of another language. And when darkness fell, until late into the night,
she talked about the past, her own more than fifty years in Iowa, of
Indians and settlers, of wolves and storms. Some of these things I have
tried to write into this book— but not all of them, for there are things
that a mother can tell her son that he can not tell to others.

But she never finished telling her story of Iowa, for one afternoon in
the spring of the year, the threads of her remembrance and of her life
were broken. She passed away while waiting for a cup of tea, the social
afternoon cup which she herself had poured for so many others, for 4
o'clock had always been tea time in her home. It was the best way for
her to leave the earth which she had loved so much through nearly four
score of years.

She was only one of the many pioneer mothers in Iowa. She did not live
in the sight of the world. She died unknown to fame. But after having
written so much about so many others, I could not do less than write
something also about her--and how poor is the little I can do for her,
compared with the much more which she did for me.