Читать книгу Days on the Road: Crossing the Plains in 1865 - Sarah Raymond Herndon - Страница 13

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After dinner mother washes the dishes and makes all the arrangements she can for an early breakfast. She thinks I am another “Harriet Beecher Stowe,” so she is perfectly willing to do the work in the evening and let me write. Oh, the unselfishness of mothers. I do my share, of course, mornings, and at noon, but evenings I only make the beds in both wagons.

We have white sheets and pillow-cases, with a pair of blankets, and light comforts on both beds, just the same as at home, and they do not soil any more or any quicker, as we have them carefully protected from dust.

I had been writing a little while after dinner, when Frank stepped up with a basket of beautiful red-cheeked apples in his hand, not a wilted one among them.

“Where shall I put them?”

“Oh, Frank, how lovely they are. Where did you get them? Thank you so much; they are not all for me?”—as he emptied the last one into the pan. “Are all the others supplied? This seems more than my share.”

“Yes; they are for you, we bought the farmer’s entire stock; the others are supplied, or will be without you giving them yours.”

He had just gone, when Sim Buford came and threw half a dozen especially beautiful ones into my lap.

“Thank you, Sim, but I am bountifully supplied, don’t you see?”

“So you are, but keep mine, too; I can guess who it was that forestalled me.” Laughing as he walked off.

So we are feasting on luscious apples this evening, thanks to the generosity of our young gentlemen.

* * * * *

Friday, May 5.

We came through Unionville and Moravia to-day. Have traveled farther and later than any day yet. It was almost dark when we stopped, and raining, too; to make a bad matter worse, we are camping in a disagreeable muddy place, and have to use lanterns to cook by.

We were obliged to come so far to get a lot large enough to hold the stock. We will be glad to sleep in the house to-night.

Mrs. Kerfoot is homesick, blue and despondent this evening; she has always had such an easy life that anything disagreeable discourages her. Perhaps when the sun shines again she will feel all right.

* * * * *

Saturday, May 6.

This morning dawned clear and bright; all nature seemed refreshed by yesterday’s rain, and we started joyfully on our journey once more. We came through Iconium early in the day, are camping in Lucas County, near a beautiful farmhouse. We expect to stay here until Monday, as we do not intend to travel on Sundays.

It is a beautiful moonlight night, some one proposes a walk. As Cash is giving Winthrop his first lessons in flirtation, they, of course, go together; Sim and Neelie, Miss Milburn and Ezra are the next to start, and Frank is waiting to go with me. Hill stays in camp, in conversation with Mr. Kerfoot and Mr. Milburn.

He is more like an old man than the boy that he is, not twenty yet. After we had gone a short distance, Miss Milburn asked to be excused, and returned to camp; Ezra, of course, going with her.

We walked on for a mile or more, enjoying the beautiful moonlight, and having lots of fun, as happy young people will have. When we returned and I had said good-night to the others, I climbed into the wagon to finish my writing for the day by the light of the lantern.

The front of Mr. Milburn’s wagon almost touches the back of ours, forming an angle. I had been writing a few moments when I heard sobbing. I was out in a jiffy, and had gone to the front of their wagon without stopping to think whether I was intruding. “May I come in?” I asked, as I stepped upon the wagon-tongue.

“Oh, yes, come in, Miss Sallie, but I am ashamed to let you see me crying, somehow I could not help it. I felt so lonely and homesick.”

“I am sorry you feel lonely and homesick. Did any of us say, or do anything this evening that could have hurt you?”

“Oh, no; not at all, only I always feel that I am one too many, when I am with you all; you seem so light-hearted and happy, so free from care, so full of life and fun, that I feel that I am a damper to your joyousness, for I cannot get over feeling homesick and sad, especially when night comes.”

“How sweetly Ernest sleeps, and how much he seems to enjoy this manner of life.”

“Yes; he is a great comfort to me, as well as a great care. He is dearer to me than to any one else in the world; his father seems to be weaned from him, since they have been separated so long. He has not seen him more than half a dozen times since his mother died. I feel that he is altogether mine. May God help me to train him for Heaven. He will never know what I have sacrificed for him. I have a mind to tell you, if you care to hear, why I am here, and why I am not happy.”

“It may perhaps relieve you, and lighten the burden, to share it.”

And then she told me what I will record to-morrow, for it is almost midnight, and mother has been asleep for two hours, and I must hie me to bed.