept soundly through the still cold night, until the sun'sedge showed itself above the rim of the vast plain that stretched to theeast. As the hunters rose from their earthy couch and stretched theircramped limbs, casting their eyes hither and thither over the boundlessexpanse, they descried upon the edge of a copse some quarter of a mile tothe south a bright-red object, apparently a living thing, crouched upon thesnow as if sunning itself. Rising simultaneously and with awakenedcuriosity they approached the spot. Before they had taken many steps theobject disappeared suddenly. Fixing their eyes steadily on the point of itslast appearance, they slowly advanced with co*cked rifles until they reacheda large tree with arching roots, around which were the traces of smallshoeless feet. An orifice barely large enough to admit a man showedthem beneath the tree a cave. One of the hunters, peering through theaperture, spied within, a girl of ten years crouched in the farthest cornerof the recess, covered with a thick red flannel cloak, and shivering withcold and terror. Speaking kind words to the little stranger they succeededat length in reassuring her. She came out from her hiding-place, and thehunters with rugged kindness wrapped her feet and limbs in their coats andbore her to the fire. The first words she uttered were, "mother! go formother!" She had gone away to shoot game the night before, the little girlsaid, and had not returned.

Two of the hunters hastened back and succeeded in tracing the mother'scourse a mile up the river to a thicket; there, covered thinly with leavesand with her rifle in her stiffened hand, they found the hapless wanderer,but alas! cold in death. Her set and calm features, her pinched and wastedface, her scantily robed form, mutely but eloquently told a tale of fearfulsuffering borne with unflinching fortitude. Weak and weary, the deadly coldhad stolen upon her in the darkness and with its icy grip had stilled forever the beating of her brave true heart. Excavating a grave in the snowthey decently straightened her limbs, and piling logs and brush upon herremains to keep them from the beasts of prey, silently and sorrowfully leftthe scene.

Who were these lonely wanderers in that wild and wintry waste! The presenceof the rifle and of the large high boots which she wore, together withother circ*mstances, were evidences which enabled the shrewd hunters toguess a part of their story. It appeared that the family must haveconsisted originally of three persons, a man and wife, with the child nowthe sole survivor of the party. Voyaging down the Red river during thepreceding summer and autumn; lured onward by the fatal beauty of theregion, and deluded by the ease with which their wants could be supplied,they had evidently neglected to provide against the winter, which at lengthburst upon them all unprepared to encounter its rigors.

The rest of this heart-rending story was gathered from the lips of theirlittle protege. Her father, mother, and herself had started from Otter Taillake in September, 1862, after the quelling of the Sioux outbreak, andvoyaged down the Red river in a canoe, intending to settle in the wild-riceregion a few miles southeast of the spot where they then were. Their canoewith most of their household goods had broken from its moorings inNovember, one night while they were encamped on the shore. The father hadgone to bring it back, and being overtaken by a terrible snow-storm, hadnever returned. [His body was found the following spring.] The mother hadmanaged to procure barely sufficient game during the winter to keep herselfand her child alive. The cave, their only shelter, was strewed with thebeaks and feathers of birds, and with the teeth and claws of small animals;all the other portions of the game she had shot had been devoured in theextremity to which hunger had reduced them. Her mother, the little girlsaid, was very weak the last day, and could hardly walk. "I begged to gowith her when she took her gun and went out to shoot something for supper,but she told me I must stay at home and keep warm." Home! could thatwretched shelter be a home for the hapless mother and her child? Tears werewrung from those rugged sons of the wilderness, and coursed down their ironcheeks when they visited the spot where parental tenderness had striven toshield the object of its affection from the bitter blast. The snow bankedabout the roots of the tree and showing the marks of her numbed fingers,the crevices stuffed with moss, the bed of dried leaves and the beddingwhich she had stripped from her own person to cover her child, were proofsand tokens of the love which would have created comfort in the midst ofdesolation and given even that miserable nook in winter's dreary domain thesemblance of a home. In the heart of that frozen waste, far from humanfellowship, with hunger gnawing at her vitals and the frost curdling thegenial current in her veins, still burned brightly in that poor lonelyheart the pure and deathless flame of maternal love.

CHAPTER XIV.

ENCOUNTERS WITH WILD BEASTS—COURAGE AND DARING

The inhabitants of the frontier from the earliest times have had to facethe fiercest and most ravenous wild beasts which prowl in the forests ofthis continent; and the local histories of the various sections and singlesettlements on our border-land abound in thrilling accounts of combatsbetween those pests of the forest and individual men and women.

Wolves, like the poor, were always with the frontiersmen. Bears, both blackand brown, were familiar visitors. The cougar, American lion, catamount, or"painter" (panther), as it is variously styled, was a denizen ofevery forest from Maine to Georgia, and from the St. Croix River to theColumbia. Wild cats, and even deer, when brought to bay, proved themselvesdangerous combatants. Last, but not the least terrible in the catalogue,comes the grizzly bear, the monarch of the rocky waste that lies betweenthe headwaters of the Platte and the Missouri rivers, and the sierras ofthe Pacific slope.

The stories of rencontres and combats between pioneer women andthese savage rangers of the woods, are numerous and thrilling. Sometimesthey seem almost improbable, especially to such as have only known Woman asshe appears to the dwellers of our eastern cities, and in homes whereluxury and ease have softened the sex.

A story like the following, for example, as told by one of our mostveracious travelers, may be listened to with at least some degree ofincredulity by gentlemen and ladies of the lounge and easy chair. A womanliving on the Saskatchewan accompanied her husband on a hunting expeditioninto the forest. He had been very successful, and having killed one moredeer than they could well carry home, he went to the house of a neighboringsettler to dispose of it, leaving his wife to take care of the rest untilhis return. She sat carelessly upon the log with his hunting knife in herhand, when she heard the breaking of branches near her, and turning round,beheld a great bear only a few paces from her.

It was too late to retreat, and, seeing that the animal was very hungry anddetermined to come to close quarters, she rose, and placed her back againsta small tree, holding her knife close to her breast, and in a straight linewith the bear.

The shaggy monster came on. She remained motionless, her eyes steadilyfixed upon her enemy's, and, as his huge arms closed around her, she slowlydrove the knife into his heart. The bear uttered a hideous cry, and sankdead at her feet. When her husband returned, he found the courageous womantaking the skin from the carcass of the formidable brute. "How," some ofour readers will exclaim, "can a woman possess such iron nerves as to dareand do such a deed as this?" And yet, evidence of masculine courage anddaring, displayed by women in this and multitudes of other cases whereconfronted by danger in this form, is direct and unimpeachable.

Such stories, however startling and extraordinary, become credible when weremember the circ*mstances by which woman is surrounded in pioneer life,and how those circ*mstances tend to strengthen the nerves and increase thehardihood of the softer sex. Hunting is there one of the necessaryavocations, in which women often become practiced, in order to supply thewants of existence. On our northwestern frontier, especially, femalehunters have, from the start, been noted for their courage and skill.

One of the famous huntresses of the northwest, while returning home fromthe woods with a wild turkey which she had shot, unexpectedly encountered alarge moose in her path, which manifested a disposition to attack her. Shetried to avoid it, but the animal came towards her rapidly and in a furiousmanner. Her rifle was unloaded, and she was obliged to take shelter behinda tree, shifting her position from tree to tree as the brute made at her.

At length, as she fled, she picked up a pole, and quickly untying hermoccasin strings, she bound her knife to the end of the pole. Then, placingherself in a favorable position, as the moose came up, she stabbed himseveral times in the neck and breast. At last the animal, exhausted withthe loss of blood, fell. She then dispatched it, and cut out its tongue tocarry home as a trophy of victory. When they went back to the spot for thecarcass, they found the snow trampled down in a wide circle, and copiouslysprinkled with blood, which gave the place the appearance of abattle-field. It proved to be a male of extraordinary size.

The gray wolf species, two centuries ago and later, was spread over theAtlantic States from Maine to Georgia, and was in most newly-settledregions a frequent and obnoxious visitor to cattle yards and sheep-folds.We are told that the first Boston immigrants were obliged to build high andstrong fences around their live stock to keep them from the depredations ofthese marauders.

Less bold than his European kindred, the gray wolf of North America isstill an extremely powerful and dangerous animal, as may be proved byrecalling the frequent encounters of the early settlers—both men andwomen—with these prowling pests. When pinched with hunger or driven toextremities, they will attack men or women and fight desperately, either tosatiate their appetites or to save their skins from an assailant. A greatnumber of stories and incidents concerning collisions between women andthese savage brutes are scattered through the local histories of our earlytimes, and illustrate the nerve and daring which, as we have shown, werehabitual to the women in the border settlements.

About the middle of the last century, a household in the hill country ofGeorgia was greatly vexed by the frequent incursions of a large animal ofthis species which prowled about the cow-yard, and carried off calves andsheep, sometimes even venturing up to the door of the cabin. The familyconsisted of a man and his wife and three daughters, all grown up. Each oneof the five had shot ineffectually at the brute, which seemed to bear acharmed life. A strong steel trap was finally set near the calf pen, in astout enclosure, and in a few days the trappers were delighted to hear acommotion in that quarter which indicated the success of their stratagem.His wolfship, sure enough, had been caught by one of his hind legs, and wasfound to be furiously gnawing at the trap and the chain which held him. Thewomenkind, rejoicing in the capture of their old enemy, all entered theenclosure and stood watching the struggles of the fierce beast, while thefather was loading his gun to dispatch it.

In one of his leaps, the staple that held the chain gave way, and the wolfwould have bounded over the fence, and made his escape to the woods, butfor the ready courage of the eldest daughter of the family, a large,powerful woman of twenty-five. Seizing the chain, she held it firmly inboth her hands; the wolf snapped at her arms, and at last, in hisdesperation, sprang at her throat with such force that he overthrew her,but still she did not relax her grip of the chain, though the animal, inhis struggles, dragged her on the ground across the enclosure. Her father,at this critical moment, returned with his loaded gun and dispatched thebrute. The young woman, barring a few bruises and scratches, was entirelyuninjured.

The speed and endurance of these animals, when in pursuit of their prey,

"With their long gallop, which can tire
The hound's deep hate, the hunter's fire,"

makes them very dangerous assailants, when ravenous with hunger. We recall,in this connection, the thrilling story of a brave Kentucky girl, who, withher sisters, was pursued by a pack of black wolves.

The pluck and ready wit for which the Kentucky girls have been socelebrated is well illustrated by this adventure, which, after threateningconsequences of the most tragical nature, had finally a comicaldenouement.

In the year 1798, a family of Virginia emigrants settled in centralKentucky in the midst of a dense forest, where, by the aid of three negromen whom they had brought with them, a spacious cabin was soon erected anda large clearing made. The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Carter, threedaughters, well grown, buxom girls, full of life and fun, and a son, who,though only fourteen years of age, was a fine rider and versed inforest-craft.

The country where they lived was rich and beautiful. One could ride onhorseback for miles through groves of huge forest trees, beneath which theturf lay firm and green. Through this open wood a wagon could be drivenwithout difficulty; but locomotion in those days and regions was largely onhorseback. There were no roads, except between the larger settlements;unless those passage-ways through the woods could be called roads. Thesewere made by cutting down a tree or clearing away the undergrowth here andthere, and "blazing" the trees along the passage by chopping off a portionof the bark as high as a man could reach with an axe.

At that period Kentucky was a famous hunting-ground! All kinds of gameabounded in those magnificent forests and beneath that genial clime. Wildturkeys roosted in immense flocks in the chestnut, beech, and oak trees;pigeons by the million darkened the air; deer could be shot by any hunterby stopping a few moments in the forest where they came to feed.

The fiercer and more ravenous beasts abounded in proportion. Bears,catamounts, and wolves swarmed in the denser parts of the forests, and inthe winter the two last named beasts were a great annoyance to the settlersby the boldness with which they invaded the cattle and poultry-yards andpig-pens.

The black wolf of the Western country was and is a very destructive andfierce annual, hunting in large packs, which, after using every stratagemto circumvent their prey, attacked it with great ferocity.

Like the Indian, they always endeavored to surprise their victims andstrike the mortal blow without exposing themselves to danger. They seldomattack a man except when asleep or wounded, or otherwise taken at adisadvantage.

As the Carter homestead was ten miles from any settlement, it was fairlyhaunted by these wild beasts, which considered the cattle, calves, colts,sheep, and pigs of the new comers their legitimate prey.

Young Carter and his sisters having emigrated from the most populous partof Virginia where social entertainments were frequent, found the timeduring the winter months hang heavy on their hands, and as the youngladies' favorite colts and pet lambs had often suffered from incursions ofthe wolves and panthers, they amused themselves by setting traps for themand occasionally giving them a dose of cold lead, for they were all goodshots with the rifle,—the girls as well as their brother.

Two or three years passed in the forest taught them to despise the wolvesand panthers as cowardly brutes, and the girls were not afraid to passthrough the forest at any time of the day or night. Often just at dusk,when returning from a picnic or walk, they would see half a dozen or morewolves prowling in the woods; the girls would run towards them screamingand shaking their mantles, and the whole pack would scurry away through theundergrowth.

This cowardly conduct of the wolves taught their fair pursuers tounderestimate the ferocious nature of the beasts, as we shall hereaftersee.

The winter of 1801 was a severe one. Heavy snows fell, and the passagethrough the woods was difficult, either by reason of the snows or from thethaws which succeeded them. Never before had the wolves been so bold andferocious. It happened that in the depth of this winter a merry-making wasannounced to take place in the nearest settlement, ten miles distant.

The Carter girls were of course among the invited guests, for their beautyand spirit were famed through the whole region. Their parents havingperfect confidence in the ability of the girls to take care of themselves,and also considering that their brother was to accompany them on horseback,Mr. Carter, the elder, ordered their house-servant, an old negro namedHannibal, to tackle up a pair of stout roadsters to a two-seated wagon anddrive his daughters to the merry-making.

Hannibal was a fiddler of renown and that of course formed a double reasonwhy he should go to the ball.

The snow was not so deep as to delay the party materially. They weredetermined under any circ*mstances to reach the scene of Christmasfestivities, where the young ladies, as well as their partners, anticipateda "good time" in the dance, and perchance "possibilities" whichmight be protracted until a late hour upon the following morning, when theguests would disperse upon the understanding that they were to meet andcontinue their amusem*nts the same evening.

In spite of the urgent invitations of their friends that the young ladiesshould pass the night at the settlement, they set out on their way home, towhich they were lighted by a full moon, whose light was reflected from thesnow and filled the air with radiance.

The girls were assisted into the old two-seated wagon, Hannibal, rollinghis eyes and showing his teeth, clambered on the front seat, placing hisfiddle in its case between his knees, and grasping the reins shouted to thehorses, which started off at a rattling pace, young Carter and an escort ofadmiring cavaliers riding behind as a guard of honor.

After accompanying them on their way for three miles, the escort took leaveof them amid much doffing of hats and waving of handkerchiefs.

The wagon was passing through the dense forest which it had traversed thenight before, when a deep, mournful howl was borne to the ears of theparty. Another followed, and then a succession of similar sounds, till theforest resounded with the bayings as if of a legion of wolves.

Upon the departure of the escort, young Carter, with youthful impetuosityand thoughtlessness, had put spurs to his horse, a beast of blood andmettle, and was now far in advance of the wagon, which was moving slowlythrough the forest, barely lighted by the moon, which cast its beamsthrough the interlacing boughs.

The girls were not in the least scared by the wolfish concert. Not soHannibal, who rolled his eyes up and down the woods, whipped up the horses,and uttered sundry ejacul*tions in the negro dialect expressive of hisalarm and apprehension on the young ladies' account.

An open space in the forest soon showed to the party a half dozen dark,gaunt objects squatted on their haunches, whining and sniffing, directly inthe track of the wagon. They rose and ranged themselves by the side of theroad, the vehicle passing so near that Hannibal was able to give them withhis whip two or three cuts which sent them snarling to the rear.

The howling ceased, and for a few moments the girls thought theirdisagreeable visitors had bid them good night. Looking back, however, oneof the girls saw a dozen or more loping stealthily behind them. They soonreached the wagon, and one of the boldest of the pack leaped up behind andtore away a piece of the shawl in which one of the girls was wrapped, but asmart blow on the snout from the hand of the brave girl sent him yelpingback to his fellows.

The horses becoming frightened, tore, snorting, through the woods, lashedby the old negro, half beside himself with terror: but the wolves onlyloped the faster and grew the bolder in proportion to the speed of thewagon. Sometimes they would throw their forepaws as high as the hind seat,and snap at the throats of the girls, who thereupon gave their wolfshipssevere buffets with their fists and thus drove them back.

The wolves were increasing in number and ferocity every moment, and but fora happy thought of the oldest Miss Carter, the whole party would haveundoubtedly fallen a prey to the ferocious animals.

An old deserted cabin stood in the forest close to the track which theywere following. Seizing the reins from the hands of the affrighted darkey,she guided the wagon up to the door of the cabin, and the whole partydismounting rushed into the door. Here Miss Carter stood with a stoutstick, while the negro helped her sisters up into a loft by means of aladder.

The pack again squatted on their haunches and whined wistfully, but werekept at bay by the daring maiden. After her sisters had been safely housedin the loft, with Hannibal who had in his fright quite forgotten her, sheimmediately joined them and had scarcely ascended the ladder when more thantwenty of the wolves rushed pell-mell into the cabin.

The rest of the pack made an attack on the horses, which by their kickingand plunging broke loose from the harness, and dashed homewards through thewoods followed by the yelling pack.

While this was going on, the young women recovered their equanimity, andhearing the horses break away from their assailants, directed the negro toclose the door; which after some difficulty he succeeded in doing. Twentywolves were thus snugly trapped.

One of the girls soon proposed that the old fiddler should play a few tunesto the animals, which were now whining in their cage.

The darkey accordingly took his violin, which he had clung to through alltheir mad drive, and struck up "Money Musk," which he played as correctlyand in as good time as was possible under the circ*mstance. Soon collectinghis nerve and coolness as he went on, he scraped out his wholerépertoire of dancing tunes, "St. Patrick's day in themorning," "The Irish Washerwoman," "Pop goes the Weasel,"winding up with a "Breakdown and Fishers' Hornpipe."

The effect of the music, while it cheered and amused the girls in theirstrange situation, seemed to have a directly contrary effect on the wolves,who crouched, yelped, and trembled until they seemed utterly powerless andharmless. What threatened to be a tragedy was in this way turned intosomething that resembled a comedy.

By daylight Mr. Carter, with his son and two negroes, arrived on the scene,armed to the teeth with guns and axes, and made short work with the brutes,climbing on the roof of the cabin and descending into the loft from whichplace they shot them in detail. The bounty which at that time was paid forwolves' heads was awarded to Miss Carter by whose ingenuity the brutes weretrapped.

The wild cat of this continent is said to be the lineal descendant of "theharmless, necessary cat," which the early emigrants brought over with themfrom Europe, among their other four-footed friends and companions. Certaindepraved and perverse representatives of this domestic creature took to thewoods, and, becoming outlaws from society, reverted to their originalsavage state. Their offspring waxed in size and fierceness beyond theirprogenitors. They became at last proverbial for their fighting qualities,and to be able to "whip one's weight in wild cats," is a terse expressionsignifying strength.

The fecundity of this animal, as well as its predatory skill, makes it anextremely frequent and annoying poacher on the poultry-yards of thebackwoods settlers, especially in the hill districts of the SouthernStates, where the climate and the abundance of game appear to havedeveloped them to an uncommon size and fierceness.

Their strength and ferocity was fully tested by a settler's wife, in theupper part of Alabama, some fifty years ago, as will appear from thefollowing account:

Mrs. Julia Page, a widow, with three small children, occupied a house in abroken and well-wooded country, some miles west of the present town ofHuntsville, where the only serious annoyance and drawback was the immensenumber of these animals which prowled through the woods and decimated thepoultry. Stumpy tailed, green eyed, they strolled through the clearing andsunned themselves on the limbs of neighboring trees, blinking calmly at theclucking hens which they marked for their prey, and even venturing to throwsuspicious glances at the infant sleeping in its cradle. Sociable in theirdisposition, they appeared to even claim a kind of proprietary interest inthe premises and in the appurtenances thereof.

Shooting a dozen and trapping as many more, made little appreciabledifference in the numbers of the feline colony. The dame at lastconstructed with much labor a close shed, within which her poultry werenightly housed. This worked well for a season. But one evening a commotionin the hennery informed her that the depredators were again at work.Hastily seizing an axe in one hand and carrying a lighted pitch pine knotin the other, she hurried to the scene of action, and found Grimalkinfeasting sumptuously on her plumpest pullet. The banqueters were evidentlya mother and her well-grown son, whom she was instructing in the predatoryart and practice.

The younger animal immediately clambered to the hole where it had made itsentrance, and was about to make a successful exit, when the matron,sticking the lighted knot in the ground, struck the animal with the axe,breaking its back and bringing it to the ground. Without an instant'swarning, the mother cat sprang upon Mrs. Page, and fastening its powerfulclaws in her breast, tore savagely at her neck with its teeth.

The matron, shrieking with terror, strove with all her might to loosen theanimal's hold, but in vain. The maternal instinct had awakened all itsfierceness, and as the blood commenced to flow in streams from the deepscratches and bites inflicted by its teeth and claws, its ferociousappetency redoubled. It tore and bit as if nothing would appease it but theluckless victim's death. Mrs. Page would doubtless have fallen a prey toits savage rage, but for a happy thought which flashed across her mind inher desperate straits.

Snatching the pine knot from the earth, she applied it to the hindquartersof the wild cat. The flame instantly singed off the thick fur and scorchedits flesh. With a savage screech, it relaxed its hold and fell to theground, where she succeeded at last in dispatching the creature. It provedto be one of the largest of its species, measuring nearly three feet fromits nose to the tip of its tail, and weighing over thirty pounds.

For many years this colony of pioneer wild cats continued to "make thingshot" for the settlers in that region, but most of them were finallyexterminated, and the remnant emigrated to some more secluded region.

The character of the common black hear is a study for the naturalist, andthe hunter. He is fierce or good natured, sullen or playful, lazy orenergetic, bold or cowardly, "all by turns and nothing long." He is theclown of the menagerie, the laughing stock rather than the dread of thehunter, and the abhorrence of border house-wives, owing to his intrusivemanners, his fondness for overturning beehives, and his playful familiaritywith the contents of their larders in the winter season.

Incidents are related where in consequence of these contrarieties ofbear-nature, danger and humor are singularly blended.

While the daughter of one of the early settlers of Wisconsin was wanderingin "maiden meditation," through the forest by which, her father's home wassurrounded, she was suddenly startled from her reverie by a hoarse, deep,cavernous growl, and as she lifted her eyes, they were opened wide withdismay and terror. Not twenty paces from her, rising on his huge ironclawed hind feet, was a wide-mouthed, vicious looking black bear, ofunusual size, who had evidently been already "worked up," and was "spoilingfor a fight." That the bear meant mischief was plain, but the girl was apioneer's daughter, and her fright produced no symptoms of anything likefainting.

Bears could climb, she knew that very well; but then if she got out of hisway quickly enough he might not take the trouble to follow her.

It was the only chance, and she sprang for the nearest tree. It was ofmedium size, with a rough bark and easy to climb. All the better for her,if none the worse for the bear, and in an instant she was perched among thelower branches. For two or three minutes the shaggy monster seemed puzzledand as if in doubt what course he had best pursue; then he came slowly upand began smelling and nuzzling round the roots of the tree as if to obtainthe necessary information in order to enable him to decide this importantquestion.

The young woman in the tree was no coward, but little as was the hope ofbeing heard in that forest solitude she let her fears have their own wayand screamed loudly for help. As if aroused and provoked by the sound ofher voice, bruin began to try the bark with his foreclaws while his fiercelittle eyes looked up carnivorously into the face of the maiden, and hislittle tongue came twisting spirally from his half opened jaws as if hewere gloating over a choice titbit.

A neighboring settler, attracted by the cries of distress, soon reached thescene of action. Though completely unarmed he did not hesitate to come toclose quarters with bruin, and seizing a long heavy stick he commenced tovigorously belabor the hind quarters of the brute, who, however, onlyresponded to these attentions by turning his head and winking viciously athis assailant, still pursuing his upward gymnastics in the direction of thegirl, who on her part was clambering towards the upper branches of thetree.

The young man redoubled his blows and for a moment bruin seemed disposed toturn and settle matters with the party in his rear, but finally to thedismay of both the maiden and her champion, and evidently deeming hisreadiest escape from attack would be to continue his ascent he resumed hisacrobatic performance and was about to place his forefeet on the lowerlimbs, when his foe dropping his futile weapon, seized the stumpy tail ofthe beast with his strong hands, and bracing his feet against the trunk ofthe tree pulled with all his might. The girl seeing the turn that mattershad taken, immediately broke off a large limb and stoutly hammered thebear's snout. This simultaneous attack in front and rear was too much forbruin: with an amusing air of bewilderment he descended in a slow anddignified manner and galloped off into the forest.

There are but few instances on record where female courage has been put tothe severe test of a hand to hand combat with grizzly bears. The mostremarkable conflict of this description is that which we will endeavor todetail in the following narrative, which brings out in bold relief thetraits of courage, hardihood, and devotion, all displayed by woman, in mosttrying and critical situations, wherein she showed herself the peer of thestoutest and most skillful of that hardy breed of men—the hunters of thefar west.

In the summer of 1859 a party of men and women set out from Omaha, on anexploring tour of the Platte valley, for the purpose of fixing upon somefavorable location for a settlement, which was to be the head-quarters ofan extensive cattle-farm. The leader in the expedition was Col. Ansley, awealthy Englishman. He was accompanied by Joseph Dagget, his agent, whosebusiness had carried him several times across the Rocky Mountains toCalifornia; Mrs. Dagget and a daughter of sixteen, both of whom had crossedthe plains before with Mr. D.—two half-breeds also accompanied the partyas guides, hunters, muleteers, and men of all work.

As Mrs. Dagget is the heroine of our story, she deserves a description indetail. Her early life had been spent in the wilds of Northern New York,where she became versed in fishing, hunting, and wood-craft. She grew up inthat almost unbroken wilderness to more than woman's ordinary stature, andwith a masculine firmness of nerve and fiber. We need hardly add that shewas an admirable equestrienne.

At the age of seventeen she was married to Joseph Dagget, who possessedthose qualities which she was naturally most inclined to admire in a man.

The seventeen years that followed her marriage she spent with her husbandin the wilds of the North and West, where she obtained all the furtherexperience necessary to complete her education as a practical Woman of theBorder. It is unnecessary to state that such a woman as Mrs. Dagget was anexceedingly useful member of frontier society. Several times she and herhusband had been the leading spirits in starting new settlements far inadvance of the main stream of immigration: after the courage and experienceof Mr. and Mrs. D. had helped on the infant settlement for a season, therestless spirit of adventure would seize them, and selling out, they wouldpush on further west.

Miss Jane Dagget was a girl after her father's and mother's own heart, andwas their constant companion in their expeditions and journeys over prairieand mountain.

The party started in June from Omaha, and journeyed along the north bank ofthe Platte river as far as the North Fork of that stream. They werewell-mounted on blooded horses, furnished by Col. Ansley, and were followedby four pack-mules with such baggage as the party needed, under the care ofthe half-breed guides.

Two weeks sufficed to locate the ranch, after which they pursued their wayalong the North Platte, as far as Fort Laramie, intending from that post toadvance northward to strike the North Fork of the Cheyenne, and followingthat stream to the Missouri river, there take the steamboat back to Omaha.This diversion in their proposed route was made at the suggestion of Col.Ansley, who was a keen and daring sportsman, and wished to add a fight withgrizzlies to his répertoire of hunting adventures.

The first day's journey, after leaving Fort Laramie, was barren ofincident. Pursuing their route due-north over a rolling and well-grassedcountry, interspersed with sandy stretches, they reached, on the evening ofthe second day, some low hills, covered with thickets and small trees,between which ran valleys thickly carpeted with grass. Here they werepreparing their camp, when one of the half-breeds cried out, "VoilaGreezly!"

The whole party turned their eyes, and saw, sure enough, an enormousmouse-colored grizzly sitting on his haunches beside a tree, regarding themwith strong marks of curiosity.

The half-breeds straightway began to prepare for action, after theCalifornia fashion, that is to say, they coiled their "lariats," and rodeslowly up to the brute, who stood his ground, only edging up until hisflank nearly rested against the tree, a stout sapling some four inches indiameter.

The rest of the party stood ready with their rifles, not excepting even theladies. The horses snorted and trembled, while their hearts beat so loudlythat the riders could plainly hear them.

Meanwhile François, one of the half-breeds, had let slip his lasso, whichfell squarely over the head of the grizzly; then drawing it "taut," he keptit so while he slowly walked his horse around the tree, binding the grizzlyfirmly to it.

The whole party now advanced with rifles poised, ready to give the coupde gráce to his bearship; when, with a thundering growl, another"grizzly" came shambling swiftly out from the bushes, and made directly forFrançois. Before the party recovered from their surprise at this newappearance on the scene, the brute reared up and seized François by theleg, which he crunched and shattered.

Only one of the party dared to fire, for fear of wounding the guide; thatone was Mrs. Dagget, who, poising her carbine, would have sent a ballthrough the monster's heart but for a sudden start of her high-mettledhorse. As it was, her shot only wounded the beast, which immediately leftFrançois and dashed at our heroine, who drew a navy-revolver from herholsters, gave the infuriated animal two more shots, and then wheeled herhorse and galloped away, making a circuit as she rode, so as to reach theother side of the tree from which the first grizzly had now disengagedhimself, and attacking Michael, the remaining guide, had broken his horse'sleg with a blow of his paw; the horse fell, and Michael's arm wasfractured, and the bear then dashing at Col. Ansley and Mr. Dagget, putthem to flight, together with Miss Dagget. The Colonel's horse, stumbling,threw his rider, and leaving him with a dislocated shoulder, galloped awayacross the plain.

Mr. Dagget and his daughter quickly dismounted, and led the Colonel,groaning, to a thicket, where they placed him in concealment, and thenreturned to the combat. Mrs. Dagget meanwhile, having diverted both thegrizzlies by repeated shots from her revolver, also drew them after her,away from the unfortunate half-breeds, who lay with shattered limbs on theground where they had first fallen. By skillfully manoeuvring her horse,she had been completely successful in drawing her antagonists some fortyrods away. But although she had emptied her revolvers, making every shottell in the bodies of the grizzlies, and the blood was streaming from theirhuge forms, they showed no abatement in their strength and ferocity, and itwas with an indescribable feeling of relief that she saw her husband anddaughter now advancing to her own rescue. This feeling was, however,blended with a wife's and mother's fears lest her beloved husband anddaughter should take harm from the savage monsters.

Mr. Dagget and his daughter, having carefully reloaded their rifles, hadnow crept up cautiously behind, and watching their opportunity, had planteda ball squarely in each of the bears, just behind their fore-shoulders.This appeared to be the finishing stroke, and the brutes stretchedthemselves on the plain—to all appearance lifeless.

François and Michael were then placed in as comfortable a position aspossible; the Colonel was brought out of the thicket; the mules and strayhorses were brought back to camp; and then a consultation was held betweenthe Daggets as to what should be done for the sufferers. Refreshment wasgiven them; some attempts at rude surgery were made in the way of bandagingand setting the broken limbs and dislocated shoulders. It was sixty milesto Fort Laramie; the night was on them, and the best course seemed to be torest their jaded steeds and start for a surgeon early in the morning.

This course would have been pursued, but for another disaster, whichoccurred just as they were preparing to rest for the night. Mr. Dagget,from pure curiosity, was prompted to examine the carcasses of the bears. Henoticed that one of them had dragged itself some distance from where itfell towards a thicket, but lay on its side as if dead. With a hunter'scuriosity, he lifted one of its forepaws to examine the position of thedeath-wound, when the brute rose with a terrific growl and struck Mr.Dagget's arm with its paw, breaking it like a pipe-stem, and then, rollingover, groaned away its life, which it had thus far clung to with such fataltenacity.

This was too much for the equanimity of Mrs. Dagget. The moans of theguides, with broken limbs, which had already swelled to a frightful size,and the pain which Col. Ansley and her husband strove in vain to conceal,were too harrowing to her woman's nature to permit her to rest quietly incamp that night. She was not long in adopting the seemingly desperateresolution of riding to the Fort and bringing back a nurse and surgeon.

Whispering to her daughter, she informed her of her determination, andquickly saddling the swiftest and freshest of the horses, she led himsoftly out from the camp, and, mounting, set her face southward, andtouched the horse lightly with the whip. The generous beast seemed, byinstinct, to understand his rider's errand, and bounded over the wild plainwith a kind of cheerful alacrity that rendered unnecessary any furtherurging.

The sky was overcast, so that she had no stars to guide her course, and wasobliged to guess the route which the party had followed from the Fort.By-and-by she struck a trail, which she thought she recognized as the oneover which they had come after leaving the Platte River. For four hours sherode forward, the horse not flagging in his steady gallop. According to hercalculations, she must have made forty miles of her journey, and she wasanticipating that by the break of day she would have made the Fort, when,turning her eyes upward to the left, she saw—through the clouds that hadrifted for the first time—the great dipper, and knew at once that insteadof riding southward, she had been riding eastward, and must be now at leastseventy miles from the Fort, instead of being within twenty miles of it, asshe had supposed.

Her horse began to show symptoms of fatigue. She slowed him to a walk asshe turned his head to the southwest, and pursued her course sluggishlyacross the plains. Erelong the blackness of night faded into gray, and thencame twilight streaks, which showed her the dreary country she was passingthrough. It was a vast sandy plain, thinly dotted with sage-bush and otherstunted shrubs. The sun rose bright and hot, and, until ten o'clock, shepursued her way not faster than two miles an hour. Her horse now gave out,and refused to move a step. She dismounted and sat down on the sand besidea sage-bush, which partially sheltered her from the sun's rays.

We continue our narrative with Mrs. Dagget's own account of her perilousadventure:—

"For nearly two hours I sat on the ground, while my poor horse feeblystaggered from bush to bush, and nibbled at the stunted herbage. I thenremounted him and pursued my way, at a snail's pace, towards the Fort. Themost serious apprehension I entertained at this moment was that ofsun-stroke, as my head was only shielded from the rays by a whitehandkerchief; my hat had blown off in the conflict with the bears, and, inmy distress and anxiety to start for assistance, I had not stopped to lookfor it. I felt no hunger, but a little after noon, when the burning heat ofthe sun was reflected with double violence from the hot sand, and thedistant ridges of the hills, seen through the ascending vapor, seemed towave and fluctuate like the unsettled sea, I became faint with thirst, andclimbed a tree in hopes of seeing distant smoke or other appearance of ahuman habitation. But in vain; nothing appeared all around but thickunderwood and hillocks of white sand.

"My thirst by this time became insufferable; my mouth was parched andinflamed; a sudden dimness would frequently come over my eyes with othersymptoms of fainting; and my horse, being barely able to walk, I beganseriously to apprehend that I should perish of thirst. To relieve theburning pain in my mouth or throat, I chewed the leaves of differentshrubs, but found them all bitter, and of no real service to me.

"A little before sunset, having reached the top of a gentle rising, Iclimbed a high tree, from the topmost branches of which I cast a melancholylook over the barren wilderness, but without discovering the most distanttrace of a human dwelling. The same dismal uniformity of shrubs and sandeverywhere presented itself, and the horizon was as level and uninterruptedas that of the sea.

"Descending from the tree, I found my horse devouring the stubble andbrushwood with great avidity, and as I was now too faint to attemptwalking, and my horse too fatigued to carry me, I thought it but an act ofhumanity, and perhaps the last I should ever have it in my power toperform, to take off his bridle and let him shift for himself; in doingwhich I was suddenly affected with sickness and giddiness, and falling uponthe sand, I felt as if the hour of death was fast approaching.

"'Here then,' thought I, after a short but ineffectual struggle,'terminates all my hopes of being useful in my day and generation; heremust the short span of my life come to an end!' I cast (as I believed) alast look on the surrounding scene, and whilst I reflected on the awfulchange that was to take place, this world with its enjoyments seemed tovanish from my recollection. Nature, however, at length resumed itsfunctions; and on recovering my senses, I found myself stretched upon thesand, with the bridle still in my hand, and the sun just sinking behind thetrees. I now summoned all my resolution, and determined to make anothereffort to prolong my existence. And as the evening was somewhat cool, Iresolved to travel as far as my limbs would carry me, in hopes of reaching(my only resource) a watering place.

"With this view, I put the bridle on my horse, and driving him before me,went slowly along for about an hour, when I perceived some lightning fromthe northeast; a most delightful sight; for it promised rain. The darknessand lightning increased rapidly; and in less than an hour I heard the windroaring among the bushes. I had already opened my mouth to receive therefreshing drops which I expected; but I was instantly covered with a cloudof sand, driven with such force by the wind as to give a very disagreeablesensation to my face and arms; and I was obliged to mount my horse and stopunder a bush, to prevent being suffocated. The sand continued to fly inamazing quantities for near an hour; after which I again set forward, andtraveled with difficulty, until ten o'clock. About this time, I wasagreeably surprised by some very vivid flashes of lightning, followed by afew heavy drops of rain.

"In a little time the sand ceased to fly, and I alighted and spread out allmy clean clothes to collect the rain, which at length I saw would certainlyfall. For more than an hour it rained plentifully, and I quenched my thirstby wringing and sucking my clothes. A few moments after I fell into aprofound slumber, in spite of the rain which now fell in torrents.

"The sky was clear and the sun was well up when I woke: drenched to theskin I rose as soon as my stiffened limbs would permit, and cast a look atthe southern horizon. A line of black dots was distinctly visible, slowlymoving westward. Mounting my horse, which was now freshened by his rest andthe scanty provender which he had gathered in the night, I pushed on andsucceeded in overtaking the party which was a detachment of United Statescavalry. Before night we reached the Fort, and early next morning Iaccompanied a surgeon and two attendants, with an ambulance, to the campwhere we found all as we had left them, and overjoyed at my return. Whenthe fractures had been reduced, and Col. Ansley's shoulder put into place,the whole party were brought back to the Fort, quite content to wait awhilebefore engaging again in a 'grizzly-bear hunt.'"

The strength of nerve and fortitude which maternal love will inspire, isbrilliantly illustrated by the story of an adventure with an American lionwhich happened not long since in the remote territory of Wyoming.

A Mrs. Vredenbergh one night, during the absence of her husband, hadretired with her three children, to rest, in a chamber, on the first floorof the cabin where she lived, when an enormous mountain-lion leaped intothe room through an open window placed at some distance from the ground forpurposes of ventilation. The brute after entering the apartment whined andshook itself, and then lay down upon the floor in a watchful attitude withits eyes fixed upon the bed where lay Mrs. V., almost paralyzed with frightat this dangerous visitor. Her children were her first thought. Two of themwere in a cot beyond the bed, where she lay; the third, an infant of sixmonths, was reposing in its mother's arms.

Mrs. Vredenbergh remembered in an instant that perfect silence andstillness might prevent the brute from springing upon them; and accordinglyshe suppressed every breath and motion on her own part, while her childrenluckily were sleeping so profoundly that their breathing could not beheard. After a few minutes the monster began to relax the steady glare ofhis great green orbs, and winked lazily, purring loudly as though in goodhumor. The first powerful impulse to scream and fly to the adjoiningapartment having been repressed, the matron's heart became calmer and hermind employed itself in devising a thousand plans for saving herself andher children. Her husband's gun hung loaded above the head of the bed, butit could not be reached without rising; if she woke her children she fearedher action in so doing or the noise they would make would bring the monsterupon them. She had heard that the mountain-lion could not attack humanbeings when his hunger had been appeased, and from a noise she had heard inthe cow-house just after retiring, she surmised that the brute had made araid upon the cattle and glutted himself; this conjecture receivedconfirmation from the placidity of the animal's demeanor. Resting upon thistheory she finally maintained her original policy of perfect stillness,trusting that her husband would soon return. Her greatest fear now was thatthe infant might wake and cry, for she was well aware that the ferocity ofthe mountain-lion is roused by nothing so quickly as the cry of a child.

A full hour passed in this manner. The moon was at its full, and from herposition on the couch, Mrs. Vredenbergh could, without turning her head,see every motion of the creature. It lay with its head between its forepawsin the posture assumed by the domestic cat when in a state ofsemi-watchfulness, approaching to a doze. The senses of the matron werestrung to an almost painful acuteness. The moonlight streaming in at thewindow was to her eyes like the glare of the sun at noonday: the ticking ofthe clock on the wall fell on her ears, each tick like a sharply pointedhammer seeming to bruise the nerve. A keen thrill ran like a knife throughher tense frame when the infant stirred and moaned in his sleep. The lionroused himself in an instant, and fixing his eyes upon the bed came towardsit arching his back and yawning. He rubbed himself against the bedstead andstood for a moment so near that Mrs. V. could have touched him with herhand, then turned back and commenced pacing up and down the room. Theinfant fortunately ceased its moaning and sighing gently fell back into itsslumbers; and again the beast, purring and winking, lay down and resumedits former position.

The quick tread of the lady's husband at this moment was heard; as he puthis hand upon the latch to enter, Mrs. V. could contain herself no longer,and uttered a series of loud shrieks. The lion, rising, bounded over thehead of Mr. Vredenbergh as he entered the cabin, and disappeared in theforest.

The safety of the family consisted partly perhaps in the fact that theintruder before entering the house had satiated his appetite by gorginghimself upon a calf, the remains of which were next day discovered in thecow-house; but the preservation of herself and children was also due to theself-control with which Mrs. Vredenbergh maintained herself in that tryingsituation.

CHAPTER XV.

ACROSS THE CONTINENT—ON THE PLAINS

The movement of emigration westward since the early part of the seventeenthcentury resembles the great ocean billows during a rising tide. Sweepingover the watery waste with a steady roll, dragged by the lunar force, eachbillow dashes higher and higher on the beach, until the attractiveinfluence has been spent and the final limit reached. The spirit ofreligious liberty and of adventure carried the European across theAtlantic. This was the first wave of emigration. The achievement ofour Independence gave the next great impetus to the movement. Theacquisition of California and the discovery of gold was the third stimulusthat carried our race across the continent. The final impulse wascommunicated by the completion of the Pacific railroad.

At the close of the Mexican War in 1848, our frontier States were, Texas,Arkansas, Missouri, Iowa, and Wisconsin. With the exception of a few forts,trading-posts, missionary stations, and hunters' camps, the territoryextending from the line of furthest settlement in those States, westward tothe Pacific Ocean, was for the most part an uninhabited waste. This tract,(including the Gadsden purchase,) covering upwards of seventeen hundredthousand square miles and nearly half as large as the whole of Europe, wasnow to be penetrated, explored, reclaimed, and added to the area ofcivilization.

The pioneer army of occupation who were to commence this mighty work movedthrough Missouri and Iowa, and crossing the turbid flood which formed oneof the great natural boundaries of that wild empire, saw before them thevast plains of Nebraska and Kansas stretching with scarcely a break forfive hundred miles as the crow flies to the foot-hills of the RockyMountains. The Platte, the Kansas, and the Arkansas, with theirtributaries, indicated the general bearings of the march, the sun and moonwere unerring guides.

The host divided itself: one part spread over and tilled the rich countrywhich extends for two hundred miles west of the Missouri River; anotherpart grazed its flocks and herds on the pasture ground beyond; another,crossing the belt of desert, settled in the picturesque region between thebarrens and the foothills, another penetrated into the mountains andplanted itself in the labyrinthian valleys and on the lofty table landsbetween the Black Hills and the California Sierras, another more boldlymarched a thousand miles across a wilderness of mountain ranges and settledon the slope which descends to the shores of the Pacific.

The rivers and streams between the Missouri and the mountains, and latterlythe railroads, were the axes around which population gathered andturned itself. Here were the dwelling places of the settlers, here woman'swork was to be done and her influence to be employed in building up theempire on the plains.

We have stated how, by a series of processes extending through successivegenerations and the lapse of centuries, she grew more and more capable tofulfill her mission on this continent, and how, as the physical and moraldifficulties that beset frontier-life multiplied, she gatheredcorresponding strength and faculties to meet them. In entering that newfield of pioneer enterprise which lay beyond the Missouri River in 1848,there still, among others, remained that one great grief over theseparation from her old home.

When the eastern woman bade farewell to her friends and started for theplains it seemed to her, and often proved to be, a final adieu. We saynothing of that large class which, being more scantily endowed with thisworld's goods, were forced to make the long, wearisome journey with oxteams from the older settlements of the East. We take the weaker case ofthe well-to-do immigrant wife who, by railroad, and by steamboat on thelakes or rivers, reached, after a journey of two thousand miles, the pointupon the Missouri River where she was to enter the "prairie schooner" andmove out into that vast expanse; even to her the pangs of separation musthave then been felt with renewed and redoubled force. That "turbid flood"was the casting-off place. She was as one who ventures in a small boat intoa wide, dark ocean, not knowing whether she would ever return or findwithin the murky waste a safe abiding place.

There was the uncertainty; the positive dangers of the route; theapprehended dangers which might surround the settlement; the new country,with all its difficulties, privations, labors, and trials; thepossibilities of disease, with small means of relief; the utter solitude,with little prospect of solacing companionship.

And yet, with so dreary a picture presented to her mental vision, she didnot shrink from the enterprise, nor turn back, until all hope of making ahome for her family in that remote region had fled. We recall a fewinstances in which, after years of toil, sorrow, and suffering—when allhad been lost, the heroine of the household has been driven back by astress of circ*mstances with which human power was unavailing to cope. Sucha case was that of Mrs. N———, of which the following are the substantialfacts:

While a squad of United States cavalry were journeying in 1866 from theGreat Bend of the Arkansas to Fort Riley, in Kansas, the commandingofficer, as he was sweeping with his glass the horizon of the vast levelplain over which they were passing, descried a small object moving towardstheir line of march through the tall grass some two miles to their left. Noother living thing was visible throughout their field of vision, andconjecture was rife as to what this single moving object in that lonelywaste could be. It moved in a slow and hesitating way, sometimes pausing,as if weary, and then resuming its sluggish course towards the East. Theymade it out clearly at last. It was a solitary woman. She had a rifle inher hand, and as the squad changed their course and approached her, shecould be seen at the distance of half a mile putting herself in the postureof defense and making ready to use her rifle. The horsem*n waved their hatsand shouted loudly to advise her that they were friends. She kept her rifleat her shoulder and stood like a statue, until, seeming to be reassured,she changed her attitude and with tottering steps approached them.

She was a woman under thirty, who had evidently been tenderly reared; smalland fragile, her pale, wasted face bore those lines which mutely tell thetale of long sorrow and suffering. Her appearance awoke all thosechivalrous feelings which are the honor of the military profession. She wasspeechless with emotion. The officer addressed her with kind and respectfulinquiries. Those were the first words of her mother tongue she had heardfor four weeks. Like the breath of the "sweet south" blowing across thefabled lute, those syllables, speaking of home and friends, relaxed thetension to which her nerves had been so long strung and she wept. Twice sheessayed to tell how she happened to be found in such a melancholy situationon that wild plain, and twice she broke down, sobbing with those convulsivesobs that show how the spirit can shake and over-master the frail body.

Weak, weary, and worn as she was, they ceased to question her, andpreserved a respectful silence, while they did all that rough soldierscould do to make her comfortable. An army overcoat was wrapped around her,stimulants and food given her, and one of the soldiers, shortening astirrup, and strapping a folded blanket over his saddle, made a comfortableseat upon his horse; which he surrendered to her. The following day she hadacquired sufficient strength to tell her sad story.

Three years before, she, with her husband and four children, had left herchildhood's home, in the eastern part of Ohio, and set out for Kansas. Heroldest boy sickened and died while passing through Illinois, and they laidhim to rest beneath the waving prairie grass. After crossing the Missouririver, her second child, a lovely little girl of six years, was carried offby the scarlet fever, and they left her sleeping beneath the green meadowsward on the bank of the Kansas.

After a wearisome march of eighty days, they reached their destination onthe Smoky Hill Branch of the Kansas River, and lying about three hundredmiles west of Fort Leavenworth. Here, in a country suitable for grazing andtillage, they chose their home. Mr. N. devoted himself to the raising ofcattle, tilling only land enough to supply the wants of himself and family.

She had toiled day and night to make their home comfortable and happy forher husband and children. Fortune smiled upon them. Their herds multipliedand throve upon the rich pasturage and in the mild air of the region wherethey grazed. Two more children were added to their flock. Their roof-treesheltered all from the heats of summer and the bleak winds which sweepthose plains in the winter season. Bounteous harvests blessed their store.They were visited by the red man only as a wayfarer and friend.

This bright sky was at last suddenly overclouded. A plague raged amongtheir cattle. A swarm of grasshoppers ravaged their crops. A droughtfollowed, which burned up the herbage. "Terrors," says, the poet, "come notas single spies, but in battalions." Pestilence at last came to completethe ruin of that hapless household. Her husband was first stricken down,and after a week of suffering, died in a delirium, which, while it startledand saddened the little flock, kept him all unapprehensive of the evilswhich might visit his bereaved family after his departure. The wife dug,with her own hands, a shallow grave on the bluff where their house stood,and bearing, with difficulty, in her slender arms the wasted remains, laidthem, coffinless, in the trench, and covering them with earth, returned tothe house to find her three oldest children suffering from the same malady.The pestilence made short but sure work with their little frames. One byone they breathed their last in their mother's arms. Kissing their waxenfeatures, she bore them out all alone and laid them tenderly side by sidewith their father.

The little babe of four months was still the picture of health. Allunconscious of its bereavements and of the bitter sorrows of her on whosebosom he lay, he throve upon the maternal bounty which poured for him,though her frail life seemed to be passing away with it.

Like some subtle but potent elixir, which erects the vital spirit, andholds it when about to flee from its tenement, so did that sweet babe keepthe mother's heart pulsing with gentle beat during the days which followedthose forlorn funeral rites.

A week passed, during which a great terror possessed her, lest she tooshould have the latent seeds of the pestilence in her frame, and shouldhave imparted the dreadful gift to her babe through the fountain ofmotherhood.

A racking pain in her forehead, followed by lassitude, told her alas! thatall she had shuddered to think of was coming to pass. Weary and suffering,she laid herself upon the couch, which she prayed but for her infant mightbe her last resting place. Too soon, as she watched with a keenness ofvision which only a mother can possess, did she see the first shadow of thedestroyer reflected on the face of her little one. It faded like a flowerin the hot blast of July,

"So softly worn, so sweetly weak,"

and before two suns had come and gone, it lay like a bruised lily on thefever-burning bosom which gave it life.

Unconsciousness came mercifully to the poor mother. For hours she lay inblessed oblivion. But the vital principle, which often displays itswondrous power in the feeblest frames, asserted its triumph over death, andshe awoke again to the remembrance of losses that could never be repairedthis side the grave.

Three days passed before the fever left her. She arose from her couch, and,with shaking frame, laid her little withered blossom on its father's grave,and covering it with a mound of dried grass, crowned it with yellow autumnleaves.

The love of life slowly returned; but the means to sustain that life hadbeen destroyed by murrain, the grasshoppers, and the drought. The householdstores would suffice but for a few days longer. The only and precariousmeans of subsistence which would then remain, would be such game as shecould shoot. The Indians becoming apprised of the death of Mr. N., hadcarried off the horses.

Only one avenue of escape was left her; casting many "a longing, lingeringlook" at the home once so happy, but now so swept and desolate, she tookher husband's rifle and struck boldly out into the boundless plain, towardsthe trail which runs from the Arkansas River to Fort Riley, and afterseveral days of great suffering fell in with friends, as we have alreadydescribed.

The sad experience of Mrs. N. is fortunately a rare one at the present day.The vast area occupied by the plains of Kansas and Nebraska, is in manyrespects naturally fitted for those forms of social life in which woman'swork may be performed under the most favorable circ*mstances; a countryrichly adapted to the various forms of agriculture and to pastoraloccupations; a mild and generally equable climate are there well calculatedto show the pioneer-housewife at her best.

Another great advantage has been the fact that this region was a kind ofgraduating school, into which the antecedent schools of pioneer-life couldsend skilled pupils, who, upon a fair and wide field, and in a virgin soil,could build a civil and social fabric, reflecting past experiences andembodying a multitude of separate results into a large and harmoniouswhole.

Visiting some years since the States of Kansas and Nebraska, we passedfirst through that rich and already populous region in the eastern part ofthe former State, which twenty-five years since was an uninhabited waste.Here were all the appliances of civilization: the school, the church, thetown hall; improved agriculture, the mechanic arts, the varied forms ofmercantile traffic, and at the base of the fabric the home made and orderedby woman. Here but yesterday was the frontier where woman was performingher oft before repeated task, and laying, according to her methods andhabits, and within her appropriate sphere, the foundations of that which isto-day a great, rich, and prosperous social and civil State. Here, too, wesaw many of the mothers, not yet old, who through countless trials, labors,and perils have aided in the noble work on which they now are looking withsuch honest pride and satisfaction.

For many successive afternoons we passed on from city to city, and fromvillage to village. The sun preceded us westward; we steered our coursedirectly towards it, and each day as it sank to the earth, brightly andmore brightly glowed the sky as with the purest gold. The settlementsbecame more scattered, the uninhabited spaces grew wider. We werenearing one of the frontiers.

In the spring the mead through which we were passing was a naturalparterre, where in the midst of the lively vernal green, bloomed the oxlip,the white and blue violet, the yellow-cup dotted with jet, and many anotherfragile and aromatic member of the floral sisterhood.

Ascending a knoll crowned by a little wood which lay like a green shrubupon that treeless, grassy plain, we saw from this point the prairiestretching onward its loftily waving extent to the horizon. Here and thereamidst the vast stretch arose small log-houses, which resembled littlebirds' nests floating upon the ocean. Here and there, also, were peopleharvesting grain.

Among the harvesters were three young women, who were nimbly bindingsheaves, with little children around them. The vastness of the prairie madethe harvesters themselves look like children playing at games.

Some distance beyond us, in the track we were pursuing, we saw what atfirst glance appeared to be a white dahlia. As we neared it, this hugewhite flower seemed to be moving; it was the snowy sun-bonnet of a youngschool-teacher, who was convoying a troop of children to the school-house,whose brown roof showed above the luxuriant herbage. She seemed to bebeloved by her scholars, for they surrounded her and clung to her. She hadbeen giving them, it appeared, a lesson in practical botany; their hatswere adorned with scarlet and yellow blossoms, and they carried bunches ofoxlips and violets. The school-mistress had a face like a sister ofcharity; the contour and lines showed resolution and patience; the wholeexpression blended with intelligence, a strong and lovely character. Sheentered the door of the log school-house, and gently drew within it theyoungest of her charges. Around the school-house we saw other groups ofsturdy boys and chubby girls, frisking and shouting gaily as we drove by.

It is under the tuition of the women especially that a vigorous,intelligent, and laborious race grows up in these border settlements on theplains. The children are taught the rudiments, and afterwards endeavor toimprove their condition in life. The boys often enter upon political andpublic careers. The girls marry early, and contribute to make new societiesin the wilderness. These farms are the nurseries from which the State willsoon obtain its officials and its teachers, both male and female.

The gardens, the cottages, and cabins nearly all showed some external signsof the embellishing hand of woman. Entering one of these houses, we foundthe men and young women out gathering the harvest. An elderly woman actedas our hostess. She was maid of all-work, a chamber-maid, cook,dairy-woman, laundress, and children's nurse; and yet she found time tomake us a cordial welcome. The house was only one year old, and rather opento the weather, but bore the marks of womanly thrift and even ofrefinement.

The matron who entertained us displayed piety, restless activity, humanity,intelligence, and a youthfully warm heart, all of which marked her as atype of that large class of elderly housewives who are using the educationwhich they acquired in their girlhood in the East to form new and modelcommunities on these wide and rich plains.

We asked her about her life and thus came to hear, without the leastcomplaint on her part, of its many difficulties. And yet when her husbandand sons and daughters returned home from the field, we could see that itwas a joyous and happy home.

The eldest daughter, Mrs. B———, then a widow of twenty-five or six, toldus the story of her experience in border-life. She was born in Wisconsin,when as a territory it had a population of only three thousand. Soon afterthe removal of her father and mother to Kansas, and at the age of sixteenshe had married one of the most adventurous of the race of young pioneerswhich drew their first breath upon the then frontier in Illinois.

Their wedding tour was in a prairie schooner from Atchison to thesemi-fertile region which borders on the desert belt which stretchesthrough western Nebraska and Kansas to New Mexico. Here they made theirfirst home. Life in that particular section must be a pastoral rather thanan agricultural one: her husband accordingly devoted himself almostentirely to the raising of cattle.

We hardly need say, that next to the hunter, the cattle-herder approximatesmost nearly to savage life; his wife must accordingly find her positionunder such circ*mstances, a peculiarly trying one. The house in which Mrs.B——— and her husband lived was a simple hut constructed by digging awaythe side of a hill which formed the earthen rear and side walls of theirdwelling, the top and front being of logs also covered with earth. Theirkitchen, sleeping-room, dining-room, and parlor were represented by asingle apartment Three men with their wives were their companions in theenterprise, and all lived in similar houses.

As most of the men's time was occupied in looking after their herds andpreventing them from wandering too far or from being stamped and stolen bythievish savages, a large share of the other out-door labors fell upon thewomen. Cheerfully accepting these burdens Mrs. B——— and her three femalecompanions tilled the small patches of corn and potatoes which with pickledbeef formed their only food. Much of the time they were left entirely aloneand were alarmed as well as annoyed by frequent visits from Indians, who,however, abstained from violence, contenting themselves with eating whatwas given them and pilfering whatever stray articles they could find.

Three years were passed by the little colony in this wild pastoral life.Though the heats of summer and the sudden storms of wind in winter, weresevere, disease was never added to their list of ordinary discomforts andprivations. Two of the men twice a year drove their cattle two hundred andfifty miles to the nearest railway station, but none of the womenaccompanied them on these trips, which were always looked forward to bytheir husbands as a relief from the monotony of their life as herders.

The third summer after their arrival was extremely sultry, and the droughtso common in that region, promised to be more than usually severe. Thecrops were rapidly being consumed by four weeks of continuous hot, dryweather, when one day late in July, the four housewives, who were sittingtogether in the cabin of Mrs. B———, observed a sudden darkening of thewestern sky, and felt sharp eddying gusts of wind which blew fitfully fromthe southwest. A succession of small whirlwinds carried aloft the sand infront of their houses, which were ranged not far apart on the hillside.

These phenomena, accompanied with various other atmospheric commotions,lasted for half an hour, and ceased to attract their attention. The wind,however, continued to increase, and the ears of the four matrons anoncaught the sound of a dull, steady roar, which rose above the fitfulhowling of the blast. They ran to the door and saw a dark cloud shaped likea monstrous funnel moving swiftly towards them from the west. The point ofthis funnel was scarcely more than one hundred feet from the earth, andswayed like the car of a balloon descending from a great height.

Dismayed by this extraordinary spectacle they hastened in doors. Scarcelyhad they gained shelter when their ears were saluted by a sound louder thanthe broadside of a double decker, and the next moment the roof of the housewas torn away with tremendous force and almost at the same instant a floodof water twenty feet deep swept the four women with the débris ofthe house down the hillside and whirled them away over the plain.

Three of the women, including Mrs. B———, severely bruised and halfdrowned, emerged from the torrent when it spread out and spent itself uponthe level; the fourth stunned by a blow from one of the house-logs, andsuffocated by the rush of the waters, could not be resuscitated. Thewater-spout, for such was the agent of the destruction which had beenwrought, had fallen on the hillside and swept away two of the other housesbesides that of Mrs. B———, and for ten days, while new dwellings couldbe constructed and the furniture and other articles carried away could berecovered, the three houseless families were quartered partly in theremaining house, and the rest encamped under the open sky, where theysuffered additional discomfort from the thunder storms in the night, whichfollowed the water-spout.

The next summer they were visited by another disaster in the shape ofgrasshoppers. Often had these terrible pests of the settlers in that andthe adjacent regions, flown in immense clouds over their heads duringformer seasons, winging their way to the richer country which lay to theeast, but never before had they been attracted to the scanty patches ofcorn and potatoes which skirted the hovels where the herders dwelt. Butearly in July of that year a swarm settled down almost ancle deep on thelittle strip of ploughed land, and within the space between the rising andthe setting of the sun, every vestige of greenness had disappeared as ifburned with fire.

After a short consultation that evening, the whole party determined to taketime by the forelock, and abandoning their cabins remove with theirhousehold goods and herds of cattle before the insect plunderers hadprepared the way for a famine which they were certain to do before manydays. Hastily loading their carts with their household goods and stores,and collecting their cattle, five hundred in number, they set out for theMissouri River, three hundred miles distant.

Having reached their destination they sold all their cattle, and afterresting a few days joined a company of five pioneers who were travelingover the military road, via Fort Kearney and through the Platte valley,with the intention of settling in the picturesque and well watered regioneast of the foot-hills of the Rocky Mountains, and slaughtering buffaloesfor their skins.

Mrs. B———, and her two female companions, with a shrewd eye to profit,concluded an arrangement with the hunters by which they were to board andmake the whole party comfortable, in their capacity as housewives, for acertain share in the profits of the buffalo skins, their husbands joiningthe party as hunters.

All the necessary preparations having been made, they set out on horse-backwith ten pack-mules, and made rapid progress, reaching the buffalo countrywithout accident in twenty-two days.

Here the women occasionally joined in the hunt, and being fearless ridersas well as good shots added a few buffalo robes to their own account. Onone of these hunts, Mrs. B———, becoming separated from the party whilefollowing a stray bison with too much ardor, reached a small valley whichlooked as if it might be a favorite grazing ground for the brutes. The windblew in her face as she rode, and owing to this circ*mstance, the bisonbeing a quick scented animal, she was enabled to approach a solitary bullfeeding by a stream at the foot of the hill and dispatched it by a shotfrom her rifle.

Dismounting, she whipped out her hunting knife and was proceeding to flaythe carcass, when she was attracted by a low rumbling sound which shook theearth, and looking up the steep bluff at the foot of which she stood, saw aherd which must have contained ten thousand bison, plunging madly down uponher. Her horse taking fright broke away from the bush to which he wasfastened and galloped off. Mrs. B——— ran after him at the top of herspeed, but was conscious that the black mass behind her would soon overtakeand trample her under foot, such was the impetus they had received in theircourse down the hill.

Not a tree was in sight, but remembering two or three sink-holes which shehad seen beside a clump of bushes near the spot where she had taken aim atthe bull-bison, she hastened thither and succeeded in dropping into onesome ten feet in depth just as the leaders of the herd were almost uponher. Lying there panting and up to her waist in water, she heard the shaggybattalions sweep over her, and, a moment after they had passed, caught thesound of voices. Emerging cautiously for fear of Indians, which wereswarming in the region, she saw four of the hunters whom she had left anhour before galloping in hot pursuit of the herd. The five other hunterscoming up in front of the herd as it was commencing to climb the bluff onthe other side of the valley, succeeding in turning the terrified multitudeto one side, and when they came up with Mrs. B——— she saw they hadcaught her horse, which had met them as it was galloping homeward.

Thus supplied with a steed she mounted, and regaining her rifle which shehad dropped in her flight, nothing daunted by the danger she had sonarrowly escaped, joined in the hunt which ended in a perfectbattue. The hunters succeeded in driving a part of the herd into anarrow gorge and strewing the ground with carcasses.

Three months of this wild life made our heroine pine for more quietpursuits, and she induced her husband to return to the frontier of easternNebraska, where, with the profits of the cattle enterprise and the hunt, alarge tract was purchased on one of the tributaries of the Platte. Here,after six years of labor, they built up a model farm, well stocked withchoice breeds of cattle, planted with nurseries of fruit trees, and laiddown to grain. Attracted by the story of their success, other settlersflocked into the region. The completion of the Pacific Railroad soon afterfurnished them with an easy access to market. Every thing went onprosperously till the death of Mr. B——— from a casualty. Butnotwithstanding this loss, Mrs. B——— kept up the noble farm which herenergy and perseverance had done so much to make what it was. She was thenon a visit to her father's family in Kansas, where we met her, and hadinvited her father, mother, and sisters to remove to her home in Nebraska,which they were intending shortly to do.

The whole family showed evidence of the possession of the same bold andenergetic character which the eldest daughter had displayed during her tenyears' experience on the extreme frontier, beside those other qualitiesboth of heart and mind which mark the true pioneer woman.

Heartfelt kindness and hospitality, seriousness and mirth in the familycircle,—these characteristics of border life, when it is good, had allbeen transplanted into the western wilderness by these colonists. That dayamong the dwellers of the plain; that fine old lady; those handsome,fearless, warm-hearted, kind, and modest young women; that domestic life;that rich hospitality, combined to show how much happiness may be enjoyedin those frontier homes, where woman is the presiding genius.

CHAPTER XVI.

WOMAN AS A MISSIONARY TO THE INDIANS.

"How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth goodtidings: that publisheth peace: that bringeth good tidings of good: thatpublisheth salvation."

Among the faithful messengers who have borne this Gospel of peace to thebenighted red man, there have been many devoted and pious women. The storyof woman as a missionary in all climes and countries contains in itself theelements of the moral-sublime. History has not recorded,—poetry itself hasseldom portrayed more affecting exhibitions of Christian fortitude, offeminine heroism, and of all the noble and generous qualities whichconstitute the dignity and glory of woman, than when it spreads before thewondering eyes of the world the picture of her toils, her sacrifices, andeven her martyrdom, in this field of her glory.

We see her in the pestilential jungles of India, or beneath the scorchingsun on Africa's burning sands, or amid the rigors of an Arctic winter, inthe midst of danger, disease, and every trial or hardship that can crushthe human heart; and through all presenting a character equal to thesternest trial, and an address and fertility of resource which has oftensaved her co-workers and herself from what seemed an inevitable doom.

Such an exhibition of heroic qualities, such a picture of toils,sacrifices, sufferings, and dangers, is also presented to our eyes in therecord of woman as a missionary among the fierce and almost untamableaboriginal tribes which roam over our American continent. The trials,hardships, and perils which always environ frontier life, were doubled andintensified in that mission. Taking her life in her hand, surrounded byalien and hostile influences, often entirely cut off from communicationwith the civilized world, armed not with carnal weapons, but trusting thatother armor—the sword of the Spirit, the shield of faith, and the helmetof salvation—with her heart full of love and pity for her dark-browedbrethren, woman as a missionary to the Indians is a crowning glory of herage and sex.

The influence of woman in this field has been poured out through twochannels—one direct, the other indirect; and it is sometimes difficult todecide which of these two methods have produced the greatest results. As anindirect worker, she has lightened her husband's labors as a missionary,has softened the fierce temper of the pagan tribes, and by her kind andplacid ministrations has prepared their minds for the reception of Gospeltruth.

As an example of such a worker, Mrs. Ann Eliot, the wife of the Rev. JohnEliot, surnamed the "Apostle," stands conspicuous among a host. It was theprudence and skill of this good woman, exercised in her sphere as a wife, amother, a housekeeper, and a doctress, that enabled her husband to carryout his devout and extensive plans and perform his labors in Christianizingthe Indian tribes of New England.

In estimating the great importance of those pious and far-reaching plans,we must bear in mind the precarious condition of the New England Coloniesin the days of the "Apostle" John and his excellent wife. The slender andfeeble settlements on Plymouth and Massachusetts Bay had hardly yet takenroot, and were barely holding their own against the adverse blasts thatswept over them. A combination between the different savage tribes, bywhich they were surrounded, might have extinguished, in a day, the PuritanColonies, and have set back, for generations, the destinies of the Americancontinent.

The primary and unselfish purpose of the "Apostle" John Eliot was toconvert these wild tribes to the doctrine and belief of Christ. One of theresults of his labors in that direction was also, we can hardly doubt, thepolitical salvation of those feeble colonies. The mind and heart of the"Apostle" were so absorbed in the great work wherein he was engaged that askillful and practical partner was absolutely necessary to enable him toprepare for and fully discharge many duties which might properly devolveupon him, but from which his wife in his preoccupation now relieved him.

In her appropriate sphere she also exercised an important influence,indirectly, in carrying out her husband's plans. Amidst her devotedattentions to the care and nurture of her six children she found time forthose many duties that devolved on a New England housekeeper of the oldentime, when it was difficult and almost impossible to command the constantaid of domestics. To provide fitting apparel and food for her family, andto make this care justly comport with a small income, a free hospitality,and a large charity, required both efficiency and wisdom.

This she accomplished without hurry of spirit, fretfulness, or misgiving.But she had in view more than this: she aimed so to perform her own part asto leave the mind of her husband free for the cares of his sacredprofession, and in this she was peculiarly successful. Her understanding ofthe science of domestic comfort, and her prudence—the fruit of a correctjudgment—so increased by daily experience, that she needed not to lay herburdens upon him, or divert to domestic cares and employments the time andenergy which he would fain devote to God. "The heart of her husbanddid safely trust in her," and his tender appreciation of her policyand its details was her sweet reward.

It was graceful and generous for the wife thus to guard, as far as in herlay, her husband's time and thoughts from interruption. For, in addition tohis pastoral labors, in which he never spared himself, were his missionarytoils among the heathen. His poor Indian people regarded him as theirfather. He strove to uplift them from the debasing habits of savage life.

Groping amid their dark wigwams, he kneeled by the rude bed of skins wherethe dying lay, and pointed the dim eye of the savage to the Star ofBethlehem. They wept in very love for him, and grasped his skirts as onewho was to lead them to heaven. The meekness of his Master dwelt with him,and day after day he was a student of their uncouth articulations, until hecould talk with the half-clad Indian children, and see their eyes brighten,for they understood what he said. Then he had no rest until the whole ofthe Book of God, that "Word" which has regenerated the world, wastranslated into their language.

Not less remarkable was the assistance lent by Mrs. Eliot to her husband'slabors in her capacity as a medical assistant. The difficulty of commandingthe attendance of well educated physicians, by the sparse population of thecolony, rendered it almost indispensable that a mother should be notunskillful in properly treating those childish ailments which beset thefirst years of life. Mrs. Eliot's skill and experience as a doctress sooncaused her to be sought for by the sick and suffering. Among the poor, witha large charity, she dispensed safe and salutary medicines. Friends andstrangers sought her in their sicknesses, and from such as were able shereceived some small remuneration, often forced upon her, and used to ekeout the slender income of her husband.

The poor Indians, too, were among her patients. Often they would come toher house in pain and suffering, and she would cheerfully give themmedicine and advice, and dismiss them healed and rejoicing. The red man inhis wigwam, tossing on his couch of anguish, was visited by this angel ofmercy, who bound up the aching brow, and cooled the sore fever. Who canquestion that many souls were won to Christ by these deeds of practicalcharity.

In the light of such acts and such a life, we ascribe to Mrs. Eliot nosmall share in the success of those heroic labors by which five thousand"praying Indians" in New England were brought to bear testimony to thetruths of the Bible and the power of revealed religion.

While woman's work in the Indian missions has been often indirect, in manyother cases she has cooperated directly in efforts looking to theconversion of the red man. Prominent among the earlier pioneers in themissionary cause was Jemima Bingham. She came of a devout and God-fearingrace, being a niece of Eleazur Wheelock, D. D., himself a successfullaborer in the Indian missionary work, and was reared amid the religiousprivileges of her Connecticut home. There, in 1769, she married the Rev.Samuel Kirkland, who had already commenced among the Oneida Indians thoseactive and useful labors which only terminated with his life.

Entering with a sustained enthusiasm into the plans of her husband, sheshortly after her marriage, accompanied him to his post of duty in thewilderness near Fort Stanwix—now Rome. This was literally on the frontier,in the midst of a dense forest which extended for hundreds of miles inevery direction, and was the abode of numerous Indian tribes, some of whichwere hostile to the white settlers.

Their forest-home was near the "Council House" of the Oneidas—in the heartof the forest. There, surrounded by the dusky sons of the wilderness, thedevoted couple, alone and unaided, commenced their joint missionary labors.The gentle manners and the indomitable courage and energy of Mr. Kirkland,were nobly supplemented by the admirable qualities of his wife. With thesweetness, gentleness, simplicity, and delicacy so becoming to woman underall circ*mstances, were blended in her character, energy that wasunconquerable, courage that danger could not blench, and firmness thathuman power could not bend.

Faithfully too, in the midst of her missionary labors, did she dischargeher duties as a mother. One of her sons rewarded her careful teaching byrising to eminence, and becoming President of Harvard College.

Prior to his marriage Mr. Kirkland made his home and pursued his missionarylabors at the "Council House;" after a house had been prepared for Mrs.Kirkland, he still continued to preach and teach at the "Council House,"addressing the Indians in their own language, which both he and his wifehad acquired. Mrs. Kirkland visited the wigwams and instructed the squawsand children, who in turn flocked to her house where she ministered totheir bodily and spiritual wants.

The women and children of the tribe were her chosen pupils. Seated incircles on the greensward beneath the spreading arches of giant oaks andmaples, they listened to her teachings, and learned from her lips thewondrous story of Christ, who gave up his life on the cross that all tribesand races of mankind might live through Him. Then she prayed for them inthe musical tongue of the Oneidas, and the "sounding aisles of the dimwoods rang" with the psalms and hymns which she had taught those duskychildren of the forest.

The change wrought by these ministrations of Mr. and Mrs. Kirkland wasmagical. A peaceful and well-ordered community, whose citizens were redmen, rose in the wilderness, and many souls were gathered into the fold ofChrist.

During the years of her residence and labors among the Oneidas, she wonmany hearts by her kind deeds as a nurse and medical benefactor to the redmen and their wives and children. She was thus presented to them as abright exemplar of the doctrines which she taught. Both she and her husbandgained a wide influence among the Indians of the region, many of whom theywere afterwards and during the Revolutionary contest, able to win over tothe patriot cause.

The honor of having inaugurated Sunday schools on the frontier, must beawarded to woman. Truly this class of religious enterprises, in view of thecirc*mstances by which they were surrounded, and the results produced, maybe placed side by side with that missionary work which looks to theconversion of the pagan. The impressing of religious truth on the minds ofthe young, and preparing them to build up Christian communities in thewilderness, is in itself a great missionary work, the value of which isenhanced by the sacrifices and difficulties it involves. It was in Ohiothat one of the first Sunday-schools in our country was kept, with whichthe name of Mrs. Lake must ever be identified.

In 1787, a year made memorable by the framing of the Constitution of theUnited States, the Ohio Company was organized in Boston, and soon afterbuilt a stockade fort at Marietta, Ohio, and named it Campus Martius. Theyear it was completed, the Rev. Daniel Storey, a preacher at Worcester,Massachusetts, was sent out as a chaplain. He acted as an evangelist till1797, when he became the pastor of a Congregational church which he hadbeen instrumental in collecting in Marietta and the adjoining towns, andwhich was organized the preceding year. He held that relation till thespring of 1804. Probably he was the first Protestant minister whose voicewas heard in the vast wilderness lying to the northwest of the Ohio river.

In the garrison at Marietta, was witnessed the formation and successfuloperation of one of the first Sunday-schools in the United States. Itsoriginator, superintendent, and sole teacher, was Mrs. Andrew Lake, anestimable lady from New York. Every Sabbath, after "Parson Storey hadfinished his public services," she collected as many of the children at herhouse as would attend, and heard them recite verses from the Scriptures,and taught them the Westminster catechism. Simple in her manner ofteaching, and affable and kind in her disposition, she was able to interesther pupils—usually about twenty in number—and to win their affections toherself, to the school, and subsequently, in some instances, to theSaviour. A few, at least, of the little children that used to sit on rudebenches, low stools, and the tops of meal bags, and listen to her sacredinstructions and earnest admonitions, have doubtless ere this become pupilswith her, in the "school of Christ" above.

Among the many names especially endeared to the friends of missions, thereis another that we cannot forget—that of Sarah L. Smith. Like the Rev.Samuel Kirkland, she was a native of Norwich, Connecticut.

Her maiden name was Huntington. She was born in 1802; made a profession ofreligion in youth; became the wife of the Rev. Eli Smith in July, 1833;embarked with him for Palestine in the following September, and died atBoojah, near Smyrna, the last day of September, 1836.

Her work as a foreign missionary was quickly finished. She labored longeras a home missionary among the Mohegans, who lived in the neighborhood ofNorwich, and there displayed most conspicuously the moral heroism of hernature. In conjunction with Sarah Breed, she commenced her philanthropicoperations in the year 1827. "The first object that drew them from thesphere of their own church was the project of opening a Sunday-school forthe poor Indian children of Mohegan. Satisfied that this was a work whichwould meet with the Divine approval, they marked out their plans andpursued them with untiring energy. Boldly they went forth, and, guided bythe rising smoke or sounding axe, followed the Mohegans from field tofield, and from hut to hut, till they had thoroughly informed themselves oftheir numbers, condition, and prospects. The opposition they encountered,the ridicule and opprobrium showered upon them from certain quarters, thesullenness of the natives, the bluster of the white tenants, the brushwoodand dry branches thrown across their pathway, could not discourage them.They saw no 'lions in the way,' while mercy, with pleading looks, beckonedthem forward."

The Mohegans then numbered a little more than one hundred, only one ofwhom was a professor of religion. She was ninety-seven years of age. In herhut the first prayer-meeting and the first Sunday-school gathered by theseyoung ladies, was held.

Miss Breed soon removed from that part of the country, and Miss Huntingtoncontinued her labors for awhile alone. She was at that time very active insecuring the formation of a society and the circulation of a subscription,having for their object the erection of a chapel. She found, ere long, afaithful co-worker in Miss Elizabeth Raymond. They taught a school inconjunction, and, aside from their duties as teachers, were, at times,"advisers, counsellors, law-givers, milliners, mantua-makers, tailoresses,and almoners."

The school was kept in a house on Fort Hill, leased to a respectablefarmer, in whose family the young teachers boarded by alternate weeks, eachgoing to the scene of labor every other Sunday morning, and remaining tillthe evening of the succeeding Sunday, so that both were present in theSunday-school, which was twice as large as the other.

A single incident will serve to show the dauntless resolution which MissHuntington carried into her pursuits. Just at the expiration of one of herterms of service, during the winter, a heavy and tempestuous snow blockedup the roads with such high drifts that a friend, who had been accustomedto go for her and convey her home in bad weather, had started for thispurpose in his sleigh, but turned back, discouraged. No path had beenbroken, and the undertaking was so hazardous that he conceived no womanwould venture forth at such a time. He therefore called at her father'shouse to say that he should delay going for her till the next day. What washis surprise to be met at the door by the young lady herself, who hadreached home just before, having walked the whole distance on the hardcrust of snow, alone, and some of the way over banks of snow thatentirely obliterated the walls and fences by the roadside.

While at Mohegan, Miss Huntington corresponded with the Hon. Lewis Cass,then Secretary of War, and secured his influence and the aid of thatdepartment. In 1832, a grant of nine hundred dollars was made from the funddevoted to the Indian Department, five hundred being appropriated towardsthe erection of missionary buildings, and four for the support of ateacher.

Before leaving the Mohegan for a wider field, this devoted and courageousmissionary had the happiness of seeing a chapel, parsonage, andschool-house standing on "the sequestered land" of her forest friends, andhad thus partially repaid the debt of social and moral obligation to atribe who fed the first and famishing settlers in Connecticut, who stroveto protect them against the tomahawk of inimical tribes, and whose whoopwas friendly to freedom when British aggressors were overriding Americanrights.

In most of the missionary movements among the Indian tribes on ourfrontier, from the time of the Apostle, John Eliot, to the present, womanhas taken, directly or indirectly, an active part. In the mission schoolsat Stockbridge and Hanover; among the Narragansetts, the Senecas, theIroquois, the Cherokees, the Choctaws, the Creeks, and many other tribes,we see her, as a missionary's wife, with one hand sustaining her husband inhis trying labors, while with the other she bears the blessed gospel—alight to the tawny Gentiles of our American wilderness. This passingtribute is due to these devout and zealous sisters. Their lives were passedfar from their homes and kindred, amid an unceasing round of labors andtrials, and not seldom they met a martyr's death at the hands of those whomthey were seeking to benefit.

The following record of a passage in the life of a faithful minister andhis wife, when about to leave a beloved people and enter on the missionarywork, will show how hard it is for woman to sunder the ties that bind herto her home, and go she knows not where, and yet with what childlike trustshe enters that perilous and difficult field of effort to which she iscalled.

"My dear good wife seems more than usually depressed at the thought ofleaving the many friends who have endeared themselves to her by their kindoffices. It is hard enough for me to break the bands of love that a year'stender intercourse with the people has thrown around my heart. But this Icould bear, if other and gentler hearts than mine were not made to suffer;if other and dearer ties than those I have formed had not to be broken. Mywife is warm in her attachments. She loves companionship. On every newfield where our changing lot is cast, she forms intimate friendships withthose who are of a like spirit with herself, if such are to be found.Sometimes she meets none to whom she can open her heart of hearts—none whocan sympathize with her. But here it has been different. She has foundcompanions and friends—lovers of the good, true, and beautiful, with whomshe has often taken sweet counsel. To part with these and go, where andamong whom she cannot tell, is indeed a hard trial. I passed through herroom a little while ago, and saw her sitting by the bed, leaning her armupon it, with her head upon her hand, and looking pensively out upon thebeautiful landscape that stretches far away in varied woodland, meadow,glittering stream, and distant mountain. There was a tear upon her cheek.This little messenger from within, telling of a sad heart, touched myfeelings.

"Mary," said I; sitting down by her side, and taking her hand in one ofmine, while with the other I pointed upward, "He will go with us, and He isour best and kindest friend. If we would wear the crown, we must endure thecross. 'For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for usa far more exceeding weight of glory.' We are only pilgrims and sojournershere; but our mission is a high and holy one—ever to save the souls of ourfellow-men. Think of that, Mary. Would you linger here when our Mastercalls us away, to labor somewhere else in His vineyard? Think of the Lord,when upon earth. Remember how He suffered for us. Hear Him say, 'The foxeshave holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man hathnot where to lay his head.' And shall the servant be greater than hisMaster?"

"I know I am but a poor, weak, murmuring creature," she said, looking upinto my face, with overflowing eyes. "But I ask daily for grace to make meresigned to His holy will. I do not wish to remain here when I know it isthe Lord who calls me away. Still my weak heart cannot help feeling pain atthe thought of parting from our dear little home and our good friends whohave been so kind to us, and going, I know not whither. My woman's heart isweak, while my faith is strong. Thus far the Lord has been better to methan all my fears. Why, then, should I hold back, and feel so reluctant toenter the path His wisdom points out? I know if He were to lead me toprison, or to death, that it would be good for me. If He were to slay me,yet would I trust in him."

When we compare the greatness of the ends secured, with the smartness ofthe means employed, a review of the results of the Moravian Missions,throughout the heathen world, will strike us with astonishment.

The character of the Moravian women peculiarly fitted them for the work.They were a mixed race. The fiery enthusiasm of the Sclaves was in themblended with the steadfast energy and patient docility of the Germans. Thefire of their natures was a holy fire—a lambent flame which lighted butdid not destroy. Their creed was one of love; it was a joyfulpersuasion of their interest in Christ and their title to His purchasedsalvation. Here, then, we have the key to the success which attended theMoravian Missions in all parts of the world. They brought the heathen tothe feet of Christ by the spirit of love; they faced every danger andendured every hardship in the cause of their Master, for theirs' was ajoyful persuasion. They were the "Herrenhutters," the soldiersof the Lord, and yet in their lives they were representatives of the Princeof Peace, and sought to gather about them in this life the emblems ofheaven.

It was before the middle of the last century that those gentle and piousbrothers and sisters commenced their especial labors among the NorthAmerican Indians, and to-day those labors have not ceased.

The story of these Moravian Missions for nearly a century is one longreligious epic poem, full of action, suffering, battle, bereavement,—allillumined with the dauntless, fervent, Christ-like spirit which bore thesegentle ministers along their high career. Their principal field of laborfor the first forty years was Pennsylvania, where they establishedmissionary stations at Bethlehem, Gnadenhutten, (tents of grace,) Nazareth,Friedenshutten, (tents of peace,) Wechquetank, and many other places.

The settlement at Gnadenhutten was the most important and the mostinteresting, historically considered, of all the stations. Here theMoravian brothers and sisters showed themselves at their best, and that issaying much. Assuming every burden, making every sacrifice, and performingthe hardest service, they at the same time displayed consummate tact andaddress in conciliating their red brethren, taking their meals in commonwith them, and even adopting the Indian, costume.

In a short time Gnadenhutten became a regular and pleasant town. Thechurch, stood in a valley. On one side were the Indian houses, in the formof a crescent, upon a rising ground; on the other, the houses of themissionaries and a burying-ground. The Indians labored diligently in thefields, one of which was allotted to each family; and as these became toosmall, the brethren purchased a neighboring plantation and erected asaw-mill. Hunting, however, continued to be their usual occupation. As thisis a precarious mode of subsistence, a supply of provisions was constantlyforwarded from Bethlehem. The congregation increased by degrees to aboutfive hundred persons. A new place of worship was opened and a schoolestablished. The place was visited by many heathen Indians, who were struckwith the order, and happiness of the converts, and were prepared to thinkfavorably of the Christian religion.

Besides laboring with unwearied diligence at Gnadenhutten, the brethrenmade frequent journeys among the Indians in other parts. Severalestablishments were attempted, among which one was at Shom*oken, on theSusquehanna river. This was attended with great expense, as every necessaryof life was carried from Bethlehem. The missionaries were likewise inconstant danger of their lives from the drunken frolics of the natives.They visited Onondaga, the chief town of the Iroquois, and the seat oftheir great council, and obtained permission for two of them to settlethere and learn the language. They went, but suffered much from want, beingobliged to hunt, or seek roots in the forest, for subsistence.

The missionaries' wives united with their husbands in these arduous laborsin the wilderness, and their kind offices and gentle ways did much torender the missionary work entirely effectual.

Under such auspices for eight years, Gnadenhutten was the smiling abode ofpeace, happiness, and prosperity. The good work was bringing forth itslegitimate fruits. A large Indian congregation was being instructed in theWord and prepared to disseminate the doctrines of Christ among theirheathen brethren, when the din of the French and Indian war was heard onthe border. The Moravians in their various settlements were soon surroundedliterally with circles of blood and flame. Some of them fled eastward tothe larger towns; others sought concealment in the depths of the forest oron the mountains.

The Brethren at Bethlehem and Gnadenhutten resolved to stand at their post.
Slowly the fiery circles encompassed them closely and more closely till
November, 1755, when the long expected bolt fell.

The missionaries with their wives and families were assembled in one housepartaking of their evening meal, when a party of French Indians approached.Hearing the barking of the dogs, Senseman, one of the Brethren, went to theback door and others at the same time hearing the report of a gun rushed tothe front door, where they were met by a band of hideously painted savageswith guns pointed ready to fire the moment the door was opened.

The Rev. Martin Nitschman fell dead in the doorway. His wife and otherswere wounded, but fled with the rest up to the garret and barricaded thedoor with bedsteads. One of the Brethren escaped by jumping out of a backwindow, and another who was ill in bed did the same though a guard stoodbefore his door. The savages now pursued those who had taken, refuge in thegarret, and strove hard to break in the door, but finding it too wellsecured, they set fire to the house. It was instantly in flames.

At this time a boy called Sturgeous, standing upon the flaming roof,ventured to leap off, and thus escaped. A ball had previously grazed hischeek, and one side of his head was much burnt. Mr. Partsch likewise leapedfrom the roof while on fire, unhurt and unobserved. Fabricius made the sameattempt, but was brought down by two balls, seized alive and scalped. Allthe rest, eleven in number, were burned to death. Senseman, who first wentout, had the inexpressible grief of seeing his wife perish in the flames.

Mrs. Partsch, who had escaped, could not, through fear and trembling, gofar, but hid herself behind a tree upon a hill near the house. From thisplace the gentle sister of that forlorn band gazed trembling and withghastly features upon that scene of fire and butchery. She saw her belovedbrethren and sisters dragged forth and shot or tomahawked. Before thebreath had left their bodies she saw the scalps torn from their heads, someof the wounded women kneeling and imploring for mercy in vain. The burninghouse was the funeral pyre from which the loving spirit of Mrs. Sensemantook its flight to eternal rest. Gazing through the windows which the firenow illumined with a lurid glare, she saw Mrs. Senseman surrounded byflames standing with arms folded and exclaiming—"'Tis all well, dearSaviour!"

One of the closing scenes in the history of the protracted toils andsufferings of the missionaries of Gnadenhutten, is of thrilling andtragical interest. Ninety-six of the Indian converts having beentreacherously lured from the settlement, and taken prisoners, by hostileIndians and white renegades, were told that they must prepare for death.Then was displayed a calmness and courage worthy of the early Christianmartyrs. Kneeling down in that dreadful hour; those unfortunate Indianbelievers prayed fervently to the God of all; then rising they sufferedthemselves to be led unresistingly to the place appointed for them to die.The last sounds that could be heard before the awful butchery was finishedwere the prayers and praises of the Indian women, of whom there were forty,thus testifying their unfaltering trust in the promise taught them by theirwhite sisters—the devoted Moravians of Gnadenhutten.

CHAPTER XVII.

WOMAN AS A MISSIONARY TO THE INDIANS—(CONTINUED)

Of all that devout and heroic bands of men and women who have undertaken tobear the hardships and face the dangers of our American wilderness, for thespecial purpose of carrying the Gospel of peace, love, and brotherhood tothe benighted denizen of our American forests, none have exhibited moresignal courage, patience, and devotion than the companies which firstselected Oregon as their special field of labor.

In order to properly estimate the appliances and dangers of thisenterprise, the Oregon field must be surveyed, not from our present pointof view, when steam locomotive power on land and water has brought thatdistant region within comparatively easy reach; when the hands of the Stateand National Government have grown strong to defend, and can be stretched athousand leagues in an hour to punish, if the lightning brings tidings ofwrong; when a multitude of well-ordered communities have power and lawfulauthority to protect their citizens; and when peace and comfort are theaccompaniments, and a competency is the reward of industry.

How different was the view of Oregon presented to the eye in 1834! A vasttract of wilderness, covering an area of more than three hundred thousandsquare miles, composed of sterile wastes, unbroken forests, and almostimpassable ranges of mountains, presenting a constant succession of awfulprecipices, rugged crags, and yawning chasms, and traversed by rapidtorrents, emptying into rivers full of perils to the navigator. This mightyexpanse was roamed by more than thirty different Indian tribes; the onlywhite inhabitants being at the few posts and settlements of the Hudson BayCompany. The different routes by which this region could be reachedpresented to the traveler a dilemma, either side of which was full ofdifficulty.

The water route was nearly twenty thousand miles in length, and involved along and perilous voyage round Cape Horn. The land route was across thecontinent, through the gorges and over the precipices of the RockyMountains, up and down the dangerous rivers, and among numerousbloodthirsty tribes. Such was the opening prospect offered to the eye ofreligious enterprise, when the question of the mission to Oregon was firstagitated.

It is something more than forty years since the "Macedonian Cry" was heardfrom the dark mountains and savage plains of that far country, startlingthe Christian church in America. The thrill of the appeal made by thedelegation of Flathead Indians, was electric, and fired the churches of allthe principal denominations with a spirit of noble emulation.

Dr. Marcus Whitman, and Mrs. Whitman, his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Spaulding,were among the earliest to respond to the appeal. In 1836 they crossed thecontinent, scaled the Rocky Mountains, and penetrated to the heart of thewild region which was to be the scene of their heroic labors, crowned atlength by a martyr's death.

Mrs. Whitman and Mrs. Spaulding, it should be remembered, were the firstwhite women that ever crossed that mighty range which nature seems to haveintended as a barrier against the aggressive westward march of theAnglo-Saxon race.

Strong indeed must have been the impelling motive which carried these twoweak women over that rugged barrier!

Mr. and Mrs. Gray, Mr. and Mrs. Clark, Mr. and Mrs. Littlejohn, Mr. and
Mrs. Smith, and the Lees came next, pursuing their toilsome march over the
same mountain ranges, and closely behind them came Mr. and Mrs. Griffin and
Mr. and Mrs. Munger.

The story of the adventures and difficulties passed through by thesemissionary bands in forcing their way over the mountains, would fillvolumes. Their way lay sometimes over almost inaccessible crags, and atothers, through gloomy and tangled forests, and as they descended, the snowincreased in depth, and they felt the effects of the increasing cold verykeenly. The only living things which they saw were a few mountain goats.Sometimes chasms yawned at their feet, and they were forced to go out oftheir course twenty miles before they could cross. Once one of the ladieswandered from the party in search of mountain ferns. She was soon missed,and one of the guides was sent back to search for her. After a short questthey found her tracks in the snow, which they followed till they came to acrevasse, through which she had slipped and fallen sixty feet into amonstrous drift, where she was floundering and shouting feebly for help.

With some difficulty she was extricated unhurt from this periloussituation.

When their day's journey was ended, they had also to encamp on the snow,beating down the selected spot previously, till it would bear a man on thesurface without sinking. The fire was kindled on logs of green timber, andthe beds were made of pine-branches. All alike laid on the snow.

One of the peculiar dangers to which they were exposed, were the mountaintorrents, which in that region were impassable often for the stoutestswimmer; and this danger became magnified when they reached the upperColumbia River, which they were obliged to navigate in boats. At oneparticular spot in the course of their voyage they narrowly escaped aserious disaster.

The Columbia is, at the spot alluded to, contracted into a passage of onehundred and fifty yards, by lofty rocks on either side, through which itrushes with tremendous violence, forming whirlpools in its passage capableof engulphing the largest forest trees, which are afterwards disgorged withgreat force. This is one of the most dangerous places that boats have topass. In going up the river the boats are all emptied, and the freight hasto be carried about half a mile over the tops of the high and rugged rocks.In coming down, all remain in the boats; and the guides, in this perilouspass, display the greatest courage and presence of mind, at moments whenthe slightest error in managing their frail bark would hurl its occupantsto certain destruction. On arriving at the head of the rapids, the guidegets out on the rocks and surveys the whirlpools. If they are filteringin—or "making," as they term it—the men rest on their paddles until theycommence throwing off, when the guides instantly reembark, and shove offthe boat and shoot through this dread portal with the speed of lightning.

Sometimes the boats are whirled round in the vortex with such awfulrapidity that renders all management of the vessel impossible, and the boatand its hapless crew are swallowed up in the abyss. One of the party hadgot out of the boat, preparing to walk, when looking back he saw one of theother boats containing two of the ladies, in a dangerous situation, havingstruck, in the midst of the rapids, upon the rocks, which had stove in herside.

The conduct of the men in this instance, evinced great presence of mind.The instant the boat struck they had sprung on the gunwale next the rock,and by their united weight kept her lying upon it. The water foamed andraged round them with fearful violence. Had she slipped off, they must allhave been dashed to pieces amongst the rocks and rapids below; as it was,they managed to maintain their position until the crew of the other boat,which had run the rapids safely, had unloaded and dragged the empty boat upthe rapids again. They then succeeded in throwing a line to their haplesscompanions. But there was still great danger to be encountered, lest inhauling the empty boat towards them they might pull themselves off therock. They, at length, however, succeeded by cautious management in gettingthe boat alongside, and in embarking in safety. A moment afterwards theirown boat slipped from the rock, and was dashed to pieces. Everything thatfloated they picked up afterwards.

The same noble spirit which carried Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. Spaulding, Mrs.Gray, Mrs. Littlejohn, Mrs. Clark, Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Munger, Mrs. Griffin,and their coadjutors across our continent on their lofty errand, alsoinspired another band of gospel messengers to move in the same greatenterprise.

Dr. White of New York, and his wife, were prominent in this lattermovement. Their immediate company consisted of thirteen individuals, fiveof whom were women, viz.: Mrs. White, Mrs. Beers, Miss Downing, MissJohnson, and Miss Pitman. These ladies were all admirably fitted bothphysically and mentally for the enterprise in which they were embarked.

Mrs. White was a lady in whom were blended quiet resolution, a high senseof duty, and great sensibility. When her husband informed her one coldnight, in the winter of 1836, that there was a call for them from Oregon;that the Board of Missions advertised for a clergyman, physician, etc.,etc., and as he could act in the capacity of doctor, he thought it mightbe well to respond thereto. She did not immediately answer; and looking up,he was surprised to find her weeping. This seemed to him singular, as herdisposition was so unusually cheerful, and it was seldom there was a traceof tears to be found upon her cheek, especially, as he thought, for sotrivial a cause. In some confusion and mortification, he begged her not toallow his words to cause her uneasiness. Still she wept in silence, till,after a pause of several moments, she struggled for composure seatedherself by his side, extended her hand for the paper, and twice lookingover the notice, remarked, that if he could so arrange his affairs as torender it consistent for him to go to Oregon, she would place no obstaclein his way, and with her mother's consent would willingly accompany him.

Dr. White offered his services to the Board of Missions, they wereaccepted, and he was requested to be in readiness to sail in a few weeks,from Boston via the Sandwich Islands, to Oregon. Mrs. White still retainedher determination to accompany her husband, though till she saw theappointment and its publication, she scarcely realized the possibility of anecessity for her doing so. The thought that they were now to leave,probably for ever, their dear home, and dearer friends, was a sad one, andshe shed tears of regret though not of reluctance to go. She pictured toherself her mother's anguish, at what must be very like consigning her onlydaughter to the grave.

The anticipated separation from that mother, who had nursed her so tenderlyand loved her with that tireless, changeless affection which the maternalheart only knows, filled her with sorrow. However, by a fortunatecoincidence they were spared the painful scene they had feared, andobtained her consent with little difficulty. When they visited her, forthat purpose, she had just been reading for the first time the life of Mrs.Judson; and the example of this excellent lady had so interested her thatwhen the project was laid before her she listened with comparativecalmness, and, though somewhat astonished, was willing they should go whereduty led them. This in some measure relieved Mrs. White, and with alightened heart and more composure she set about the necessarypreparations.

In a short time all was in readiness, the last farewell wept, rather thanspoken, the last yearning look lingered on cherished objects, and they wereon their way to Oregon.

On the day that their eldest son was one year old, they embarked from
Boston.

That their adieus were sorrowful may not be doubted, indeed this or anyother word in our language is inadequate to describe the emotions of theparty. As the pilot-boat dropped at the stern of the vessel, its occupantswaved their handkerchiefs and simultaneously began singing a farewell"Missionary Hymn." The effect was electric; some rushed to the side inagony as though they would recall the departed ones and return with them totheir native land. Others covered their faces, and tears streamed throughtheir trembling fingers, and sobs shook the frames of even strong men. Theythought not of formalities in that hour; it was not a shame for the sternersex to weep. The forms of their friends fast lessened in the distance, andat last their boat looked like a speck on the wave, and the sweet cadencesof that beautiful song faintly rolling along to their hearing, like thesigh of an angel, were the last sounds that reached them, from the home ofcivilization.

With hushed respiration, bowed heads, and straining ears, they listened toits low breathings now wafted gently and soothingly to them on the breeze,then dying away, and finally lost in the whisperings of wind and waves.

For weeks did it haunt their slumbers while tossing upon the treacherousdeep. And it came not alone; for with it were fair visions of parents,home, brothers, and sisters, joyous childhood and youth, and everythingthey had known at home floated in vivid pictures before them touching themas by the fairy pencil of the dream-angel.

The voyage was a protracted one. But the close relationship into which theywere brought served to knit together the bonds of Christian fellowship, andinspire them with a oneness of purpose in carrying out their nobleenterprise. Immediately on arriving at their field of labor they entered ontheir first work, viz.: that of establishing communities. In thatalmost unbroken wilderness, cabins were erected, the ground prepared fortillage, and steps were taken towards the building of a saw and grist-mill.The Indians were conciliated, and a mission-school for their instructionwas established. The party received constant accessions to their numbers asthe months rolled away, and opened communication with the othermission-colonies in the territory.

During the summer the ladies divided their labors; the school of Indianswas taught by Miss Johnson; Miss Downing (now Mrs. Shepherd) attended tothe cutting, making, and repairing of the clothing for the young Indians,as well as these for the children of the missionaries; Mrs. White and MissPitman (now Mrs. Jason Lee) superintended the domestic matters of thelittle colony.

In September, Mr. and Mrs. Leslie, three daughters, and Mr. Perkins thefiancé of Miss Johnson, joined them. The family was now enlarged tosixty members. Dr. and Mrs. White removed into their new cabin—a miledistant. Here ensued a repetition of trials, privations, and hardships,such as they had already endured in their former habitation.

Their cabin was a rude affair, scarcely more than a shanty, without achimney, and with only roof enough to cover a bed; a few loose boardsserved for a floor; one side of the house was entirely unenclosed, and alltheir cooking had to be done in the open air, in the few utensils whichthey had at hand.

One by one these deficiencies, with much toil and difficulty, weresupplied; a tolerably close roof and walls shielded them measurably fromthe autumn tempests; a new chimney carried up about half the smokegenerated from the green fuel with which the fireplace was filled; thehearth, made of clay and wood-ashes, was, however, a standing eyesore toMrs. White, who appears to have been a notable housewife, as it did notadmit of washing, and had to be renewed every two or three months.

These were discomforts indeed, but nothing compared with another annoyanceto which they were nightly subject—that part of the territory where theylived being infested by black wolves of the fiercest species. Theirsituation was so lonely, and Doctor White's absences were so frequent, thatMrs. White was greatly terrified every night by the frightful howlings ofthese ferocious marauders.

One night Doctor White left home to visit Mr. Shepherd, who was ill, andsome of the sick mission children. Mrs. White, while awaiting his return,suddenly heard a burst of prolonged howling from the depths of the forestthrough which the Doctor would have to pass on his return homeward. Thehowls were continued with all the eagerness which showed that the bruteswere close upon their prey. She flew to the yard, and in the greatestterror, besought the two hired men to fly to her husband's rescue.

They laughed at her fears, and endeavored to reason her into composure. Butthe horrid din continued. Through the wild chorus she fancied she heard ahuman voice faintly calling for help. Unable longer to restrain her excitedfeelings, she snatched up a long pair of cooper's compasses—the firstweapon that offered itself—and sallied out into the woods, accompanied bythe men, armed with rifles.

They ran swiftly, the diapason of the howls guiding them in the propercourse, and in a few moments they came to a large tree, round which a packof hungry monsters had collected, and were baying in full chorus, jumpingup and snapping their jaws at a man who was seated among the branches.

The cowardly brutes, catching sight of the party, sneaked off with howls ofbaffled rage, and were soon beyond hearing. The doctor descended from hisretreat, quite panic-stricken at his narrow escape. He informed them thaton first starting from the mission, he had picked up a club, to defendhimself from the wolves, should they make their appearance; but when one ofthe animals came within six feet of him, and by its call, gathered othersto the pursuit, his valiant resolutions vanished—he dropped his stick andplied his heels, with admirable dexterity, till the tree offered itsfriendly aid, when he hallooed for help with all the power of his lungs;but for Mrs. White's appreciation of the danger, and her speedy appearanceupon the scene, Dr. White's term of usefulness in the Oregon mission wouldhave been greatly abridged.

The necessities of their missionary life compelled different members oftheir little band to make frequent journeys both by land and water. It wason one of these journeys, and while passing down the Columbia River in acanoe, that Mrs. White met with an accident that plunged the whole missioninto mourning.

Mrs. White, with her babe, and Mr. Leslie, had embarked in a canoe on theriver where the current was extremely rapid, and as they reached the middleof the stream, the canoe began to quiver and sway from side to side. Thesense of her danger came upon Mrs. W., as with a presentiment of comingdisaster. She trembled like a leaf as she remarked, "How very helpless is afemale with an infant." At the instant that her voice ceased to echo fromthe rocky shores, and as if a spirit of evil stood ready to prove the truthof her exclamation, the canoe, which was heavily laden, gave a slightswing, and striking a rock began to fill with water, and, in a few seconds,went down. As the water came up round them, the child started convulsivelyin its mother's arms and gave a piercing shriek, Mr. Leslie at the sametime exclaiming, "Oh, God! we're lost!"

When the canoe rose, it was free from its burthen, and bottom upwards; andMrs. White found herself directly beneath it, painfully endeavoring toextricate herself, enduring dreadful agony in her struggle for breath.

Despairingly she felt herself again sinking, and, coming in contact withthe limbs of a person in the water, the reflection flitted across herbrain, "I have done with my labors for these poor Indians. Well, all willbe over in a moment; but how will my poor mother feel when she learns myawful fate?" Mr. Leslie afterwards stated that he had no recollection tillhe rose, and strove to keep above water, but again sank, utterly hopelessof succor.

He rose again just as the canoe passed around a large rock, and its prowwas thrown within his reach. He clutched it with eager joy, and supportedhimself a moment, gasping for breath, when he suddenly thought of hisfellow-passenger, and the exclamation ran through his mind,—"What will thedoctor do?" He instantly lowered himself in the water as far as possible,and, still clinging with one hand, groped about as well as he was able,when, providentially, he grasped her dress, and succeeded in raising her tothe surface. By this time the Indians—expert swimmers—had reached thecanoe; and, with their assistance, he supported his insensible burden, andplaced her head upon the bottom with her face just out of water. After afew moments, she gasped feebly, and, opening her eyes, her first wordswere, "Oh, Mr. Leslie, I've lost my child!"

"Pray, do dismiss the thought," said he, "and let us try to saveourselves."

They were wafted a long way down the river, no prospect offering for theirrelief. At length they espied, far ahead, the two canoes which had enteredthe river before them, occupied, as it proved, by an Indian chief and hisattendants. Mr. Leslie hallooed to them with all his remaining strength,and they hastened towards them, first stopping to pick up the trunks and afew other things which had floated down stream.

When, at last, they reached the sufferers, finding them so much exhausted,the chief cautioned them to retain their hold, without in the leastchanging their position, while he towed them gently and carefully to theshore. Here they rested, draining the water from their clothes, and Mr.Leslie from his head and stomach,—for he had swallowed a vast quantity. Inhalf an hour the Indians righted the canoe, which had been drawn on shore,and, to their amazement, and almost terror, they found beneath it the deadbabe, wrapped in its cloak, having been kept in its place by theatmospheric pressure.

Mr. Leslie was now uncertain what course to pursue, and asked hiscompanion's advice. She told them she was desirous of proceedingimmediately to Fort Vancouver, as they had nothing to eat, no fire, and, inshort, had lost so many of their effects, that they had nothing wherewithto make themselves comfortable, if they remained there till even the nextday.

Their canoe was a large one, being about twenty feet in length and four inbreadth, and was laden with a bed, bedding, mats, two large trunks ofclothing, kettles, and dishes, and provisions to last the crew throughoutthe journey, and also articles of traffic with the natives, and they lostall but their trunks, the contents of which were now thoroughly soaked.

They seated themselves in the canoe, and the chief threw his only blanketover Mrs. W———'s shoulders, both himself and men exerting themselves torender their charges comfortable during the thirty-six miles they wereobliged to travel before reaching the fort, which was late in the evening.

They were met by Mr. Douglas, who was greatly shocked at the narrative, andwhose first words were, "My God! what a miracle! Why, it is only a shorttime since, in the same place, we lost a canoe, with seven men, all goodswimmers."

The following morning, the bereaved mother was quite composed. They startedat eight o'clock, and with the little coffin, provided by Mr. Douglas, attheir feet, traveled rapidly all day, and camped at night just above thefalls of the Willamette. They took supper, the men pitched their borrowedtents, and, after a day of great fatigue, they lay quietly down to rest.

In a short time, however, they were disturbed by a loud paddling, andvoices; and looking out, beheld about thirty Indians, men, women, andchildren, in canoes, who landed and camped very near them.

Their arrival filled Mrs. White with new apprehension. She feared now thatshe might be robbed of her dead treasure, and perhaps lose her own life,before she could consign it to its last resting-place. All through thatrestless, dreary night, she kept her vigils, with bursting heart, besidethe corpse of her babe. The noises of the Indian camp, the guttural voicesof the men, the chattering of the squaws, rang in her ears, while the criesand prattling of the children, by reminding her of the lost one, served toenhance the poignancy of her grief. What a situation for the desolatemother! All alone with death, far from her mother, husband, home, andfriends, surrounded by a troop of barbarous, noisy savages weighed downwith grief, tearless from its very weight, not knowing what next wouldbefall her. What agony did she endure through that night's dreary vigils!She felt as though she were draining the cup of sorrow to its dregs,without the strength to pray that it might pass from her.

They set off as soon as it was light, that they might, if possible, reachthe Mission before putrescency had discolored the body of the infant. Theyarrived at McKoy's about one o'clock, where, while they were dining, horseswere prepared, and they went on without delay. It is impossible to describethe emotions of the doctor when he met them about twelve miles from theMission, as, excepting a floating rumor among the natives, which he hardlycredited, he had had no intimation of the accident. The sad presentimentwas realized. Death had entered their circle and robbed them of their fairchild! As he looked into the face of his wife, he comprehended in part hersufferings.

Amid these and similar sad experiences, this heroic band of Christian womenabated not their zeal or efforts in the work to which they had put theirhand.

In other parts of the territory, separate missionary establishments weresuperintended by the Whitmans, the Spauldings, and others. The blessings ofcivilization and religion were thus extended by these devoted men and womento the benighted red man.

For a period of eight years Dr. and Mrs. Whitman resided on the banks ofthe Walla-Walla River, doing all in their power to benefit the Indians.Such labors as theirs deserved a peaceful old age, and the enduringgratitude of their tawny protégés. Alas! that we have to record that suchwas not their lot! Melancholy indeed was the fate of that devoted band uponthe Walla-Walla!

The measels had broken out among the Indians and spread with frightfulrapidity through the neighboring tribes. Dr. Whitman did all he could tostay its progress, but great numbers of them died.

The Indians supposed that the doctor could have stayed the course of themalady if he had wished it, and accordingly concocted a plan to destroy himand his whole family. With this object in view about sixty of them armedthemselves and came to his house.

The inmates, having no suspicion of any hostile intentions, were totallyunprepared for resistance or flight. Dr. and Mrs. Whitman and theirnephew—a youth of about seventeen or eighteen years of age—were sittingin the parlor in the afternoon, when Sil-aw-kite, the chief, and To-ma-kus,entered the room and addressing the doctor told him very coolly they hadcome to kill him. The doctor, not believing it possible that they couldentertain any hostile intentions towards him, told him as much; but whilstin the act of speaking, To-ma-kus drew a tomahawk from under his robe andburied it deep in his brain. The unfortunate man fell dead in his chair.Mrs. Whitman and the nephew fled up stairs and locked themselves into anupper room.

In the meantime Sil-aw-kite gave the war-whoop, as a signal to his partyoutside, to proceed in the work of destruction, which they did with theferocity and yells of so many fiends. Mrs. Whitman, hearing the shrieks andgroans of the dying, looked out of the window and was shot through thebreast by a son of the chief, but not mortally wounded. A party then rushedup stairs and dispatched the niece on the spot, dragged her down by thehair of her head and taking her to the front of the house, mutilated her ina shocking manner with their knives and tomahawks.

There was one man who had a wife bedridden. On the commencement of theaffray he ran to her room, and, taking her up in his arms, carried herunperceived by the Indians to the thick bushes that skirted the river, andhurried on with his burden in the direction of Fort Walla-Walla. Havingreached a distance of fifteen miles, he became so exhausted that, unable tocarry her further, he concealed her in a thick clump of bushes on themargin of the river, and hastened to the Fort for assistance.

On his arrival, Mr. McBain immediately sent out men with him, and broughther in. She had fortunately suffered nothing more than fright. The numberkilled, (including Dr. and Mrs. Whitman,) amounted to fourteen. The otherfemales and children were carried off by the Indians, and two of them wereforthwith taken as wives by Sil-aw-kite's son and another. A man employedin the little mill, forming a part of the establishment, was spared to workthe mill for the Indians. The day following the awful tragedy, a Catholicpriest, who had not heard of the massacre, stopped on seeing the mangledcorpses strewn round the house, and requested permission to bury them,which was readily granted.

On the priest leaving the place, he met, at a distance of five or sixmiles, a brother missionary of the deceased, Mr. Spaulding, the field ofwhose labors lay about a hundred miles off, at a place on the riverColdwater. He communicated to him the melancholy fate of his friends, andadvised him to fly as fast as possible, or, in all probability, he would beanother victim. He gave him a share of his provisions, and Mr. Spauldinghurried homeward, full of apprehensions for the safety of his own family;but, unfortunately, his horse escaped from him in the night, and after asix days' toilsome march on foot, having lost his way, he at length reachedthe banks of the river, but on the opposite side to his own home.

In the dead of the night, in a state of starvation, having eaten nothingfor three days, everything seeming to be quiet about his own place, hecautiously embarked in a small canoe, and paddled across the river. But hehad no sooner landed than an Indian seized him, and dragged him to his ownhouse, where he found all his family prisoners, and the Indians in fullpossession. These Indians were not of the same tribe with those who haddestroyed Dr. Whitman's family, nor had they at all participated in theoutrage; but having heard of it, and fearing the white man would includethem in their vengeance, they had seized on the family of Mr. Spaulding forthe purpose of holding them as hostages for their own safety. The familywere uninjured; and he was overjoyed to find things no worse.

Notwithstanding this awful tragedy the heroic women remained at their postsin the different missionary stations in the territory, and long afterwardspursued those useful labors which, by establishing pioneer-settlements inthe wilderness, and by civilizing and christianizing the wild tribes,prepared the way for the army of emigrants which is now converting thatvast wilderness into a great and flourishing state.

CHAPTER XVIII.

WOMAN IN THE ARMY

In the great wars of American history, there are, in immediate connectionwith the army, two situations in which woman more prominently appears: theformer is where, in her proper person, she accompanies the army as avivandiere, or as the daughter of the regiment, or as the comradeand help-meet of her husband; the latter, and less frequent capacity, isthat of a soldier, matching in the ranks and facing the foe in the hour ofdanger. During the war for Independence a large number of brave and devotedwomen served in the army, principally in their true characters as wives ofregularly enlisted soldiers, keeping even step with the ranks upon themarch, and cheerfully sharing the burdens, privations, hardships, anddangers of military life.

In some cases where both wife and husband took part in the struggle forindependence, the wife even surpassed her husband in those heroic virtueswhich masculine vanity arrogates as its exclusive possession. The name ofMrs. Jemima Warner has been embalmed in history as one of those remarkablewomen in whom was seen at once the true wife, the heroine, and the patriot.

She appears to have been a native of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and becamethe wife of James Warner, a private in Captain Smith's company, of DanielMorgan's rifle corps.

In 1775 she followed her husband to the north, and joined him at ProspectHill, Cambridge, in the fall of that year. Morgan's riflemen were pickedmen, and were sure to be placed in the posts where the greatest dangerthreatened.

But James Warner, though a stalwart man in appearance, possessed none ofthe qualities demanded in extraordinary emergencies. If ever man needed, inhardship and danger, a constant companion, superior to himself, it wasprivate James Warner, and such a companion was his wife Jemima. She isdescribed as gifted with the form and personal characteristics of a trueheroine, and the heroic qualities which she displayed through all theromantic and tragic campaign against Canada proves that her spiritcorresponded to the frame which it animated.

The Canadian campaign was in many respects the severest and most trying ofany during the Revolution. General Arnold's march through the woods ofMaine was attended with delays, misfortunes, and losses which would havediscouraged any but the bravest, and most determined and hardy. Thestrength, and fortitude of the men was tried to the utmost, by wearisomemarches, floods, winter's cold and famine, and in these crises privateWarner was one of those few whose soldiership failed to stand the test.

The advanced guard of the army of the wilderness was composed of Morgan'stroops, who, with incredible labor and hardship, ascended the Dead riverand crossed the highlands into the Canadian frontier, one hundred andtwenty miles from Quebec, with their last rations in their knapsacks, andwith their passage obstructed by a vast swamp overflowed with water fromtwo to three feet deep. Smith's and Hendrick's companies reached it first,and halted to wait for stragglers. Mrs. Warner came up with another woman,the wife of Sergeant Grier, of Hendrick's company—as much a heroine asherself, though less unfortunate in her experience. The soldiers wereentering the water, breaking the ice as they went with their gun-stocks,and the women courageously wading after them, when some one shouted, "Whereis Warner?" Jemima, who had not noticed her husband's disappearance,started back in search of him. Warner was no more enfeebled in body thanmany of the other men, but his fortitude had given out. Begging hiscomrades to delay their march for a while, she hurried back in search ofher husband, but an hour passed, and his company marched without him.Utterly destitute of that forethought which is so necessary an element ofendurance and resolution in extremity, he had eaten all his rations, whichshould have lasted him two days. Knowing that the supplies of the army wereexhausted, his faint heart saw no hope ahead. His brave wife had had a sadtrial with him. From the day that provisions had began to be scarce he hadbeen the same improvident laggard. Familiar with his failings, she was inthe habit of hoarding food, the price of her own secret fastings, againstsuch need as this. She now exerted herself to the utmost to rouse him, andinduce him to press on and rejoin his comrades. It was long before sheprevailed, and at last, when they started, the army had gone on, and Warnerand his heroic wife were forced to make their way through the wildernessalone. She realized that her husband's safety depended entirely uponherself, and took care of him as she would have taken care of a child.Refusing to entertain, for a moment, the thought of perishing in thewilderness, she did her best to cheer her husband and drive such thoughtsfrom his mind. It was a thankless task, but her love and devotion wereequal to everything. Endowed with a strong constitution, and free fromdisease, the young soldier could have survived the terrible march toCanada, had he possessed but a little of her courage and good sense. Takingthe lead in the bitter journey, through swamps and snows, threading thetangled forests, climbing cliffs, and fording half-frozen creeks,—dayafter day the heroic woman pushed her faint-hearted husband on, feeding himfrom her own little store of ember-baked cakes, and eating almost nothingherself till they were more than half way to Sertigan on the Chaudiereriver, toward Quebec.

Here Warner dropped down, completely discouraged, and resisted all hiswife's entreaties to rise again. It was in vain that she appealed to everymotive that could nerve a soldier, every sentiment that could inspire andstimulate a man. Relief, she said, must be before them, and not faraway; for her sake, would he not try once more? Her pleadings and her tearswere wasted. The faint-hearted soldier had made his last halt. Weak heundoubtedly was, but comparing the nourishment each had taken, she shouldhave been physically worse off than he. It was the superiority of hermental and moral organization that kept her from sinking as low as herhusband. Failing to stir him to make another effort to save himself, shefilled his canteen with water, and placing that and the little remnant ofher wretched bread between his knees, she turned away and went down theriver, with a heavy but dauntless heart, in search of help. On her way shemet a boat coming up the river, and in it were two army officers and twofriendly Indians. Hailing the party, she told them of her distress andbegged them to take her husband on board. They replied that it wasimpossible. They had been sent after Lieutenant Macleland, a sick officerleft behind with an attendant, at Twenty-foot Falls, and the little birchbark canoe would only carry two more men. They could only spare her foodenough to keep herself alive. Weeping, she turned back and sadly followedthe canoe up the stream till it was lost to view. When she again reachedthe spot where she had left her discouraged husband, she found him alivebut helpless, and sinking fast. While the devoted wife sat by his side,doing what little she could for his comfort, the canoe party came down theriver, bearing the gallant Macleland, their loved but dying officer. Againthe hapless wife begged, with piteous tears, that they would take herhusband in. No! All her prayers were useless. Macleland was worth more thanWarner.

When all hope had fled, Jemima staid faithfully by her husband till he hadbreathed his last. She could only close his eyes and try to cover his bodyfrom the wolves. Then, when love had done its best, she strapped his powderhorn and pouch to her person, shouldered his rifle, and set out on herweary tramp toward Quebec. Melancholy as it was, one sees a certainsublimity in the woman's act of selecting and carrying with her thosewarlike keepsakes. It was in perfect keeping with those tragic times.Tender thoughtfulness of her poor husband's martial honor outlived herpower to inspire him again to her heroism, and made her grand in theforlornness of her sorrow. She was determined that his arms should go tothe war, if he could not.

The same brave mind that had made her so admirable as a soldier's helpmeet,upheld her through tedious hardships and continued perils on her lonely wayto the settlement. Once there, it was necessary for her to wait till shecould recover her exhausted strength. Her triumph over the severe taskingof all those bitter days in the wilderness, without chronic injury, or eventemporary sickness, would be called now, in a woman, a miracle ofendurance.

As she passed on from parish to parish, the simple Canadian peasant, alwaysfriendly to the American cause, welcomed with warm hospitality the handsomeyoung woman, the story of whose singular bravery and devotion had reachedtheir ears.

Her subsequent life and history is shrouded in obscurity. We know notwhether she married a husband worthier of such a partner in those tryingtimes, or whether she retired to brood alone over a sorrow with which shamefor the object of her grief must have mingled. Whatever her lot may havebeen, her name deserves a place on the golden roll of our revolutionaryheroines.

As we have already remarked, only a few instances are on record where womenserved in the army of the revolution as enlisted soldiers. Occasionalservices performed under the guise of men, were more frequent. As bearersof dispatches and disguised as couriers, they glided through the enemy'slines. Donning their father's or brother's overcoats and hats, theydeceived the besiegers of the garrison into the belief that soldiers werenot lacking to defend it, and even ventured in male habiliments to performmore perilous feats; such, for example, as the following:

Grace and Rachel Martin, the wives of two brothers who were absent with thepatriot army, receiving intelligence one evening that a courier under guardof two British officers, would pass their house on a certain night withimportant dispatches, resolved to surprise the party and obtain the papers.

Disguising themselves in their husband's outer garments, and providingthemselves with arms, they waylaid the enemy. Soon after they took theirstation by the roadside, the courier and his escort made their appearance.At the proper moment the disguised ladies sprang from their bushy covert,and presenting their pistols, ordered the party to surrender their papers.Surprised and alarmed, they obeyed without hesitation or the leastresistance. The brave women having put them on parole, hastened home by thenearest route, which was a bypath through the woods, and dispatched thedocuments to General Greene.

Perhaps the most remarkable case of female enlistment and protractedservice in the patriot army, was that of Deborah Samson. The career of thiswoman shows that her motive in adopting and following the career of asoldier was a praiseworthy one. The whole country was aglow with patrioticfervor, and in no section did the flame burn with a purer luster than inthat where Deborah was nurtured. It was not idle curiosity nor mere love ofroving, that incited her, in those straitlaced days, to abandon her homeand join in the perilous fray where the standard of freedom was "full highadvanced." She had evidently counted the cost of the extraordinary stepwhich she was about to take, but found in the difficulties and dangerswhich it entailed nothing to obstruct or daunt her purpose.

Her parents were in humble circ*mstances, and lived in Plymouth,Massachusetts, where Deborah grew up with but slender advantages foranything more than a practical education; and yet such was her diligence inthe acquisition of knowledge, that before she was eighteen she had shownherself competent to take charge of a district school, in which duty shedisplayed some of the same qualities which made her after-careerremarkable.

She seems for several months to have cherished the secret purpose ofenlisting in the American army, and with that view laid aside a small sumfrom her scanty earnings as a school-teacher, with which she purchased aquantity of coarse fustian; out of this material, working at intervals andby stealth, she made a complete suit of men's clothes, concealing in ahay-stack each article as it was finished.

When her preparations had been completed, she informed her friends that shewas going in search of higher wages for her labor. Tieing her new suit ofmen's attire in a bundle, she took her departure. She probably availedherself of the nearest shelter for the purpose of assuming her disguise.Her stature was lofty for a woman, and her features, though finelyproportioned, were of a masculine cast. When at a subsequent period she haddonned the buff and blue regimentals and marched in the ranks of thepatriot army, she is said to have looked every inch the soldier.

Pursuing her way she presented herself at the camp of the American army asone of those patriotic young men who desired to assist in opposing theBritish, and securing the independence of their country.

Her friends, supposing that she was engaged at service at some distantpoint, made little inquiry as to her whereabouts, knowing herself-reliance, and her ability to follow out her own career without the aidof their counsel or assistance. Those who were nearest to her appear tohave never made such a search for her as would have led to her discovery.

Having decided to enlist for the whole term of the war, from motives ofpatriotism, she was received and enrolled as one of the first volunteers inthe company of Captain Nathan Thayer, of Medway, Massachusetts, under thename of Robert Shirtliffe. Without friends and homeless, as the youngrecruit appeared to be, she interested Captain Thayer, and was receivedinto his family while he was recruiting his company. Here she remained someweeks, and received her first lessons in the drill and duties of the youngsoldier.

"Accustomed to labor from childhood upon the farm and in outdooremployment, she had acquired unusual vigor of constitution; her frame wasrobust and of masculine strength; and, having thus gained a degree ofhardihood, she was enabled to acquire great expertness and precision in themanual exercise, and to undergo what a female, delicately nurtured, wouldhave found it impossible to endure. Soon after they had joined the company,the recruits were supplied with uniforms by a kind of lottery. That drawnby Robert did not fit, but, taking needle and scissors, he soon altered itto suit him. To Mrs. Thayer's expression of surprise at finding a young manso expert in using the implements of feminine industry, the answer was,that, his mother having no girl, he had been often obliged to practice theseamstress's art."

While in the family of Captain Thayer, she was thrown much into the societyof a young girl then visiting Mrs. Thayer. She soon began to show muchpartiality for Deborah (or Robert), and as she seemed to be versed in thearts of coquetry, Robert felt no scruples in paying close attention to oneso volatile and fond of flirtation; she also felt a natural curiosity tolearn within how short a time a maiden's fancy might be won.

Mrs. Thayer regarded this little romance with some uneasiness, as she couldnot help perceiving that Robert did not entirely reciprocate her youngfriend's affection. She accordingly lost no time in remonstrating withRobert, and warning him of the serious consequences of his folly intrifling with the feelings of the maiden. The remonstrance and caution weregood-naturedly received, and the departure of the blooming soldier soonafter terminated all these love passages, though Robert received from hisfair young friend some souvenirs, which he cherished as relics in afteryears.

For three years, and until 1781, our heroine appears as a soldier, andduring this time she gained the approbation and confidence of the officersby her exemplary conduct and by the fidelity with which her duties wereperformed. When under fire, she showed an unflinching boldness, and was avolunteer in several hazardous enterprises. The first time she was wounded,was in a hand-to-hand fight with a British dragoon, when she received asevere sword-cut in the side of her head, laying bare her skull.

About four months after the first wound, she was again doomed to bleed inher country's cause, receiving another severe wound in her shoulder, thebullet burying itself deeply, and necessitating a surgical examination.

She described her first emotion when the ball struck her, as a sickeningterror lest her sex should be discovered. The pain of the wound wasscarcely felt in her excitement and alarm, even death on the battle-fieldshe felt would be preferable to the shame that would overwhelm her in casethe mystery of her life were unveiled. Her secret, however, remainedundiscovered, and, recovering from her wound, she was soon able again totake her place in the ranks.

Some time after, she was seized with a brain fever, which was thenprevalent in the army. During the first stages of her malady, her greatestsuffering was the dread that consciousness would desert her and hercarefully guarded secret be disclosed to those about her. She was carriedto the hospital, where her case was considered a hopeless one. One day thedoctor approached the bed where she lay, a corpse, as every one supposed.Taking her hand, he found the pulse feebly beating, and, attempting toplace his hand on the heart, he discovered a female patient, where he hadlittle expected one. The surgeon said not a word of his discovery, but witha prudence, delicacy, and generosity ever afterwards appreciated by thesufferer, he provided every comfort her perilous condition required, andpaid her those medical attentions which soon secured her return toconsciousness. As soon as her condition would permit, he had her removed tohis own house, where she could receive the better care.

After her health was nearly restored, Doctor Binney, her generousbenefactor, had a long conference with the commanding officer of thecompany in which Robert had served, and this was followed by an order tothe youth to carry a letter to General Washington.

Ever since her removal into the doctor's family, she had entertained thesuspicion that he had discovered the secret of her life. Often whileconversing with him, she watched his face with anxiety, but neverdiscovered a word or look to indicate that the physician knew or suspectedthat she was other than what she represented herself to be. But when shereceived the order to carry the letter to the commander-in-chief, her longcherished misgivings became at last a certainty.

The order must be obeyed. With a trembling heart she pursued her course tothe headquarters of Washington. When she was ushered into the presence ofthe Chief, she was overpowered with dread and uncertainty, and showed uponher face the alarm and confusion which she felt. Washington, noticing heragitation, and supposing it to arise from diffidence, kindly endeavored tore-assure her. She was soon bidden to retire with an attendant, while heread the communication of which she had been the bearer.

In a few moments, she was again summoned to the presence of Washington, whohanded her in silence a discharge from the service, with a note containinga few brief words of advice, and a sum of money sufficient to bear herexpenses to some place where she might find a home. To her latest hour, shenever forgot the delicacy and forbearance shown her by that great and goodman.

After the war was over, she became the wife of Benjamin Gannet, of Sharon.During the presidency of General Washington, she was invited to visit theseat of government, and, during her stay at the capital, Congress grantedher a pension and certain lands in consideration of her services to thecountry as a soldier.

In the War of 1812, woman shared more or less in the hard and perilousduties of a soldier, especially upon the Canadian border, and on thewestern frontier, where Indian hostilities now broke out afresh. She stoodguard in the homes exposed to attack all along the thin line, which thesavage or the British soldier threatened to break through, and on more thanone battle-field proved her lineal descent from the brave mothers of theRevolution.

To the female imagination, the war with Mexico must have been clothed withpeculiar hardships and dangers. The length of the marches, the vastdistance from home, the torrid heats, fell diseases that prevailed in thatclime, and the nature of the half-civilized enemy, all conspired to warnthe gentler sex against taking part in that conflict. And yet all theseappalling difficulties and perils could not damp the martial ardor of Mrs.Coolidge. She was born in Missouri, where, at St. Louis, she married herhusband, who was a Mexican trader. Accompanying him on one of his yearlyjourneys to Santa Fe, she had the misfortune to see him meet his death, atthe hands of a Mexican bravo, in the outskirts of that city.

Her life had been a stirring one from her early girlhood, and, when warbroke out with Mexico, she attired herself in manly garments, and by herstature and rather masculine appearance readily passed muster with therecruiting officer. Under the name of James Brown, she was duly entered onthe rolls of a Missouri company, which soon after took steamboat for FortLeavenworth, the rendezvous. From this point, on the 16th of June, 1846, aforce of sixteen hundred and fifty-eight men, including our heroine (orhero), took up their line of march to Santa Fé.

Most of this little army were mounted men, and of this number was Mrs.
Coolidge, who was an admirable horsewoman. Their course lay over the almost
boundless plains that stretch westward to the foothills of the Rocky
Mountains, a distance of nearly one thousand miles.

In fifty days they reached Santa Fe, of which they took possession withoutopposition. The soldierly bearing and quick intelligence of Mrs. Coolidgesoon attracted the attention of Col. Kearney, the commanding officer, andshe was selected by him to be one of the bearers of dispatches to the wardepartment.

A picked mustang, of extraordinary mettle and endurance, was placed at herdisposal; a strong and fleet horse of the messenger stock, crossed with themustang, was selected for her guide, a sturdy Scotchman, formerly in theSanta Fé trade; and one bright day, early in September, they set out ontheir long and perilous journey for Leavenworth. The first sixteen miles,over a broken and hilly country, was void of incident. They had passedthrough Arroyo Hondo and reached the Cañon, (El Boca del Cañon,) one of thegateways to Santa Fé; as they were threading this narrow pass, they saw, onturning a short angle of the precipice that towered three hundred feetabove them, four mounted Mexicans, armed to the teeth and prepared todispute their passage. One of them dismounted, and, advancing towards ourcouriers, waved a white handkerchief, and demanded in Spanish and in brokenEnglish their surrender. The guide replied in very concise English, tellinghim to go to a place unmentionable to polite ears. The envoy immediatelyrejoined his companions and mounted his horse; the party then turned andtrotted forward a few paces as if they were about to give Mrs. Coolidge andthe guide a free passage, when they suddenly wheeled their horses, and,discharging their pieces, seized their lances and dashed down full tiltupon our heroine and her guide. A shot from the guide's rifle hurled one ofthe Mexicans out of his saddle, like a stone from a sling. Mrs. Coolidgewas less fortunate in her aim; missing the rider, her bullet struck a horsefull in the forehead, but such was the speed with which it was approaching,that it was carried within twenty paces of the spot where she stood beforeit fell; the rider, uninjured, quickly extricated himself, and, seizingfrom his holster a horse-pistol, shot Mrs. Coolidge's horse, whichnevertheless still kept his legs, and, as her assailant rushed towards herwith his machete, or large knife, she leveled a pistol and sent aball through one of his legs, breaking it and bringing him to the ground.Dismounting from her horse, which was reeling and staggering with loss ofblood, she held her other pistol to the head of the prostrate guerrilla,who surrendered at discretion.

Meanwhile, the guide had dispatched one of the two remaining Mexicans, and,though he had a shot in the fleshy part of his leg, he had succeeded incompelling the other to surrender by shooting his horse.

Mrs. Coolidge now, for the first time, discovered blood dripping from awound made by a musket-ball in her bridle-arm. Hastily winding her scarfabout it, she bound the arms of her prisoner with a piece of rope, andbroke his lance and the locks of his pistols and carbine. The otherprisoner was served in the same fashion. The arms of the two dead Mexicanswere also broken or disabled. The fleetest and best of the two remaininghorses was taken by Mrs. Coolidge in lieu of her own gallant littlemustang, which was now gasping out his life on the rocky bottom of thepass. Our gallant couriers then paroled the two prisoners, and gallopedrapidly down the cañon, taking the other mustang with them, and leaving theguerrillas to find their way home as they best might. As they mounted theirhorses, the guide remarked to Mrs. Coolidge that he had heretoforeentertained the suspicion that she might be a woman, but that now he knewshe was a man.

A swift ride brought them to old Pecos, a distance of ten miles, where theysupped and passed the night. Their wounds were mere scratches and did notnecessitate any delay, and the next day, after a long, slow gallop, theyreached Los Vegas. Then, keeping their course to the northwest and pushingrapidly forward, they passed the present site of Fort Union, and, havingsecured a large supply of dried buffalo meat, crossed the wonderfulmesa or table-land west of the Canadian River, and encamped for anight and day on the east bank of that stream.

The next stretch for two hundred miles lay through a country infested withUtah and Apache Indians. Three or four days of swift riding would carrythem through this dangerous region to a place of security on the ArkansasRiver. If they should meet a hostile band, it was agreed that they wouldtrust for safety in the swiftness of their steeds, which had already provedthemselves capable of both speed and endurance.

They had crossed Rabbit ear Creek and reached the Cimarron, without seeingeven the sign of a foe, when, early one morning, the guide, lookingeastward over the vast sandy plain, from the camp where they had passed thenight, saw far away a body of fifty mounted Indians, whom, after examiningwith his glass, he pronounced to be Utahs coming rapidly towards them.There was no escape, and, in accordance with their programme, they mountedtheir horses and rode slowly to meet them.

The Indians, spying them, formed a semicircle and galloped towards thefearless couple, who put their horses to a canter, and, riding directlyagainst the center of the line of warriors, dashed through it on the run.The Indians, quickly recovering from the astonishment produced by thisdaring manoeuver, wheeled their horses and dashed after them. All but tenof the Indians were soon distanced; these ten continued the pursuit, but inan hour and a half this number was reduced to seven, and in another houronly five remained. They were evidently young braves, who were hoping todistinguish themselves by taking two American soldiers' scalps.

On they sped—the pursuers and the pursued—over the wild plain. A space ofbarely half a mile divided them. The horses, however, of each party seemedso evenly matched in speed and endurance that neither gained on the other.The mustangs, the one ridden by our heroine, the other with only a ninetypound pack on its back, though glossy with sweat, and their nostrilscrimson and expanded with the terrible strain upon them, showed no sign offlagging. The guide's horse, a heavier animal, began at length to showsymptoms of fatigue. If there had been time, he would have shifted hissaddle on the pack-mustang, but this was not to be thought of. By dint ofspurring and lashing the smoking flanks of the now drooping steed, hebarely kept his place by the side of his companion.

They were now near a small creek, an affluent of the Arkansas, when theguide, turning his eyes, saw that only three of the Indians were on theirtrail, the two others were galloping slowly back. Just as he announced thisfact to Mrs. Coolidge, his tired horse fell heavily, throwing him forwardupon his head and stunning him senseless.

Our heroine, dismounting, dragged her unconscious comrade to the bank ofthe creek, and, throwing water in his face, quickly restored him to hissenses; but, before he could handle his gun, the Indians had come within ahundred paces, whooping fiercely to call back their companions, who justbefore abandoned the pursuit. They were luckily only armed with bows andarrows, and, circling about the fearless pair, they launched arrow afterarrow, though without doing any execution. One of them fell before therifle of Mrs. Coolidge. A second was brought to earth by the guide, who hadby this time revived sufficiently to join in the fight. The third turnedand galloped off towards his two companions, who were now hastening to thescene of conflict.

This gave our heroine and her associate in danger time to reload theirrifles and to shield their horses behind the bank of the creek. Then, lyingprostrate in the grass, they completely concealed themselves from sight.The three Indians, seeing them disappear behind the bank of the creek, andsupposing that they had taken to flight again, rode unguardedly withinrange, and received shots which tumbled two of them from their saddles. Theonly remaining warrior gave up the contest and galloped away, leaving hiscomrades dead upon the field. One of the Indian mustangs supplied the placeof the guide's horse, which was wind broken, and the two now pursued theirjourney at a moderate pace, reaching Fort Leavenworth without encounteringany more dangers.

Mrs. Coolidge (under her pseudonym of James Brown), after delivering herdespatches, was promoted to the rank of sergeant, and was, at her ownrequest, detached from the New Mexican division of the army and ordered toMatamoras, where she did garrison duty without any suspicion being awakenedas to her sex. She afterwards entered active service, and accompanied thearmy on the march to the city of Mexico. She took part in the storming ofChepultepec, and never flinched in that severe affair, covering herselfwith honor, and proving what brave deeds a woman can do in the severesttest to which a soldier can be put.

During the recent war between the North and the South woman's position onthe frontier was similar to that which she occupied in the war of 1812. Thegreater part of the army of the United States, which, in time of peace, wasstationed along the vast border line from the Red River of the North to theRio Grande, had been withdrawn. The outposts, by means of which theblood-thirsty Sioux, the savage Comanches, the remorseless Apaches, andnumerous other fierce and war like tribes had been kept in check, wereeither abandoned, or so poorly garrisoned that the settlements upon theborder were left almost entirely unprotected from the treacherous savage,the lawless Mexican bandit, and the American outlaw and desperado.

What made their position still more unguarded and dangerous was the absenceof their fathers, husbands, and brothers, as volunteers in the armies. Thewar fever raged in both the North and the South, and nowhere more hotlythan among the pioneers from Minnesota to Texas. This brave and hardy classof men, accustomed as they were to the presence of danger, obeyed the callto arms with alacrity, and the women appear to have acquiesced in theenlistment of their natural protectors, trusting to God and their own armsto guard the household during the absence of the men of the family.

The women were thus left alone to face their human foes, and the thousandother perils which beset them. They were, to all intents and purposes,soldiers. They belonged to the home army, upon which the frontier wouldhave mainly to rely for security. Ceaseless vigilance by night and day, anda steady courage in the presence of danger, had to be constantly exercised.

Sometimes the savage foe came in overwhelming numbers, and in such casesthe only safety lay in flight, during which all woman's address andfortitude was called into requisition, either to devise means ofsuccessfully eluding her pursuers, or to endure the toils and hardships ofa rapid march. Sometimes she stood with loaded gun in her householdgarrison, and faced the enemy, either repelling them, or dying at her post,or, what was worse than death, seeing her loved ones butchered before hereyes, and their being led into a cruel captivity.

On the Texas border, in 1862, one of these home-warriors, during theabsence of her husband in the Southern army, was left alone not far fromthe Rio Grande, and ten miles from the house of any American settler. ThreeMexican horse thieves came to the house and demanded the key of the stable,in which two valuable horses were kept, threatening, in case of refusal, toburn her house over her head. She stood at her open door, with loadedrevolver, and told them that not only would she not surrender the property,but that the first one that dared to lay violent hands upon her should beshot down. Cowed by her intrepid manner, the bandits slunk away.

On another occasion she was attacked by two American outlaws, while ridingon the river bank. One of them seized the bridle of the horse, and theother attempted to drag her from the saddle. Turning upon the latter, sheshot him dead, and the other, from sheer amazement at her daring, lost hisself-possession and begged for mercy. After compelling him to give up hisarms, she allowed him to depart unmolested, as there was no tribunal ofjustice near by where he could be punished for his villainy. These exploitsgained for the borderer's wife a wide reputation throughout the region, andeither through fear of her courage, or through an admiring respect for suchheroism, when displayed by a lone woman, she was never again troubled bymarauders.

The Sioux war in Minnesota, in 1862, was remarkable for the sufferingsendured and the bravery displayed by women whose husbands had left them tojoin the army.

A notable instance of this description was that of two married sisters wholived in one house on the Minnesota River, some eighty miles above Mankato.One morning in the spring of that year their house was surrounded by SiouxIndians, but was so bravely defended that the savages withdrew withoutdoing much damage. Two weeks of perfect peace passed away, and the twosisters renewed their outdoor work as fearlessly as ever, as their secludedsituation prevented them from hearing of the ravages of the Indians in theeastern settlements.

Late one afternoon, while both the women were sitting in a small grove, notfar from the house, they heard the war-whoop, and, stealing through thebushes, saw ten savages, who had dragged the three children from the houseand cut their throats, and, after scalping them, were dancing about theirmangled corpses. They then set fire to the house and barns, and, butcheringthe cow, proceeded to prepare a great feast.

Not knowing how long the monsters would remain, and having no food normeans to procure any, the hapless women set out for the nearest house,which was situated ten miles to the east. They succeeded in reaching thespot at ten o'clock that night, but found nothing but a heap of ashes andtwo mangled bodies of a woman and her child.

Grief, fear, and fatigue kept them from obtaining that rest they so muchneeded, and before daylight they resumed their march towards the nexthouse, eight miles farther east. This had also been destroyed. The youngersister, who was the mother of the three children who had been butchered,now gave up in grief and despair, and declared that she would die there.But she was at length induced to proceed by the urgent persuasions of theolder and stronger woman.

The borders of the river at this point were covered with woods renderedimpervious to the rays of the sun by the herbs, and shrubs that crept upthe trunks, and twined around the branches of the trees. They resumed theirmelancholy journey; but observing that following the course of the riverconsiderably lengthened their route, they entered into the wood, and in afew days lost their way. Though now nearly famished, oppressed with thirst,and their feet sorely wounded with briars and thorns, they continued topush forward through immeasurable wilds and gloomy forests, drawingrefreshment from the berries and wild fruits they were able to collect.At length, exhausted by hunger and fatigue, their strength failed them, andthey sunk down helpless and forlorn. Here they waited impatiently for deathto relieve them from their misery. In four days the younger sister expired,and the elder continued stretched beside her sister's corpse forforty-eight hours, deprived of the use of all her faculties. At lastProvidence gave her strength and courage to quit the melancholy scene, andattempt to pursue her journey. She was now without stockings, barefooted,and almost naked; two cloaks, which had been torn to rags by the briars,afforded her but a scanty covering. Having cut off the soles of hersister's shoes, she fastened them to her feet, and went on her lonely way.The second day of her journey she found water; and the day following, somewild fruit and green eggs; but so much was her throat contracted by theprivation of nutriment, that she could hardly swallow such a sufficiency ofthe sustenance which chance presented to her as would support her emaciatedframe.

That evening she was found by a party of volunteers who had been in pursuitof the Indians, and she was brought into the nearest settlement in acondition of body and mind to which even death would have been preferable.

Notwithstanding the dangers and distractions of this quasi-military lifeled by wives and mothers on the frontier they did not neglect their otherhome duties.

When the scarred and swarthy veterans returned to their homes on the borderthere were no marks of neglect to be erased, no evidences of dilapidationand decay. "They found their farms in as good a condition as when theyenlisted. Enhanced prices had balanced diminished production. Crops hadbeen planted, tended, and gathered, by hands that before had been allunused to the hoe and the rake. The sadness lasted only in thosehouseholds—alas! too numerous—where no disbanding of armies could restorethe soldier to the loving arms and the blessed industries of home."

These women of the frontier during the late war may be called the irregularforces of the army, soldiers in all respects except in being enrolled andplaced under officers. They fought and marched, stood on guard and weretaken prisoners. They viewed the horrors of war and were under firealthough they did not wear the army uniform nor walk in files and platoons.All these things they did in addition to their work as housewives, farmers,and mothers.

Many others took naturally to the rough life of a soldier, and enlistingunder soldiers' guise followed the drum on foot or in the saddle, andencamped on the bare ground with a knapsack for a pillow and no coveringfrom the cold and rain but a brown army blanket.

One of these heroines was Miss Louisa Wellman of Iowa. Born and nurtured onthe border, habituated from childhood to an outdoor life, a fine rider, aswell as a good shot with both a rifle and a pistol, it was quite naturalthat she should have felt a martial ardor when the war commenced, andhaving donned her brother's clothes, should have enlisted as she did in oneof the Iowa regiments. Her most serious annoyance was the rough languageand profanity of the soldiers. While in camp she managed to associate withthe sober and pious soldiers, of whom there were several in the company.This was afterwards known as "the praying squad;" but she did not inconsequence of her reluctance to associate with the others lose herpopularity, owing to her unvarying cheerfulness, her generosity and herdisposition to oblige often at the greatest inconvenience to herself. If acomrade was taken sick she was the first to tender her services as watcherand nurse, and in this way came to be known as "Doctor Ned."

She took part in the storming of Fort Donelson where she was slightlywounded in the wrist. Afterwards she served often in the picket line anddistinguished herself by her courage, vigilance, and shrewdness. Theboldness with which she exposed herself on every occasion, led to such acatastrophe as might have been expected. The battle of Pittsburgh Landingwas an affair in which she figured with a cool bravery that kept hercompany steady in spite of the terrible fire which was decimating the ranksof the Federal Army. The pressure, however, was at last too great. Slowlydriven towards the river, and fighting every inch of ground, the regimentin which she served seemed likely to be annihilated. They had just reachedthe shelter of the gun-boats when a stray shell exploded directly in thefaces of the front rank, and Miss Wellman was struck and thrown violentlyto the earth, but instantly sprang to her feet and was able to walk to thetemporary hospital which had been established near the river bank.

Like Deborah Samson, her sex was discovered by the surgeon who dressed herwound. The wound was in the collar bone and was made by a fragment ofshell. Although not a dangerous one it required immediate attention. Whenthe surgeon desired her to remove her army jacket she demurred, and notbeing able to assign any good reason for her refusal, the surgeon couplingthis with the modest blush which suffused her features when he made hisrequisition for the removal of her outside garment, immediately guessed thetruth. With chivalrous delicacy he immediately dispatched her with a noteto the wife of one of the Captains who was in the camp at the time,recommending the maiden soldier to her care, and begging that she woulddress the wound in accordance with a prescription which he sent. AlthoughMiss Wellman begged that her secret might not be disclosed and that shemight be permitted to continue to serve in the ranks, it was judged best tocommunicate the fact to the commanding officer, who, though he admired thebravery and resolution of the maiden, judged best that she should serve inanother capacity if at all, and having notified her parents and obtainedtheir consent she was allowed to do service in the ambulance department.

She was furnished with a horse, side-saddle, saddle-bags, etc., andwhenever a battle took place she would ride fearlessly to the front toassist the wounded. Many a poor wounded soldier was assisted off the fieldby her, and sometimes she would dismount from her horse, and, aiding thewounded man to climb into the saddle, would convey him to the hospital. Shecarried bandages and stimulants in her saddle-bags, and did all she wasable to relieve the sufferings of such as were too badly wounded to beremoved.

During this service she was often exposed to the enemy's fire. She was withGrant in the Vicksburg campaign, and on one occasion; being attracted by atremendous firing, rode rapidly forward, and missing her way found herselfwithin one hundred yards of a battalion of the enemy, whose gray jacketscould be seen through the smoke of their rapid firing. Wheeling her horseshe galloped out of range, fortunately escaping the storm of bullets whichflew about her.

She shared the hardships as well as the perils of the soldiers, and in thebivouac wrapped herself in her blanket and lay on the bare ground, with noother shelter but the sky, rising at the sound of reveille to partake withher comrades of the plain camp fare. All this she did cheerfully and withher whole heart. Her sympathy was not bounded by the wants and sufferingsof the soldiers of the federal army, but embraced in its boundlessoutpouring those of her countrymen who were then ranged against her asfoes. Many a sick and suffering Southerner had cause to bless the kindnessand devotion of this noble girl. Herein she showed herself a Christianwoman and a practical example of the teachings of Him who said,—"Love yourenemies." Such deeds as her's shine amid the terrible passions and carnageof war with a heavenly radiance which time can never dim.

Either in the army or in close connection with it, woman's affectionatedevotion was illustrated in all those relations of life in which she standsbeside man. As a mother, as a wife, and as a sister, she brightly displayedthis quality. The following instance of wifely devotion is related of awoman who came from the Red River of Louisiana with her husband, who was aSouthern officer.

In the fall of 1863, during the bombardment of Charleston by the federalbatteries, this young woman, being tenderly attached to her husband, whowas in one of the forts, begged the military authorities to allow her tojoin her husband and share the fearful dangers and hardships to which hewas daily and nightly exposed. All representations of the difficulties,privations, and perils she would encounter failed to daunt her in herpurpose. The importunities of the loving wife prevailed over military rulesand even over the expostulations of her husband, and she was allowed totake her post beside the one whom she regarded with an affection amountingto idolatry. Sending her two children to the care of a maiden aunt somemiles from the city, she was conveyed to her husband's battery, a largeearth-work outside of the city.

Here she remained for sixty days, during which the battery where she was,made one of the principal targets for the federal cannon. For weekstogether she lay down in her clothes in the midst of the soldiers. Thebursting of the shells and the sound of the federal hundred-pounders, withanswering volleys from the fort, scarcely intermitted night or day. Sleepwas for several days after her arrival out of the question. But at lengthshe became used to the cannonade and enjoyed intermittent slumbers, fromwhich she was sometimes awakened by the explosion of a shell which hadpenetrated the roof of the fort and strewed the earth with dead andwounded.

Her only food was the wormy bread and half-cured pork which was served outto the soldiers, and her drink was brackish water from the ditch thatsurrounded the earth-work. The cannonading during the day was so furiousthat the fort was often almost reduced to ruins, but in the night thedestruction was repaired. A fleet of gunboats joined the land batteries inbombarding the fort, and at last succeeded in making it no longer tenable.Guns had been dismounted, the bomb-proof had been destroyed, and the sidesof the earth-work were full of breaches where the huge ten-inch balls hadploughed their way.

During all these terrifying and dreadful scenes, our heroine stayed at herpost of love and duty beside her husband. When the little garrisonevacuated the fort at night and retired to the city, she was carried in anambulance drawn by four of the soldiers in honor of her courage anddevotion.

One of the most singular and romantic stories of the late war, is that oftwo young women who enlisted at the same time, and were engaged in activeservice for nearly a year without any discovery being made or even asuspicion excited as to their true sex.

Sarah Stover and Maria Seelye, for these were the names of these heroinesof real life, being homeless orphans, and finding it difficult to earn asubsistence on a small farm in Western Missouri, where they lived,determined to enlist as volunteers in the Federal Army. Accordingly, havingdonned male attire and proceeded to St. Louis early in 1863, they joined acompany which was soon after ordered to proceed to the regiment, which wasa part of the army of the Potomac.

Within two weeks after their arrival at the scene of conflict in the East,the battle of Chancellorsville was fought, the two girls participating init and seeing something of the horrors of the war in which they wereengaged as soldiers. In one of the minor battles which occurred thefollowing summer they were separated in the confusion of the fight, andupon calling the muster, Miss Stover, known in the regiment as EdwardMalison, was found among the missing. Her comrade, after searching for heramong the killed and wounded in vain, at last ascertained that she had beentaken prisoner and conveyed to Richmond.

Miss Seelye, although she was well aware of the serious consequences whichmight follow, decided to adopt a bold plan in order to reach her friendwhom she loved so devotedly, and who was now suffering captivity andperhaps wounds or disease. Through an old negress she obtained a woman'sdress and bonnet, and disguising herself in these garments, deserted at thefirst favorable opportunity. She reached Washington in safety and wassuccessful in an application for a pass to Fortress Monroe, from whichplace she made her way after many difficulties to the lines of the SouthernArmy. By artful representations she overcame the scruples of the officersand passed on her way to Richmond, where she soon arrived, and overcomingby her address and perseverance all obstacles, obtained admission to LibbyPrison, representing that she was near of kin to one of the prisoners.

Her singular success in accomplishing her object was due doubtless to herintelligence, fine manners, and good looks, with great tact in using theopportunities within her reach.

She found her friend just recovering from a wound in her arm. The secret ofher sex was still undiscovered; and after her wound was entirely healedthey prepared to attempt an escape which they had already planned. MissSeelye contrived to smuggle into the prison a complete suit of femaleattire, in which, one night just as they were relieving the guard, shemanaged to slip past the cordon of sentries, and joining her friend at theplace agreed upon, the two immediately set out for Raleigh, to which cityMiss Seelye had obtained two passes, one for herself, the other for a ladyfriend. They traveled on foot, and after passing the lines struck boldlyacross the country in the direction of Norfolk. When morning dawned theyconcealed themselves in a wood and at night resumed their march.

On one occasion, just as they were emerging from a wood in the evening,they were discovered by a cavalryman. Their appearance excited hissuspicions that they were spies, and he told them that he should have totake them to headquarters. But their lady-like manners and straightforwardanswers persuaded him that he was wrong, and he allowed them to proceed.Another time they narrowly escaped capture by two soldiers who suddenlyentered the cabin of an old negro where they were passing the day.

After a tedious journey of a week, they reached the Federal pickets, andfinally were transported to Washington on the steamer. This was in theautumn of 1863; their term of service would expire in two months, but aftergreat hesitation they resolved to report themselves to the headquarters oftheir regiment as just escaped from Richmond. Accordingly, procuring suitsof men's attire, they again disguised their sex and proceeded to rejointheir regiment, which was encamped near Washington.

The desertion of Miss Seelye having been explained in this manner, sheescaped its serious penalty, and both the girls were soon after regularlydischarged from service. As we have already remarked, no suspicion wasexcited as to their sex, each shielding the other from discovery, and itwas only after their discharge that they themselves revealed the secret.

The stories of women who have served as soldiers often disclose motiveswhich would have little influence in impelling the other sex to enter thearmy. Love and devotion are among the most prominent of the moving causesof female enlistment. Sometimes a maiden, like Helen Goodridge, followedher lover to the war; sometimes a mother enlisted in the hospitaldepartment in order to nurse a wounded or sick husband or son. It was oftensome species of devotion, either to individuals or to her country, that ledgentle woman to march in the ranks and share the dangers and privations ofarmy life. Such an instance as the following furnishes a singularlystriking illustration of this unselfish love and devotion of which we arespeaking.

While the hostile armies were fighting, in the summer of 1864, thosedesperate battles by which the issues of the war were ultimately decided, asmall, slender soldier fighting in the ranks, in General Johnson'sdivision, was struck by a shell which tore away the left arm and stretchedthe young hero lifeless on the ground. A comrade in pity twisted ahandkerchief around the wounded limb as an impromptu tourniquet, and thushaving staunched the flowing blood, placed the slender form of theunfortunate soldier under a tree and passed on. Here half an hour after hewas found by the ambulance men and brought to the hospital, where thesurgeon discovered that the heroic heart, still faintly beating, animatedthe delicate frame of a woman.

Powerful stimulants were administered, and as soon as strength was restoredthe stump of the wounded limb was amputated near the shoulder. For a weekthe patient hovered between life and death. But her vitality triumphed inthe struggle, and in a few days, with careful nursing she was able to situp and converse. One of those noble women, who emulated the example and theglory of Florence Nightingale in nursing and ministering to the sick andwounded in the army, won the maiden-soldier's confidence, and into her earshe breathed her story.

She and a brother aged eighteen had been left orphans two years before.They were in destitute circ*mstances and had no near relations. They bothsupported themselves by honest toil, and their lonely and friendlesssituation had drawn them together with a warmth of affection, that evenbetween a brother and sister has been rarely felt. They were all in all toeach other, and when, in the spring of 1864, her brother had been draftedinto the army, she learned the name of the regiment to which he had beenassigned, and unknown to him assumed male attire and joined the sameregiment.

She sought out her brother, and in a private interview made herself knownto him. Astonished and grieved at the step she had taken he begged her towithdraw from the army, which she could easily do by disclosing the fact ofher true sex. She remained firm against all his affectionate entreaties,informing him that if he was wounded or taken sick she would be near tonurse him, and in case of such a disaster she would reveal her secret andget a discharge so that she could attend constantly upon him. On themorning of the battle in which she had been wounded they had met for thelast time, and, as they well knew the battle would be a bloody one, agreedthat each one would notify the other of their respective safety in casethey both survived. A note had reached her just after the battle, that herbrother was safe, and she on her part had sent a message to him that shewas alive and well, believing that she would recover, and not wishing toalarm him by telling the truth. Since that time she had heard nothing fromhim, and begged with streaming eyes that the lady would inquire if he hadbeen wounded in any of the recent severe battles. The lady hastened toprocure the much desired information. After diligent inquiries shediscovered that the brother had been shot dead in a battle which occurredthe day following that in which his sister had been wounded.

The good lady, sadly afflicted by this intelligence, and fearing its effectupon the invalid, strove to assume a cheerful countenance as she approachedthe couch. A smile of almost painful sweetness shone on the face of thegirl soldier when she first glanced at the serene face of the lady whokindly put her off in her penetrating inquiries, but could not avoidshowing a trace of grief and anxiety over the sad message with which shewas burdened.

The smile slowly faded from the girl's face, her voice grew tremulous, herquestions more searching and direct. The lady tried to commence to breakthe sad truth gently to her, but already the unfortunate maiden hadcomprehended the fact. Her face grew a shade paler, then flushed; shebreathed with difficulty, they raised her up, a crimson stream gushed fromher lips, and an instant after the strong heart of the true and lovingsister was still for ever.

CHAPTER XIX.

ACROSS THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS

The frontier of to-day is on the plains and in the mountains. In thatimmense territory bounded by the Pacific on the west, and on the east by aline running irregularly from the sources of the Red River of the North tothe Platte, one hundred miles from Omaha, and thence to the mouth of theBrazos in Texas, wherever a settlement is isolated, there is the frontier.

Life in these remote regions is affected, of course, by externalsurroundings. The same is true of the passage of the pioneer battalionsfrom the eastern settlements through the country westward. Themountain-frontier presents, both to the settler who makes her abode there,and to her who passes through its wild pathways, a distinct set ofdifficulties and dangers besides those which are incident to every familywhich settles far from the more populous districts.

The enormous extent of the mountain region can be measured in linear andsquare miles; it can be bounded roughly by the Pacific Ocean and thefountains of the great rivers which course through the Mississippi valley;it can be placed before the eye in an astronomical position between suchand such latitudes and longitudes, but such descriptions convey to the mindonly an idea which is quite vague and general. When we say that one hundredand fifty states like Connecticut, or twenty states like New York orIllinois, spread over that infinitude of peaks and ranges, would scarcelycover them, we gain a somewhat more adequate idea of their extent. But itis only by actually traversing this wilderness of hills and mountains, eastand west, north and south, that we can more fully comprehend its extent andthe difficulties to be encountered by the emigrant who crosses it.

A straight line from Cheyenne on the east, to Placer at the foot of theSierra Nevada in California, is eight hundred and fifty miles; by theshortest traveled route between these points it is upward of one thousandmiles. A straight line from the same point in the east to Oregon City,among the Cascade Mountains in Oregon, measures nine hundred and fiftymiles; by the traveled routes it is more than twelve hundred.

Thirty years ago, when railroads were unknown west of Buffalo, the journeyby ox-teams across the continent, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, wasmore than three thousand miles, and might occupy from one year to eighteenmonths, according to circ*mstances.

After leaving the regions where roads and settlements made their marchcomparatively comfortable and secure, they struck boldly across the plains,fording rivers, hewing their way through forests, toiling across widetracks of desert, destitute of food, herbage, and water, until they reachedthe Rocky Mountains. The region they were now to pass through had beenpenetrated by scarcely any but hunters, fur traders, soldiers, andmissionaries. It was to the peaceful settler who was seeking a home, aterra incognita, an unknown land. Those mountain peaks were veiledin clouds, those devious labyrinthine valleys were the abode of darkness.The awful majesty of nature's works, the Titanic wonder-shapes which Godhath wrought, are calculated to burden the imagination and subdue theaspiring soul of man by their vastness. Those mountain heights, seen fromwhich the files of travelers passing through the profound defiles, looklike insects; the relentless sway of nature's great forces—the stormroaring through the gorges, the flood plunging from the precipice andwearing trenches a thousand feet deep in the flinty rock; the walls whichrear themselves into giant ramparts which human power can never scale; thewide circles of desolation, where hunger and thirst have their domain; suchspectacles must indeed have thrilled the hearts, awed the minds, and filledthe imaginations of the early pioneers with forebodings of difficulty anddanger.

And yet the actual difficulties encountered by the emigrants, the actualtoils, dangers, and hardships endured then in conquering a passage throughand over the Rocky Mountains and their kindred ranges, must have surpassedthe anticipations of the shrewdest forethought, and the bodings of thegloomiest imagination. Tongue cannot tell, nor pen describe, nor hath itentered into the heart of the eastern home-dweller to conceive of theforlorn and terrible stories of those early mountain passages. We maywonder whether the fortunate traveler of these days, who is whirled up anddown those perilous slopes by a forty-ton locomotive, often looks back tothe time when those rickety wagons and lean oxen jogged along, drearily,eight or ten miles a day through those terrible fastnesses, or reverting tosuch a scene, expends upon it a merited sympathy. Now a seven days'journey from Manhattan to the Golden Gate, sitting in a palace car, wellfed by day, well rested by night, scarcely more fatigued when one steps onthe streets of San Francisco than by a day's journey on horseback in theolden time! Then a year's journey in the emigrant wagon, scantilyfed, poorly nourished with sleep, footsore and haggard, the weary emigrantand his wife dragged themselves into the spot in the valley of theSacramento, or the Columbia, where they were to commence anew their homelytoils!

Who can sit down calmly, and, casting his eyes back to those heroes andheroines—the Rocky Mountain pioneers—and not feel his heart swell withpride and gratitude! Pride, in that, as an American, he can count such menand women among his countrymen; gratitude, in that he and the whole countryare reaping fruits from their heroic courage, fortitude, and enterprise.Dangers met with an undaunted heart, hardships endured with unshrinkingfortitude, trials and sufferings borne with cheerful patience,forgetfulness of self, devotion and sacrifice for others: such, in briefwords, is the record of woman in those first journeys of the pioneers whocrossed the continent for the purpose of making homes, forming communities,and building states on the Pacific slope.

Among these histories, which illustrate most clearly the virtues of thepioneer women, we count those which display her battling with thedifficulties of the passage through the mountains, as proving that theheroine of our own time may be matched with those who have lived before herin any age or clime. One of these histories runs as follows: In the corpsof pioneers who, in 1844, were pushing the outposts of civilization farthertowards the setting sun, was a young couple who left Illinois late in thesummer of that year, and, journeying with a white-tilted wagon, drawn byfour oxen, crossed the Missouri near the site of old Fort Kearney, andmoving in a bee line over the prairie, early in November, encamped for thewinter just beyond the forks of the Platte.

A low cabin, built of cotton-wood, banked up with earth, and consisting ofa single room, which contained their furniture, farming utensils, andstores, sufficed as a shelter against the severe winds which sweep overthose plains in the inclement season; their oxen, not requiring to behoused, were allowed to roam at large and browse upon the sweet grass whichremains nourishing in that region throughout the winter.

At that period immense herds of bison roved through that section, and in afew days after the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Hinman—for this was theirname—they had each shot, almost without stirring from their camp, threefat buffalo cows, whose flesh was dried and added to their winter's store.A supply of fresh meat was thus near at hand, and for five weeks they faredsumptuously on buffalo soup and ribs, tender-loin and marrow bones, roastedwith succulent tidbits from the hump, and tongue, which, with boiled Indianmeal, formed the staple of their repasts.

Both Mr. Hinman and his wife were scions of that hardy stock which had,even before the Revolutionary War, set out from Connecticut, and, cuttingtheir way through the forest, had crossed the Alleghany Mountains andriver, and pitched their camp in the rich valley of the Muskingum, near thesite of the present city of Marietta. Both had also grown up amid thesurroundings of true frontier life, and were endowed with faculties, aswell as fitted by experience, to engage in the bold enterprise wherein theywere now embarked, namely, to cross the Rocky Mountains with a singleox-team and establish themselves in the fertile vale of the Willamette inOregon.

The spare but well-knit frame, the swarthy skin, the prominent features,the deep-set eyes, the alert and yet composed manner; marked in them thetrue type of the born borderer. To these physical traits were united thequalities of mind and heart which are equally characteristic of the classto which they belonged; an apparent insensibility to fear, a capacity forendurance that exists in the moral nature rather than in the body, and aself-reliance that never faltered, formed a combination which fitted themto cope with the difficulties that environed their perilous project.

As early in the spring of 1845 as the ground would permit, they re-packedtheir goods and stores, hung out the white sails of their prairie schoonerand pursued their journey up the north fork of the Platte, crossed the RedButtes, went through Devil's Gate, skirted the banks of the Sweet WaterRiver, and winding through the great South Pass, diverted their course tothe north in the direction of the head-waters of Snake River, which wouldguide them by its current to the Columbia.

At this stage in their journey they consulted a rough map of the route onwhich two trails were laid down, either of which would lead to the streamthey were seeking. With characteristic boldness they chose the shorter andmore difficult trail.

Following its tortuous course in a northwesterly direction they reached apoint where the path was barely wide enough for the wagon to pass, and wasbounded on the one side by a wall of rock and on the other by a raggedprecipice descending hundreds of feet into a dark ravine.

Here Mrs. Hinman dismounted from her seat in the wagon to assist inconducting the team past this dangerous point. Her husband stood betweenthe oxen and the precipice when the hind wheel of the wagon slipped on asmooth stone, the vehicle tilted and being top-heavy upset and wasprecipitated into the abyss, dragging with it the oxen who, in their fall,carried down Mr. Hinman who stood beside the wheel yoke.

He gave a loud cry as he fell, and gazing horror-stricken over the brinkMrs. Hinman saw him bounding from rock to rock preceded by the wagon andoxen which rolled over and over till they disappeared from view.

In the awful stillness of that solitude the beating of her heart becameaudible as she rapidly reviewed her terrible situation, and taxed her mindto know what she should do. Summoning up all her resolution she ran swiftlyalong the edge of the precipice in search of a place where she coulddescend, in the hope that by some rare good fortune her husband might havesurvived his fall. Half a mile back of the spot where the accident occurredshe found a more gradual descent into the ravine, and here, by swingingherself from bush to bush she managed at length with the utmost difficultyand danger to reach the bottom of the ravine, but could find there no traceeither of her husband or of the ox-team.

Scanning the face of the precipice she saw, at last, one hundred feet aboveher the wreck of the wagon, and the bodies of the oxen, which had landedupon a projecting ledge.

At great risk of being dashed to pieces, she succeeded in climbing to thespot. The patient beasts which had carried them so far upon their way werecrushed to a jelly; among the remains of the wagon scarcely a vestigeappeared of the furniture, utensils, and stores with which it was laden.She marked the track it had made in its descent, and digging her fingersand toes into the crevices of the rock, and drawing herself from point topoint in a zigzag course, by means of bushes and projecting stones, sheslowly scaled the declivity and reached a narrow ledge some three hundredfeet from the ravine, where she paused to take breath.

A low moan directed her eyes to a clump of bushes some fifty feet aboveher, and there she caught sight of a limp arm hanging among the stuntedfoliage. Climbing to the spot she found her husband breathing butunconscious. He was shockingly bruised, and although no bones had beenbroken, the purple current trickling slowly from his mouth showed that someinternal organ had been injured. While there is life there is hope. If hecould be placed in a comfortable position he might still revive and live.Feeling in his breast pocket she found a leather flask filled with whiskywith which she bathed his face after pouring a large draught down histhroat. In a few moments he revived sufficiently to comprehend hissituation.

"Don't leave me, Jane," whispered the suffering man, "I shan't keep youlong." It was unnecessary to prefer such a request to a woman who had gonethrough such perils to save one whom, she loved dearer than life. "I'llbring you out safe and sound, Jack," returned she, "or die right here withyou."

While racking her brain for means to remove him fifty feet lower to theledge from which she had first spied him, a welcome sight met her eye. Itwas the axe and the coil of rope which had fallen from the wagon during itsdescent, and now lay within easy reach. Passing the rope several timesaround his body so as to form a sling she cut a stout bush, and trimmingit, made a stake which she firmly fastened into a crevice, and with, anexertion of strength, such as her loving and resolute heart could havealone inspired her to put forth, she extricated him from his position, andlaying the ends of the rope over the stake gently lowered him to the ledge,and gathering moss made a pillow for his bleeding head. Then descending tothe spot where the carcasses of the oxen lay she quickly flayed one, andcutting off a large piece of flesh she ransacked the wreck of the wagon andfound a blanket and a pot. Returning to her husband she kindled a fire, andmade broth with some water which she found in the hollow of a rock.

Gathering moss and lichens she made a comfortable couch upon the rock, andgently stretched her groaning patient upon it, covering him with theblanket for the mountain air was chill even in that August afternoon. Thewounded man's breathing grew more regular, the bloody ooze no longer flowedfrom his white lips, but his frame was still racked by agonizing pains.

The hours sped away as the devoted wife bent over him; the height of themountains in that region materially shortens the day to such as are in thevalleys, but though the sun sets early behind the western summits twilightlingers long after his departure. When the orb of day had disappeared, Mrs.H. still viewed with wonder, not unmixed with fear, the savage grandeur ofthe mountains which lifted their heads still glittering in the passinglight; and gazing into the profound below she watched the shades as theydeepened to blackness.

The ledge on which the forlorn pair lay was barely four feet wide and lessthan ten feet long. There, on the face of that precipice, one hundred milesfrom the nearest settlement, all through the lonely watches of the night,the strong-hearted wife, with tear-dimmed eyes, hung over the sufferer.Many a silent prayer in the weary hours of that moonless night did she sendup to the Father of mercies. Many a plan for bringing succor or foralleviating pain on the morrow did she devise.

Will-power is the most potent factor in giving a satisfactory solution ofthe problem of vitality. Just as the gray light was shimmering in theeastern sky the wounded man moaned as if he wished to speak. His wifeunderstood that language of pain and weakness, and placed her ear to hislips. "I won't die, Jane," he said scarcely above a whisper. "Youshan't die, Jack," was the reply. A great hope dawned like a sun upon heras those four magic syllables were uttered.

He fell into a doze, and when he woke the sun was up. "Can you stay hereall alone for a few hours," inquired Mrs. H———, after feeding herpatient, "I am going to see if I can fetch some one to help us out ofthis." "Go," he answered. Placing the flask and broth within reach of herhusband, and kissing him, she sprang up the acclivity as though she hadwings, reached the trail and sped along it southward. Fifteen miles wouldbring her to the spot where the two trails met: here she hoped to meet somewayfaring train of emigrants, or some party of hunters coursing through thedefiles of the mountains.

Sooner than she expected, after reaching the fork, her wish was gratified.In less than half an hour six hunters came up with her, and, hearing herstory, three of them volunteered to go and bring her husband to theircabin, which stood half a mile away from the trail. A horse was furnishedto Mrs. H———, and the three hunters and she rode rapidly to the scene ofthe disaster.

Skipping down the declivity like chamois, and helping their bravecompanion, who was now quite fatigued with her exertion, they reached therocky shelf. The mountain air and the delicious consciousness that he wouldlive, coupled with implicit confidence in the success of his wife's errand,had acted like a charm on the vigorous organization of the wounded man, andhe begged that he might be immediately removed.

He was accordingly carried carefully to the trail, and placed astride ofone of the horses in front of one of the hunters. After a slow march offour hours, he was safely stowed in the cabin of the hunters, where, in afew weeks, he entirely recovered from his injuries.

It might be readily supposed after such a grave experience of the dangersof mountain life, that our heroine and her husband would have been inclinedto return to their old home on the sunny prairies of Illinois. On thecontrary, they strongly desired to continue the prosecution of their Oregonenterprise, and were only prevented from carrying it out by the lack of ateam and the necessary utensils, etc.

The hunters, learning their wishes, returned to the scene of the mishap,and scoured the side of the mountain in search of the articles which hadbeen thrown from the wagon in its descent. They succeeded in recoveringuninjured a large number of articles, including a few which still remainedin the wrecked vehicle. Then clubbing together, they made up a purse andbought two pair of oxen and a wagon from a passing train of emigrants, whoalso generously contributed articles for the use and comfort of theresolute but unfortunate pair. Such deeds of charity are habitual with themen and women of the frontier, and the farther west one goes the morespontaneously and warmly does the heart bound to relieve the sufferings andsupply the wants of the unfortunate, particularly of those who have beeninjured or reduced while battling with the hardships and dangers incidentto a wild country. The more rugged the region on our western border, themore boundless becomes the sympathetic faculty of its inhabitants. Nowhereis a large and unselfish charity more lavishly exercised than among theRocky Mountain men and women. Free as the breezes that sweep those toweringsummits, warm as the sun of midsummer, bright as the icy peaks which liftthemselves into the sky, the spirit of loving kindness for the unfortunateanimates the bosoms of the sons and daughters of that mountain land.

After wintering with their hospitable friends, Mr. and Mrs. Hinman pursuedtheir journey the following spring, and, after a toilsome march, attendedby no further startling incidents, reached their destination in Oregon.

There in their new home, which Mrs. H———, by her industry andwatchfulness, contributed so largely to make, they found ample scope forthe exercise of those qualities which they had proved themselves topossess. It is men and women like these whom we must thank for building upour empire on that far off coast.

The old hunters and gold-seekers in that region are the faithfuldepositaries of the mountain legends respecting the adventures of the earlyemigrants, and the observers and annotators, as it were, of the passagesmade by the pioneers in later times. Around their camp fires at night, whentheir repast is made and their pipes lighted, they beguile the lonely hourswith tales of dreadful suffering, or of hairbreadth escapes from danger, orof heroism displayed by mountain wayfarers. This, as we have elsewhereremarked, is the hunters' pastime.

While a hunting party were once threading the defiles of the mountain, theyespied below them in the valley certain suspicious signs. Approaching thespot, they discovered that a train of emigrants had been attacked by thesavages, their wagons robbed, their oxen killed, a number of the partymassacred and scalped, and the rest dispersed.

One of the hunters proceeds with the story from this point.

"Thirsting for a speedy revenge, the men at once divided. With Augur-eye asguide, I took command of the detachment who had to search the river bank;the old Sergeant commanded the scouting party told off to cross the fordand scour the timber on the right side of the river; whilst the third bandwas appropriated to the Doctor. The weather was cold, and the sky, thicklycovered with fleecy clouds, foreboded a heavy fall of snow. The wind blewin fitful gusts, and seemed to chill one's blood with its icy breath, as,sweeping past, it went whistling and sighing up the glen. The rattle of thehorses' hoofs, as the receding parties galloped over the turf, grew fainterand fainter, and when our little band halted on a sandy reach, about a mileup the river, not a sound was audible, save the steady rhythm of thepanting horses and the noisy rattle of the stream, as, tumbling over thecraggy rocks, it rippled on its course. The 'Tracker' was again down; thistime creeping along upon the sand on his hands and knees, and deliberatelyand carefully examining the marks left on its impressible surface, which,to his practiced eye, were in reality letters, nay, even readable words andsentences. As we watched this tardy progress in impatient silence,suddenly, as if stung by some poisonous reptile, the Indian sprang upon hislegs, and, making eager signs for us to approach, pointing at the same timeeagerly to something a short distance beyond where he stood. A nearapproach revealed a tiny hand and part of an arm pushed through the sand.

"At first we imagined the parent, whether male or female, had thus roughlyburied the child—a consolatory assumption which Augur-eye soon destroyed.Scraping away the sand partially hiding the dead boy, he placed his fingeron a deep cleft in the skull, which told at once its own miserable tale.This discovery clearly proved that the old guide was correct in hisreadings, that the savages were following up the trail of the survivors. Aman who had escaped and just joined us, appeared so utterly terror-strickenat this discovery, that it was with difficulty he could be supported on hishorse by the strong troopers who rode beside him. We tarried not foradditional signs, but pushed on with all possible haste. The trail wasrough, stony, and over a ledge of basaltic rocks, rendering progression notonly tedious but difficult and dangerous; a false step of the horse, andthe result might have proved fatal to the rider. The guide spurs on hisIndian mustang, that like a goat scrambles over the craggy track; for amoment or two he disappears, being hidden by a jutting rock; we hear himyell a sort of 'war-whoop,' awakening the echoes in the encircling hills;reckless of falling, we too spur on, dash round the splintered point, andslide rather than canter down a shelving bank, to reach a secondsand-beach, over which the guide is galloping and shouting. We can see thefluttering garments of a girl, who is running with all her might towardsthe pine trees; she disappears amongst the thick foliage of the underbrushere the guide can come up to her, but leaping from off his horse, hefollows her closely, and notes the spot wherein she has hidden herselfamidst a tangle of creeping vines and maple bushes. He awaited our coming,and, motioning us to surround the place of concealment quickly, remainedstill as a statue whilst we arranged our little detachment so as topreclude any chance of an escape. Then gliding noiselessly as a reptilethrough the bushes, he was soon hidden. It appeared a long time, althoughnot more than a few minutes had elapsed from our losing sight of him, untila shrill cry told us something was discovered. Dashing into the midst ofthe underbrush, a strange scene presented itself. The hardy troopers seemedspell-bound, neither was I the less astonished.

"Huddled closely together, and partially covered with branches, crouchedtwo women and the little girl whose flight had led to this unlooked-fordiscovery. In a state barely removed from that of nudity, the unhappy triostrove to hide themselves from the many staring eyes which were fixed uponthem, not for the purpose of gratifying an indecent curiosity, but simplybecause no one had for the moment realized the condition in which theunfortunates were placed. Soon, however, the fact was evident to thesoldiers that the women were nearly unclad, and all honor to their ruggedgoodness, they stripped off their thick topcoats, and throwing them to thetrembling females, turned every one away and receded into the bush. It wasenough that the faces of the men were white which had presented themselvesso unexpectedly. The destitute fugitives, assured that the savages had notagain discovered them, hastily wrapped themselves in the coats of thesoldiers, and, rushing out from their lair, knelt down, and clasping theirarms round my knees, poured out thanks to the Almighty for theirdeliverance with a fervency and earnestness terrible to witness. I saw, onlooking round me, streaming drops trickling over the sunburnt faces of manyof the men, whose iron natures it was not easy to disturb under ordinarycirc*mstances.

"It was soon explained to the fugitives that they were safe, and as everyhour's delay was a dangerous waste of time, the rescued women and childwere as carefully clad in the garments of the men as circ*mstancespermitted, and placed on horses, with a hunter riding on either side tosupport them. Thus reinforced, the cavalcade, headed by Augur-eye, movedslowly back to the place where we had left the pack-train encamped, withall the necessary supplies. I lingered behind to examine the place whereinthe women had concealed themselves. The boughs of the vine-maple, togetherwith other slender shrubs constituting the underbrush, had been rudelywoven together, forming, at best, but a very inefficient shelter from thewind, which swept in freezing currents through the valley. Had it rained,they must soon have been drenched, or if snow had fallen heavily, the'wickey' house and its occupants soon would have been buried. How had theyexisted? This was a question I was somewhat puzzled to answer.

"On looking round I observed a man's coat, pushed away under some branches,and on the few smouldering embers by which the women had been sitting whenthe child rushed in and told of our coming, was a small tin pot with acover on it, the only utensil visible. Whilst occupied in making thediscoveries I was sickened by a noisome stench, which proceeded from thedead body of a man, carefully hidden by branches, grass, and moss, a shortdistance from the little cage of twisted boughs. Gazing on the dead man asuspicion too revolting to mention suddenly flashed upon me. Turning awaysaddened and horror-stricken, I returned to the cage and removed the coverfrom the saucepan, the contents of which confirmed my worst fears. Hastilyquitting the fearful scene, the like of which I trust never to witnessagain, I mounted my horse and galloped after the party, by this time somedistance ahead.

"Two men and the guide were desired to find the spot where the scoutingparties were to meet each other, and to bring them with all speed to themule camp. It was nearly dark when we reached our destination, the skylooked black and lowering, the wind appeared to be increasing in force, andsmall particles of half-frozen rain drove smartly against our faces,telling in pretty plain language of the coming snowfall. Warm tea, a goodsubstantial meal, and suitable clothes, which had been sent in case of needby the officers' wives stationed at the 'Post,' worked wonders in the wayof restoring bodily weakness; but the shock to the mental system time alonecould alleviate. I cannot say I slept much during the night. Anxiety lestwe might be snowed in, and a fate almost as terrible as that from which wehad rescued the poor women, should be the lot of all, sat upon me like anightmare. More than this, the secret I had discovered seemed to pall everysense and sicken me to the heart, and throughout the silent hours of thedismal darkness I passed in review the ghostly pageant of the fight and allits horrors, the escape of the unhappy survivors, the finding of themurdered boy and starving women, and more than all—the secret I had rathereven now draw a veil over, and leave to the imagination."

A fugitive woman in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains is indeed an object ofpity; but when she boldly faces the dangers that surround her in such aposition, and succeeds by her courage, endurance, and ingenuity in holdingher own, and finally extricating herself from the perils by which she isenvironed, she may fairly challenge our admiration. Such a woman was MissJanette Riker, who proved how strong is the spirit of self-reliance whichanimates the daughters of the border under circ*mstances calculated todaunt and depress the stoutest heart.

The Riker family, consisting of Mr. Riker, his two sons, and his daughterJanette, passed through the Dacotah country in 1849, and late in Septemberhad penetrated to the heart of the mountains in the territory now known asMontana. Before pursuing their journey from this point to their destinationin Oregon, they encamped for three days in a well-grassed valley for thepurpose of resting their cattle, and adding to their stock of provisions afew buffalo-humps and tongues.

On the second day after their arrival at this spot, the father and his twosons set out on their buffalo hunt with the expectation of returning beforenightfall. But the sun set and darkness came without bringing them back tothe lonely girl, who in sleepless anxiety awaited their return all nightseated beneath the white top of the Conestoga wagon. At early dawn shestarted on their trail, which she followed for several miles to a deepgorge where she lost all trace of the wanderers, and was after a long andunavailing search compelled in the utmost grief and distraction of mind, toreturn to the camp.

For a week she spent her whole time in seeking to find some trace of hermissing kinsmen, but without success. As the lonely maiden gazed at themighty walls which frowned upon her and barred her egress east and westfrom her prison-house, hope died away in her heart, and she prayed forspeedy death. This mood was but momentary; the love of life soon assertedits power, and she cast about her for some means whereby she could eitherextricate herself from her perilous situation, or at least prolong herexistence.

To attempt to find her way over the mountains seemed to her impossible. Heronly course was to provide a shelter against the winter, and stay where shewas until discovered by some passing hunters, or by Indians, whom shefeared less than an existence spent in such a solitude and surrounded by somany dangers.

Axes and spades among the farming implements in the wagon supplied her withthe necessary tools, and by dint of assiduous labor, to which her frame hadlong been accustomed, she contrived to build, in a few weeks, a rude hut ofpoles and small logs. Stuffing the interstices with dried grass, andbanking up the earth around it, she threw over it the wagon-top, which shefastened firmly to stakes driven in the ground, and thus provided a sheltertolerably rain-tight and weather-proof.

Thither she conveyed the stoves and other contents of the wagon. The oxen,straying through the valley, fattened themselves on the sweet grass untilthe snow fell; she then slaughtered and flayed the fattest one, and cuttingup the carcase, packed it away for winter's use. Dry logs and limbs oftrees, brought together and chopped up with infinite labor, sufficed tokeep her in fuel. Although for nearly three months she was almostcompletely buried in the snow, she managed to keep alive and reasonablycomfortable by making an orifice for the smoke to escape, and digging outfuel from the drift which covered her wood-pile. Her situation was trulyforlorn, but still preferable to the risk of being devoured by wolves ormountain lions, which, attracted by the smell of the slaughtered ox, hadbegun to prowl around her shelter before the great snow fall, but were nowunable to reach her beneath the snowy bulwarks. She suffered more, however,from the effect of the spring thaw which flooded her hut with water andforced her to shift her quarters to the wagon, which she covered with thecotton top, after removing thither her blankets and provisions. The valleywas overflowed by the melting of the snows, and for two weeks she wasunable to build a fire, subsisting on uncooked Indian meal and raw beef,which she had salted early in the winter.

Late in April, she was found in the last stages of exhaustion, by a partyof Indians, who kindly relieved her wants and carried her across themountains with her household goods, and left her at the Walla Wallastation. This act on the part of the savages, who were a wild and hostiletribe, was due to their admiration for the hardihood of the "young whitesquaw," who had maintained herself through the rigors of the winter andearly spring in that awful solitude—a feat which, they said, none of theirown squaws would have dared perform. The fate of her father and brotherswas never ascertained, though it was conjectured that they had either losttheir way or had fallen from a precipice.

Miss Riker afterwards married, and, as a pioneer wife, found a sphere ofusefulness for which her high qualities of character admirably fitted her.

Among the most authentic histories of these bands of early pioneers whichundertook to make the passage of this region thirty years since, when itinvolved such difficulties and dangers, is the following:

In the year 1846, soon after the commencement of the Mexican War, a partyof emigrants undertook to cross the Continent, with the intention ofsettling on the Pacific coast. The party consisted of J. F. Reed, wife, andfour children; Jacob Donner, wife, and seven children; William Pike, wife,and two children; William Foster, wife, and one child; Lewis Kiesburg;wife, and one child; Mrs. Murphy, a widow woman, and five children; WilliamMcCutcheon, wife, and one child; W. H. Eddy, wife, and two children;W. Graves, wife, and eight children; Jay Fosdicks, and his wife; JohnDenton, Noah James, Patrick Dolan, Samuel Shoemaker, C. F. Stanton, MiltonElliot, ——— Smith, Joseph Rianhard, Augustus Spized, John Baptiste,——— Antoine, ——— Herring, ——— Hallerin, Charles Burger, and BaylieWilliams, making a total of sixty-five souls, of whom ten were women, andthirty-one were children.

Having supplied themselves with wagons, horses, cattle, provisions, arms,ammunition, and other articles requisite for their enterprise, they set outon their journey from the Mississippi, and, after a toilsome march of manyweeks across the prairies, they reached, late in the summer of that year,the foot-hills of the Rocky Mountains. Resting for a few days in a grassyvalley, and, gazing with wistful eyes on the mighty peaks which toweredbeyond them, they girded up their loins for the novel toils and perils theywere soon to encounter, and pushed on, expecting to follow the greatmilitary route which would conduct them, before the winter snows, to thesunny slopes which are fanned by the breezes of the peaceful ocean.

They reached the Sweet-Water River, on the eastern side of the mountains,late in August. While in camp there, they were induced, by therepresentations of one Lansford W. Hastings, to take a new route to thePacific coast. Relying on the truth of these statements, and full of hopethat they would thus shorten their journey, they left the beaten track andstarted onward through an unknown region. Long before they had reached thevalley of the Great Salt Lake, they began to encounter the greatestdifficulties. At one time they found themselves in a dense forest, and,seeing no outlet or passage, were forced to cut their way through, makingonly forty miles progress in thirty days.

In September, they were passing through the Utah Valley, since occupied bythe Mormons. Here death invaded their ranks, and removed Mr. Hallerin. Thisand an accident to one of the wagons, detained them two days.

Pursuing their march, they were next forced to travel across a desert tractwithout grass or water, and lost many cattle.

At this point of the journey, the gloomiest forebodings seized the stoutestheart. They were in a rugged and desolate region, far from all hope ofsuccor, surrounded by hostile Indians, their cattle dying, and their stockof provisions lessening rapidly, with the sad conviction hourly forcingitself upon their minds, that they had been betrayed by one of their owncountrymen.

Some of the families had already been completely ruined by the loss oftheir cattle and by being forced to abandon their goods and property. Theywere in complete darkness as to the character of the road before them. Toretreat across the desert to Bridger, was impossible. There was no way leftto them but to advance; and this they now regarded as perilous in theextreme. The cattle that survived were exhausted and broken down; but toremain there was to die. Some of the men, broken by their toils andsufferings, lay down and declared they might as well die there as furtheron; others cursed the deception of which they had been the victims; othersuttered silent prayers, and then sought to raise the drooping spirits oftheir comrades, and encourage them to press forward. Of these last were thefemales of the party—wives, who never faltered in these hours of trial,but sustained their husbands in their dark moods; and mothers, who foughtthe dreadful battle, thinking more of their children than of themselves.

Once more the party resumed their journey, but only to meet freshdisasters.

"Thirty-six head of working cattle were lost, and the oxen that survivedwere greatly injured. One of Mr. Reed's wagons was brought to camp; andtwo, with all they contained, were buried in the plain. George Donner lostone wagon. Kiesburg also lost a wagon. The atmosphere was so dry upon theplain, that the wood-work of all the wagons shrank to a degree that made itnext to impossible to get any of them through.

"Having yoked some loose cows, as a team for Mr. Reed, they broke up theircamp, on the morning of September 16th, and resumed their toilsome journey,with feelings which can be appreciated by those only who have traveled theroad under somewhat similar circ*mstances. On this day they traveled sixmiles, encountering a very severe snow storm. About three o'clock in theafternoon, they met Milton Elliot and William Graves, returning from afruitless effort to find some cattle that had strayed away. They informedthem that they were in the immediate vicinity of a spring."

This spring they succeeded in reaching, and there they encamped for thenight. At the early dawn, on September 17th, they resumed their journey,and, at four o'clock A. M. of the 18th, they arrived at water and grass,some of their cattle having meanwhile perished, and the teams whichsurvived being in a very enfeebled condition. Here the most of the littleproperty which Mr. Reed still had was burned, or cached, togetherwith that of others. Mr. Eddy now proposed putting his team on Mr. Reed'swagon, and letting Mr. Pike have his wagon so that the three families couldbe taken on. This was done. They remained in camp during the day of the18th, to complete these arrangements, and to recruit their exhaustedcattle.

The journey was continued, with scarcely any interruption or accident,until the first of October, when some Indians stole a yoke of oxen from Mr.Graves. Other thefts followed, and it became evident that the party wouldsuffer severely from the hostility of the Indians.

A large number of cattle were stolen or shot by the merciless marauders.The women were kept in a perpetual state of alarm by the proximity of thesavages. Maternal love and anxiety for those thirty-one innocent childrennow exposed to captivity and death at the hands of the prowling redskins,made the lives of those unfortunate matrons one long, sad vigil. They couldmeet death locked in the fastnesses of the mountains, or in the desolateplain; they could even lay the remains of those dear to them, far fromhome, in the darkest cañon of those terrible mountains, but the thought ofseeing their children torn from their embrace and borne into a barbarouscaptivity, was too much for their woman's natures. The camp was the sceneof tears and mourning from an apprehension more dreadful even than realsufferings.

The fear of starvation, also, at this stage in their journey, began to befelt. An account was taken of their stock of provisions, and it was foundthat they would last only a few weeks longer, and that only by putting theparty on allowances.

Here, again, the self-sacrificing spirit that woman always shows in hoursof trial, shone out with surpassing brightness. Often did those devotedwives and mothers take from their own scanty portion to satisfy thecravings of their husbands and children.

For some weeks after the 19th of October, 1846, the forlorn band movedslowly on their course through those terrible mountains. Sometimes climbingsteeps which the foot of white man had never before scaled, sometimesdescending yawning cañons, where a single misstep would have plunged theminto the abyss hundreds of feet below. The winter fairly commenced inOctober. The snow was piled up by the winds into drifts in some placesforty feet deep, through which they had to burrow or dig their way. Asudden rise in the temperature converted the snow into slush, and forcedthem to wade waist deep through it, or lie drenched to the skin in theirwretched camp.

One by one their cattle had given out, and their only supply of meat wasfrom the chance game which crossed their track. At last their entire stockof provisions was exhausted, and they stood face to face with the grimspecter of starvation. They had now encamped in the mountains, burrowing inthe deep snow, or building rude cabins, which poorly sufficed to ward offthe biting blast, and every day their condition was growing more pitiable.

On the 4th of January, 1847, Mr. Eddy, seeing that all would soon perishunless food were quickly obtained, resolved to take his gun and pressforward alone. He informed the party of his purpose. They besought him notto leave them. But some of the women, recognizing the necessity of hisexpedition, and excited by the feeble wails of their perishing children,bade him God-speed. One of them, Mary Graves, who had shown an iron nerveand endurance all through their awful march, insisted that she wouldaccompany him or perish. The two accordingly set forward. Mr. Eddy soonafterwards had the good fortune to shoot a deer, and the couple made ahearty meal on the entrails of the animal.

The next day several of the party came up with them, and feasted on thecarcass of the deer. Their number during the preceding night had again beenlessened by the death of Jay Fosdicks. The survivors, somewhat refreshed,returned to their camp on the following day.

The Indians Lewis and Salvadore, being threatened with death by thefamished emigrants, had some days before stolen away. After the deer hadbeen consumed, and while Mr. Eddy's party were returning to camp, they fellupon the tracks of these fugitives; Foster, who was at times insane throughhis sufferings, followed the trail and overtook and killed them both. Hecut the flesh from their bones and dried it for future use. Mr. Eddy and afew of the party, in their wanderings, at length reached an Indian village,where their immediate sufferings were relieved.

The government of California being informed of the imminent peril of theemigrants in the mountain camp, took measures to send out relief, and anumber of inhabitants contributed articles of clothing and provisions. Twoexpeditions, however, failed to cross the mountains in consequence of thedepth of the snow. At length, a party of seven men, headed by AquillaGlover, and accompanied by Mr. Eddy, who, though weak, insisted onreturning to ascertain the fate of his beloved wife and children, succeededin crossing the mountains and reaching the camp.

The last rays of the setting sun were fading from the mountain-tops as thesuccoring party arrived at the camp of the wanderers. All was silent as thegrave. The wasted forms of some of the wretched sufferers were reposing onbeds of snow outside the miserable shelters which they had heaped up toprotect them from the bitter nights. When they heard the shouts of the newcomers, they feebly rose to a sitting posture and glared wildly at them.Women with faces that looked like death's heads were clasping to theirhollow bosoms children which had wasted to skeletons.

Slowly the perception of the purpose for which their visitors had come,dawned upon their weakened intellects; they smiled, they gibbered, theystretched out their bony arms and hurrahed in hollow tones. Some began tostamp and rave, invoking the bitterest curses upon the mountains, the snow,and on the name of Lansford W. Hastings; others wept and bewailed their sadfate; the women alone showed firmness and self-possession; they fell downand prayed, thanking God for delivering them from a terrible fate, andimploring His blessing upon those who had come to their relief.

Upon going down into the cabins of this mountain camp, the party werepresented with sights of woe and scenes of horror, the full tale of whichnever will and never should be told; sights which, although the emigrantshad not yet commenced eating the dead, were so revolting that they werecompelled to withdraw and make a fire where they would not be under thenecessity of looking upon the painful spectacle.

Fourteen, nearly all men, had actually perished of hunger and cold. Theremnant were in a condition beyond the power of language to describe, oreven of the imagination to conceive. A spectacle more appalling was neverpresented in the annals of human suffering. For weeks many of the sufferershad been living on bullocks' hides, and even more loathsome food, and some,in the agonies of hunger, were about to dig up the bodies of their deadcompanions for the purpose of prolonging their own wretched existence.

The females showed that fertility of resource for which woman is soremarkable in trying crises. Mrs. Reed, who lived in Brinn's snow-cabin,had, during a considerable length of time, supported herself and fourchildren by cracking and boiling again the bones from which Brinn's familyhad carefully scraped all the meat. These bones she had often taken andboiled again and again for the purpose of extracting the least remainingportion of nutriment. Mrs. Eddy and all but one of her children hadperished.

The condition of the unfortunates drew tears from the eyes of theirpreservers. Their outward appearance was less painful and revolting, even,than the change which had taken place in their minds and moral natures.

Many of them had in a great measure lost all self-respect. Untoldsufferings had broken their spirits and prostrated everything like anhonorable and commendable pride. Misfortune had dried up the fountains ofthe heart; and the dead, whom their weakness had made it impossible tocarry out, were dragged from their cabins by means of ropes, with an apathythat afforded a faint indication of the change which a few weeks of diresuffering had produced in hearts that once sympathized with the distressedand mourned the departed. With many of them, all principle, too, had beenswept away by this tremendous torrent of accumulated, and accumulatingcalamities. It became necessary to place a guard over the little store ofprovisions brought to their relief; and they stole and devoured the rawhidestrings from the snow-shoes of those who had come to deliver them. But somethere were whom no temptation could seduce, no suffering move; who were

'Among the faithless faithful still.'

The brightest examples of these faithful few were to be found among thedevoted women of that doomed band. In the midst of those terrible sceneswhen they seemed abandoned by God and man, the highest traits of the femalecharacter were constantly displayed. The true-hearted, affectionate wife,the loving, tender mother, the angel of mercy to her distressedcomrades—in all these relations her woman's heart never failed her.

On the morning of February 20th John Rhodes, Daniel Tucker, and R. S.Mootrey, three of the party, went to the camp of George Donner, eight milesdistant, taking with them a little beef. These sufferers were found withbut one hide remaining. They had determined that, upon consuming this, theywould dig up from the snow the bodies of those who had died fromstarvation. Mr. Donner was helpless. Mrs. Donner was weak, but in goodhealth, and might have come into the settlements with Mr. Glover's party,yet she solemnly but calmly declared her determination to remain with herhusband, and perform for him the last sad offices of affection andhumanity. And this she did in full view of the fact that she mustnecessarily perish by remaining behind.

The rescuing party, after consultation, decided that their best coursewould be to carry the women and children across the mountains, and thenreturn for the remnant of the sufferers. Accordingly, leaving in themountain-camp all the provisions that they could spare, they commencedtheir return to the settlement with twenty-three persons, principally womenand children, from whom, with a kind thoughtfulness, they concealed thehorrible story of the journey of Messrs. Eddy and Foster.

A child of Mrs. Pike, and one of Mrs. Kiesburg, were carried in the arms oftwo of the party. Hardly had they marched two miles through the snow, whentwo of Mrs. Reed's children became exhausted—one of them a girl of eight,the other a little boy of four.

There were but two alternatives: either to return with them to themountain-camp, or abandon them to death. When the mother was informed thatit would be necessary to take them back, a scene of the most thrilling andpainful interest ensued. She was a wife, and her affection for her husband,who was then in the settlement, dictated that she should go on; but she wasalso a mother, and all-powerful maternal love asserted its sway, and shedetermined to send forward the two children who could walk, and returnherself with the two youngest, and die with them.

No argument or persuasion on the part of Mr. Glover could shake herresolution. At last, in response to his solemn promises that, afterreaching Bear River, he would return to the mountain-camp and bring backher children, after standing in silence for some moments, she turned fromher darling babes and asked Mr. Eddy, "Are you a mason?" A reply beinggiven in the affirmative, she said, "will you promise me, upon the word ofa mason, that when you arrive at Bear River Valley, you will return andbring back my children if we do not meantime meet their father going forthem?" "I do thus promise," Mr. Glover replied. "Then I will go on," saidthe mother, weeping bitterly as she pronounced the words. Patty, the littlegirl, then took her mother by the hand and said, "Well, mamma, kiss megood-bye! I shall never see you again. I am willing to go back to ourmountain-camp and die, but I cannot consent to your going back. I shall diewillingly if I can believe that you will see papa. Tell him good-bye forhis poor little Patty."

The mother and the children lingered in a long embrace. As Patty turnedfrom her mother to go back to the camp, she whispered to Mr. Glover and Mr.Mootrey, who were to take her, that she was willing to go back and takecare of her little brother, but that she should never see her mother again.

Before reaching the settlement Mrs. Reed met her husband, who had beendriven, for some cause, from the party several weeks before, and hadsucceeded in crossing the mountains in safety.

Messrs. Reed and McCutchen next headed a relief party, and crossed themountains with supplies for the remainder of the emigrants. The Reedchildren were alive, but terribly wasted from their dreadful sufferings.

Hunger had driven the emigrants to revolting extremities. In some of thecabins were found parts of human bodies trussed and spitted for roasting,and traces of these horrid feasts were seen about the space in front of thedoors where offal was thrown.

The persons taken under Mr. Reed's guidance on the return, were PatrickBrinn, wife and five children; Mrs. Graves, and four children; Mary andIsaac Donnor, children of Jacob Donner; Solomon Work, a stepson of JacobDonner, and two of his children. They reached the foot of the mountainwithout much difficulty; but they ascertained that their provisions wouldnot last them more than a day and a half. Mr. Reed then sent three menforward with instructions to get supplies at a cache about fifteenmiles from the camp. The party resumed its journey, crossed the SierraNevada, and after traveling about ten miles, encamped on a bleak point, onthe north side of a little valley, near the head of the Yuba River. A stormset in, and continued for two days and three nights. On the morning of thethird day, the clouds broke away and the weather became more intensely coldthan it had been during the journey. The sufferings of the emigrants intheir bleak camp were too dreadful to be described. There was the greatestdifficulty in keeping up the fire, and during the night the women andchildren, who had on very thin clothing, were in great danger of freezingto death; when the storm passed away, the whole party were very weak,having passed two days without food. Leaving Patrick Brinn and his familyand the rest of the party who were disabled, Mr. Reed, and his Californiafriends, his two children, Solomon Hook and a Mr. Miller, pressed forwardfor supplies, and in five days they succeeded in reaching the settlement.

It was some weeks before a new relief party organized by Messrs. Eddy andFoster were successful in reaching the party which Reed had left. Ashocking spectacle was presented to the eyes of the adventurers at the"Starved Camp" as they rightly named it. Patrick Brinn and his wife weresunning themselves with a look of vacuity upon their faces. They had eatenthe two children of Jacob Donner: Mrs. Graves' body was lying near themwith almost all the flesh cut from the arms and limbs. Her breasts, heart,and liver were then being boiled over the fire. Her child sat by the sideof the mangled remains crying bitterly.

After being supplied with food they were left in charge of three men whoundertook to conduct them to the settlement. Meanwhile Messrs. Eddy andFoster went on to the horrible mountain-camp only to be shocked andrevolted by new scenes of horror. Strewed about the cabins and burrows, inthe snow, were the fragments of human bodies from which the flesh had beenstripped; among the débris of the hideous feasts sat the emaciatedsurvivors looking more like cannibal-demons than human beings. Kiesburg haddug up the corpse of one of Mr. Eddy's children and devoured it, even whenother food could be obtained, and the enfuriated father could withdifficulty be restrained from killing the monster on the spot. Of the fivesurviving children at the mountain-camp, three were those of Mr. and Mrs.Jacob Donner. When the time came for the party of unfortunates to start forthe settlement under the guidance of their generous protectors, Mr.Donner's condition was so feeble that he was unable to accompany them, andthough Mrs. Donner was capable of traveling, she utterly refused to leaveher husband while he survived. In response to the solicitations of thosewho urged that her husband could live but a little longer, and that herpresence would not add one moment to the remaining span of his life, sheexpressed her solemn and unalterable purpose which no hardship or dangercould change, to remain and perform for him the last sad offices of dutyand affection. At the same time she manifested the profoundest solicitudefor her beloved children, and implored Mr. Eddy to save them, promising allthat she possessed if he would convey them in safety to the settlement. Hepledged himself to carry out her wishes without recompense, or perish inthe attempt.

No provisions remained to supply the needs of these unhappy beings. At theend of two hours Mr. Eddy informed Mrs. Donner that a terrible necessityconstrained him to depart. It was certain that Jacob Donner would neverrise from the wretched couch on which he lay, worn out with toil and wastedby famine. It was almost equally certain that unless Mrs. Donner thenabandoned her unfortunate partner and accompanied Mr. Eddy and his party tothe settlement, she would die of wasting famine or perish violently at thehands of some lurking cannibal. By accompanying her children she couldminister to their wants and perhaps be the means of saving their lives. Theall-powerful maternal instinct combined with the love of life, urged her tofly with her children from the scene of so many horrors and dangers. Wellmight her reason have questioned her, "Why stay and meet inevitable deathsince you cannot save your husband from the grave which yawns to receivehim? and when your presence, your converse and hands can only beguile thefew remaining hours of his existence?" Time passed. By no entreaties couldshe enlarge the hour of departure which had now arrived. Nor did she seekto and thus endanger the lives of those who were hastening to depart. Shemust decide the dread question that moment.

Rarely in the long suffering record of woman, has she been placed incirc*mstances of such peculiar trial, but the love of life, the instinct ofself-preservation, and even maternal affection, could not triumph over heraffection as a wife. Her husband begged her to save her life and leave himto die alone, assuring her that she could be of no service to him, as hecould not probably survive under any circ*mstances until the next morning;with streaming eyes she bent over him, kissed his pale, emaciated, haggard,and even then, death-stricken cheek, and said:

"No! no! dear husband, I will remain with you, and here perish rather thanleave you to die alone, with no one to soothe your dying sorrows, and closeyour eyes when dead. Entreat me not to leave you. Life, accompanied withthe reflection that I had thus left you, would possess for me more than thebitterness of death; and death would be sweet with the thought in my lastmoments, that I had assuaged one pang of yours in your passage intoeternity No! no! no!" She repeated, sobbing convulsively.

The parting interview between the parents and the children is representedto have been one that can never be forgotten as long as reason remains orthe memory performs its functions. In the dying father the fountain oftears was dried up; but the agony on his death-stricken face and the feeblepressure of his hand on the brow of each little one as it bade him adieufor ever, told the story of his last great sorrow. As Mrs. Donner claspedher children to her heart in a parting embrace, she turned to Mr. Eddy withstreaming eyes and sobbed her last words, "O, save, save, my children!"

This closing scene in the sad and eventful careers of those unfortunateemigrants was the crowning act in a long and terrible drama whichillustrated, under many conditions of toil, hardship, danger, despair, anddeath, the courage, fortitude, patience, love, and devotion of woman.

CHAPTER XX.

THE COMFORTER AND THE GUARDIAN.

Mind-power and heart-power—these are the forces that move the moraluniverse. Which is the stronger, who shall say? If the former is within theprovince of the man, the latter is still more exclusively the prerogativeof woman. With this she wins and rules her empire, with this she celebratesher noblest triumphs, and proves herself to be the God-delegated consolerand comforter of mankind. This is the power which moves the will to deedsof charity and mercy, which awakens the latent sympathies for sufferinghumanity, which establishes the law of kindness, soothes the irritated andperturbed spirit, and pours contentment and happiness into the soul.

If we could collect and concentrate into one great pulsating organ all thenoble individual emotions that have stirred a million human hearts, what aprodigious agency would that be to act for good upon the world! And yet wemay see something of the operation of just such an agency if we search therecord of our time, watch the inner movements which control society andreflect that nearly every home contains a fractional portion of thisbeneficent agency, each fraction working in its way, and according to itsmeasure, in harmony with all the others towards the same end.

Warm and fruitful as the sunshine, and subtle, too, as the ether whichillumines the solar walk, we can gauge the strength of this agency only byits results. Nor can we by the symbols of language fully compass anddescribe even these results.

The man of science can measure the great forces of physical nature; heat,electricity, and light can all be gauged by mechanisms constructed by hishand, but by no device can he measure the forces of our moral nature.

The poet, whose insight is deeper than others' into this great andmysterious potency, can only give glimpses of its source, and draw tears bypainting, in words, the traits which it induces.

The historian and biographer can record and dwell with fondness upon theacts of men and women, which were prompted by this power of the soul.

The moralist can point to them as examples to follow, or as cheeringevidence of the loftier impulses of humanity. But still, in its depth andheight, in its fountain, and in its remotest outflow, this power cannot befully measured or appreciated by any standards known to man. Thecomprehensive and conceptive faculty of the imagination is wearied inplacing before itself the springs, the action, and the boundlessbeneficence of this grand force, which flourishes and lives in its highestefficiency in the breast of woman. "Thanks," cries the poet of nature andof God,

"Thanks, to the human heart, by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, its fears."

We have shown how in all the ages since the landing, woman has proved hertitle to the possession of the manly virtues. We have shown her as aheroine, battling with the hostile powers of man and nature, and yet, evenin those cases, if we were to analyze the motives which prompted her heroicacts, we should find them to spring at last from the source of powerwhereof we are speaking. It is out of her abounding and forceful emotionalnature that she becomes a heroine. It is to relieve, to succor, or to saveher dear ones, that she is brave, strong, enduring, patient, and devoted.

Frontier life has called, upon her for the exercise of these qualities, andshe has nobly responded to the call. She fought; she toiled; she wasundaunted by the apprehension of dangers and difficulties as well asintrepid in facing them. She bore without complaint the privations andhardships incident to such a life, and taxed every resource of body andmind in efforts to secure for her successors a home which neither peril nortrial should assail.

But this did not embrace the entire circle of her acts and her influence.To soothe, to comfort, to sustain in the trying time, to throw over thedarkest hour the brightness of her sunny presence and sweet voice—by theseinfluences she did more to establish and confirm, that civilization whichour race has been carrying westward, than by even those exhibitions ofmanly heroism of which we have spoken.

Nine generations of men and women, through a period which a few years morewill make three centuries, have been engaged in extending the frontierline, or have lived surrounded by circ*mstances similar to those whichenviron the remote border. The aggregate number of these men and womencannot be any more than estimated. Doubtless it will amount to manymillions. A million helpmeets and comforters in a million homes! Mothers,wives, daughters, sisters—all supporting and buoying up the well-nighbroken spirits of the "stronger sex," and, by simple words, encouraging andstimulating to repair their desperate fortunes. Who can calculate the sumtotal of such an influence as this?

Among the myriad instances of the solacing and soul-inspiring power of awoman's voice in hours of darkness on the lonely border, we select a fewfor the purpose of showing her in this her appropriate domain.

Nearly two centuries ago, in one of those heated religious controversieswhich occurred in a river settlement in Massachusetts, a young man and hiswife felt themselves constrained, partly through a desire for greaterliberty of thought and action, and partly from natural energy ofdisposition, to push away from the fertile valley and establish their homeon one of those bleak hillsides which form the spurs of the Green Mountainrange. Here they set up their household deities, and lit the lights of thefireside in the darkness of the forest, and amid the wild loneliness ofnature's hitherto untended domain.

In such situations as these, not merely from their isolation, but from thesterility of the soil and the inhospitable air of the region, the strugglefor existence is often a severe one. Perseverance and self-denial, however,triumphed over all difficulties. Year after year the trees bowed themselvesbefore the axe, and the soil surrendered its reluctant treasures in thefurrow of the ploughshare.

Plenty smiled around the cabin. The light glowed on the hearth, and thebenighted traveler hailed its welcome rays as he fared towards thehospitable door.

Apart from the self-interest and happiness of its inmates, it was no smallbenefit to others that such a home was made in that rugged country. Suchhomes are the outposts of the army of pioneers: here they can pause andrest, gathering courage and confidence when they regard them asestablishments in the same wilderness where they are seeking to plantthemselves.

Five years after their arrival their house and barns were destroyed byfire. Their cattle, farming utensils, and household furniture were allfortunately saved, and before long the buildings were replaced, and in twoyears all the ravages of the devouring element had been repaired. Again ahappy and plenteous abode rewarded the labors of the pair. Three yearsrolled away in the faithful discharge of every duty incumbent upon them,each toiling in their respective sphere to increase their store and reartheir large family of children.

A series of severe rains had kept them within doors for nearly ten days.One afternoon as they were sitting before their fire they experienced apeculiar sensation as though the ground on which the house stood wasmoving. Running out doors, they saw that the rains had loosened thehill-side soil from the rock on which it lay, and that it was slowly movinginto the ravine below. Hastily collecting their children, they had barelytime to escape to a rock a short distance from their house, when thelandslide carried the house and barns, with the ground on which they stood,into the ravine, burying them and their entire contents beneath twenty feetof earth.

Almost worn out with his unremitting toils continued through ten years, andseeing the fruits of that toil swept away in an instant, looking around himin vain for any shelter, and far away from any helping hand, it was notsurprising that the man should have given way to despair. He wept, groaned,and tore his hair, declaring that he would struggle no longer with fateswhich proved so adverse. "Go," said he, "Mary, to the nearest house withthe children. I will die here."

His wife was one of those fragile figures which it seemed that a breathcould blow away. Hers, however, was an organization which belied itsapparent weakness. A brave and loving spirit animated that frail tenement.Long she strove to soothe her husband's grief, but without avail.

Gathering a thick bed of leaves and sheltering her children as well as shecould from the chilly air, she returned ever and anon to the spot where herhusband sat in the stupor of despair, and uttered words of comfort andtimely suggestions of possible means of relief.

"We began with nothing, John, and we can begin with nothing again. You arestrong, and so am I. Bethink yourself of those who pass by on their way tothe great river every year at this time. These folk are good andneighborly, and will lend us willing hands to dig out of the earth the gearthat we have lost by the landslip." Thus through the night, with these andlike expressions, she comforted and encouraged the heart-broken man, andhaving at length kindled hope, succeeded in rousing him to exertion.

For two days the whole family suffered greatly while awaiting help, butthat hope which the words of the wife had awakened, did not again depart.A party of passing emigrants, ascertaining the condition of the family, allturned to, and having the necessary tools, soon dug down to the house andbarn, and succeeded in recovering most of the buried furniture, stores, andutensils. The unlucky couple succeeded finally in retrieving themselves,and years after, when the father was passing a prosperous old age in thevalley of the Mohawk, to which section the family eventually moved, he waswont to tell how his wife had lifted him out of the depths of despair bythose kind and thoughtful words, and put new life and hope into his heartduring those dark days among the mountains of Massachusetts.

There is no section of our country where the presence of woman is so strongfor good, and where her words of lofty cheer to the stricken and distressedare so potential as in the mountain republics on our extreme westernborder. There are in that section communities composed almost entirely ofmen who not only treat the few of the other sex who live among them, with achivalrous respect, but who listen to their words as if they wereheaven-sent messages. In one of the mining settlements of California,during the early years of that State, an epidemic fever broke out, andraged with great malignity among the miners. The settlement was more thantwo hundred miles from San Francisco, in a secluded mountain gorge, barrenof all but the precious metal which had attracted thither a rough, andmotley multitude. There was no doctor within a hundred miles, and not asingle female to nurse and watch the forlorn subjects of the pestilence.

Mrs. Maurice, a married lady who had recently come from the east to SanFrancisco with her husband, hearing of the distress which prevailed in thatmountain district, immediately set out, in company with her husband, whoheartily sympathized with her generous enterprise, and crossed the SierraNevada for the purpose of ministering to the wants of the sick. She carrieda large supply of medicines and other necessaries, and after a toilsomejourney over the rough foot-paths which were then the only avenues by whichthe place could be reached, arrived at the settlement. By some means theminers had become apprised of her approach, and she was met by a cavalcadeof rough-bearded men, a score in number, mounted on mules, as a guard ofhonor to escort her to the scene of her noble labors. As she came in sight,riding down the mountain side, the escort party waved their huge hats inthe air and hurrahed as if they were mad, while the tears streamed downtheir swarthy cheeks. With heads uncovered they ranged themselves on eitherside of the lady and her husband, and accompanied them to the place wherethe pestilence was raging. Some of the sick men rose from their beds andstood with pale, fever-wasted faces at the doors of their wretched cabins,and smiled feebly and tried to shout as the noble woman drew near. Theirvoices were hollow and sepulchral, and the ministering angel who hadvisited them witnessed this moving spectacle not without tears. For twomonths she passed her time night and day in watching over and ministeringto those unfortunate men. Snatching a nap now and then, every otheravailable moment was given to her patients. Many died, and after receivingtheir last messages to friends far away in the east, she closed their eyesand passed on in her errand of mercy.

One of her patients thus testified to the efficacy of her ministrations:"As I owe my recovery to her exertions, I rejoice to give my testimony toher untiring zeal, her self-sacrificing devotion, and her angelic kindness.She never seemed to me to be happy except when engaged in alleviating thesufferings of us who were sick, and she watched over us with all thetenderness and love of a mother. Many of the sick men called her by thatendeared name, and we all seemed to be her children.

"Even in the gloomiest cabins and to the most disheartened of thefever-stricken, her presence seemed to bring sunshine. Her face always worea smile so sweet that I forgot my pain when I gazed upon her. Her voicerings in my ears even now. It was peculiarly soft and musical, and I neverheard her speak but I recalled those lines of the great dramatist, 'Hervoice was ever low, an excellent thing in woman.' Every sufferer waited tohear her speak and seemed to hang upon her accents. Her words were few, butso kind that we all felt that with such a friend to help us we could notlong be sick.

"She was entirely forgetful of herself, so much did the poor invalids dwellin her thoughts.

"The storms of autumn raged with frightful violence throughout that gorge,and yet I have known her, while the wind was howling and the rain pouring,to go round three times in one night to the bedsides of those whose liveswere hanging by a thread. Once I recollect after my recovery, going to seea young man who was very low and seemed to have life only while Mrs.Maurice bent over him. She had visited him early that evening, and hadpromised to come and see him again after making her rounds among her otherpatients. A fierce snow storm had come up and a strong man could barelymaintain himself before the blast. I found the poor fellow very low. He wasevidently sinking rapidly. He moved feebly and turned away his eyes, whichwere fixed upon me as I entered. It was already considerably past the hourwhen it was expected she would return, and as I bent to ask him how he was,he looked into my face with a bright eager gaze, and said in a whisper,'ask mother to come.' I knew in an instant whom he meant and said I wouldgo in search of her and conduct her thither through the storm.

"I had only reached the door when she met me. I never shall forget herappearance as she entered out of the howling storm and stood in that dimlight all radiant with kindness and sympathy, which beamed from her faceand seemed to illumine the room. The sufferer's face brightened and hisframe seemed to have a sudden life breathed into it when he saw her enter.It seemed to me as if she had a miraculous healing power, for that momenthe began to mend, and in a few weeks was restored to his pristine health."

It was beyond doubt that her presence and gentle words were more potent ineffecting cures than were the medicines which she administered. Those whor*covered and walked out when they saw her approaching, even at a distance,were wont to remove their hats and stand as she went by gazing at her as ifshe was an angel of light.

The scene after the last patient was convalescent, and when she came totake her departure, was indescribable. All the miners quit work andgathered in the village; a party was appointed to escort her to themountain and the rest formed a long line on each side and stood bareheadedand some of them weeping as she passed through.

The mounted men accompanied her and her husband and their guide to the topof the mountain. All of the escort had been her patients and some of themwere still wasted and wan from the fever. When they bade her farewell therewas not a dry eye among them, and long after she had left them they couldhave been seen gazing after the noble matron who had visited and comfortedthem in their grievous sickness and pain.

Life in the Rocky Mountains before the great transcontinental line wasbuilt was remarkable for concentrating in itself the extremest forms ofalmost every peril, hardship, and privation which is incident to thefrontier. Even at the present day and with the increased facilities forreaching the Atlantic and Pacific coast by that single railroad, thegreater part of the region far north and far south of that line of travelis still isolated from the world by vast distances and great naturalobstacles to communication between the different points of settlement.

So much the more valuable and stronger therefore upon that field is theemotional force of good women. Such there were and are scattered throughthat rocky wilderness whose ministrations, in many a lonely cabin, and withmany a wayfaring band, are like those of the angel who visited the prophetof old when he dwelt "in a desert apart".

An incident is told of a party of emigrants, who were journeying through
Idaho that powerfully illustrates this idea.

There were five in the party, viz. James Peterson, an aged man, his twodaughters, his son, and his son's wife.

While pursuing their toilsome and devious course through the gorges and upand down the steeps, a friendly Indian whom they met informed them that afew miles from the route they were following, a body of men were starvingin an almost inaccessible ravine where they had been prospecting for gold.Mr. Peterson and his son, although they pitied the unfortunate goldhunters, were disinclined to turn from their course, judging that thedifficulties of reaching them, and of conveying the necessary stores overthe rocks and across the rapid torrents were such that they would renderthe attempt wholly impracticable.

The two daughters, as well as the wife of young Peterson, refused to listento the cold dictates of prudence which controlled Mr. Peterson and his son:they saw in imagination only the wretched starving men, and their heartsyearned to relieve them.

Turning a deaf ear to the arguments and persuasions of the elder andyounger Peterson, they urged in eloquent and pleading tones that they mightbe allowed to follow the impulses of kindness and pity and visit theobjects of their compassion. The father could stay with the team and thebrother and husband could accompany them under the guidance of the Indian,on their errand of mercy.

Their prayers and persuasions at last prevailed over the objections whichwere offered. Selecting the most concentrated and nourishing food, whichtheir store of provisions embraced, young Peterson and the Indian loadedthemselves with all that they could carry, the three women, who were strongand active, also bearing a portion of the supplies. The party, after a mostdifficult and toilsome march on foot, succeeded in reaching the top of themountain, from which they could look down into the ravine upon the spotwhere the unfortunate men were encamped. They could see no sign of life,and feared they had come too late.

As they neared the place, picking their way down precipices where a singlemisstep would have been death, one of the women waved her handkerchief andthe men shouted at the top of their voices. No response came back exceptthe echoes which reverberated from the wall of the mountain opposite. Therays of the setting sun fell on seven human forms stretched on the ground.One of these forms at length raised itself to a sitting posture and gazedwith a dazed look at the rescuers hastening towards them. The rest hadgiven up all hope and lain down to die.

A spoonful of stimulant was immediately administered to each of the sevensufferers, and kindling a fire, the women quickly prepared broth with thedried meat which they had brought. The starving men were in a light-headedcondition, induced by long fasting, and could scarcely comprehend that theywere saved. "Who be those, Jim, walking round that fire; not women?" saidone of the men. "No, Pete," was the reply, "them's angels; didn't you hear'em sing to us a spell ago?" The kind words with which the three women hadsought to recall the wretched wayfarers to life and hope might well havebeen mistaken for an angel's song. One of the men afterwards said hedreamed he was in heaven, and when his eyes were opened by the sound ofthose sweet voices, and he saw those noble girls, he knew his dream hadcome true.

Another said that those voices brought him back to life and hope, more thanall the food and stimulants.

For a week these angels of mercy nursed and fed the starving men, theIndian meanwhile having shot a mountain goat, which increased theirsupplies, and at the end of that period the men were sufficiently recruitedto start, in company with their preservers, for the camp, where Mr.Peterson was awaiting the return of his daughters, of whose safety he hadbeen already informed by the Indian.

When the rescued men came to bid them farewell, they brought a bagcontaining a hundred pounds weight of gold dust, the price for which wouldhave been their lives, but for those devoted women, and begged them toaccept it, not as a reward, but as a token of their gratitude. The girlsrefused to take the gift, believing that the adventurous miners needed it,and that they had been amply rewarded by the reflection that they had savedseven lives.

The parting, on both sides, was tearful, the rough miners being moreaffected than even the women. Each party pursued its separate course, theone towards Oregon, the other towards Utah; but after the Petersons hadreached the spot where they encamped that night, they discovered the bag ofgold, which the miners had secretly deposited in the wagon. The treasurethus forced upon them was divided between the Miss Petersons and theirsister-in-law. Bright and pure as that metal was, it was incomparably lesslustrous than the deeds which it rewarded, and infinitely less pure thanthe motives which prompted them.

Finely has a poet of our own time celebrated the wondrous power of thosewords of cheer and comfort which woman utters so often to the unfortunate.

O! ever when the happy laugh is dumb,
All the joy gone, and all the sorrow come,
When loss, despair, and soul-distracting pain,
Wring the sad heart and rack the throbbing brain,
The only hope—the only comfort heard—
Comes in the music of a woman's word.
Like beacon-bell on some wild island shore,
Silverly ringing through the tempest's roar,
Whose sound borne shipward through the ocean gloom
Tells of the path and turns her from her doom.

Acting within their own homes, who can sum up the entire amount of goodwhich the frontier wife, mother, sister, and daughter have accomplished intheir capacities as emotional and sympathetic beings? How many feveredbrows have they cooled, how many gloomy moods have they illumined, how manywavering hearts have they stayed and confirmed?

This service of the heart is rendered so freely and so often that it ceasesto attract the attention it merits. Like the vital air and sunshine, it isso free and spontaneous that one rarely pauses to thank God for it. Theoutflow of sympathy, the kind word or act, and all the long sacrifice ofwoman's days pass too often without a thought, or a word, from those whoperhaps might droop and die without them.

England has its Westminster Abbey, beneath whose clustered archesstatesmen, philanthropists, warriors, and kings repose in a mausoleum,whither men repair to gaze at the monumental bust, the storied urn, andproud epitaph; but where is the mausoleum which preserves the names andvirtues of those gentle, unobtrusive women—the heroines and comforters ofthe frontier home? In the East, the simple slabs of stone which recordtheir names have crumbled into the dust of the churchyard. In the far West,they sleep on the prairie and mountain slope, with scarcely a memorial tomark the spot.

Nowhere more strongly are the manifestations of heart-power shown thanamong the women of our remote border. Speaking of them, one who long livedin that region says, "If you are sick, there is nothing which sympathy andcare can devise or perform, which is not done for you. No sister ever hungover the throbbing brain, or fluttering pulse, of a brother with moretenderness and fidelity. This is as true of the lady whose hand has onlyfigured her embroidery or swept her guitar, as of the cottage-girl,wringing from her laundry the foam of the mountain stream. If I must becast, in sickness or destitution, on the care of a stranger, let it be inCalifornia; but let it be before avarice has hardened the heart and made agod of gold."

What is said of the California wives, mothers, and sisters, may, with equalforce, be applied to woman throughout the whole vast mountain region,including ten immense states and territories. In the mining districts, onthe wild cattle ranche, in the eyrie, perched, like an eagle's nest, on thecrest of those sky-piercing summits, or on the secluded valley farm,wherever there is a home to be brightened, a sick bed to be tended, or awounded spirit to be healed, there is woman seen as a minister of comfort,consolation, and joy.

The military posts on the frontier have long had reason to thank the wivesof the soldiers and officers for their kindness, manifested in numberlessways.

One of these ladies was Mrs. R———, who accompanied her husband to hispost on the Rio Grande, in 1856.

Here she remained with him for more than three years, till that grandmustering of all the powers of the Republic to the long contestedbattle-grounds along the Potomac. Their life on the Mexican frontier wasfull of interest, novelty, and adventure. The First Artillery was oftenengaged in repulsing the irregular and roving bands of Cortinas, who rodeover the narrow boundary river in frequent raids and stealing expeditionsinto Texas. When in camp, Mrs. Ricketts greatly endeared herself to the menin her husband's company by constant acts of kindness to the sick, and byshowing a cheerful and lively disposition amid all the hardships andannoyances of garrison life, at such a distance from home and from thecomforts and refinements of our American civilization.

She was a spirit of mercy as well as good cheer; and many a poor fellowknew that, if he could but get her ear, his penance in the guard-house forsome violation of the regulations, would be far less severe on account ofher gentle and womanly plea.

She afterwards shared her husband's imprisonment in Richmond. CaptainR——— had been severely wounded and grew rapidly worse. The gloomiestforebodings pressed like lead upon the brave heart of the devoted wife.Again the surgeons consulted over his dreadfully swollen leg, andprescribed amputation; and again it was spared to the entreaties of hiswife, who was certain that his now greatly enfeebled condition would notsurvive the shock. Much of the time he lay unconscious, and for weeks hislife depended entirely on the untiring patience and skill with which hiswife soothed down the rudeness of his prison-house, cheering him and otherprisoners who were so fortunate as to be in the room with him, andalleviating the slow misery that was settling like a pall upon him.

As the pebble which stirs the lake in wider and ever wider circles, so thegenial emotion which begins in the family extends to the neighborhood, andsometimes embraces the whole human race. Hence arises the philanthropickindness of some, and the large-hearted charity that is willing to laboranywhere and in any manner to relieve the wants of all who are sufferingpain or privation.

In all our wars from the Revolutionary contest to the present time, woman'swork in the army hospitals, and even on the battle-field, as a nurse, hasbeen a crown to womanhood and a blessing to our civilization and age. Manya life that had hitherto been marked only by the domestic virtues and thecharities of home, became enlarged and ennobled in this wider sphere ofduty.

Wrestling in grim patience with unceasing pain; to lie weak and helpless,thinking of the loved ones on the far off hillside, or thirsty withunspeakable longing for one draught of cold water from the spring by thebig rock at the old homestead; to yearn, through long, hot nights, for onetouch of the cool, soft hand of a sister or a wife on the throbbingtemples, the wounded soldier saw with joy unspeakable the coming of theseministering angels. Then the great gashes would be bathed with coolingwashes, or the grateful draught poured between the thin, chalky lips, orthe painful, inflamed stump would be lifted and a pad of cool, soft lint,fitted under it. These ministrations carried with, them a moral cheer anda soothing that was more salutary and healing than medicines and creaturecomforts.

The poor wounded soldier was assured in tones, to whose pleasant andhomelike accents his ear had long been a stranger, that his valor shouldnot be forgotten, that they too had a son, a brother, a father, or ahusband in the army. After a pallid face and bony fingers were bathed,sometimes a chapter in the New Testament or a paragraph from the newspaperswould be read in tones low but distinct, in grateful contrast to the hoarsebattle shouts that had been lingering in his ear for weeks.

Then the good lady would act as amanuensis for some poor fellow who had anarmless sleeve, and write down for loving eyes and heavy hearts in somedistant village the same old soldier's story, told a thousand times by athousand firesides, but always more charming than any story in the ArabianNights,—how, on that great day, he stood with his company on a hillside,and saw the long line of the enemy come rolling across the valley; how,when, the cannon opened on them, he could see the rough, ragged gapsopening in the line; how they closed up and moved on; how this friend fellon one side, and poor Jimmy ——— on the other; and then he felt a generalcrash, and a burning pain, and the musket dropped out of his hand; then theambulance and the amputation, and what the surgeon said about his pluck;and then the weakness, and the pain, and the hunger; and how much better hewas now; and how kind the ladies had been to him.

Such offices as these lift woman above the plane of earthly experience andplace her a little lower than the angels. Only she can fill the measure ofsuch duties, and only she does fill them.

* * * * *

Among the deities of the Eastern Pantheon, the god representing thedestroyer is embodied under the form of a man, while the preserver issymbolized under the form of a woman. This is an adaptation in Polytheismof a great and true idea. Woman is a preserver. Her's is the conservativeinfluence of society. It is from man that the destructive forces that shakethe social organization emanate. He wars on his kind and the earth shakesunder the tread of his armies. He organizes those mighty revolutionarymovements which pull down the fabric of states. He is restless, aggressive,warlike. But it is woman's province to keep. Her mission is peace.

A party of soldiers passing through the western wilds, sees in the distancea body of horsem*n approaching. co*cking their rifles and putting themselvesin a defensive attitude, they prepare for battle. But when they see thatthere are women among the riders who are galloping towards them, they relaxtheir line and restore their rifles to their shoulders. They know therewill be no battle, for woman's presence means peace.

Woman is the guardian of our race. In the household she is saving; in thefamily she is protecting, and everywhere her influence is that which keeps.

It is this characteristic that makes her presence on the frontier soessential to a successful prosecution of true pioneer enterprises. Theman's work is one of destruction and subjugation. He must level the forest,break the soil, and fight all the forces that oppose him in his progress.Woman guards the health and life of the household, hoards the stores of thefamily, and economizes the surplus strength of her husband, father, or son.

We are speaking now of the sex as it is seen in a new country and in remotesettlements. In crowded cities, amid a superabundant wealth, and an idleand luxurious mode of life, we see too often the types of selfish,frivolous, and conventional females such as are hardly known on the border.But even in these, populous districts the same spirit is not unfrequentlyshown, with important results, in respect to the accumulation of greatfortunes.

Some forty years since, a capitalist who now counts his fortune by the tensof millions, informed his wife that if he was only in possession of fivethousand dollars, he could derive great gains from a business into which hedesigned to enter. To his astonishment she immediately brought him a bankbook showing a balance of five thousand dollars, the savings of many years,and told him to use it as he thought best. Those hoardings judiciouslyinvested laid the foundation of one of the largest properties owned by asingle man upon this continent.

As a conserving agency, the spirit and influence of woman is of course moststrongly exerted within the circle of her own family. Here she knits theties that binds that circle together, and gathers and holds the materialand moral resources which make the household what it is. When disastercomes, it is her study to prevent disintegration and keep the homeuninjured and unbroken.

While a family were flying from a ferocious band of tories during theRevolution, in the confusion, one of the children was left behind. It wasthe eldest daughter who first discovered the fact, and only she dared toreturn and save her little brother from their blood-thirsty enemies. It wasdark and rainy, and imminent danger would attend the effort to rescue thelad. But the brave girl hastened back; reached the house still inpossession of the British; begged the sentinel to let her enter; and thoughrepeatedly repulsed doubled the earnestness of her entreaties, and finallygained admittance. She found the child in his chamber, hastened down stairsand passing the sentry, fled with the shot whizzing past her head, and withthe child soon joined the rest of the family.

When deprived of her natural protector and left the sole guardian of herchildren she becomes a prodigy of watchful care.

Some years since, one of the small islands on our coast was inhabited by asingle poor family. The father was taken suddenly ill. There was nophysician. The wife, on whom every labor for the household devolved, wassleepless in care and tenderness by the bedside of her suffering husband.Every remedy in her power to procure was administered, but the disease wasacute, and he died.

Seven young children mourned around the lifeless corpse. They were the solebeings upon that desolate spot. Did the mother indulge the grief of herspirit, and sit down in despair? No! she entered upon the arduous andsacred duties of her station. She felt that there was no hand to assist herin burying her dead. Providing, as far as possible, for the comfort of herlittle ones, she put her babe into the arms of the oldest, and charged thetwo next in age to watch the corpse of their father. She unmoored herhusband's fishing boat, which, but two days before, he had guided over theseas to obtain food for his family. She dared not yield to those tenderrecollections which might have unnerved her arm. The nearest island was atthe distance of three miles. Strong winds lashed the waters to foam. Overthe loud billows, that wearied and sorrowful woman rowed, and waspreserved. She reached the next island, and obtained the necessary aid.With such energy did her duty to her desolate babes inspire her, that thevoyage which, depended upon her individual effort was performed in ashorter time than the returning one, when the oars were managed by two men,who went to assist in the last offices to the dead.

But female influence in the way of conservation, is not bounded by thenarrow limits of home, family, and kindred. It is also seen on a widerfield and in the preservation of other interests. The property, health, andlife of strangers often become the object of woman's careful guardianship.Nearly thirty years since a heavily freighted vessel set sail from anEnglish port bound for the Pacific coast. After a voyage of more than threemonths it reached the Sandwich Islands, and after remaining there a week,sailed in the direction of Oregon and British Columbia.

When two days out from Honolulu, the captain and mate were taken down withfever, which not only confined them, to their berths, but by its deliriumincapacitated them from giving instructions respecting the navigation ofthe vessel. The third officer, upon whom the command devolved, was shortlyafterwards washed overboard and lost in a gale. The rest of the crew wereof the most common and ignorant class of sailors, not even knowing how toread and write. The heavens, overspread with clouds which obscured both thesun and the stars, was a sealed book to the man at the wheel, and the goodship, at the mercy of the winds and waves, was drifting they knew notwhither.

At this juncture the wife of the captain stepped to the front, and boldlyassumed the command. She had been reared on Cape Cod, and was a woman ofuncommon intelligence and strength of character. Her husband, in the earlystages of his illness, had thoughtfully instructed her in the rudiments ofnavigation, and foreseeing that such knowledge might be the means ofenabling her to steer the ship safely to port, she diligently employedevery moment that she could spare from the necessary attendance on the sickmen, in studying the manual of navigation. She soon learned how tocalculate latitude and longitude. When the third officer was washedoverboard she knew that all must then depend upon her, and at once putherself in communication with the steersman, and instructed him as to theirtrue position. The men all recognized the value of her knowledge, andobeyed her as if she had been their chief from the outset. The correctnessof her calculations was soon proved, and such was her firmness and kindnesswhile in command, that the sailors came to regard her as a superior beingwho had been sent from heaven to help them out of their dangers. The cloudsat length cleared away, the wind subsided, and after a voyage oftwenty-five days, the ship made the mouth of the Columbia River. Meanwhileby diligent nursing she had also contributed to save the lives of herhusband and his second officer. But for her knowledge and firmness it wasacknowledged by all that the ship would have been lost; and a large salvagewas allowed her by the owners as a reward for her energy and intelligencein saving the vessel and its valuable cargo.

Another of these guardians on the deep was Mrs. Spalding, of Georgia. Shewas one of those patriot women of the Revolution of whom we have alreadyspoken. The part she bore in that struggle, and the anxieties to which shehad been necessarily subjected, so impaired her health that some yearsafter the termination of the war an ocean voyage and a European climate wasprescribed for her restoration.

While crossing the Atlantic a large ship painted black, carrying twelveguns, was seen to windward running across their course. She was evidentlyeither a privateer or a pirate. As there was no hope of out-sailing her, itwas judged best to boldly keep the vessel on her course, trusting that itssize and appearance might deter the strange craft from attacking it.

Mr. Spalding, realizing the danger of their situation, and not daring totrust himself with an interview till the crisis was past, requested thecaptain to go below and do what he could for the security of his family.

The captain on visiting the cabin, found that Mrs. Spalding had placed herdaughter-in-law and the other inmates of the cabin, for safety, in the twostate-rooms, filling the berths with the cots and bedding from the outercabin. She had then taken her station beside the scuttle, which led fromthe outer cabin to the magazine, with two buckets of water. Having noticedthat the two cabin-boys were heedless, she had determined herself to keepwatch over the magazine. She did so till the danger was past. The captaintook in his light sails, hoisted his boarding nettings, opened his ports,and stood on upon his course. The privateer waited till the ship was withina mile, then fired a gun to windward, and stood on her way. This rusepreserved the ship.

America, like England, has had her Grace Darlings, whose lives have beendevoted to the rescue of drowning sailors. Such a life was that of KateMoore, who some years since resided on a secluded island in the Sound.Disasters frequently occur to vessels which are driven round Montauk Point,and sometimes in the Sound when they are homeward bound; and at such timesshe was always on the alert. She had so thoroughly cultivated the sense ofhearing, that she could distinguish amid the howling storm the shrieks ofthe drowning mariners, and thus direct a boat, which she had learned tomanage most dexterously, in the darkest night, to the spot where a fellowmortal was perishing. Though well educated and refined, she possessed noneof the affected delicacy which characterizes too many town-bred misses,but, adapting herself to the peculiar exigencies of her father's humble yethonorable calling, she was ever ready to lend a helping hand, and shrankfrom no danger if duty pointed that way. In the gloom and terror of thestormy night, amid perils at all hours of the day and all seasons of theyear, she launched her barque on the threatening waves, and assisted heraged and feeble father in saving the lives of twenty-one persons during thelast fifteen years. Such conduct, like that of Grace Darling, to whom KateMoore has been justly compared, needs no comment; it stamps its moral atonce and indelibly upon the heart of every reader.

That great land ocean which stretches southwestward from Fort Leavenworthon the Missouri, to the fountains of the great rivers of Texas, has itsperils to be guarded against as well as the stormy Atlantic. The voyagersover that expanse, as well as the mariners on the ocean, have not seldomowed their safety to the watchfulness of the prairie woman, who possesses,in common with her more cultivated and conventional sisters, a keen insightinto character. This enables her to take early note of danger arising fromthe agency of bad men, and avoid it.

In 1858, a gentleman, accompanied by a Creek Indian as a guide, whileescorting his sister to her husband, who was stationed at Fort Wayne, inthe Indian Territory, near the southwest corner of Missouri, lost thetrail, and the party found themselves, at nightfall, in an immense plain,which showed no signs of any habitation. Riding southward in the darkness,they saw, at last, a light twinkling in the distance, and, directing theircourse toward it, they discovered that it proceeded from the window of alonely cabin. Knocking at the door, a man of singularly repulsiveappearance responded to the summons—invited them in. Three rough-lookingcharacters were sitting around the fire. The hospitalities of the cabinwere bargained for, the horses and Indian being quartered in a shed, whilethe gentleman and his sister were provided with shakedowns in the twopartitions of the loft. The only inmates of the house besides the four whomwe have mentioned was a girl some fifteen years of age, the daughter of oneof the men. The lady, who was very much fatigued, was waited upon by thisgirl, who moved about as if she was in a dream. She was very pale, and hada look as if she was repressing some great fear, or was burdened by someterrible secret.

When she accompanied the lady to her sleeping apartment, she whispered toher hurriedly that she wished to speak to her brother, but begged her tocall him without making any noise, as their lives depended upon theirpreserving silence. The lady, though astonished and terrified at such arevelation at that hour and place, checked the exclamation which rose toher lips, and, lifting the partition of cotton cloth which hung between theapartments, in a low tone asked her brother to come and hear what the girlhad to say.

Her information was of a terrible character. They were, she said, in a denof murderers. She knew not how they could escape, unless by a miracle. Itwas the intention of the assassins, she believed, to murder and rob thewhole party. Then, telling them to keep awake and be on their guard, sheglided down to the room below. The brother and sister, listening sharplyfor a few minutes, heard the girl say in a loud tone, as if she intendedthe guests should hear her, that she was going out to the shed to look forher ear-ring, which she believed she had dropped there. They surmised shewas going to put the Indian on his guard.

The gentleman had a pair of revolvers, and resolved to sell his lifedearly, should he be attacked. Peering down into the room below, he saw, bythe dim light, the ruffians making preparations for bloody work. Axes,knives, pistols, and guns had been brought out, and, in low whispers, themiscreants were evidently discussing the plan of attack. Sometime aftermidnight two of the men stole out of the door, with the obvious intentionof killing the Indian, as the first act in the bloody drama. For a fewminutes after their disappearance all was still, and then the silence wasbroken by two pistols shots in quick succession, followed by a triumphantwar-whoop, which served to tell the story. The Indian, who was also armedwith a revolver, must have shot his two assailants. The gentleman fireddown the hatchway of the loft, killing one of the villains as he wasrunning out of the door. The other, after shouting loudly for his partnersin murder, took to his heels and fled away.

It appeared that the Indian guide, having been notified of his danger bythe girl, rose from his bed and ensconced himself behind the shed. When thetwo men came out to attack him, he shot them both dead, and then waited,expecting that the others would have come out and furnished him with a newtarget.

The girl came out of her hiding place, whither she had run on hearing theshots, and looked sharply into the faces of the three dead ruffians, andfinding that her father was not among them, expressed her joy that herunworthy parent had escaped the fate he richly deserved.

She told her story to the gentleman and lady while they were standing onguard and waiting for the morning to dawn. It appeared that she had beenbrought to the den a few days before by her father, and had become knowingto a murder which he and his companions had committed. Her mother, a piouswoman, had instructed her daughter in the principles of Christianity, andhad checked the evil propensities of her husband as long as she lived, butafter her death, which had taken place shortly before the events we havebeen describing, all constraint had been removed from the evil propensitiesof the misguided man, and he joined the murderous gang who had just mettheir fate.

The natural goodness of the young girl's nature, fostered by the teachingsof her guardian mother, thus exerted itself to save three lives from theassassin's stroke.

She gladly accompanied the lady on her route the following morning, andever remained her attached protegé.

Montana is one of the newest and wildest of our territories. Its positionso far to the north and the peculiarly rugged face of the country, make itthe fitting abode for the genius of the storms. Gathering their battalionsthe tempests sweep the summits and whirling round the flanks of themountains, roar through the deep, lonely gorges with a sound louder thanthe ocean surges in a hurricane. The snows fill the ravines in drifts onehundred feet in depth, and such are the rigors of winter that the women wholive in the fur-trading posts on that section of our northern border, areoften carried across the mountains into Oregon or Washington territory, toshield them from the severities of the inclement season.

Late in the fall of 1868, a party consisting of thirty soldiers, whilefaring on through the mountains of that territory, were overtaken by one ofthese fearful snowstorms. The wind blew from the north directly in theirfaces, and the snow was soon piled in drifts which put a thorough embargoupon their further progress. Selecting the fittest place that could befound they pitched their tents on the snow, but hardly had they fastenedthe tent ropes when a blast lifted the tents in a moment, and whirled theminto the sky. After a night of great suffering they found in the morningthat all their mules were missing. They had probably strayed or been drivenby the fury of the blast into a deep ravine south of the camp, where theyhad been buried beneath the enormous drifts.

The storm raged and the snow fell nearly all day. The rations were allgone, and progress against the wind and through the drifts was impossible.Another night of such bitter cold and exposure would in all probability betheir last.

They shouted in unison, but their shouts were drowned in the shrieks of thetempest. Towards night the storm lulled and again they shouted, but nosound came back but the sigh of the blast. Help! help! they cried. Unhappymen, could help come to them except from on high! What was left to them butto wind their martial cloaks around them and die like soldiers in the pathof duty!

But what God-sent messenger is this coming through the drifts to meet them?Not a woman! Yes, a poor, weak woman has heard their despairing cry and hashastened to succor them. Drenched and shivering with the storm she toldthem to follow her, and conducted them to a recess in the crags, wherebeneath an overhanging ledge and between projecting cliffs, a spaciousshelter was afforded them. They crowded in and warmed their numbed limbsbefore a great fire, while their preserver brought out her stores of foodfor the wayfarers.

But how could a woman be there in the heart of the mountains in the wintryweather, with only the storm to speak to her?

Her husband was a miner and she a brave and self-reliant woman. He had lefther two weeks before to carry his treasure of gold dust to the nearestsettlement She was all alone! Alone in that rock-encompassed cabinin the realms of desolation, and still the heroine-guardian who hadsnatched thirty fellow beings from the jaws of death.

Solitude is the theatre where untold thousands of devoted women—the brave,the good, the loving—for ages past have acted their unviewed andunrecorded dramas in the great battle of frontier life. Warriors andstatesmen have their need of praise, and crowds surround them to throw thewreath of laurel or of bay upon their fainting brows, or to follow theirplumed hearse to the mausoleum which a grateful people has raised to theirmemory.

"Yet it may be a higher courage dwells
In one meek heart which braves an adverse fate,
Than his whose ardent soul indignant swells
Warmed by the fight or cheered through high debate,
The soldier dies surrounded, could he live
Alone to suffer and alone to strive?"

CHAPTER XXI.

WOMAN AS AN EDUCATOR ON THE FRONTIER

"Within the house, within the family the woman is all: she is theinspiring, moulding, embellishing, and controlling power." This tersedescription of woman's influence in the household applies with doubleforce and significance to the position of the pioneer wife and mother. Herlife in that position was one long battle, one long labor, one long trial,one long sorrow. Out of this varied, searching, continuous educationalprocess came discipline of the body, of the mind, and of the whole moralnature. Adversity, her

"Stern, ragged nurse, whose rigid lore,
With patience, many a year, she bore,"

taught her the practice of the heroic as well as of the gentler virtues;courage, labor, fortitude, plain living, charity, sobriety, pity. In thatschool these virtues became habitual to her mind; because their practicewas enforced by the stress of circ*mstances. Daily and nightly, in thosehomes on the frontier, there is some danger to be faced, some work to bedone, some suffering to be borne or some self-denial to be exercised, somesufferer to be relieved or some sympathy to be extended.

There is a two-fold result from this educational process: first, thetransmission, by the law of hereditary descent, of marked traits ofcharacter to her children, who show, in a greater or less degree, theirmother's nature as developed in this severe school; second, woman becomesfitted to mould the character and instruct the mind of her children in thelight of her own experience and discipline. Woman is the great educator ofthe frontier.

Within the first half of the 18th century, in that narrow belt of thinlysettled country which follows the indentation of the Atlantic ocean, inlonely cabins in the forest, or on the, hill-slope, or by the unvisitedsea, most of the representative men of our Revolutionary Era first saw thelight, and were pillowed on the breasts of the frontier mothers.

The biographical records of our country are bright with the names ofmen—the brave, the wise, the good—who were born of pioneer women, and whoinherited from them those traits which, in after life, made them great andillustrious in the learned professions, in the camp, and in the councils oftheir native country. Who can doubt that the daughters, too, of thosestrong women, and the sisters of those eminent men, inheriting similartraits, exercised in their sphere as potent though silent an influence asdid their brothers in the high stations to which they were called.

As by a strain of blood, inherited traits come down to succeedinggenerations, and, as from the breast of the mother the first elements ofbodily strength are received, so from her lips are obtained those firstprinciples of good and incentives of greatness which the sterner featuresand blunter feelings of the father are rarely sufficient to inculcate.

On parent knees, or later, in intervals of work or play, the soldier whofought to make us a free republic, and the statesman who laid deep and widethe foundations of our constitution, acquired from their mothers' lipsthose lessons of virtue and duty which made their after careers so usefulto their country and memorable in history.

We have said that woman was the great educator on the frontier. Shewas something more than an educator, as the term is usually applied.The teaching of the rudiments of school-learning was a fraction in thesum-total of her training and influence.

The means of moulding and guiding the minds of the young upon the borderare very different from what they are in more settled states of society.Education in the older states of the Union is organized in the district andhigh school, in the academy and the college, and is maintained by largetaxation of the town, city, or state. Here are wealth, aggregations ofintelligence, and a surplus of the educated labor class. Commodious andoften beautiful edifices shelter the bright tribes whom the morning bellcalls together beneath the eye of cultured teachers. Stately halls andquaint chapels are the seats where the higher learning is inculcated; theparaphernalia of education is splendid, the appliances are adequate, andthe whole machinery by which knowledge is diffused among the young, workswith a smooth regularity that makes it almost automatic.

Contrast this system which prevails to-day, and in the more settledconditions of American society, with that which prevailed in earlier yearsin a thinly and newly-inhabited country, and which now obtains on ourfrontier line, and how striking is the difference!

Indeed, how could we look for any such organism where small settlementswere separated from each other by long spaces and bad roads, and wheresingle cabins were so completely isolated, as in the New England and theMiddle and Southern States a century and a half ago, or as in the earliersettled States of the West seventy years ago, or as in the newly-settledStates of the West within the present generation, or as on the frontierproper to-day? Under such conditions even the district school wasimpracticable or inaccessible. To supply its place, each household wherethere were children was a training school, of which the mother was thehead.

The process, under her eyes and hand, of forming the mind and character, isvery slow, but it is healthy and natural. It is conducted in the shortinterval of severe toil. She reverts to first principles, and teaches byobjects rather than by lessons. It is the character that she forms morethan the mind.

She has about her a band of silent but powerful coadjutors. The sunshineand free air of the wilderness are poured around the little stranger, whichsoon grows into a handsome, largely-developed, vigorous nursling.

The air of the wilderness, too, is the native air of freedom: this, and theample space wherein the young plant flourishes, makes it large in frame andbroad in mind and character.

Transplant a cypress from a garden in a populous community to the deepblack mould of the west, and it grows to be a forest monarch. It is Hazlittwho says "the heart reposes in greater security on the immensity ofnature's works, expatiates freely there and finds elbow room and breathingspace."

In the log-cabin there is perhaps but a single room: there is a bed, atable, blocks of wood for chairs, and a few wretched cooking utensils.Thank God! The life of the pioneer woman is not "cribbed and confined" tothis hovel. The forest, the prairie, the mountain-side are free to her asthe vital air, and the canopy of heaven is her familiar covering. A lifeout doors is a necessary part of both the moral and the physical educationof her children.

Riding through one of the prairies of the far West, some years since, wearrived just at dusk in front of a cabin where a mother was sitting withher four young children and teaching them lessons from the great book ofnature. She had shown them the sun as it set in glory, and told them of itsrising and of its going down; of the clouds and of the winds, and how Godmade the grass and trees, and the stars, which came trooping out beforetheir eyes. She taught them, she said, little as yet from books. She hadbut a Bible, a catechism, an almanac. The Bible was the only Reader in herlittle school. Already she had whispered in their ears the story of Jesus'life and death, and charged their infant memories with the wise andbeautiful teachings of the Sermon on the Mount.

What a practical training was that which children had in that outdoorknowledge which had been useful to their mother! The chemistry of commonlife learned from the processes wrought out by the air and sunshine;astronomy from the great luminaries which are the clocks of the wilderness,and the science of the weather from the phenomena of the sky. There was no"cramming" in that home-school; each item of knowledge was well absorbedand assimilated, for the mother's toils made the intervals long between thelessons. So much the better for the young heart and mind, which grows,swells, and gathers force unlaced and unfettered by scholastic pedantry andrepression.

It is from the mother, too, that the boy or girl must take their firstlessons in the tillage of the soil, which are most readily learned in thegarden, for the women are the gardeners of the frontier. Gardening is alabor of patience and virtue, and is excellent discipline for thecharacter. A child's true life is in the fields, and should be earlyfamiliarized with the forms of vegetable life. No small part of theeducation of a child may be carried on by the care and assiduouscontemplation of plants and flowers. Observation, experience, reflection,and reasoning, would all come of it. A flower is a whole world, pure,innocent, peacemaking.

Woman's natural fitness for the work of an educator of the human plant isseen in the readiness and zeal with which she enters into this work oftending and training the plants in a vegetable or flower garden, and thegarden is one of the outdoor schools where her little ones gain their mostuseful instruction. The difference between plants, the variegation ofcolors, their relations to the air, the sunshine, the dew, the rain; thehabits of plants, some erect, some creeping, some climbing, the seasons offlowering, fruitage, and seed, are impressed with ease upon the plasticmind of childhood.

From the garden it is but one step to the meadow and the forest. Here theboy and girl sees nature unaided by man working out similar processes on agrander scale. There is heroic force and valor in the trees and grasses,and the child is early brought into antagonism with these strong forms ofwild nature, and learns that he and his parents live by subjugating orconverting them to their use. This is the lesson of contention in carryingthrough a useful purpose. The native sward is to be overturned and a newgrowth implanted; bushes are to be torn up root and branch so that thecattle may have pasture; the trees must be hewn down and cut into beams andboards.

Thus, too, is learned the great lesson of labor. There is no rest for themother. The stove, the broom, the needle, the hoe, and the axe are ever thefamiliar implements of her household husbandry. The cows and poultry areher protégés. Her brown arms and sunburned face are seen among themowers and reapers. Endowed with the practical faculty for small things,she reaches into details which escape the blunter senses of the strongersex. The necessities and contingencies of frontier life make her variouslyaccomplished in the useful arts. She becomes a "jack at all trades,"carding, spinning, weaving, cobbling shoes, fitting moccasins, mendingharness, dressing leather, making clothes, serving as cook, dairy-maid,laundress, gardener, and nurse. From example and from precept the childrenlearn the lesson of labor from the mother.

The girls of course remain longer than their brothers under her tutelage.Theirs is a lofty destiny—lofty because as wives and mothers they are tocarry the shrine of civilization into the wilderness, and build upon thedesert and waste places the structure of a new civil and social state.Serving as a duty and a pleasure is woman's vocation. The great German poetand philosopher has finely amplified this idea:

"Early let woman learn to serve, for that is her calling,
For by serving alone she attains to ruling;
To the well-deserved power which is hers in the household.
The sister serves her brother while young; and serves her parents,
And her life is still a continual going and coming,
A carrying ever and bringing, a making and shaping for others.
Well for her if she learns to think no road a foul one,
To make the hours of the night the same as the hours of the day;
To think no labor too trifling, and never too fine the needle;
To forget herself altogether, and live in others alone.
And lastly, as mother, in truth, she will need every one of the virtues."

A French traveler in the course of his wanderings through, the westernwilds of our country, came to a single cabin in one of the remotest andmost inaccessible of our mountain territories. The only inmates in thatlonely home were a middle-aged woman and four girls, ranging from eight tofifteen. The father was a miner, who spent a large part of the time indigging or "prospecting" for precious ores, as yet with only moderatesuccess. The matron did the work of both man and woman. The cabin was amuseum of household mechanisms and implements. Independent of the clothier,the merchant, and the grocer, their dress was the furry covering of themountain beasts; their tea was a decoction of herbs; their sugar was boiledfrom the sap of the maple; the necessaries of life were all of their ownculture and manufacture. Yet, thanks to the unwearied toils of the goodwoman and her little help-meets, there was warmth, comfort, and abundance,for love and labor were inhabitants of those rocks.

The girls had already been taught all that their mother knew, and she hadsent out to fight their own battle, three sons, strong, brave, and versedin border-lore.

It was my mother, said the matron, that taught me all that I know, fortyyears ago in the forests of Michigan, and I am trying to bring up my girlsso that they shall know everything that their grandmother taught me. Theycould read, and write, and cypher. They were little farmers, and gardeners,and seamstresses, and housewives. Nor had their religious and moraltraining been neglected. The good Book lay well thumbed and dogeared on thekitchen shelf. The sound of the "church-going bell" had never been heard bythose children, but every Sunday the mother gathered them about her, andthey read together from the New Testament. "It is ten years," said thematron, "since I have seen a church. I remember the last time I visited SanFrancisco, awaking Sunday morning and hearing the sound of the bell whichcalled us to meeting. It was sweeter than heavenly music to my ears, and Iburst into tears." What a suggestion was that, pointing to the unsatisfiedcraving of that lonely heart for the consolation of the promises uttered byconsecrated lips! Right and fitting it is that woman, God-beloved in oldJerusalem, that she, the last at the cross and the first at the sepulcher,though far from the Sabbath that smiles upon eastern homes, should keepalive in the hearts of her children the remembrance of the Saviour and ofthe Lord's day.

Rove wherever they may, the sons and daughters of the wilderness will findamid the stormiest lives a safe anchorage in the holy keeping of theChristian Sabbath, and in the word of God, for these are the best andsurest legacies of a pious mother's precepts. A civilization in which theearly lispings of childhood are of God and Christ, cannot become altogethercorrupt and degenerate, for woman here is the depository and transmitter ofreligious faith.

From the earliest times to a comparatively recent period, a largeproportion of the distinguished men of our country have necessarily passedtheir first years in remote settlements, if not on the extreme border ofcivilization. The lives of those men who have risen to eminence asgenerals, statesmen, professional men, and authors, and date their successfrom the lessons received from woman's lips in the early homes of theirchildhood, would fill volumes. We pass by the first generations of thesepupils, and come to the men of that period from which to-day we date thebirth of the Republic.

The heroic age of American statesmanship commenced in 1776. Of all thoseillustrious men who signed the immortal Declaration, or framed theConstitution of the United States, a considerable number passed theirchildhood and youth in secluded and remote settlements. They were the sonsof "Women on the American Frontier." They drew in with their mother's milkthe intellectual and moral traits, and gathered from their mother's lipsthose lessons which prepared them in after years to guide the councils oftheir country in the most trying period of its history.

Let us commence the list with the deathless name of Washington. Born in asecluded and primitive farm-house at Bridge's Creek, Virginia, he was leftby the death of his father to the care and guardianship of his mother."She," says his biographer, "proved herself worthy of the trust. Endowedwith plain, direct good sense, thorough conscientiousness, and promptdecision, she governed her family strictly, but kindly, exacting deferencewhile she inspired affection. George, being her eldest son, was thought tobe her favorite, yet she never gave him undue preference, and the implicitdeference exacted from him in childhood continued to be habitually observedby him to the day of her death. He inherited from her a high temper and aspirit of command, but her early precepts and example taught him torestrain and govern that temper, and to square his conduct on the exactprinciples of equity and justice. Tradition gives an interesting picture ofthe widow, with her little flock gathered round her, as was her wont,reading to them lessons of religion and morality out of some standard work.Her favorite volume was Sir Mathew Hale's Contemplations, moral and divine.The admirable maxims therein contained, for outward action as well as selfgovernment, sank deep into the mind of George, and doubtless had a greatinfluence in forming his character. They certainly were exemplified in hisconduct throughout life. His mother's manual, bearing his mother's name,Mary Washington, written with her own hand, was ever preserved by him withfilial care, and may still be seen in the archives of Mount Vernon. Aprecious document! Let those who wish to know the moral foundation of hischaracter, consult its pages."

Among the signers of the Declaration of Independence, Thomas Jefferson, theauthor of that immortal document; George Wythe, afterwards Chancellor ofVirginia; Francis Hopkinson, the poet and patriot Benjamin Franklin, SamuelHuntington, Edward Rutledge, and many others, have left upon recordtestimonials of their great obligations to their mother's care andteachings.

In the second era of American statesmanship, a large number of those mosteminent for public services were also born and nurtured on the frontier. Acursory examination of the biographies of those distinguished men will showhow largely they were indebted to the early training which they receivedfrom their mothers.

Incidents drawn from the early life of the seventh President of the UnitedStates, will prove with striking clearness the lasting influence of amother's teachings.

During one of the darkest periods of the Revolution, and after the massacreat Warsaw by the bloodthirsty Tarleton, when the British prison-pens inSouth Carolina were crowded with wounded captive patriots, an elderlywoman, with the strongly marked physiognomy which characterizes theScotch-Irish race, could have been seen moving among the hapless prisoners,relieving their wants and alleviating their sufferings. She had come thegreat distance, alone and on foot, through swamps and forests, and acrossrivers, from a border settlement, on this errand of compassion.

After her work of charity and mercy had been finished, she set out aloneand on foot, as before, upon her journey home. She sped on, thinkingdoubtless of her sons, and most of all of the youngest, a bright and manlylittle fellow whom she had watched over and trained with all of a mother'scare and tenderness. The way was long and difficult, the unbridged streamswere cold, the forest was dark and tangled. Wandering from her course,weary and worn with her labors of love and pity, she sank down at last anddied.

That woman who gave her life to her country and humanity was the mother ofAndrew Jackson, and that youngest son, her especial pupil, was the seventhpresident of the United States. He had lost his father when an infant, andhis early training devolved upon that patriot mother, from whom he alsoinherited some of those marked and high traits of character for which hewas afterwards so conspicuous. She was an earnest and devoted Christianwoman, and strove, like the mother of Washington, to glorify God as much inthe rearing of her children as in the performance of any other duty. Shetaught Andrew the leading doctrines of the Bible, in the form of questionand answer, from the Westminster catechism: and these lessons he neverforgot. In a conversation with him some years since, says a writer,"General Jackson spoke of his mother in a manner that convinced me that shenever ceased to exert a secret power over him, until his heart was broughtinto reconciliation with God." Just before his death, which occurred inJune, 1855, he said to a clergyman, "My lamp is nearly out, and the lastglimmer is come, I am ready to depart when called. The Bible is true. Uponthat sacred volume I rest my hopes of eternal salvation, through the meritsand blood of our blessed Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ."

If departed spirits, the saintly and ascended, are permitted to look fromtheir high habitation, upon the scene of earth, with what holy transportmust the mother of Andrew Jackson have beheld the death-bed triumph of herson. The lad whom she sent to an academy at the Warsaw meeting-house,hoping to fit him for the ministry, had become a man, had filled thehighest elective office in the world, and was now an old man, able in hislast earthly hour, by the grace of God attending his early piousinstruction, to challenge death for his sting and to shout "victory"over his opening grave.

It is a faculty of the female mind to penetrate with singular facility intothe true character of the young. Every intelligent mother quickly, and byintuition, discerns the native bent of her child and measures hisendowments. Evidences of latent talent in any particular direction arescrutinized with maternal shrewdness, and encouraged by applause andcaresses. The lonelier the cabin, the more secluded the settlement, thesharper seem to grow the mother's eyes, and the more profound thisintuitive faculty. It is the mother who first discerns the native bent andendowments of her child, and she too is the quickest to encourage and drawthem out. How many eminent and useful men whose childhood was passed in theoutlying settlements have been able to trace their success to a mother'sinsight into their capabilities.

In one of the forest homes on the skirts of civilization in Pennsylvania,Benjamin West, the greatest historical painter of the last century, showedfirst to his mother's eyes the efforts of his infant genius. The picture ofa smiling babe made on a summer's day, when the little painter was but achild of seven, caught his mother's delighted eyes, and she covered himwith her kisses. Years after, when Benjamin West was the guest of kings andemperors, that immortal artist was wont to recall those electric caressesand say "my mother's kiss made me a painter."

Daniel Webster's childhood home was in a log-cabin on the banks of theMerrimac, in a sequestered portion of New Hampshire. Here he passed hisboyhood and youth, and received from his admirable mother those lessonswhich formed his mind and character, and fitted him for that great partwhich he was to play in public life. She recognized the scope of his geniuswhen she gave him the copy of the constitution on a pocket handkerchief.She pinched every household resource that he might go to Exeter Academy,and to Dartmouth College, as if she had had a prophetic vision that hewould come to be called the defender of those institutions which his fatherfought to obtain. And when in after years he had grown gray in honors andusefulness, he was wont to refer with tears to the efforts and sacrificesof this mother who discerned his great capacity and was determined that heshould enjoy the advantages of a college education.

It is the affectionate and noble ambition of many other pioneer mothersbesides Mrs. Webster which has secured to their sons the benefits of athorough academical training.

The next step from the home-school is the district-school. The cabin whichshelters a single family is generally placed with shrewd eyes to its beingthe point around which a settlement shall grow up. Wood and water arecontiguous: the soil is rich: not many seasons roll away before othercabins send up their smoke hard by: children multiply, for these matrons ofthe border are fecund: out of the common want rises the schoolhouse, builtof logs, with its rude benches: here the school teacher is a woman—thegrown-up daughter, or the maiden sister of the pioneer.

How many of our greatest men have learned their first rudiments from thelips of "school marms," in their primitive school-houses on the frontier!

Population increases by production and accession. There is soon a dearth ofteachers; all along the frontier the cry is sent up to the east, come andteach us! Woman again comes to the front; the schools of the bordersettlements have been largely taught by the faithful and devoted female,missionaries in the cause of education from the east. These pioneer schoolmistresses bore the discomforts of remote western life patiently, and didtheir duties cheerfully. Most of them afterwards became wives and mothers,and have in both these relations done much towards building up thesettlements where they made their homes. Others have enrolled their namesamong the missionary martyrs. The toils, hardships, and privations incidentto a newly settled country have often proved too heavy for the delicateframes reared amid the comforts and luxuries of eastern homes, and theyhave fallen victims to their noble ambition, giving their lives to thecause they sought to promote.

One of these martyrs was Miss M. She was one of that band of lady-teachers,numbering several hundred who, nearly thirty years ago, went out to thethen far west under the auspices of Governor Slade and Miss CatharineBeecher, to supply the crying need of teachers which then existed in thatsection of our country.

This, it should be remembered, was before railroads had brought that regionwithin easy access from the east. That wild, primeval garden had been, asyet, redeemed from nature only in plots and patches. On the boundlessprairies of Illinois the cabins of the settlers were like solitary vesselsmoored in a waste of waters, and between them rolled in green billows,under the wind, the tall, coarse grass. The settlers themselves were of themost adventurous and often of the roughest class. Society presented to thecultured eye a rude and almost barbarous aspect.

Man, while grappling, almost unaided, with untamed nature, and seeking tosubdue her, seems to gravitate away from civilization and approach hisprimitive state. Everything is taken in the rough; the arts and the gracesof a more settled condition of society are cultivated but little, becausethey are non-essentials. The physical qualities are prized more than mentalculture, and the sentiments and sensibilities are in abeyance during thereign of the more robust emotions.

During the onset which the pioneer makes upon the wilderness he and hisentire family bear the rugged impress which such a life stamps upon them.The wife, in the practice of the sterner virtues of courage, self-denial,and fortitude, may become hardened against the access of the quicksensibilities and tender emotions of her more delicately reared sisters.The children, bright-eyed, strong, and nimble, run like squirrels throughthe woods, and leap like fawns on the plain. The mother's tutelage has donemuch, but more remains to be done in the schooling to be had from books.After the first victory has been won over the forest and the soil, and thepioneer reposes for a season upon his laurels, in comparative ease, hediscerns the needs of his flock, and craves the offices of one who cansupply the place of the weary mother in schooling the children.

Out of the void that exists the appliances of education must be created;the nurslings of the plain must be brought together and taught to subjectthemselves to the regular discipline of the district school; and who butwoman can best supply such a discipline!

Such was the condition of frontier society and education when Miss M. cameto Illinois. Her immediate field of labor was a wide prairie, over whichwere thinly scattered the cabins of the pioneer families. There were nobooks, no school house, no antecedent knowledge of what was needed. Butunder the advice and suggestions of this intelligent young lady every wantwas, in a measure, supplied. A rough structure, with logs for seats, andplanks for benches, was soon prepared, books provided, and the childrengathered together into the comfortless room, where Miss M. made her firstessay as a preceptor of the little pioneers.

The children were like wild things caught and confined in a cage. Theirrestlessness was a severe tax to the patience of the delicate girl. Thelong walk to and from the school room in all weathers, through the snows ofwinter, the mud of spring, and against the blast which sweeps those plains,formed no small part of her labor. Luxuries and even comforts were deniedher. They gave her the best they had, but that was poor enough. Her chamberwas an unplastered loft; her bed a shakedown of dried grass. The moonbeamsshowed her the crevices where the rain trickled in, and the snow fringedher coverlid. Her fare was of the coarsest, and her social intercourse, toher sensitive nature, was almost forbidding.

But she never swerved from the course she had marked out, nor shrank fromthe labors and duties incident to her mission. Her body, extremely fragile,was the tenement of an intellect of premature activity and grasp, a nativedelicacy, sensibility, and great moral force. She was a born missionary,and in the difficult and trying career which she had chosen, she showedcourage, self-denial, tenacity of purpose, which, combined with a sweetnessof disposition, soon made her beloved by her scholars and enabled her tosoften their wildness, smooth their rudeness, and impress upon their mindsthe lessons of knowledge which it was her study to impart.

In sunshine or storm her presence was never wanting at her post of duty. Onthe dark mornings of winter she could have been seen convoying her littleprotégés through the driving sleet, or the snow, or slush, and thoserough but not unkindly parents scarcely dreamed that her life was waning.The vivid carnation of her cheeks was not painted by the frosty air, nor bythe scorching heat of the iron box which warmed her little charges as theygathered beneath the ethereal splendors of her eye in the school room. Thedestroyer had set his seal upon her, but her frail body was swayed andanimated by the spirit whose energies even mortal disease could not subdue.

The discovery of the sacrifice was too late, though, all that rude kindnessand unlearned thoughtfulness could do was lavished upon her in those fewdays that remained to her. Months of exposure, hardship, solitude of thesoul, and intense ambition in her noble mission had done their work, andbefore the light of the tenth day after she was driven to her couch, hadfaded, surrounded by a score of her pupils, she passed away, and wasnumbered in the army of missionary heroines and martyrs.

Those brave labors and that noble life was not for nought. The lessonstaught those pupils, the high example set before them, and the lifeexpended for their sake were not lost or forgotten. Some of those littlescholars have grown to be good and useful men and women, and are nowrepeating, in other schools, farther towards the setting sun, the lessonsand example of devotion which they learned from the teacher who gave herlife that they might have knowledge.

The place which woman, as an educator, now fills, and so long has filledupon the frontier, is not bounded, however, by the home-school, nor by thedistrict school, in both of which she is the teacher of the young. She isthe educator of the man. She moulds and guides society.

The home where she rules is the center and focus from which wells out aninfluence as light wells out from the sun. The glow of the fireside wherethe mother sits, is a beacon whose light stretches far out to guide andguard.

The word "home," as used among the old races of Northern Europe, containsin its true signification something mystic and religious. The femalepatriarch of the household was regarded with superstitious veneration. Hersayings were wise and good, and the warrior sat at her feet on the eve ofbattle and gathered from her as from an oracle, the confidence and couragewhich nerved him for the fight; and today the picture of an aged mothersitting by the hearth, and the recollection of her counsels, is a source ofcomfort and strength to many a son who is far away fighting the battle oflife. The home and mother is the polar-star of absent sons and daughters.She who sat by the cradled bed of childhood, "the first, the last, thefaithfulest of friends," she, the guardian of infancy, is the loving andnever to be forgotten guide of riper years. As far as thought can run uponthis earthly sphere, or memory fondly send back its gaze, so far can theinfluence of a mother reach to cheer, to sustain, to elevate, and to keepthe mind and heart from swerving away from the true and the right.

One who received his early training from a mother's lips in a frontierState, and afterward attained to wealth and influence in one of ourmountain republics, lately told the writer that he kept the picture of hismother hanging up in his chamber, where it was the last object which hiseyes lighted on before retiring, and the first upon rising; and whenever hewas about to adopt any new course, or commence any new enterprise intowhich the question of right or wrong entered, he always asked himself,"what will my mother say if I do thus and thus?" That mother's influencewas upon him though a thousand miles away from her, and the thought of herin the crises of his life was the load-star of his strong heart and mind.

We may well imagine those hardy sons who are now building up our empire inthe Rocky Mountains, as finding in a mother's portrait a tie which bindsthem fast to the counsels and the love of their earliest guardian, and thatas they gaze on the "counterfeit presentment" of those endeared features,they might long to hear again the faithful counsels which guided theiryouth, exclaiming with the poet,

"O, that those lips had language! life has passed
With me but roughly since I saw thee last."

We have elsewhere spoken of the refining and humanizing influence of woman,amid the rude and almost barbarous atmosphere of frontier life. The mothermoulds and trains the child, the wife moulds and trains the husband, thesister moulds and trains the brother, the daughters mould and train thefather. We speak now of moulding and of training in a broader sense thanthey are embraced in the curriculum of books. The influence exerted issubtle, but not the less potent. Woman is the civilizer par excellence.Society in its narrower meaning exists by her and through her. That stateof man which is best ordered and safest, is only where woman's membershipis most truly recognized.

Man alone gravitates naturally towards the savage state. Communitiesof men, such as exist in some of our most remote territories, are mereclubs of barbarians. They may be strong, energetic, and brave, but theirvery virtues are such as those which savages possess.

Into one of the loneliest valleys in the Rocky Mountains, some years since,fifty men, attracted by the golden sands which were rolled down by thetorrents, built their huts and gave the settlement a name. There werecabins, a tavern, and a bar-room. There were men toiling and spending theirgain in gambling and rioting. There was rugged strength and hardihood.There was food and shelter, and yet there was no basis for civil and socialorganism, as those terms are properly understood, because no wife, nomother, no home was there.

Those strong and hardy men clove the rock and sifted the soil, and chainedthe cataract, but their law was force and cunning, and the only tie theyrecognized was a partnership in gain. What civilization or true citizenshipcould there be in a society in which the family circle and its kindredoutgrowth—the school and the church—were unknown! The denizens of thatmountain camp slid, by an irresistible law of gravitation, away from civilorder, from social beneficence, and from humanity. They gorged themselves,and swore, and wrangled, and fought, and like the "dragons of the prime,"they tore each other in their selfish greed for that which was their onlycare.

Into this savage semi-pandemonium entered one day, two unwontedvisitors—the wives of miners who had come to join their husbands. Polite,kind, gentle, intelligent, and pious, their very presence seemed to changethe moral atmosphere of the place. All the dormant chivalry of man's naturewas awakened. Their appearance in the midst of that turbulent band was asedative which soon allayed the chronic turmoil in which the settlement wasembroiled. The reign of order commenced again: manners became softened,morals purified: the law of kindness was re-established, and slowly out ofsocial chaos arose the inchoate form of a well-ordered civil society.

This illustrates woman's influence in one of the peculiar conditions of ourAmerican frontier communities. But in all other phases of true pioneerlife, her influence is as strongly, if not as strikingly displayed as ahumanizing, refining, and civilizing agent.

We have said that woman is the cohesive force which holds society together.This thesis may be proved by facts which show that power in all thoserelations in which she stands to the other sex. In cultured circles sheshapes and controls by the charms of beauty and manner. But in the lonelyand rude cabin on the border her plastic power is far greater because herpresence and offices are essentials without which development dwindles andprogress is palsied. There, if anywhere, should be the vivified germ of thetown and the state. There, if anywhere, should be the embryonic conditionswhich will ripen one day into a mighty civil growth. A wife's devotion, thepurity of a sister's and a daughter's love, the smiles and tears andprayers of a mother—these make the sunshine which transforms the wasteinto a paradise, the wild into a garden, and expands the home by a law oforganic growth into a well ordered community.

The basis of civil law and social order is the silent compact which bindsthe household into one sweet purpose of a common interest, a commonhappiness. Woman is the unconscious legislator of the frontier. The gentlerestraints of the home circle, its calm, its rest, its security form theunwritten code of which the statute book is the written exponent.

The cross is emblazoned on the rude entablature above the hearth-stone ofthe cabin, and where woman is, there is the holy rest of the blessedsabbath. She, who is the child's instructor in the truths of revealedreligion, is also the father's guide and mentor in the same ways. Faith andhope in these doctrines as cherished by woman are the sheet anchors of ourunknit civilizations.

Law is established because woman's presence renders more desirable, life,property, and the other objects for which laws are made.

Religion purifies and sanctifies the frontier home because she is therepository and early instructress in its Holy Creeds.

The influence that woman exerts on man is one that exalts: while sheeducates her child she elevates and ennobles the entire circle of thefamily.

If we cast our eyes back over the vast procession of actors and eventswhich have composed the migrations of our race across the continent, fromocean to ocean, we are first struck by the bolder features of the march. Wesee the battles, the feats of courage and daring, the deeds of highenterprise in which woman is the heroine, standing shoulder to shoulderbeside her hero-mate. Again we look and see the wife and mother worn withtoils and hardships, and wasted with suffering which she endures withunshaken heart—a miracle of fortitude and patience. Then we behold her asthe comforter and the guardian of the household amid a thousand tryingscenes, soothing, strengthening, cheering, and preserving.

Grand and beautiful indeed are such spectacles as these. They rivet theeye, they swell the breast, they lift the soul of the gazer, because theyare an exhibition of great virtues exercised on a wide field, in a noblecause—the subjugation of the wilderness, and the extension of the area ofcivilization. The hero who fights, the martyr who dies, the sufferer whobleeds, the spirit of kindness and sympathy which comforts and confirms areobjects which call for our tears, our praise, our gratitude. But after all,these are incidents merely, glorious and soul-stirring indeed, yet scarcelymore than superficial features and external agencies of the grand march,compared to the moral influence which emanates from the wife and mother ina million homes and through a million lives with a steadfastness and powerand beneficence which can best be likened to the sunshine.

We praise it less because it is everywhere. We hardly see it, but we knowthat it is present, and that society—frontier society—could not longexist without that penetrating, shaping, elevating force. And so while weapplaud the heroine we may not forget the patient and often unconsciouseducator.

When the philosophical historian of the future collects the myriad factsupon which he is to base those generalizations which show the progress ofthe race upon this continent, and how that progress was induced, he willdraw from woman's record a noble array of names and virtues, and a vastmultitude of good, kind, and brave deeds, but he will not forget to takenote also of the silent agencies, and the unobtrusive but ever-presentinfluence of woman which will be found to outweigh the potency of thestronger and more brilliant virtues with all the acts that they havewrought.

And so it is to-day. As we gaze fixedly on the great expanse which therecord of our time unrolls, we see high up on the majestic scroll athousand bright and speaking evidences of woman's silent agency in thebuilding of a new empire upon our dark and distant borderland.