CHAPTER VIII.

When I was about closing my school and other business, word came to me that my mother was very sick. I went to her as quick as I could and found her very sick indeed. The Wilsons, as was their true nature, were and had been doing all they could for her comfort. One day the end came. She died in peace, even though it was in a wretched log cabin on a bare prairie, her children standing around her, frantic with grief. I can never forget the heart-broken sobs of my little brothers, Calvin and William. How dreary the world seemed when a little procession of those neighbors in farm wagons followed her one morning to the Friends' burying-ground at Salem, where we stood by the grave until those kind people had thrown on the last spadeful of earth and shaped it into a mound over all that was mortal of our beloved mother. More than half a century the prairie grass has been growing, and the prairie winds have been singing a requiem over that humble grave. Generations have passed sway and other generations have come upon the scene and taken their places, since that day on which that terrible truth, "My mother was dying!" flashed upon my mind; as the years go by, and that day in August which to me is apart from all other days in the year, I live over again that terrible experience. That sad scene with all its surroundings is photographed on my memory, and has never faded out in all the years that have come and gone; that cabin with its dingy walls, the white home made counterpane on my mother's bed, the locust tree before the door, with the breeze lifting up its leaves, my little brothers, helpless, weeping, and the faces of kind neighbors who wept with us, form a picture which time has not dimmed. My mother was a Christian and died rejoicing, though all around her were weeping. I am thirty years older than my mother was when the Lord took her to himself. I have read the writings of many authors who have given to the world what are supposed to be the best thoughts and ideas and teaching to young girls; have observed and thought much myself, but my mother's advice and counsel to me stands good to-day, and is what my best judgment approves. The principles she taught me are the principles which I try to instil into the mind of every young girl who comes under my influence. My mother was kind to the sick, and when she was sick and dying, kind people came to help and comfort her.

Paton and Hannah Wilson have long been sleeping under the sod. If these lines ever fan into the hands of any of their children, grand-children, or great-grandchildren, I want them to know that there is one at least who has never ceased to be grateful for the help and kindness shown her and hers in that time of sorrow. The Wilsons stand prominently in my memory, but they are not all the noble-hearted people who have a warm place in my heart. There was a lovely Christian Quaker lady, Rachel Bond, whose words of tender sympathy and kind acts I have not forgotten. And Mr. Lyon, true to his kindly instincts, was ready and willing to do anything in his power to lighten our grief. Mr. Lyon has always been held in grateful remembrance by me. The reader, if there ever is a reader of this story, may think there ought to, be a sequel to Mr. Lyon's and my rather romantic acquaintance, but there is no sequel. My story is without a plot, and is only an attempt to tell a straightforward and true story of my recollections of long ago.

After my mother was gone I soon realized that I could not afford to sit down and nurse my grief and bemoan my bereavement; something practical had to be thought of. The Wilsons, as they had been doing all along, stood by us, and were planning a way to send me and my little brothers to our relatives in Indiana, when four days after my mother's death my uncle and aunt, Aaron and Delilah Cox, came. They had not heard of my mother's death until they reached that neighborhood. They had come with teams to take to the "New Purchase" a considerable portion of their household goods and other things, left when they moved in the Spring. They proposed different arrangements for us. That was before the days of telegraphy, and postal service was so poor and uncertain that to send a letter to the wilds of the "New Purchase" was a thing that one could have no assurance would ever reach its destination.

When my uncle and aunt took in the situation they both, with one accord offered me a home in their family, and said they were sure the people in their settlement would employ me to teach their children. At the same time it was arranged to send my little brothers to our relatives in Indiana. The parting from my little brothers added another pang to my great sorrow. I thought of course in some way I would see them again before a very great while; but when I saw them again they were young men and I was living in Oskaloosa, married, and had two little boys of my own. That good uncle and aunt did and said all they could to comfort me. They didn't seem to think they were making any sacrifice in taking me into their family, as one of their own children. I was too young and inexperienced in regard to the care of providing for a family to fully appreciate their great kindness. In after years, when I had seen and learned more of the world, I looked back to that act of pure-hearted kindness with wonder and gratitude.

My uncle had two wagons, one drawn by a pair of horses and the other by two yoke of oxen; both wagons were pretty well filled. The ox wagon was what was called an old Pennsylvania wagon, with long bed extending far out in front and back. That wagon was piled high with various things, among others a quantity of flax which had been broken in a flax-break, but not hacheled or swingled. Many families in that day raised flax; they broke it, swing led it, hacheled it, spun it and wove it by hand. In those days I was called a good spinner - I loved to spin flax and used to be an expert in spinning thread. They used to say that any verse in the Bible was a true proverb: "She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff." Prov. xxxi, 19.

I never enjoyed any work more than spinning flax on one of those little wheels we sometimes see now placed in a parlor or elegant guest chamber as a choice ornament. I had the pleasure in the winter of '44 and '45 of helping my aunt spin the flax that was brought to the "New Purchase" on that big Pennsylvania wagon. My uncle had provided a comfortable place for my aunt and me in the other wagon, but after we had traveled one day and reached what was erroneously called the "edge of civilization," I obtained leave of my uncle to ride on that pile of flax. It was up high in air and I had a charming view of that wide expanse of unbroken, green, waving, undulating prairie. After we had left Fairfield and gone a few miles west we realized that we were in a place where, as far as we could see, no long string of oxen with massive plow had ever turned a furrow. The tall bluestem grass, the yellow and purple prairie blossoms were being swayed to and fro by the mild August breeze. We could see the Skunk River timber away off to the right of us, with now and then a point extending out toward that great mass of undisturbed grass and blossoms. The road had been traveled so little the grass was not worn out in it. Travelers had nothing to obstruct their way. They could drive just where they chose, though they kept along what was called "The Divide." By so doing they missed the few hills and hollows and sloughs they would have encountered near the timber. We traveled miles and miles without seeing any sign of a human habitation. After a while our road led us to one of those points of timber where was located a very poor looking log cabin and a few acres enclosed by a very poor fence. About this cabin was a cluster of plum and crab apple trees which almost hid the cabin from view. I might say, "A rural cot embowered 'neath nature's primeval foliage" but anything so poetical and romantic would be misleading. It wouldn't give one the. true picture of that poor, crude cabin built in the brush, where was just enough cut down to make a place for said cabin. The crab apple and plum trees were all-right in their native state, but with dead brush and sticks and chips all around and under them, the sight was not, very inviting. A very sour, unsociable looking woman was sitting before the cabin door, under one of those crab apple trees, spinning flax on a little wheel. My aunt and I walked up near her and spoke to her. She didn't stop spinning, just barely nodded to us. We asked her for water. Her only answer was, "You can get water over there in the slough," motioning with her head the direction. We noticed a dim path leading that way, followed it and directly came to the slough, where we found a hole dug in the side, full of not very good water. It slaked our thirst though, and we went back and thanked her. She just nodded a very slight nod with the same sour look on her face, her feet keeping the same vigorous motions on the pedal of her wheel and her hands manipulating the flax. We made no more efforts to be sociable but went back to our wagons, climbed in and journeyed on. That was late in the afternoon. When night came we had reached another point where we camped. That was the last night before reaching my uncle's home. That last camping place I afterward heard called "Waugh's Point". The next morning we were up and on our way a little after sunrise. I climbed up on that big wagon, and from that elevated seat had an unobstructed view of that charming landscape; that undisturbed great native meadow. Some groves could be seen off toward the Skunk river, and away over toward the Des Moines. Not a human habitation was to be seen; not an animal, except occasionally in the distance we would see a deer or wolf scampering off toward one of those groves.

The last morning of that journey, which I little thought would result in events and circumstances of so much importance to me, was one of those delightfully cool mornings which sometimes occur in August. I was seated on my airy perch, taking in the never-tiring scene and breathing the fresh morning air, when suddenly a gentleman on horseback rode up beside the wagon. I recognized him in a moment as an acquaintance I had made while in the Brazelton neighborhood, Dr. Theodore Porter. I wondered if he wouldn't be amused at seeing me in so unromantic a situation. The doctor slackened his pace to suit the plodding gait of our oxen and kept by us for a mile or two, all the time treating me with as great deference as if I had been a princess mounted on a triumphal car. He told me he was going to locate in, or had located in the new town of Oskaloosa, and was surprised to see me on my way to that region. I asked him about the town and people, and in reply to my questions he said: There are perhaps a dozen houses in the town, and as good a class of people coming in as you will find anywhere. There is a family named Seevers, a Mr. Williams, a gentleman by the name of Edmondson, all first-Class people, and a family by the name of Phillips, who are all singers. I never heard better vocal music than was made by the Phillips family." The doctor, after saying many more complimentary things about the people around Oskaloosa, and expatiating on the beauty and natural advantages of the country about the Narrows, and saying he would call on me in my new home in the near future, bade us good morning and started off on a brisk trot toward Oskaloosa.

Our oxen, patient and plodding, kept on in the even tenor on their way, occasionally reaching out and snatching a bite of blue-stern grass by the roadside. We came in sight of "White Oak Point," where my uncle said there were a few families settled; we couldn't see the houses, as we kept out on the "divide." When we were not far from White Oak Point I looked away toward the west, or a little north of west, and saw what seemed to be a narrow gap between two points of timber. I called my uncles attention to the scene, and asked him what that place was. He replied:' "I was wondering if you had noticed that. That is, 'The Narrows;' you have heard so much about, and that 'gap,' as you call it, is where Oskaloosa is located; but the houses are so few and little and the grass so high, you will have to get a good deal nearer than this before you can see it. The timber you see on your right hand is Skunk River timber and that on the left is Des Moines River timber. After going through 'The Narrows' the prairie widens out again and is interspersed with groves, and the country above is just as beautiful as this which you have been carrying on so about."

When we were within three or four miles of my uncle's place, he and my aunt began pointing out places which loomed up in sight, and telling me who owned and lived at different groves-nobody had ventured far out on the prairie at that time. Away off to the southwest a beautiful grove stood out conspicuously and could be seen a long way off. "That," my uncle said, "is one of the finest places on that side of the prairie and belongs to a man by the name of Lewis Rhinehart." Another place which stood out "high and dry" was called the "Parker grove." Now it is the McKinley farm. We left that main drive and turning to the right into a track much less traveled, were directly in a region of prairie all interspersed with the most beautiful groves of drooping elms and lind trees. They were all surrounded with a border of crab apple and plum trees. My uncle, pointing toward the north, said: "About two miles over in that direction is Skunk river, and on the bluff is an Indian village called 'Kishkekash.' There are no Indians there now, but some of their bark huts are still there, and a family of white people by the name of Bean own a claim there and are living In one of those 'wigwams'." Presently we began to see fields of corn and some very small and crude cabins tucked in the edges of the groves. My aunt remarked, "Now we are getting into our settlement and I will show thee where some of our neighbors live." Pointing to a grove to the east she said: "There is where Poultney Loughridge lives." Then pointing west she remarked: "Thee sees that big grove over there? That is where Thomas Stafford lives, and a little farther on his son Brantley lives. Brantley's wife, Rachel, is a relative of ours, Rachel's brother, Sammy Coffin, lives about four miles west of our house. Our cousin, Dr. Seth Hobbs, lives about a mile and a half from our house, southwest." She kept on telling me about their neighbors until we came to a cornfield where the road was along the fence, and away at the end of the field and close to a body of timber was a cabin which we could plainly see as we drove along the fence. I asked her whose field it was. She replied, "This is our field and that is our house." "Well," I said, "Aunt Delilah, I think you have the prettiest place of all." It was a pretty place and seemed so nicely located, There was beautiful timber to the west and north of their house, and the cabin was just out from the edge of the timber. Their field of corn just in roasting ear layoff toward the south.

There was great joy in the family when we arrived. My cousins had seen us coming down the road and all came running to see their father and mother. They were surprised to see me, but welcomed me in a hearty, childlike way. But when Aunt Delilah said, "Aunt Mary is dead and Semira has come to live with us," joy was mixed with sorrow and tears came in our eyes. Uncle and aunt questioned the children about the way they had gotten along in their absence. They had all been well and nothing serious had happened. As we went toward the house we saw a young looking, woman standing in the yard with a little child in her arms. My aunt shook hands with her and then introduced us in this way: "Semira, this is our nearest neighbor, Amanda Martin; and Amanda, this is my niece, Semira Ann Hobbs." Aunt Delilah was a genuine Quaker of the old stamp and never said Mr., Mrs., nor Miss to anybody. I don't think Aunt Delilah ever did but one thing in her life which was forbidden by the discipline of her church, and that was "to marry out of meeting." I don't think anybody ever blamed her for that. If she had had her pick and choice of all the young Quakers in the State of Indiana, she could not have found a more pure-minded and honorable man for a husband than Aaron Cox. Both my uncle and aunt were exceedingly conscientious, just and honest. I had a home in their family for more than a year and was never made to feel that I was not welcome. They were quite as well fixed for living as any family in that new settlement, Their cabin had but one room, but that room was larger than cabins generally were. I think now it was eighteen feet wide and twenty feet long. I know they had in it four ordinary sized beds, and a trundle-bed which was kept under one of the big beds in the day time and drawn out at night for the children. The style of bedstead used then was so high from the floor to the bed rail that there was ample room under a bed to store many trunks and chests and boxes and bundles. It was customary to bang a valance around which hid all these unsightly things. Women in that day and stage of the country's history learned how to manage and utilize room. My uncle's cabin had a very large fire-place, six feet wide at least. That fire-place was built up, back and jambs with stone and mud. The top of the chimney was of mud and split staves or sticks. The floor was puncheon and the roof clap-boards. There was a door in the south, a small window in the west end by the fire-place, and another small window in the north. My aunt had a loom and all other necessaries for making cloth. While the weather was warm the loom was kept in a shed at the back of the house. That shed had a clap-board roof, and the floor was of elm tree, bark laid flat on the ground with the rough side up. My uncle and aunt were both good managers and could make the best of their crude surroundings. They had plenty in the wilderness.

They had moved to this place in March and the time I am talking about was August. They had to go a long way to procure flour and corn-meal; I think the nearest mill was in Jefferson County. My uncle and aunt and every child that was old enough were workers, and had raised a splendid garden. That fresh, new, mellow soil without a single weed, would produce a crop without much tending; they had cabbage, tomatoes, potatoes, beans, and had the only sweet potatoes around there. All through the cornfield the ground was yellow with pumpkins; my aunt had not neglected to bring a supply of garden seeds when they came in the Spring. About a dozen rows of corn nearest the house were hanging full of beans of the "cut short" variety. Besides the necessary and useful, my cousins, Eliza Ann and Elizabeth, had a bed of old-fashioned flowers-marigolds, four o'clocks, larkspurs, touch-me-nots, and some morning glory vines running up strings by the cabin door. Fruit was the thing missed most, and if my aunt had not brought a quantity of dried apples we would have been without. Blackberries grew in the woods about there, but at the time I am talking about the blackberry season was over. Crab-apples were plenty, but sugar was a luxury both scarce and dear, and crab-apples even in that day were not greatly relished without being sweetened.

My aunt, and I presume most of her neighbors, had a little sugar carefully put away to be used only in emergencies, but we got along very well without sugar. My uncle kept four cows and we had more milk and butter than we could use. There was no market anywhere in reach, and what we couldn't use was given to the pigs. I remember how lavishly my aunt would put butter in everything she cooked, especially her roasting-ear puddings. One of Aunt Delilah's roasting-ear puddings, spread all over with the kind of butter she made, was a whole meal itself. We had one of those puddings every night for supper as long as the roasting-ears lasted.

My uncle, as I have said, was not a member of any religious denomination, but had a profound respect for sacred things, especially for my aunt's views and strict adherence to the customs of the church of which she was a member. We never sat down to our meals, no matter how plain, without observing the little spell of silent reverence practiced among Friends. I had been brought up among Friends, or Quakers, and knew all about their habits, but at that time and for a long time after, I had never heard a vocal grace at one of their tables. But all Friends who were worthy of the name observed the custom of bowing their heads in silent reverence and thanksgiving to God before partaking of their meals. No long and devout utterance of vocal prayer and thanksgiving at table ever seemed more solemn to me than the silent grace of the Quakers. When they buried their dead they stood solemnly around' the grave, not shunning the heart-piercing sound of clods falling on the coffin-lid, but waiting until the last spadeful of earth was placed and fashioned into a smooth, shapely mound by some kind and sympathetic neighbor who, when the last gentle pat was given, would quietly step back, and leaning on his spade, would wait with the others the few moments of reverent, solemn silence which always followed the burial of their dead.

The people in that neighborhood were nearly all members of some religious denomination, or had a membership before they came, but no church had been organized nor any religious meetings held. The Staffords, the Stanleys, the Arnolds, and my aunt Delilah, were Quakers. The Martins (H.P., usually called Patterson), and Silas, his brother, and their wives, were members of the Cumberland Presbyterian Church. Poultney Loughridge and family were United Presbyterians. Several denominations were represented, but only a few represented anyone. But however their religious tenets may have differed as neighbors, they dwelt together in harmony. They were kind and helpful to each other and hospitable to strangers. There seemed to be no such feeling as jealousy, nor any disposition to take advantage of each other. Everyone of those families owned a good claim and had obtained them honestly.