Part 2

"Yes; but it was so different from what we needed, and from what we had been accustomed to. We were told that a settler, three miles from here, a smart capable man, was a preacher. And, although he was a Universalist, rather than have none of the offices appropriate to such an event, my husband invited him to officiate. He made some remarks, but did not pray, saying he was not used to praying. And so my boy was buried! We have never felt right about that funeral, and when I heard of you, I felt 'so' glad! I have not heard a sermon for more than two years, yet I prize such privileges."

But silently the neighbors had assembled from miles around, some on foot, more in ox-teams. The rooms were crowded with an intelligent, strongly-marked audience, decorous and sympathizing. A deep hush was over all as I read those solemn, sweetly-consoling passages in the Bible that lead the thoughts from the perishable to the unchangeable, and reveal the life to come. How wondrously significant were they in that grief-shadowed, pioneer home! And how touching the oft-sung hymn,—

"Thus fades the lovely, blooming flower, Frail, smiling solace of an hour!"

Never, however, had I read those fine words of Cowper with such effect:—

"God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps on the sea, And rides upon the storm."

And I felt impressed to say, alluding to the providential and gracious preparation of the lad for the sudden coming of the messenger, that, if the bereaved would seek grace to look away from secondary causes up to the great First Cause, confiding in his wisdom and love, I felt confident they would yet see proofs of a kind design in their affliction, and learn that by it God intended signal good to themselves and others; a remark which subsequent events justified. But I will not anticipate.

The mother's sorrowful face haunted me all the way during the ride back. Few words were spoken by our little company, before so companionable. The gloom of the death-room was on us all. The very landscape seemed in unison with the scene we had left, as it stretched away to the horizon, smooth and treeless, wrapped in its fleecy shroud. As I glanced athwart the long, dull level, I thought of the races that once held possession here, now gone. What was that great solitude but a vast city of the dead, without a memento? Only one living thing appeared as far as the eye could reach. On a gently swelling mound near by, scarcely distinguishable, in its garb of pure white, from the snowy hillock, sat a large Arctic bird ("strix nyctea"). Naturalists say that nearly all the notes of birds are plaintive. With a moaning scream, like one in distress, the bird soared over us, his eagle size and swan-like plumage adding majesty to his lonely flight. The whole was in unison with the sad emotions that ruled our hearts.

"I thank you for calling for me," said my infidel friend, as he stepped out of the sleigh at his gate.

"And I thank 'you,'" I replied, "for opening the way for Christian labor on behalf of that afflicted family. If it benefits them, you brought it about. And my prayer is, that it may do us 'all' good!"

"I hope it may," he rejoined, with a tremulous voice, as he entered his door.

The driver was not so much to blame as at first appeared. He did not realize that the boy was so feeble. Many kind-hearted people, blessed with health, cannot be made to understand the condition of those less favored in this regard. How often the incurably diseased, suffering indescribable horrors, subjected to the slow-wasting power of some chronic complaint, are contemptuously treated by those who might cheer their gloom and soften their hard lot. Ah! Dear reader, let us never be wanting in tenderest sympathy toward the frail, sensitive invalid, soon perhaps to be hidden from our sight by the clinging turf.

GOING FOR LUMBER.

AUTUMN'S breath was growing frosty, reminding us that Winter was on his way, and our house was still unfinished; the floors were yet to be laid, and the roof boarded and shingled. The neighbor who volunteered to "draw the minister's lumber," had taken long journeys with that object in view, but without accomplishing his purpose, for the mills could not supply the demand, so great had been the immigration. So I resolved to go for it myself.

But every thing available, biped and quadruped, was over-busy, and as I had no "team," a further delay seemed inevitable, when relief came from an unexpected quarter. A Norwegian—a semi-Americanized, good man, hearing of my situation, called to offer the use of his cattle. He had them with him, a yoke of young, sharp-horned brindles, trim and muscular, with bright, undaunted eyes.

Now, within the year, I had landed, an invalid, in Minnesota. Forbidden, by my physicians, to preach for at least two years, I had, after the first few weeks, farmed, carpentered, felled trees, split rails, quarried stone, practiced medicine, taught school, &c., besides performing usual Sabbath labor. Having resolved to "take things by the smooth handle," I had found no little happiness in my many-sided life, but the prospect of a long journey with oxen did not look attractive I confess.

"Why, my friend," said I to the Norwegian, "it is twenty-seven miles to the nearest mill! I haven't patience to go that distance with cattle, they are so slow."

"Mine are fast enough," he replied. "I will match them against the best horses about here. I always trot them when they haven't a heavy load. You'll find them nimble, I'll warrant!"

It was no time to be finical, and I asked, "When can I have them?"

"To-night," said he. "I will leave them here and walk home. It is only six miles!"

The wagon-body was weak, and he requested that I procure another. I obtained one at last; an unwieldy affair, so heavy that three of us found it something of a task to adjust it to the wheels—a veritable Pennsylvanian—long enough, as they of the Quaker State say, "to reach from one mud-hole to the next."

The next morning I had mounted to the board seat, with my long teamster's whip, when a gentle voice called from the door,—

"Bring the wagon back safely if you can!"

The musical little laugh that accompanied this sally had something of foreboding in it.

For a while the path lay across prairie solitudes, unrelieved, save by a lively divergence now and then by the cattle, made in the spirit of mischief. Often, too, a "prairie hen" would run on before the team, keeping a few feet ahead, then fly off, with a whirring sound, into the long grass.

Seven miles, and "Slough Creek" was reached—a willow-fringed, bridgeless stream. Alighting, I was calculating, by the aid of a long pole, the depth of water and mud, and the steepness of the banks, when I was forced to run for the wagon, and managed to jump in behind, just as it was going into the gulf, for the brindles had concluded to wait no longer. Down we went, with a plunge and a shock, and up the other side at a round trot, the freakish creatures keeping on, in spite of me, across a level meadow, through a bristling array of blackberry and other bushes, to a log-house. There they stopped.

I got out to turn them into the path again, but they ran round and round the cabin. In a few moments a woman came out, and comprehending my trouble, seized the whip, and laying the lash on with her brawny arm, soon brought the cattle into subjection. They suffered her to guide them into the road. She disappeared, as I thanked her in pantomime—for she was a Norwegian, as unable to speak my language as I hers, and the brindles would not act as interpreters, yet that they understood her perfectly, and my English somewhat, I could not doubt.

It was once more "smooth sailing," and as the beasts behaved for a time with exemplary steadiness, for want of something else to do I fell to reconsidering the figure I had just cut, and trying to comprehend the character and qualities of my horned steeds. What sagacity they showed in choice of opportunity when about to execute a wild prank! How ungovernable they became toward me, yet obedient to a woman's voice and hand! I at once recalled a humorous description I had read of pig-driving in Ireland. The writer says, wittily, there was in Ireland an old breed of swine, which is now nearly extinct, except in some remote parts of the country, where they are still useful in the hunting season, particularly if dogs happen to be scarce. (He assures John Bull, on the authority of Phil Purcel, pig-driver, that this is a fact.) They were a tall, loose species, with legs of an unusual length, with no flesh, short ears, as if they had been cropped for sedition, and with long faces of a highly intellectual cast. They were also of such activity that few greyhounds could clear a ditch or cross a field with more agility. Their backs formed a rainbow arch, capable of being contracted or extended to an inconceivable degree; and their usual rate of travelling in droves was at mail-coach speed, or six Irish miles an hour, preceded by an outrider to clear the way, whilst their rear was brought up by another horseman, going at a three-quarter gallop!

In the middle of summer, when all Nature reposed under the united influence of heat and dust, it was an interesting sight to witness a drove of them sweeping past, like a whirlwind, in a cloud of their own raising; their sharp and lengthy outlines dimly visible through the shining haze, like a flock of antelopes crossing the deserts of the East. Their patriotism, also, as evinced in an attachment to the land of their birth and Irish habits, was scarcely more remarkable than their sagacity. There was not, the distinguished author assures us, an antiquarian among that learned and useful body, the Irish Academy, who could boast such an intimate knowledge of the Irish language, in all its shades of meaning and idiomatic beauty, as did this once flourishing class of animals. Not that they were confined to the Irish tongue, many of them understood English too; and it was said of those that belonged to a convent, the members of which, in their intercourse with each other, spoke only in Latin, that they were tolerable masters of that language, and refused to leave a potato field, or plot of cabbages, except when addressed in it. To the English tongue, however, they had a deep-rooted antipathy; whether proceeding from the national feeling, or the fact of its not being sufficiently guttural, is not affirmed; be this as it may, says the writer referred to, it must be admitted that they were excellent Irish scholars, and paid a surprising degree of deference and obedience to whatever was addressed to them in their own language. For a critical knowledge of their native tongue they were unrivalled by the most learned pigs or antiquarians of their day; none of either class possessing, at that period, such a knowledge of Irish manners, nor so keen a sagacity in tracing out Irish "roots."

I was adjusting this description, hyperbole and all, to my case, substituting cattle for swine, and Norwegian for Irish, when my comparisons were brought to a pause. We had entered primitive forests, belting a river which flowed through loftily rounded bluffs. From the edge of the woods I could see that the road wound down among the trees by a long, yet rapid descent, often making a curve to avoid a stump, rock, or tree. So I took my place by the cattle, resting my whip across their faces, to check undue speed; but soon, with an impetuous charge, away they went, the axles frequently grazing the oaks, the heavy vehicle imparting dangerous momentum, till, dashing through the shallow stream, as they could not fly up the opposite bluff, I overtook them.

My attention was now called to a peculiarity in the road. We had ascended gradually, till we were crossing bare rock at a suspicious angle, and still the way grew steep. Thinking I must have missed the path, and that a track I saw a few moments before might be the true one, I stopped the cattle and hastened to examine it, with a frequent "whoa!" The result showed that we were on the right road. Returning, I found that the cattle, with a quick movement, had gained the apex of the bill, and there they stood, ranged along the verge of a precipice of at least one hundred and fifty feet! The slightest false movement might send them over. As carefully as possible, I turned them down to the road again,—and they were models of docility the while,—but the instant it was done, they wheeled about, throwing the vehicle completely over, and steamed toward home, leaving the wagon-body on the side of the rock, and further down the hind wheels; and recrossing the river, they sped up the other declivity, while I shouted most despairingly after them. By taking a bee line, however, I succeeded in coming out in front of them before they emerged upon the smooth prairie. Then, there was the righting of the front wheels, the attaching of the others, the guiding of the perverse animals up the bluff to the ponderous wagon-body. Where "should" I get help to replace it, in that lonely place, seldom trodden by human foot? I felt that this was an extremity, and for a moment could do nothing but pray. Then I looked up the winding path I had come, hoping to see some friendly face. None appeared. Meanwhile the cattle were restless. So, summoning all my energy,—the energy of desperation,—to my own wonder, I raised the huge wreck from its resting-place and adjusted it to the wheels, and in due time reached the mill village.

"Have you any lumber?" I asked of the mill owner.

"No; I let the last go this morning," he replied. "A man was here from L—, and said he must have some for his own house and some for his minister's. I let him have a few boards to keep him from suffering, though I needed them myself. Perhaps you are the minister from L—? Well, I thought likely. But I haven't a chip left. Which way did you come?"

"Across R— River, through the woods."

"No wonder you've been cast-away; it's a terrible road. Let me advise you to take the other route going back; it will be prairie mostly, and though further, will be easier."

"I shall do so. But what is that?" I asked, as my eyes rested on the end of a board protruding from a mass of timber.

"Well, that 'does' look like a board," said the easy proprietor, "but it would be a job to get it out."

And he turned away, while I turned over the oak timber till I had obtained more of a supply than the neighbor that preceded me.

"Six miles to the Norwegian," said the mill man, as I was starting off. "You had better inquire the way of him, as the road is a blind one, and he knows all about it."

The afternoon was half gone, but I hoped to reach a settlement on R— River, and spend the night there. But the chapter of accidents was not full. As I was ascending from the low village plot, the pins that held the bows in the yokes dropped out in concert, as if in memory of past joltings, letting the cattle free; of which casualty, they were not slow to take advantage, scampering off like wild buffaloes. In vain I used all the arts of which I was master, seeking to coax, surprise, or drive them into the bows again, which I bore with me for the purpose. If for a moment they stopped to graze, it was with one eye on me, ready to spring away at my approach. Help appeared, however, in the person of a map agent, just from New England, having left college, and come West for his health. He recognized me at a distance, and filled with compassion, hastened to the rescue as fast as his lame leg, made stiff by a rheumatic affection, would permit. The scene now became ludicrous in the extreme, and I laughed till the tears came, at my own plight and the figure my earnest friend cut, dragging his troublesome limb after him, as he tried to head the cattle. Farm bred, the crook of his arm and his intonations were rural, to perfection, but, as if aware of his infirmity, the wily brutes would wait his coming, and then, just in the nick of time, shake their heads and dart by.

More effective aid was rendered when an emigrant wagon appeared. Its inmates, scattering over the plain, proved too much for brindles, and they were captured, and the wooden pins that, with a borrowed axe, I had made meantime, were driven into the bows with an emphasis, that said, "Stay there!"

Twilight overtook me crossing a succession of sharply-defined ridges, black as Erebus, for the prairie fires had just swept over them. Wagon-tracks diverged on either hand, and when darkness fell,—and it was "pitchy dark,"—I soon lost my way, and there seemed before me the only alternative of passing the night where I was. The tent-like clouds lifted slightly, and stopping the team, I was considering what to do, when I saw something white moving along. It proved to be a man in shirt sleeves.

"Halloo!" I shouted, and he came nearer. "Can you tell me where the Norwegian lives?"

"An' it's about a mile an' a quarter, kaping the ravine to the second right hand road, thin kape to the lift apiece, an' ye'll come to it. But do ye know the way at all, at all?"

"Never was here before."

"Thin ye can niver find it, sure!"

"Not unless you will show me the way."

"Indade an' I can't! Fur yer see I'm in me shirt sleeves, an' I've been shakin' with the ager, an' the night air 'll bring it on agin. I wouldn't have exposed meself, but me cattle have strayed off."

"Oh, they will be found, no doubt!"

"But the neighbors up here have their turnips out, and they swear they'll shoot me cattle if they git at the turnips, an' as there's no fence they'll be sure an' do it, an' me oxen will be kilt intirely!"

"But, friend, you see how it is. I'm lost, and you can help me. My cattle are swift; it won't take long to drive to the Norwegian's, so don't leave me here!"

"An' sure it's not Pat O'Connor that'll do the likes o' that!" said he, touched by the urgency of my appeal. And springing to the seat, and applying the whip, the heavy team rumbled along over the roughnesses, now leaning to one side, now to the other, then ascending a rise of ground, then diving down the other side. Soon it stopped, and the driver jumped out, saying, cheerily,—

"Here's the place! Jist mind the cattle, an' I'll stip over and inquire the way for yer—it's bad gittin' to the house for strangers."

After a few moments he returned, saying, angrily, "Bad luck to 'em! The cabin is full of Norwegians, for they've had a raisin', an' they're all drunk as bastes, an' fightin' like Injuns, an' niver a word can I git out o' them. Sure, an' I don't know what I can do fur ye now. 'Twouldn't be safe for the likes o' ye to go with me, fur thim Irishmen are bad enough for any thing, an' it wouldn't do fur the drunken bastes in the house yonder to know ye're about. But good luck to ye, I must go."

Some months before, I had come across an English family, living, I now thought, in that vicinity, and I asked, "Is there an Englishman living near here?"

"And is his cabin in a fine grove?"

"Yes."

"An' has he grass land on the south, an' jist before his door a dozen acres of 'breakin'' that's not finced?"

"That's the man."

"Faith, an' he lives only a mile and a half from here!"

"Can you drive me there?"

"Sure, an' I wouldn't do it for all the goold in Californy; for it's meself that isn't well, an' me cattle 'll be murthered before I can git back!"

"But," said I, strongly, "you 'must' do it. I can't lie out on the prairie. I don't think your cattle will be any safer for leaving me here."

"Are you a minister?" he asked.

"Yes."

Instantly he was aboard again, and there was something of reverence in his tone, as he said, "I wouldn't go with ye fur money; but—but—I'll not lave ye now."

It was past ten o'clock when the grove-shaded cabin rose to view. My guide hurried to arouse the occupants while I "minded" the cattle.

"Hilloo there! Wake up!" he shouted, as he thumped at the door. "An' ould acquaintince has lost his way, an' wants a shilter. Wake up, I say, and not be slapin' like heathin, when a frind is frazin' in the cowld!"

A door swung cautiously ajar; there was a hum of voices, and the Irishman returned, saying,—

"It's all right with ye, an' I'll bid ye good-bye!" extending his hand. Then, as the well-earned guerdon touched the palm, "Sure an' ye don't think I came for pay!" and warm-hearted Erin disappeared as mine host came up.

But like the Dutchman, who, after a scene of pathos over his lost "poy" restored, found that it was "not" his "poy," so this Englishman was not "my" Englishman. On explaining the mistake, however, he said,—

"Never mind, I shan't fret if you don't."

The dwelling proved to be one of those wretched loggeries that, happily, form an exception to the social habits of the region. The inmates were as uncultured as their shanty was rude. The one room contained five beds, one without a stead, while a dirty cooking-stove stood in the center. The floor was "truncheon," roughly hewed. A hole in the wall served for windows. Size should set off grace or goodness. The huge wife could scarcely lay claim to an excess of the latter. Then there was a grown-up daughter, whose chief accomplishment seemed to be the incessant using of the floor for a pocket handkerchief. Having dressed themselves, both dame and daughter sat down to ask questions, and pare potatoes for the next meal.

"Can you give me some water?" I asked.

A rusty dipper, filled with a dubious imitation of that beverage, was passed with this caution, "Look out for the wrigglers! I always blow before drinking!"

Having satisfied the appetite for news, the husband said,—

"Well, old woman, perhaps the stranger would like to go to bed!" At which mother and daughter began to disrobe, so I stepped out a while. On reentering, I was little relieved to find they had retired, for their bed faced the one I was to share with the man, and with heads propped up against the wall, they eyed me with much interest. This was not at all molified, when the sire observed,—