The Cabin on the Prairie Part 11

"It's a clergyman's wife and children," said the clerk, in a lower tone.

"O, well," replied the other, rising to his feet, "they shall go along, pay or no pay;" and he followed the clerk, who introduced the parties to each other with,--

"Mr. Sawyer--Mrs. Payson. He will take you as far as he goes."

"And how far is that?" she inquired.

"About twenty miles."

"But how shall I get over the remainder of the distance?"

"Don't be concerned about that," replied the man, heartily. "I guess there'll be a way to forward you all right."

And in a half hour his team was before the door, waiting to take her farther into the wilderness. A pair of stout iron-grays harnessed into a long, open wagon, affording s.p.a.ce for a large variety of boxes and packages, and three rows of cus.h.i.+onless seats, const.i.tuted the conveyance. Its owner had been on a trading expedition, but, with an eye to "the main chance," was prepared to catch some of the travel going westward. The wagon was crowded with pa.s.sengers; and, disposing of the three children,--a delicate, intelligent little boy and his two sisters--in the laps of those already seated, the teamster a.s.sisted the mother to a seat at his side. Their presence, it was evident, excited much interest; for the manner and dress of the little family betrayed New England birth and culture.

"Your husband," said the owner of the conveyance, as his horses trotted st.u.r.dily along, "rode up with me the other day. He had been down to the Mississippi waiting for you a whole week, and the landlord at McGreggor's Landing said he was the bluest man he ever saw, because you did not arrive."

"I am sorry that he was anxious on my account," replied the wife, with a merry laugh. "He didn't wish me to venture on the journey alone with the children, and wrote that he would return for me if I could not find suitable company; but, not wis.h.i.+ng to take him from his labors, I packed up, and took our darlings along."

"I hope you didn't meet with any accident on the way," observed a man on the back seat. "You was pretty resolute."

"No; but I came near losing one of my little girls."

"How did it happen?" asked a motherly-looking woman.

"It was in the depot at Springfield. The children were thirsty, and, charging them not to stir until I came back, I crossed the room for water. There was a great crowd rus.h.i.+ng here and there, trains were coming and going, all was bustle and confusion, and I hurried, not having been away but a moment; but little Fannie, my youngest girl, was missing. Helen, the eldest, had been so taken up with the sights and sounds about her, that she did not know that her sister was gone.

I was almost frantic with fear, she had so suddenly and completely disappeared. So, throwing my bonnet back upon my shoulders to attract attention, I cried at the top of my lungs,--

"My child! my child! I've lost my child!"

"Child lost! child lost!" shouted a number of voices, repeating the description I gave of her. n.o.body seemed to have seen her; and a terrible dread that I might not find her wrung my heart, when, to my joy, above the din, I heard some one exclaim,--

"She's found! she's found! Where's the mother?" and a gentleman, holding her aloft, brought her to me. He was deeply agitated, and said,--

"Your little girl, madam, came very near being killed. I found her under the car between two of the wheels, playing with them, saying, 'Car may hurt a me; car may hurt a me.' The last bell had rung, and I had barely time to drag her off the track when the train started."

"It must have been a great care for you," remarked a pa.s.senger, "to bring your children on so long a journey."

"It was, indeed," she replied. "Generally the worst part of it was in getting them into the trains: the children are so small, and the rush of pa.s.sengers so great, that they were in danger of being trampled on, or prevented from getting aboard in season."

"Everybody looks out for Number One at such times," said a man. "I often think that we see more of the selfishness of human nature while travelling than under any other circ.u.mstances. I suppose you were left to get along as best you could with your little ones."

"Usually," she replied. "Sometimes, however, a stranger, bound the same way, would give us a helping hand; but often he would blunder so as to make matters worse. Once I was both amused and frightened. I was struggling to place my children on a train just starting, and, making little headway. I called out, 'Will some one help my children into the cars?' when one of the largest, fattest men I ever saw, who was panting and puffing from his unusual efforts at hurrying, caught up my little boy, and, trotting on like an elephant, he struck his foot against a stone, and came down sprawling into the sand, uttering a great, wild cry, and giving my little boy a throw at the same time. I felt sorry for the man, but thought I should die laughing at the queer figure he cut. And, ungrateful as it seemed, I was obliged, in going for my boy, to pa.s.s around our huge friend, and ride off, leaving him to pick himself up at his leisure."

There was much merriment at this recital, which was increased by a portly Englishman behind her saying, in a jolly way,--

"Hi feel as if hi could happreciate that story, mem!"

"But how do you think you'll like living west?" asked the motherly woman. "It seems to me that the likes of you won't know how to put up with our rough ways."

"O," replied the clergyman's wife, with an enthusiasm which showed what manner of spirit she was of, "I did not come out here for enjoyment, but to cheer and help my husband in laboring for Christ."

"Well," answered the other, wiping a tear from her eye, "the land knows we need such folks among us; and if we don't have things as nice as you do your way, I hope you'll find us westerners ready to do what we can for the good cause. Most of us have seen better times, and have known what it was to go to meeting every Sunday, and do our mite towards supporting preaching, and we are willing to do it again."

"See, mother," exclaimed little Helen,--a bright, wide-awake miss of six years,--"what a large garden!"

The team had pa.s.sed the irregular ridges of the bluffs extending inland from the Mississippi, and had attained the summit of a gentle swell of land commanding an extensive prairie view, and the whole landscape was bedecked with flowers of every hue and shape. The child's wondering eyes danced with delight, and she said,--

"Mother, isn't the man who owns this great garden very rich?"

"This don't belong to any one man, my dear," replied her mother, smiling; "it is one of _G.o.d's_ gardens. He planted all these flowers, and made them grow without anybody's help. All these are wild flowers."

"O," exclaimed the child, "how good he is!--isn't he, mother? Has G.o.d such a garden where our new home is?"

"I expect he has," she answered; "for out here, my child, it's almost all garden. You might ride thousands of miles, and not see a stone, or any sand--nothing but the green gra.s.s and the sweet blooming flowers."

"O," cried Blue-eye, clapping her hands, "I'm so glad we've come west!--aren't you, mother?"

The pa.s.sengers were delighted with the prattle of the dear girl, and the matronly lady who had her in charge could not forbear giving her a kiss, and said,--

"I hope you will meet with nothing more unpleasant than prairie flowers."

But just then the child's bright eyes caught sight of a settler pursuing his lonely way with his gun on his shoulder, his tall figure standing in bold relief against the sky, although he was several miles in the distance, and she asked,--

"Mamma, is that a wild man?" And, later, seeing a cow grazing, she inquired, "Is that a wild cow?"

The next night, about sundown, Mr. Sawyer deposited the missionary's family at Mr. Lincoln's snug western cottage.

"Well," said Mrs. Lincoln, laughing, as she took her guest's things, "you've stolen a march on your husband this time."

"Isn't he here?" asked Mrs. Payson, with a disappointed air.

"No," she replied. "He spent a week at the Mississippi, waiting for you. And, fearing you might get carried by, or injured in leaving the steamer,--for you know little ceremony is used towards pa.s.sengers or their goods,--he visited each boat as it arrived, and had the porter at the hotel call him up at every boat through the night, inquiring of the pa.s.sengers if they had seen a lady of your description with three young children; and hearing, since he returned, that one resembling you had gone to the Landing higher up on the river, he went there yesterday, hoping to meet you, and bring you back with him. He'll probably get here late this evening; and won't we give him a surprise?"

It was about nine o'clock when the missionary returned, alone, anxious, and dejected.

"You don't look as if you found your lost wife and babies," said his host, sympathizingly.

"No, and I don't know what to make of it. I inquired thoroughly. I looked the papers over also, but did not find that there had been any railroad accident of late. I am afraid she has been taken sick on the way. It was barbarous in me to listen a moment to the idea of her coming all the way alone, with three children, from Ma.s.sachusetts to Minnesota. I ought to have insisted on her remaining at home until I could have gone for her."

"Perhaps," suggested Mr. Lincoln, "she thought it wasn't prudent to venture on such a journey, and wrote you so, but the letter has miscarried."

"I know her too well to think so," responded the minister. "She has started on her way here. She had decided to do so as a matter of duty; and, having made her mind up on that point, she would come right on if she met with a railroad accident every other train--if she is a delicate little body."

"Well, you look tired enough to drop," said Mrs. Lincoln, abruptly, turning her head to conceal a smile. "I think you had better retire early."

The clergyman was quite taken aback at this piece of advice; but Mr.

Lincoln relieved his astonishment by saying,--