But Bordentown was her last school. When she had been there for two years and perfected the public-school system, her voice gave out as a result of constant use, and she went to Washington for a rest. But it did not take her long to recuperate, and soon she was eagerly looking out for some new avenue of opportunity to take the place of teaching. Government work interested her, and she heard rumors of scandals in the Patent Office, where some dishonest clerks had been copying and selling the ideas of inventors who had filed patents. This roused her anger, for she felt the inventors were defrauded and undefended individuals who needed a protector. As her brother's bookkeeper, she had developed a clear, copper-plate handwriting, which would aid her in trying to get the position she determined to try for. Through a relative in Congress she secured a position in the Patent Office, and when it was proved that she was acceptable there, although she was the first woman ever appointed independently to a clerkship in the department, she was given charge of a confidential desk, where she had the care of such papers as had not been carefully enough guarded before. Her salary of $1,400 a year was as much as was received by the men in the department, which created much jealousy, and she had many sneers and snubs and much disagreeable treatment from the other clerks; but she went serenely on her way, doing her duty and enjoying the new line of work with its chances for observation of the government and its working.

War clouds were now beginning to gather over both North and South, and signs of an approaching conflict were ominously clear in Washington, where slavery sentiments swayed all departments. Clara Barton saw with keen mental vision all the signs of the times, and there was much to worry her, for from the first she was clearly and uncompromisingly on the unpopular side of the disturbing question, and believed with Charles Sumner that "Freedom is national; slavery is sectional." She believed in the Union and she believed in the freedom of the individual. So eager was she to help the government in the coming national crisis that she offered her services as a clerk, to do the work of two dishonest men; for this work she was to receive the salary of one clerk, and pay back into the Treasury that of the other, in order to save all the money possible for an emergency. No deed gives a clearer insight into the character of Clara Barton than that. As it was in the case of the school in Bordentown, so was it now. If public service was the question, she had no thought of self or of money—the point was to achieve the desired end. And now she was nearer the goal of her own personal service to the world than she dreamed.

Fort Sumter was fired on. President Lincoln called for seventy-five thousand troops, and all those who were at the seat of government knew that the hour for sacrifice of men and money had come. Massachusetts responded to the call for troops with four regiments, one of which, the Sixth, set out for Washington at once. As they marched through the streets of Baltimore they were attacked by a furious mob who succeeded in killing four soldiers and wounding many more, but the troopers fought them off as bravely as possible and marched on to the station, where they entrained for Washington, many of them arriving there in a pitiable condition. When they detrained at the national capital they were met by a large number of sympathetic women, among them Clara Barton, who recognized some of her old friends and pupils among those who were limping, or with injured arms, or carried on stretchers, and her heart went out to them in loyalty and pride, for they were giving their services to their country in an hour of need.

The men who had not been injured were temporarily quartered at the Capitol, while the wounded were taken to the Infirmary, where their wounds were dressed at once, any material on hand being used. When the supply of handkerchiefs gave out, Clara Barton, as well as other impromptu nurses, rushed to their homes and tore up sheets for bandages, and Miss Barton also filled a large box full of needles, pins, buttons, salves and other necessities, and carried it back to the Infirmary, where she had her first experience in caring for wounded soldiers. When she could leave the Infirmary, she went to the Capitol and found the poor fellows there famished, for they had not been expected and their commissary stores had not yet been unloaded. Down to the market hurried the energetic volunteer nurse, and soon came back carrying a big basketful of supplies, which made a feast for the hungry men. Then, as she afterward wrote in a letter to a friend, "the boys, who had just one copy of the Worcester Spy of the 22nd, were so anxious to know its contents that they begged me to read it to them, which I did—mounting to the desk of the President of the Senate, that they all might hear."

In her letter she says, "You would have smiled to see me and my audience in the Senate Chamber of the U. S. A." and adds: "God bless the noble fellows who leave their quiet happy homes at the call of their country. So far as our poor efforts can reach, they shall never lack a kindly hand or a sister's sympathy if they come."

Eager to have the soldiers given all the comforts and necessities which could be obtained, Miss Barton put an advertisement in the Worcester Spy, asking for supplies and money for the wounded and needy in the Sixth Regiment, and stating that she herself would receive and give them out. The response was overwhelming. So much food and clothing was sent to her that her small apartment overflowed with supplies, and she was obliged to rent rooms in a warehouse to store them.

And now Clara Barton was a new creature. She felt within herself the ability to meet a great need, and the energy which for so long had been pent up within her was poured out in a seemingly unending supply of tenderness and of help for suffering humanity. There was no time now for sensitiveness, or for shyness; there was work to do through the all-too-short days and nights of this struggle for freedom and unity of the nation. Gone was the teacher, gone the woman of normal thought and action, and in her place we find the "Angel of the Battlefields," who for the remainder of her life was to be one of the world's foremost figures in ministrations to the suffering, where suffering would otherwise have had no alleviation.

"On the 21st of July the Union forces were routed at Bull Run with terrific loss of life and many wounded. Two months later the battle of Ball's Bluff occurred, in which there were three Massachusetts regiments engaged, with many of Clara Barton's lifelong friends among them. By this time the hospitals and commissaries in Washington had been well organized, and there was no desperate need for the supplies which were still being shipped to Miss Barton in great quantities, nor was there need of her nursing. However, she went to the docks to meet the wounded and dying soldiers, who were brought up the Potomac on transports." Often they were in such a condition from neglect that they were baked as hard as the backs of turtles with blood and clay, and it took all a woman's swift and tender care, together with the use of warm water, restoratives, dressings, and delicacies to make them at all comfortable. Then their volunteer nurse would go with them to the hospitals, and back again in the ambulance she would drive, to repeat her works of mercy.

But she was not satisfied with this work. If wounds could be attended to as soon as the men fell in battle, hundreds of deaths could be prevented, and she made up her mind that in some way she was going to override public sentiment, which in those early days of the war did not allow women nurses to go to the front, for she was determined to go to the very firing-line itself as a nurse. And, as she had got her way at other times in her life, so now she achieved her end, but after months of rebuffs and of tedious waiting, during which the bloody battle of Fair Oaks had been fought with terrible losses on each side. The seven days' retreat of the Union forces under McClellan followed, with eight thousand wounded and over seventeen hundred killed. On top of this came the battle of Cedar Mountain, with many Northerners killed, wounded and missing.

One day, when Assistant Quartermaster-General Rucker, who was one of the great-hearts of the army, was at his desk, he was confronted by a bright-eyed little woman, to whose appeal he gave sympathetic attention.

"I have no fear of the battle-field," she told him. "I have large stores, but no way to reach the troops."

Then she described the condition of the soldiers when they reached Washington, often too late for any care to save them or heal their wounds. She must go to the battle-front where she could care for them quickly. So overjoyed was she to be given the needed passports as well as kindly interest and good wishes that she burst into tears as she gripped the old soldier's hand, then she hurried out to make immediate plans for having her supplies loaded on a railroad car. As she tersely put it, "When our armies fought on Cedar Mountain, I broke the shackles and went to the field." When she began her work on the day after the battle she found an immense amount of work to do. Later she described her experience in this modest way:

"Five days and nights with three hours' sleep—a narrow escape from capture—and some days of getting the wounded into hospitals at Washington brought Saturday, August 30th. And if you chance to feel that the positions I occupied were rough and unseemly for a woman, I can only reply that they were rough and unseemly for men. But under all, lay the life of a nation. I had inherited the rich blessing of health and strength of constitution such as are seldom given to women, and I felt that some return was due from me and that I ought to be there."

The famous army nurse had served her novitiate now, and through the weary years of the war which dragged on with alternate gains and losses for the Union forces, Clara Barton's name began to be spoken of with awe and deep affection wherever a wounded man had come under her gentle care. Being under no society or leader, she was free to come or go at will. But from the first day of her work at the front she was encouraged in it by individual officers who saw the great value of what she accomplished.

At Antietam, when the fighting began, her wagons were driven through a field of tall corn to an old homestead, while the shot whizzed thick around them. In the barnyard and among the corn lay torn and bleeding men—the worst cases, just brought from the places where they had fallen. All was in confusion, for the army medical supplies had not yet arrived, and the surgeons were trying to make bandages of corn husks. The new army nurse immediately had her supplies unloaded and hurried out to revive the wounded with bread soaked in wine. When her bread gave out there were still many to be fed. All the supplies she had were three cases of unopened wine.

"Open the wine, and give that," she commanded, "and God help us."

Her order was obeyed, and as she watched the cases being unpacked her eyes fell on the packing around the bottles of wine. It was nicely sifted corn-meal. If it had been gold dust it could not have been more valuable. The wine was unpacked as quickly as possible; kettles were found in the farm-house, and in a twinkling that corn-meal was mixed with water, and good gruel for the men was in the making. Then it occurred to Miss Barton to see what was in the cellar of the old house, and there three barrels of flour and a bag of salt were found, stored by the rebels and left behind when they marched away. "What wealth!" exclaimed the woman, who was frantically eager to feed her flock. All that night Clara Barton and her workers carried buckets of hot gruel up and down the long lines to the wounded and dying men. Then up to the farm-house went the army nurse, where, in the dim light of a lone flickering candle, she could dimly see the surgeon in charge, sitting in apparent despair by the table, his head resting in his hands. She tiptoed up to him and said, quietly, "You are tired, doctor."

Looking up, he exclaimed: "Tired? Yes, I am tired! Tired of such heartlessness and carelessness! And," he added, "think of the condition of things. Here are at least one thousand wounded men; terribly wounded, five hundred of whom cannot live till daylight without attention. That two-inch of candle is all I have, or can get. What can I do? How can I bear it?"

A smile played over Clara Barton's clear-cut face. Gently but firmly she took him by the elbow and led him to the door, pointing toward the barn, where dozens of lanterns gleamed like stars.

"What is it?" he exclaimed.

"The barn is lighted," she said, "and the house will be directly."

"Who did it?"

"I, doctor."

"Where did you get them?"

"Brought them with me."

"How many have you?"

"All you want, four boxes."

For a moment he stared at her as if to be sure he was not in a dream. Then he turned away without a word, and never spoke of the matter again, but his deference to Clara Barton from that time was the greatest a man can pay a woman.

Not until all her stores were exhausted and she was sick with a fever would Clara Barton leave the battle-field of Antietam; then, dragging herself to the train, she went back to Washington to be taken care of until she was better. When at last she was strong enough to work again she went to see her friend Quartermaster-General Rucker, and told him that if she had had five wagons she would have had enough supplies for all the wounded at Antietam. With an expression of intense admiration on his soldierly face as he watched the brave volunteer nurse, he declared:

"You shall have enough next time!"

The promise was made good. Having recognized the value of her efficient services, the Government assisted in every way, making it possible for her to carry on her work on the battle-fields and in military camps and hospitals in the best way.

Clara Barton!—Only the men who lay wounded or dying on the battle-field knew the thrill and the comfort that the name carried. Again and again her life was in danger—once at Antietam, when stooping to give a drink of water to an injured boy, a bullet whizzed between them. It ended the life of the poor lad, but only tore a hole in Clara Barton's sleeve. And so, again and again, it seemed as if a special Providence protected her from death or injury. At Fredericksburg, when the dead, starving and wounded lay frozen on the ground, and there was no effective organization for proper relief, with swift, silent efficiency Clara Barton moved among them, having the snow cleared away and under the banks finding famished, frozen figures which were once men. She rushed to have an old chimney torn down and built fire-blocks, over which she soon had kettles full of coffee and gruel steaming.

As she was bending over a wounded rebel, he whispered to her: "Lady, you have been kind to me ... every street of the city is covered by our cannon. When your entire army has reached the other side of the Rappahannock, they will find Fredericksburg only a slaughter-pen. Not a regiment will escape. Do not go over, for you will go to certain death."

She thanked him for the kindly warning and later told of the call that came to her to go across the river, and what happened. She says:

"At ten o'clock of the battle day when the rebel fire was hottest, the shells rolling down every street, and the bridge under the heavy cannonade, a courier dashed over, and, rushing up the steps of the house where I was, placed in my hand a crumpled, bloody piece of paper, a request from the lion-hearted old surgeon on the opposite shore, establishing his hospitals in the very jaws of death:

"'Come to me,' he wrote. 'Your place is here.'

"The faces of the rough men working at my side, which eight weeks before had flushed with indignation at the thought of being controlled by a woman, grew ashy white as they guessed the nature of the summons, ... and they begged me to send them, but save myself. I could only allow them to go with me if they chose, and in twenty minutes we were rocking across the swaying bridge, the water hissing with shot on either side.

"Over into that city of death, its roofs riddled by shell, its every church a crowded hospital, every street a battle-line, every hill a rampart, every rock a fortress, and every stone wall a blazing line of forts.

"Oh, what a day's work was that! How those long lines of blue, rank on rank, charged over the open acres, up to the very mouths of those blazing guns, and how like grain before the sickle they fell and melted away.

"An officer stepped to my side to assist me over the debris at the end of the bridge. While our hands were raised in the act of stepping down, a piece of an exploding shell hissed through between us, just below our arms, carrying away a portion of both the skirts of his coat and my dress, rolling along the ground a few rods from us like a harmless pebble in the water. The next instant a solid shot thundered over our heads, a noble steed bounded in the air and with his gallant rider rolled in the dirt not thirty feet in the rear. Leaving the kind-hearted officer, I passed on alone to the hospital. In less than a half-hour he was brought to me—dead."

She was passing along a street in the heart of the city when she had to step aside to let a regiment of infantry march by. At that moment General Patrick saw her, and, thinking she was a frightened resident of the city who had been left behind in the general exodus, leaned from his saddle and said, reassuringly:

"You are alone and in great danger, madam. Do you want protection?"

With a rare smile, Miss Barton said, as she looked at the ranks of soldiers, "Thank you, but I think I am the best-protected woman in the United States."

The near-by soldiers caught her words and cried out:

"That's so! That's so!" and the cheer they gave was echoed by line after line, until the sound of the shouting was like the cheers after a great victory. Bending low with a courtly smile, the general said:

"I believe you are right, madam!" and galloped away.

"At the battles of Cedar Mountain, Second Bull Run, Antietam, during the eight months' siege of Charleston, in the hospital at Fort Wagner, with the army in front of Petersburg and in the Wilderness and the hospitals about Richmond, there was no limit to the work Clara Barton accomplished for the sick and dying, but among all her experiences during those years of the war, the Battle of Fredericksburg was most unspeakably awful to her. And yet afterward she saw clearly that it was this defeat that gave birth to the Emancipation Proclamation.

"And the white May blossoms of '63 fell over the glad faces—the swarthy brows, the toil-worn hands of four million liberated slaves. 'America,' writes Miss Barton, 'had freed a race.'"

As the war drew to an end, President Lincoln received hundreds of letters from anxious parents asking for news of their boys. There were eighty thousand missing men whose families had no knowledge whether they were alive or dead. In despair, and believing that Clara Barton had more information of the soldiers than any one else to whom he could turn, the President requested her to take up the task, and the army nurse's tender heart was touched by the thought of helping so many mothers who had no news of their boys, and she went to work, aided by the hospital and burial lists she had compiled when on the field of action.

For four years she did this work, and it was a touching scene when she was called before the Committee on Investigation to tell of its results. With quiet simplicity she stood before the row of men and reported, "Over thirty thousand men, living and dead, already traced. No available funds for the necessary investigation; in consequence, over eight thousand dollars of my own income spent in the search."

As the men confronting her heard the words of the bright-eyed woman who was looked on as a sister by the soldiers from Maine to Virginia, whose name was a household one throughout the land, not one of them was ashamed to wipe the tears from his eyes! Later the government paid her back in part the money she had spent in her work; but she gave her time without charge as well as many a dollar which was never returned, counting it enough reward to read the joyful letters from happy, reunited families.

While doing this work she gave over three hundred lectures through the East and West, and as a speaker she held her audiences as if by magic, for she spoke glowingly about the work nearest to her heart, giving the proceeds of her lectures to the continuance of that work. One evening in the winter of 1868, when speaking in one of the finest opera-houses in the East, before one of the most brilliant assemblages she had ever faced, her voice suddenly gave out, as it had in the days when she was teaching. The heroic army nurse and worker for the soldiers was worn out in body and nerves. As soon as she was able to travel the doctor commanded that she take three years of absolute rest. Obeying the order, she sailed for Europe, and in peaceful Switzerland with its natural beauty hoped to regain normal strength; for her own country had emerged from the black shadow of war, and she felt that her life work had been accomplished, that rest could henceforth be her portion.

But Clara Barton was still on the threshold of her complete achievement. When she had been in Switzerland only a month, and her broken-down nerves were just beginning to respond to the change of air and scene, she received a call which changed the color of her future. Her caller represented the International Committee of the Red Cross Society. Miss Barton did not know what the Red Cross was, and said so. He then explained the nature of the society, which was founded for the relief of sick and wounded soldiers, and he told his eager listener what she did not know, that back of the Society was the Geneva Treaty, which had been providing for such relief work, signed by all the civilized nations except her own. From that moment a new ambition was born in Clara Barton's heart—to find out why America had not signed the treaty, and to know more about the Red Cross Society.

Nearly a year later, while still resting in quiet Switzerland, there broke one day upon the clear air of her Swiss home the distant sounds of a royal party hastening back from a tour of the Alps. To Miss Barton's amazement it came in the direction of her villa. Finally flashed the scarlet and gold of the liveries of the Grand Duke of Baden. After the outriders came the splendid coach of the Grand Duchess, daughter of King Wilhelm of Prussia, so soon to be Emperor William of Germany. In it rode the Grand Duchess. After presenting her card through the footman, she herself alighted and clasped Miss Barton's hand, hailing her in the name of humanity, and said she already knew her through what she had done in the Civil War. Then, still clasping her hand in a tight grip of comradeship, she begged Miss Barton to leave Switzerland and aid in Red Cross work on the battle-fields of the Franco-Prussian War, which was in its beginnings. It was a real temptation to once again work for suffering humanity, yet she put it aside as unwise. But a year later, when the officers of the International Red Cross Society came again to beg that Miss Barton take the lead in a great systematic plan of relief work such as that for which she had become famous during the Civil War, she accepted. In the face of such consequences as her health might suffer from her decision, she rose, and, with head held high and flashing eyes, said:

"Command me!"

Clara Barton was no longer to be the Angel of the American battle-fields only—from that moment she belonged to the world, and never again could she be claimed by any one country. But it is as the guardian angel of our soldiers in the United States that her story concerns us, although there is reason for great pride in the part she played in nursing the wounded at Strassburg, and later when her presence carried comfort and healing to the victims of the fight with the Commune in Paris.

As tangible results of her work abroad, she was given an amethyst cut in the shape of a pansy, by the Grand Duchess of Baden, also the Serbian decoration of the Red Cross as the gift of Queen Natalie, and the Gold Cross of Remembrance, which was presented her by the Grand Duke and Duchess of Baden together. Queen Victoria, with her own hand, pinned an English decoration on her dress. The Iron Cross of Germany, as well as the Order of Melusine given her by the Prince of Jerusalem, were among an array of medals and pendants—enough to have made her a much-bejeweled person, had it been her way to make a show of her own rewards.

Truly Clara Barton belonged to the world, and a suffering person had no race or creed to her—she loved and cared for all.

When at last she returned to America, it was with the determination to have America sign the Geneva Treaty and to bring her own country into line with the Red Cross movement, which she had carefully watched in foreign countries, and which she saw was the solution to efficient aid of wounded men, either in the battle-field or wherever there had been any kind of disaster and there was need of quick aid for suffering. It was no easy task to convince American officials, but at last she achieved her end. On the 1st of March, 1882, the Geneva Treaty was signed by President Arthur, ratified by the Senate, and immediately the American National Red Cross was formed with Clara Barton as its first president.

The European "rest" trip had resulted in one of the greatest achievements for the benefit of mankind in which America ever participated, and its birth in the United States was due solely to the efforts of the determined, consecrated nurse who, when eleven years old, gave her all to a sick brother, and later consecrated her life to the service of a sick brotherhood of brave men.

On the day after her death, on April 12, 1912, one editor of an American newspaper paid a tribute to her that ranks with those paid the world's greatest heroes. He said:

"On the battle-fields of the Rebellion her hands bound up the wounds of the injured brave.

"The candles of her charity lighted the gloom of death for the heroes of Antietam and Fredericksburg.

"Across the ocean waters of her sweet labors followed the flag of the saintly Red Cross through the Franco-Prussian war.

"When stricken Armenia cried out for help in 1896, it was Clara Barton who led the relief corps of salvation and sustenance.

"A woman leading in answering the responsibility of civilization to the world!

"When McKinley's khaki boys struck the iron from Cuba's bondage it was Clara Barton, in her seventy-seventh year, who followed to the fever-ridden tropics to lead in the relief-work on Spanish battle-grounds.

"She is known wherever man appreciates humanity."

* * * * *

Hers was the honor of being the first president of the American Red Cross, but she was more than that—she was the Red Cross at that time. It was, as she said, "her child," and she furnished headquarters for it in her Washington home, dispensing the charities of a nation, amounting to hundreds of thousands of dollars, and was never requested to publish her accounts, an example of personal leadership which is unparalleled.

In 1897 we find the Red Cross president settled in her home at Glen Echo, a few miles out of Washington, on a high slope overlooking the Potomac, and, although it was a Red Cross center, it was a friendly lodging as well, where its owner could receive her personal friends. Flags and Red Cross testimonials from rulers of all nations fluttered from the walls, among them a beautiful one from the Sultan of Turkey. Two small crosses of red glass gleamed in the front windows over the balcony, but above the house the Red Cross banner floated high, as if to tell the world that "the banner over us is love." And to Glen Echo, the center of her beloved activity, Clara Barton always loved to return at the end of her campaigns. To the many thousands who came to visit her home as one of the great humane centers of the world, she became known as the "Beautiful Lady of the Potomac," and never did a title more fittingly describe a nature.

To the last she was a soldier—systematic, industrious, severely simple in her tastes. It was a rule of the household that every day's duties should be disposed of before turning in for the night, and at five o'clock the next morning she would be rolling a carpet-sweeper over the floor. She always observed military order and took a soldier's pride in keeping her quarters straight.

Hanging on the wall between her bedroom and private sitting-room was a small mirror into which her mother looked when she came home as a bride.

Her bed was small and hard. Near it were the books that meant so much to her—the Bible, Pilgrim's Progress, the stories of Sarah Orne Jewett, the poems of Lucy Larcom, and many other well-worn, much-read classics.

That she was still feminine, as in the days of girlhood when she fashioned her first straw bonnet, so now she was fond of wearing handsome gowns, often with trains. Lavender, royal purple, and wine color were the shades she liked best to wear, and in which her friends most often remember her. Despite her few extravagant tastes, Clara Barton was the most democratic woman America ever produced, as well as the most humane. She loved people, sick and well, and in any State and city of the Union she could claim personal friends in every walk of life.

When, after ninety-nine years of life and fifty of continuous service to suffering human nature, death laid its hand upon her on that spring day, the world to its remotest corner stopped its busy barter and trade for a brief moment to pay reverent tribute to a woman, who was by nature of the most retiring, bashful disposition, and yet carried on her life-work in the face of the enemy, to the sound of cannon, and close to the firing-line. She was on the firing-line all her life. That is her life story.

Her "boys" of all ages adored her, and no more touching incident is told of her than that of a day in Boston, when, after a meeting, she lingered at its close to chat with General Shafter. Suddenly the great audience, composed entirely of old soldiers, rose to their feet as she came down the aisle, and a voice cried:

"Three cheers for Clara Barton!"

They were given by voices hoarse with feeling. Then some one shouted:

"Tiger!"

Before it could be given another voice cried:

"No! Sweetheart!"

Then those grizzled elderly men whose lives she had helped to save broke into uproar and tears together, while the little bent woman smiled back at them with a love as true as any sweetheart's.

* * * * *

To-day we stand at the parting of the ways. Our nation is in the making as a world power, and in its rebirth there must needs be bloodshed and scalding tears. As we American girls and women go out bravely to face the untried future and to nurse under the banner of the Red Cross, we shall do our best work when we bear to the battle-field the same spirit of high purpose and consecration that inspired Clara Barton and made her the "Angel of the Battle-fields." Let us, as loyal Americans, take to heart part of a speech she once made on Memorial Day, when she stood with the "Boys in Blue" in the "God's-acre" of the soldier, and declared:

"We cannot always hold our great ship of state out of the storms and breakers. She must meet and buffet with them. Her timbers must creak in the gale. The waves must wash over her decks, she must lie in the trough of the sea as she does to-day. But the Stars and Stripes are above her. She is freighted with the hopes of the world. God holds the helm, and she's coming to port. The weak must fear, the timid tremble, but the brave and stout of heart will work and hope and trust."



VIRGINIA REED: MIDNIGHT HEROINE OF THE PLAINS IN PIONEER DAYS OF AMERICA

On a lovely April morning in 1846 there was an unusual stir in the streets of Springfield, Illinois, for such an early hour. From almost every house some one was hurrying, and as neighbor nodded to neighbor the news passed on:

"The wagons are ready—they are going!"

As the sun mounted slowly in the cloudless sky, from all parts of town there still flocked friends and relatives of the small band of emigrants who were about to start on their long trip across the plains, going to golden California.

California—magic word! Not one of those who were hurrying to wish the travelers God-speed, nor any of the band who were leaving their homes, but felt the thrilling promise and the presage of that new country toward which the emigrants were about to turn their faces.

The crowd of friends gathered at the Reeds' home, where their great prairie-wagons and those of the Donners were drawn up in a long line before the door; the provision wagons, filled to overflowing with necessities and luxuries, the family wagons waiting for their human freight. Mr. James F. Reed, who had planned the trip, was one of Springfield's most highly respected citizens, and the Donner brothers, who lived just outside of the town, had enthusiastically joined him in perfecting the details of the journey, and had come in to town the night before, with their families, to be ready for an early start. And now they were really going!

All through the previous winter, in the evening, when the Reeds were gathered before their big log fire, they had talked of the wonderful adventure, while Mrs. Reed's skilful fingers fashioned such garments as would be needed for the journey. And while she sewed, Grandma Keyes told the children marvelous tales of Indian massacres on those very plains across which they were going to travel when warmer days came. Grandma told her breathless audience of giant red men, whose tomahawks were always ready to descend on the heads of unlucky travelers who crossed their path—told so many blood-curdling stories of meetings between white men and Indian warriors that the little boys, James and Thomas, and little black-eyed Patty and older Virginia, were spellbound as they listened.

To Virginia, an imaginative girl, twelve years old, the very flames, tongueing their way up the chimney in fantastic shapes, became bold warriors in mortal combat with emigrants on their way to the golden West, and even after she had gone to bed it seemed to her that "everything in the room, from the high old-fashioned bedposts down to the shovel and tongs, was transformed into the dusky tribe in paint and feathers, all ready for a war-dance" as they loomed large out of shadowy corners. She would hide her head under the clothes, scarcely daring to wink or breathe, then come boldly to the surface, face her shadowy foes, and fall asleep without having come to harm at the hands of the invisibles.

Going to California—oh the ecstatic terror of it! And now the day and the hour of departure had come!

The Reeds' wagons had all been made to order, and carefully planned by Mr. Reed himself with a view to comfort in every detail, so they were the best of their kind that ever crossed the plains, and especially was their family wagon a real pioneer car de luxe, made to give every possible convenience to Mrs. Reed and Grandma Keyes. When the trip had been first discussed by the Reeds, the old lady, then seventy-five years old and for the most part confined to her bed, showed such enthusiasm that her son declared, laughingly: "I declare, mother, one would think you were going with us."

"I am!" was the quick rejoinder. "You do not think I am going to be left behind when my dear daughter and her children are going to take such a journey as that, do you? I thought you had more sense, James!"

And Grandma did go, despite her years and her infirmities.

The Reeds' family wagon was drawn by four yoke of fine oxen, and their provision wagons by three. They had also cows, and a number of driving and saddle horses, among them Virginia's pony Billy, on whose back she had been held and taught to ride when she was only seven years old.

The provision wagons were filled to overflowing with all sorts of supplies. There were farming implements, to be used in tilling the land in that new country to which they were going, and a bountiful supply of seeds. Besides these farm supplies, there were bolts of cotton prints and flannel for dresses and shirts, also gay handkerchiefs, beads, and other trinkets to be used for barter with the Indians. More important still, carefully stowed away was a store of fine laces, rich silks and velvets, muslins and brocades, to be exchanged for Mexican land-grants. The family wagon, too, had been fitted up with every kind of commodity, including a cooking-stove, with its smoke-stack carried out through the canvas roof of the wagon, and a looking-glass which Mrs. Reed's friends had hung on the canvas wall opposite the wagon door—"so you will not forget to keep your good looks, they said!"

And now the party was ready to start. Among its number were Mrs. Reed and her husband, with little Patty, the two small boys, James and Thomas, and the older daughter, Virginia; the Donners, George and Jacob, with their wives and children; Milton Elliott, driver of the Reed family wagon, who had worked for years in Mr. Reed's big sawmill; Eliza Baylis, the Reeds' domestic, with her brother and a number of other young men, some of them drivers, others merely going for adventure. In all, on that lovely April morning, it was a group of thirty-one persons around whom friends and relatives clustered for last words and glimpses, and it was a sad moment for all. Mrs. Reed broke down when she realized that the moment of parting had really come, while Mr. Reed, in response to the good wishes showered on him, silently gripped hand after hand, then he hurried into the house with Milt Elliott, and presently came out carrying Grandma, at the sight of whom her friends cheered lustily. She waved her thin hand in response as she was lifted gently into the wagon and placed on a large feather-bed, where she was propped up with pillows and declared herself to be perfectly comfortable.

And indeed her resting-place was very much like a room, for the wagon had been built with its entrance at the side, like an old-fashioned stage-coach, and from the door one stepped into a small square room. At the right and left were spring seats with high backs, which were comfortable for riding, and over the wheels for the length of the wagon, a wide board had been placed, making what Virginia called a "really truly second story" on which beds were made up. Under this "second story" were roomy compartments in which were stowed away stout bags holding the clothing of the party, each bag plainly marked with a name. There was also a full supply of medicines, with lint and bandages for an emergency, and Mr. Reed had provided a good library of standard books, not only to read during the journey, but knowing they could not be bought in the new West. Altogether, from provision wagon to family caravan, there was a complete equipment for every need, and yet when they arrived in California, as one of the party said, "We were almost destitute of everything!"

The wagons were loaded, Grandma was safely stowed away in her warm bed, with little Patty sitting on its end where she could hold back the door flap that the old lady might have a last glimpse of her old home—the hard farewells had been said, and now Mr. Reed called in as cheery a voice as he could command, "All aboard!"

Milton Elliott cracked his whip, and the long line of prairie-wagons, horses and cattle started. Then came a happy surprise. Into saddles and vehicles sprang more than a score of friends and relatives who were going to follow the party to their first night's encampment, while many of Virginia's schoolmates ran at the side of the wagon through the principal streets of the town until one by one they dropped back from fatigue, Virginia waving a continued farewell from the wagon while they were in sight.

The first day's trip was not a long one, as it was thought wise to make the start easy for man and beast. Most of the way Virginia rode on Billy, sometimes beside the wagon, then again galloping ahead with her father. A bridge was seen in the distance, and Patty and the boys cried out to Milton, "Please stop, and let us get out and walk over it; the oxen may not take us across safely!" Milt threw back his head and roared with laughter at such an idea, but he halted to humor them, then with a skilful use of his loud-voiced "Gee! and Haw!" made the huge beasts obey his will.

On the line of great wagons wound its way beyond the town, until the sun was sinking in the west, when they stopped for the night on the ground where the Illinois State House now stands. The oxen were then unhitched and the wagons drawn up in a hollow circle or "corral," within the protection of which cattle and horses were set free for the night, while outside the corral a huge camp-fire soon blazed, around which the party gathered for their first evening meal together, and their last one with those friends who had come thus far on their way with them. It was a determinedly merry group around the fire, and stories were told and songs sung, which to the radiant Virginia were a foretaste of such coming adventure as was beyond her wildest dreams.

As she sat in the glow of the camp-fire, with sleepy Patty's head pillowed on her lap, she felt even more than before the thrill of this wonderful adventuring. To keep a record of her travels,—that was the thing to do! Full of the idea, she pinned together sheets of wrapping-paper into a bulky blank-book, on the outside of which she printed:

Going to California. 1846.

From that time she kept a faithful though not a continuous record of the experiences of what came to be known later as "the ill-fated Donner party of martyr pioneers." And from that record she later wrote her story of their journeying to the golden West.

By the eleventh day of May the band of emigrants had reached the town of Independence, Missouri, and Virginia's record says:

"Men and beasts are in fine condition. There is nothing in all the world so fascinating as to travel by day in the warm sunshine and to camp by night under the stars. Here we are just outside the most bustling town I ever saw and it is good news to find a large number of inhabitants with their wagons, ready to cross the prairie with us. Who knows, perhaps some new friendships will be made as we all go on together! They all seem to feel as eager to go as we are, and everybody is glad. I will get acquainted with as many as I can now, and bring cheerful ones to visit Grandma, for she feels rather homesick, except when Patty and I make her laugh."

Again, "The first few days of travel through the Territory of Kansas were lovely. The flowers were so bright and there were so many birds singing. Each day father and I would ride ahead to find a place to camp that night. Sometimes when we galloped back we would find the wagons halting at a creek, while washing was done or the young people took a swim. Mother and I always did our wash at night, and spread it on the bushes to dry. All this is such a peaceful recital that I began to think I need not keep a diary at all, till one hot day when I was in the wagon helping Patty cut out some doll's dresses, Jim came running up to the wagon, terribly excited and crying out:

"'Indians, Virginia! Come and see! They have to take us across the river!' Out he rushed and I after him, with every story Grandma ever told us dancing through my brain. Now there was going to be an adventure! But there wasn't. We had reached the Caw River, where there were Indians to ferry us across. They were real and red and terrifying, but I never flinched. If they brought out tomahawks in midstream, I would be as brave as a pioneer's daughter should be. But would you believe me, those Indians were as tame as pet canaries, and just shot us across the river without glancing at us, and held out their big hands with a grunt, for the coins! That was one of the greatest disappointments of my life."

All went well with the travelers during those first weeks of the trip, and no one enjoyed it more than Grandma Keyes after she got over being homesick. But when they reached the Big Blue river, it was so swollen that they had to lie by and wait for it to go down, or make rafts to cross it on. As soon as they stopped traveling Grandma began to fail, and on the 29th of May, with scarcely any pain, she died. Virginia's diary says: "It was hard to comfort mother until I persuaded her that to die out in that lovely country, and with most of your family around you, was far better than living longer at home. Besides, she might have died in Springfield. So mother cheered up a little, while all the party helped us in making the sad preparations. A coffin was made from a cotton-wood tree, and a young man from home found a gray stone slab and cut Grandma's name, birthplace, and age on it. A minister of the party made a simple address, and with the sunlight filtering through the trees we buried her under an oak-tree and covered the grave with wild flowers. Then we had to go on our way and leave dear Grandma in the vast wilderness, which was so hard for mother that for many days I did not take my rides on Billy, but just stayed with her. But the landscape was so comfortingly beautiful that at last she cheered up and began to feel that Grandma was not left alone in the forest, but was with God. Strange to say, that grave in the woods has never been disturbed; around it grew up the city of Manhattan, Kansas, and there it is in the city cemetery of to-day."

The river did not go down, as the men had hoped, so they began to cut down trees and split them into twenty-five-foot logs which were hollowed out and joined together by cross timbers, these were firmly lashed to stakes driven into the bank, and ropes were tied to each end to pull the rafts back and forth across the river. It was no easy matter to get the heavy wagons down the steep bank to the rafts, and they had to be held back by the ropes and let down slowly so the wheels would run into the hollowed logs. The women and children stayed in the wagons, and talked and laughed gaily, that they might not show the fear they felt as they balanced above the swollen river. But it was crossed safely and then on the oxen jogged over a rough road until the great Valley of the Platte was reached, where the road was good and the country beautiful beyond expression. Virginia says: "Our party was now so large that there was a line of forty wagons winding its way like a serpent through the valley. There was no danger of any kind, and each day was happier than the one before. How I enjoyed galloping over the plains on Billy!" she exclaims, adding, "At night we young folks would sit around the camp-fire, chatting merrily, and often a song would be heard, or some clever dancer would give us a barn-door jig on the hind gate of a wagon!"

The caravan wound its slow way westward, making from fifteen to twenty miles a day, and always at night, when the party camped, a corral was formed to protect the cattle from thieving Indians, who, says Virginia, sadly, "are not like grandma's Indians. They treat us kindly except for taking our things, which is annoying but not terrifying." And she adds, "We have fine fare for those who like to eat game, as we have so many good riflemen in the party who are always bringing it in." She then confesses, "I certainly never thought I would be relishing antelope and buffalo steaks, but they are good food when one has grown used to them. Often I ride with father in a buffalo hunt, which is very thrilling. We all help Eliza, who has turned into a fine camp cook. As soon as we reach the place where we are to spend the night all hands get to work, and, my, but things taste good when that meal is ready! When we drove into the South Fork of the Platte, Eliza had the cream ready to churn, and while we were fording the stream she worked so hard that she turned out several pounds of butter."

The diary gives quite a long narrative here as follows:

"By the Fourth of July we were near Fort Laramie in Dakota, and what a sight I saw as we approached the fort. 'Grandma's Indians!' I exclaimed, as I saw bands of horses grazing on the plains and Indians smeared with war-paint and armed with hunting-knives, tomahawks, bows and arrows, moving about in the sunlight. They did not seem to notice us as we drove up to the strongly fortified walls around the buildings of the American Fur Company, but by the time we were ready to leave, the red men and their squaws were pressing close to the wagons to take trinkets which we had ready for them. Little Patty stood by me and every now and then she squeezed my arm and cried, 'Look! Look!' as the Indians crowded around us. Many of the squaws and papooses were gorgeous in white doeskin suits gaily trimmed with beads, and were very different from us in our linsey dresses and sunbonnets.

"As soon as father met the manager of the Fur Company, he advised us to go right on as soon as we could, because he said the Sioux were on the war-path, going to fight the Crows or Blackfeet, and their march would be through the country which we had to cross, and they might treat us badly, or rob us, as they were in an ugly humor. This greatly frightened some of the women, and to calm them the men cleaned and loaded their rifles and did everything they could to hurry away from the fort. We were there only four days, and when we drove away we met the mounted Indians, about three hundred of them, tomahawks, war-paint, and all! They looked very handsome and impressive as they advanced in a stately procession, two abreast, and rode on before our train, then halted and opened ranks. As our wagons passed between their lines they took green twigs from between their teeth and tossed them to us in token of friendship. Then, having shown their good faith, they crowded around our wagons and showed great curiosity at the funny little smoke-stack sticking through the top of our family wagon. A brave caught a glimpse of his war-paint and feathers in our looking-glass, which hung opposite the door, and he was fascinated. Beckoning to his comrades, he pointed to it, and to the strange reflection of himself, and they all fairly pushed to the front, to see themselves, in the glass. Unfortunately at that time I rode up on Billy, and at once the Indians forgot everything except their admiration of my pony. They swarmed around me, grunting, nodding, and gesturing, and brought buffalo robes and tanned buckskin, also pretty beaded moccasins and robes made of grass, and signed to me that they would give all these in exchange for Billy. I shook my head as hard as I could shake it, but they were determined to have Billy. They made signs that they would give their ponies for mine, but again I shook my head. They talked together awhile, then one of them triumphantly brought me an old coat which had evidently belonged to a soldier, and seemed much surprised that its brass buttons were not enough of an inducement to make me give up the coveted prize. Though both father and I continued to refuse their request as positively as ever, they still swarmed around us and looked at me in a most embarrassing way. I did not mind much, but father seemed angry and he said, sternly: 'Virginia, you dismount at once and let one of the men take Billy. Get into the wagon now.' When father spoke in that way I was never slow to obey, so I climbed into the wagon, and, being anxious to get a better look at the Indians, I took a field-glass out of the rack where it hung and put it to my eyes. The glass clicked as I took it from the rack and like a flash the Indians wheeled their ponies and scattered, taking the noise for the click of firearms. I turned to mother and laughed.

"'You see you need not be afraid, mother dear,' I said; 'I can fight the whole Sioux tribe with a spy-glass! If they come near the wagon again just watch me take it up and see them run!'"

Those were happy days of adventuring in a new and smiling country, and all were in high spirits when on the 19th of July they reached the Little Sandy River, where they encamped, and all gathered together to talk over whether to take a new route which had been opened up by Mr. Lansford Hastings, called the Hastings Cut-off. This route passed along the southern shore of the Great Salt Lake, then joined the Old Fort Hall emigrant road on the Humboldt River. The new route was said to shorten the trip by about three hundred miles, and Virginia says in her diary, "Father was so eager to reach California quickly, that he was strongly in favor of taking the Cut-off, while others were equally firm in their objections to taking such a risk. At that time our party had grown to be a large one, for so many families had joined us on our way across the plains, and all had to have their say about the matter.

"There was a long discussion of the merits of the two routes, and as a result, at last we decided to split up, for a number of the party preferred not to risk taking the new route, while eighty-seven of us, including our family and the Donners, decided to take the Cut-off.

"On the 20th of July we broke camp and left the little Sandy, the other division of the party taking the old trail to Fort Hall, and the rest of us, who were called 'the Donner party' from that time, taking the new one.

"When we reached Fort Bridger, we were told that Mr. Hastings, whom we had expected to find there, had gone ahead to pilot a large emigrant train, and had left word that all later bands were to follow his trail; that they would find an abundant supply of wood, water, and pasturage along the whole line of road except for one forty-mile drive; that there were no difficult canons to pass; and that the road was mostly good. This was encouraging and we traveled on comfortably for a week, when we reached the spot where Webber River breaks through the mountains into a canon. There, by the side of the road, was a forked branch with a note stuck in its cleft, left by Hastings, saying, 'I advise all parties to encamp and wait for my return. The road I have taken is so rough that I fear wagons will not be able to get through to the Great Salt Lake Valley.' He mentioned another and better route which avoided the canon altogether, and at once father, Mr. Stanton and William Pike said they would go ahead over this road, and if possible meet Hastings and bring him back to pilot us through to the valley.

"While the men went off to try to find Hastings, we encamped and waited for them to come back. In five days father came alone, having become separated from his companions, who he feared might have been lost. They had met Hastings, but he had refused to leave his party for their sake. Finally, however, father had insisted that he go with them to a high peak of the Wahsatch Mountains and from there point out to them the direction our party ought to take. Coming down from the peak, father lost sight of Stanton and Pike and was forced to come on alone, taking notes and blazing trees to help him in retracing his path when he should have us to guide. Searchers were at once sent out after the lost men, while we broke camp and started on our risky journey. It was easy enough traveling at first, but the following day we were brought to a sudden stop by a patch of dense woodland which it took a whole day's chopping to open up enough for our wagons to pass through. From there we chopped and pushed our way through what seemed an impassable wilderness of high peaks and rock-bound canons, and then faced a great rough gulch. Believing it would lead out to the valley, our men again set to work vigorously, and for six long days they chopped until they were almost exhausted. Then a new party of emigrants caught up with us and, aided by three fresh men, the eight-mile road through the gulch was finished. It did not lead to the opening we had expected, but into a pretty mountain dell, but we were happy, because we found the searchers there with Mr. Stanton and Mr. Pike. They reported that we must go back on the newly made road and cross a more distant range of mountains in order to strike the trail to the valley. That was a moment of terror, even to the most courageous of our valiant band, but everyone forced a smile and a cheerful word as we started to retrace our way. We had five days more of traveling and road-making, and climbed a mountain so steep that six yoke of oxen had to pull each wagon up the steep ascent. Then we crossed the river flowing from Utah Lake to Great Salt Lake and at last found the trail of the Hastings party, thirty days after we set out for the point we had expected to reach in ten or twelve days.

"While we rested we took an inventory of our provisions, and found the supply was not sufficient to last until we should reach California. Here was a predicament! Mr. Donner called for volunteers to ride ahead on horseback to Sutter's Fort, to tell of our sorry plight and ask Captain Sutter to send back provisions by them for us, as we traveled toward them. Mr. Stanton and Mr. McCutchen said they would go to the fort, and rode away on their errand of mercy.

"Our wagons, meanwhile, wound their slow way along, far behind the horsemen, who were soon out of our sight, and two days later we found a lovely green valley where there were twenty wells of clear, sparkling water to cool our parched throats, which were only used to the alkaline pools from which we had been obliged to drink. Close beside the largest well we found a rough board, stuck in the ground with strips of white paper pinned to it, and around the board pieces of the paper were strewn on the turf, as if they had been torn off the board. 'There has been some message written on that paper. We must piece the bits together,' declared Mrs. Donner. No sooner said than done. Laying the board on her lap, she began to patch the scraps together, while we eagerly watched her. At last the words could be read: '2 days—2 nights—hard driving—cross—desert—reach water.' This was evidently meant as a warning to us, and the thought of two days' hard driving through the desert was anything but cheering. In fact, it would be such a strain on our cattle that we remained where we were, with the fine water to drink and good pasturage for three days. Then we filled our water casks, made all other preparations for the forty-mile drive, and started off again. We traveled for two days and nights, suffering from heat and thirst by day and from bitter cold by night. At the end of the second day we still saw the vast desert ahead of us as far as we could look. There was no more fodder for our cattle, our water-casks were empty, and the burning rays of the sun scorched us with pitiless and overpowering heat. Father rode on ahead in search of water, and scarcely had he left us than our beasts began to drop from exhaustion and thirst. Their drivers instantly unhitched them and drove them ahead, hoping to meet father and find wells where the thirsty beasts could be refreshed. They did find father and he showed them the way to wells he had found where the beasts could drink, then he traveled back to us, reaching our camp at dawn. We waited all that day in the desert, with the sun beating down on us with cruel heat, and still drivers and cattle had not come back. It was a desperate plight, for another night without water would mean death. We must set out on foot and try to reach some of the other wagons, whose owners had gone ahead." Virginia adds, "Never shall I forget that night, when we walked mile after mile in the darkness, every step seeming to be the very last we could take, each of us who were older and stronger, taking turns in carrying the younger children. Suddenly out of the black night came a swift, rushing noise of one of the young steers, who was crazed by thirst and rushing madly toward us. Father snatched up little Patty, and commanded the rest of us to keep close to his side, while he drew his pistol. We could hear the heavy snorting of the maddened beast, when he turned and dashed off into the darkness, leaving us weak and shivering with fright and relief. And still we were obliged to drag our weary feet on, for ten long miles, when we reached the Jacob Donner wagons. The family were all asleep inside, so we lay down on the ground under the protecting shadow of the family wagon. A bitter wind was howling across the desert, and it so chilled us that we crept close together, and if all five of our dogs had not snuggled up close to us, warming us with the heat from their big bodies, we would probably had died from cold.

"At dawn father rushed off to find his cattle, but in vain. He met the drivers, who told him that as the frenzied beasts were being driven toward the wells, they had broken loose and been lost in the darkness. At once all the men of the company turned out to help father to search for them, but none were ever found except one ox and a cow, and in that plight we were left stranded on the desert, eight hundred miles from California! To turn back to Fort Bridger was an impossibility—to go forward meant such hardship as blanched even my sun-reddened cheeks, and I shuddered at the thought that mother must live through greater privations than those we had already encountered. Well it was that the future was hidden from our eyes on that day in the desert!

"Two oxen were loaned father, which, yoked together with our one cow and ox, would draw one wagon, but not the family one, which had grown to be so home-like to us in our journeyings. It was decided to dig a trench, and cache all of our things except those which we could take in the one wagon. A cache is made by digging a hole in the ground and sinking in it the bed of a wagon, in which articles are packed; the hole is then covered with boards and earth, so they are completely hidden, and when we buried ours we hoped some day to return and take them away."

Having cached so many of their treasures, on the party went as bravely as possible until they reached Gravelly Ford on the Humboldt, where on the 5th of October there was such a tragic occurrence that Virginia says, "I grew up into a woman in a night, and life was never the same again, although for the sake of mother and the children I hid my feelings as well as I could."

Here her record is detailed, and as concise as possible. She writes:

"I will tell it as clearly and quickly as I can. We had reached a short sandy hill, and as the oxen were all tired, it was the custom at such places for the drivers to double up teams and help one another up the hill. A driver named Snyder, for some unaccountable reason, decided to go up alone. His oxen could not pull their load, and Snyder, angry at them, began to beat them. Father, who had gone on ahead, looking for the best road, came back, and in trying to make Snyder stop abusing his beasts, roused his anger to the point of frenzy. Father said, 'We can settle this, John, when we get up the hill.' 'No,' said Snyder. 'We will settle it now!' and, jumping on the tongue of his wagon, he struck father a hard blow over the head with his heavy whip-stock. One blow followed another, and father was stunned, as well as blinded by the blood streaming down from the gashes in his head. The whip was about to drop again when mother sprang between the two men. Father saw the uplifted whip and had only time to cry 'John! John!' when down came the blow on mother's head. Quick as a flash father's hunting-knife was out and Snyder fell, mortally wounded, and fifteen minutes later died. Then father realized, too late, what he had done. Dashing the blood from his eyes, he knelt over the dying man, who had been his friend, with remorse and agony in his expression.

"Camp was pitched at once, our wagon being some distance from the others, and father, whose head was badly cut, came to me.

"'Daughter,' he asked, 'do you think you can dress these wounds in my head? Your mother is not able and they must be attended to.' I said, promptly: 'Yes, if you will tell me what to do.' Then we went into the wagon, where we would not be disturbed, and I washed and dressed his wounds as best I could. When I had done what he told me to do, I burst out crying, and father clasped me in his arms, saying: 'I should not have asked so much of you!' I told him it was pity for him that made me cry. Then he talked to me quietly until I had controlled my feelings and was able to go back to the tent where mother was lying, weak and dazed by the happenings of the day. And there were worse things to come. In our party there was a man who had been in the habit of beating his wife until father told him he must either stop it or measures would be taken to make him. He did not dare abuse her again, but he hated father from that time, and now he had his chance for revenge. After Snyder had been buried, and father had sadly watched the last clod of earth piled on the grave, the men of the party held a conference from which our family were excluded. We waited a short distance away, in terrified suspense to know the outcome of it, as we were sure it concerned father. And it did. His plea of self-defense was not acceptable to them, they said, and we shivered as we saw such bitterness on the men's faces as seemed sure would lead to lynching. Father saw it, but he was no coward. Baring his neck, he stepped forward, and proudly said, 'Come on, gentlemen!' No one moved, and presently he was told that he must leave the party, an exile—must go out in the wilderness alone without food or weapons. It was a cruel sentence, for it might result either in starvation or in murder by the Indians, and it is no wonder that mother was beside herself with fright, that we children knew not what to do or where to turn for help. Father heard the sentence in silence, then facing the group of old-time friends, with brave eyes, he said: 'I will not go. My act was one of self-defense, and as such is justified before God and man.'

"Meanwhile, my mother had been thinking, as she told me later, and she begged father to accept the sentence and leave the party, thinking it would be less dangerous than to remain among men who had become his enemies. He firmly refused until she pleaded that the whole party were now practically destitute of food, and if he remained, as an outcast, he would be obliged to see his children starve, while by going he might be able to meet them with food which he had procured somewhere. After a fearful struggle with his own desires, father consented, but not until the men of the party had promised to care for his innocent wife and children. Then, after he had held mother in his arms for a long agonized moment, he turned to me, and I forced my eyes to meet his with such fearless trust that he looked less despairing as he picked up Patty for a last hug and gripped the boys with an emotion too deep for any words; then he went off, an exile in the desert.

"I had no idea what I was going to do about it, but I knew I must do something. Through the long hours of the day, while I was busy soothing and comforting mother, who felt it keenly that we were left as much alone as if we were lepers, I was thinking busily. Our wagon was drawn up apart from the others, and we ate our scanty evening meal in silence. Milt Elliott and some others tried to talk with us, and show their friendliness, but mother would only answer in monosyllables and commanded the children to do the same. We were an utterly desolate, frightened group as darkness fell over us. I was busy helping the children get to bed, and then I found mother in such a state of collapse that I could think of nothing but comforting and quieting her.

"At last she fell asleep, and I crept to my bed, but I could not sleep. I must act. At last, I made a decision. I was strong and fearless, and father had no food or light or supplies, out there alone in the trackless wilderness. I stole to my mother's side and she roused at my light touch.

"'Mother, dear,' I whispered, 'I am going out to find father and take him some food, and his gun, and ammunition.' She roused and exclaimed:

"'What do you mean, child? You cannot find your father!'

"'I'm not going alone,' I replied 'I've asked Milt and he says he'll go with me.'

"Without giving her a chance to say I must not go, I hurried to the supply-chest and found some crackers, a small piece of bacon, some coffee and sugar. I took a tin cup, too, and a dipper for father to make coffee in, and packed his gun, pistols, and ammunition with them. His lantern was on the shelf, and I put a fresh piece of candle in it and matches in my pocket—then I was ready to start.

"Everything had to be done very quickly and quietly, for there would be a great risk if the children knew what I was going to do, or if any others of the party discovered my intention. So I did everything on tip-toe, and holding my breath for fear of being discovered.

"Mother called, 'Virginia!' and I went to her side. 'How will you find him in the darkness?'

"'I shall look for his horse's tracks and follow them,' I whispered. At that moment Milton's cautious step was heard at the side of the wagon, and with a last hug mother released me, and Milt and I stole off on our dangerous expedition.

"Out into the darkness we crept. Stealthily we hid in the shadows cast by the wagons in the flickering light of the dying camp-fire—cautiously we stole up behind the unsuspicious sentinel who was wearily tramping back and forth, and we held our breath for fright as he suddenly looked over the sleeping camp, then peered out into the mysterious darkness of the desert, but he did not see us. For safety we lay down on the ground, and silently dragged our bodies along until we were well out of his sight and hearing; then we pushed our feet along without lifting them, to be sure they did not fall into some unseen hole or trap, and now and again we were startled by some noise that to our excited senses seemed to mean that a wild animal was near us. My eyes had been searching the darkness around and before us, and at last I whispered:

"'Stop, Milt. Let us light the lantern!'

"Then stooping down, I spread out my skirts so that not the slightest flash of a match or gleam of light could be seen by the sentinel or by any one in the encampment. Milton lighted the lantern. I took it in one hand, and with the other held my skirts up in such a way as to shield its beams, and in its feeble light I searched the ground still frantically for some trace of the footprints of father's horse. Although I was nervous and excited enough to fly on the wings of lightning, I did not let the feeling get the better of me, but made a deliberate search of every inch of ground, making a complete circle around the outskirts of the camp, for I was determined to find those tracks. At last! There they were, unmistakable and clear. I gave a smothered cry and showed them to Milt. Then, still with the lantern carefully covered, so that no unguarded flash might bring a death-dealing shot from the sentinel's rifle, I followed where they led, Milt close behind, carrying the gun and provisions. Mile after mile we followed—followed, now seeing the tracks, now losing them. Oh what an agony was compressed in those awful hours!



"Suddenly on the midnight air came the wild howl of coyotes. From the distance echoed an even more hideous cry—that of the panther, seeking for prey. At that sound Milton's hair literally stood on end, and if I had shown one sign of weakening he would gladly have given up the search. But I went on, closing my ears to the dreaded sounds. All of a sudden my heart beat so wildly that I was obliged to press my hand over it to quiet its hammering. What I heard or saw or felt I can never explain, but I know that all the terror of my thirteen years of life seemed to be condensed into one moment of dread. And yet go on I must, praying to God to protect us and let me find father. I pushed ahead, with panic holding me in its wild grip as I pictured a horrible death if we should be captured by Indians. Then suddenly with wide-strained eyes and fluttering heart, I forgot all weariness and fear. In the far distance a dim, flickering light. Gripping Milt's arm, I whispered:

"'Father!'

"No sooner had I said it than I thought, 'Perhaps it is an Indian camp-fire.' But common sense put that aside, for I was sure I had seen father's horse's hoofprints, and certainly they would lead to him. But suppose he had been captured by Indians, and this fire we were coming to should lead to horrible disclosures. All this went through my mind, but I said nothing of it to Milton. I just went walking steadily on. Oh, how far away the light was! Would we never reach it? It seemed as if the more we walked the farther from it we were. But no, it was he—it was—it was! With a glad cry of, 'Oh, father! father!' I rushed forward and flung myself in his arms.

"'My child, my Virginia!' he exclaimed, when surprise had let him find his voice. 'You should not have come here!'

"'But I am here,' I cried, 'and I've brought you some food and your gun, and a blanket, and a little coffee, and some crackers! And here's a tin cup, too, and your pistols, and some powder and caps. Oh, and here are some matches, too!' I exclaimed, holding out one after another of the precious articles to his astonished gaze, and laughing and crying as I talked.

"It was almost pitiful to see father's astonishment at the thought that some one had come to help him in his terrible plight, and as he took the things I had brought he kissed and fondled me like a little child, and said that, God helping him, he would hurry on to California and secure a home for his beloved family—and it seems conceited to mention it, but he called me his 'brave daughter' over and over again, until I was glad of the darkness to hide my burning cheeks. Then in the protecting darkness, with Milton to stand guard, we sat together and talked of mother and Patty and the boys, and of what we should do while we were parted from him. Father was the first to remember that dawn would soon flush the east, and rising, he kissed me again and tried to say farewell.

"'But I'm not going back!' I cried. 'I'm going with you. Milt will go back, but I am going on with you.' Seeing his stern, set face, I pleaded, piteously: 'Oh, don't send me back—I can never bear to see those cruel men again. Let me go with you?' He turned a white, drawn face to mine.

"'For mother's sake, dear,' he said, 'go back and take care of her. God will care for me.' Before I could cry out or make a move to go with him, he had gathered up the articles I had brought him, jumped on his horse, and ridden away into the solitude of the Western desert. Milton and I were left alone to find our way back to the encampment where mother was watching and waiting for me with an eager, aching heart. When my straining eyes had seen the last of that solitary figure riding off into the black desert, I turned abruptly away, and Milt and I crept back over the vast desert. Before there was a glimmer of dawn I was safely clasped in mother's arms, repeated my comforting news over and over again that we had found father, that he was well and on his way to that land toward which our own faces were turned."

In this simple, direct fashion has Virginia Reed told of a heroic deed in the history of brave pioneer girls—but as the story comes from her pen, it is scarcely possible to realize the anxiety, the torturing fear, the hideous danger of such an expedition as that one of hers when at midnight, on the great plains, she set out to find her father.

"After that," she says, "though we were obliged to travel on, and though the party tried to be friendly with us, our hearts were sore and our thoughts were centered on father, journeying on alone. But as we went on we found welcome surprises by the way. A note written by him, stuck on a forked twig by the wayside, feathers scattered over the path to show that he had killed a bird and was not hungry. When we had found such evidence of his being alive and well, mother would be light-hearted for a whole day. Then the signs ceased, and mother's despair was pitiful to see. Had he been killed by the Indians or perhaps died of starvation? Patty and I were afraid we would lose mother, too. But starvation was menacing the whole party, and she was roused to new strength in a desire to protect her children from that fate. And even more ominous in their portent of disaster, before us rose the snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains, which we must cross before the heavy snows fell, and the question was, could we do it? We left our wagon behind, which was too heavy for the mountain trip, placed in it every article we could do without, packed what we needed in another, and struggled on as best we could until the 19th of October, when we had a great joy. As we were wearily traveling along the Truckee, up rode Mr. Stanton and with him were seven mules loaded with provisions! No angel from the skies could have been more welcome, and, hungry though we were, better than food was the news that father was alive and pushing on to the west. Mr. Stanton had met him near Sutter's Fort, and had given him provisions and a fresh horse. Oh, how relieved mother was! I think she could not have eaten a mouthful, hungry as she was, without the glad tidings. Father had asked Mr. Stanton to personally conduct us across the Sierras before snow came, which he had promised to do, so with new courage we hurried on, keeping a close watch on those gaunt peaks ahead of us, which we must climb before realizing our dreams. Although it was so early in the season, all trails were covered with snow, but we struggled on, mother riding one mule with Tommy in her lap, Patty and Jim on another, behind two Indians who had accompanied Mr. Stanton, and I riding behind our leader. But though we did all in our power to travel fast, we were obliged to call a halt before we reached the summit, and camp only three miles this side of the crest of the mountain range.

"That night," says Virginia, "came the dreaded snow. Around the camp-fires under the trees great feathery flakes came whirling down. The air was so full of them that one could see objects only a few feet away. The Indians knew we were doomed and one of them wrapped his blanket about him and stood all night under a tree. We children slept soundly on our cold bed of snow, which fell over us so thickly that every few moments my mother would have to shake the shawl—our only covering—to keep us from being buried alive. In the morning the snow lay deep on mountain and valley, and we were forced to turn back to a lake we had passed, which was afterward called 'Donner Lake,' where the men hastily put up some rough cabins—three of them known as the Breen cabin, the Murphy cabin, and the Reed-Graves cabin. Then the cattle were all killed, and the meat was placed in the snow to preserve it, and we tried to settle down as comfortably as we could, until the season of snow and ice should be over. But the comfort was a poor imitation of the real thing, and now and then, in desperation, a party started out to try to cross the mountains, but they were always driven back by the pitiless storms. Finally, a party of fifteen, known in later days as the 'Forlorn Hopes,' started out, ten men and five women, on snow-shoes, led by noble Mr. Stanton, and we heard no more of them until months afterward.

"No pen can describe the dreary hopelessness of those who spent that winter at Donner Lake," says Virginia. "Our daily life in that dark little cabin under the snow would fill pages and make the coldest heart ache. Only one memory stands out with any bright gleam. Christmas was near, and there was no way of making it a happy time. But my mother was determined to give us a treat on that day. She had hidden away a small store of provisions—a few dried apples, some beans, a bit of tripe, and a small piece of bacon. These she brought out, and when we saw the treasures we shouted for joy, and watched the meal cooking with hunger-sharpened eyes. Mother smiled at our delight and cautioned:

"'Children, eat slowly, for this one day you can have all you wish!' and never has any Christmas feast since driven out of my memory that most memorable one at Donner Lake.

"Somehow or other the cold dark days and weeks passed, but as they went by our store of supplies grew less and less, and many died from cold and hunger. Frequently we had to cut chips from the inside of our cabin to start a fire, and we were so weak from want of food that we could scarcely drag ourselves from one cabin to the other, and so four dreadful months wore away. Then came a day when a fact stared us in the face. We were starving. With an almost superhuman strength mother roused. 'I am going to walk across the mountains,' she said; 'I cannot see my children die for lack of food.' Quickly I stood beside her. 'I will go, too,' I said. Up rose Milt and Eliza. 'We will go with you,' they said. Leaving the children to be cared for by the Breens and Murphys, we made a brave start. Milt led the way on snow-shoes and we followed in his tracks, but Eliza gave out on the first day and had to go back, and after five days in the mountains, we, too, turned back and mother was almost exhausted, and we went back just in time, for that night there was the most fearful storm of the winter, and we should have died if we had not had the shelter of our cabins. My feet had been badly frozen, and mother was utterly spent from climbing one high mountain after another, but we felt no lasting bad effects from the venture. But we had no food! Our cabins were roofed over with hides, which now we had to take down and boil for food. They saved life, but to eat them was like eating a pot of glue, and I could not swallow them. The roof of our cabin having been taken off, the Breens gave us a shelter, and when Mrs. Breen discovered what I had tried to hide from my own family, that I could not eat the hide, she gave me little bits of meat now and then from their fast-dwindling store.

"One thing was my great comfort from that time," says Virginia. "The Breens were the only Catholics in the party, and prayers were said regularly every night and morning in their little cabin, Mr. Breen reading by the light of a small pine torch, which I held, kneeling by his side. There was something inexpressibly comforting to me in this simple service, and one night when we had all gone to bed, huddled together to keep from freezing, and I felt it would not be long before we would all go to sleep never to wake again in this world, all at once I found myself on my knees, looking up through the darkness and making a vow that if God would send us relief and let me see my father again, I would become a Catholic. And my prayer was answered.

"On the evening of February 19th, we were in the cabin, weak and starving, when we heard Mr. Breen's voice outside, crying:

"'Relief, thank God! Relief!'

"In a moment, before our unbelieving eyes, stood seven men sent by Captain Sutter from the fort, and they had brought an ample supply of flour and jerked beef, to save us from the death which had already overtaken so many of our party. There was joy at Donner Lake that night, for the men said: 'Relief parties will come and go until you have all crossed the mountains safely.' But," Virginia's diary says: "mingled with one joy were bitter tears. Even strong men sat and wept as they saw the dead lying about on the snow, some even unburied, as the living had not had strength to bury them. I sorrowed most for Milt Elliott—our faithful friend, who seemed so like a brother, and when he died, mother and I dragged him out of the cabin and covered him with snow, and I patted the pure white snow down softly over all but his face—and dragged myself away, with a heart aching from the pain of such a loss.

"But we were obliged to turn our thoughts to the living and their future, and eagerly listened to the story of the men, who told us that when father arrived at Sutter's Fort, after meeting Mr. Stanton, he told Captain Sutter of our desperate plight and the captain at once furnished horses and supplies, with which father and Mr. McCutchen started back, but were obliged to return to the fort, and while they were conferring with Captain Sutter about their next move, the seven living members of the 'Forlorn Hope' party who had left us the first part of the winter, arrived at the fort. Their pale, worn faces told the story and touched all hearts. Cattle were killed and men were up all night drying beef and making flour by hand-mills for us; then the party started out to our rescue and they had not reached us one moment too soon!

"Three days later, the first relief started from Donner Lake with a party of twenty-three men, women, and children, and our family was among them. It was a bright, sunny day and we felt happy, but we had not gone far when Patty and Tommy gave out. As gently as possible I told mother that they would have to go back to the lake and wait for the next expedition. Mother insisted that she would go back with them, but the relief party would not allow this, and finally she gave in and let the children go in care of a Mr. Hover. Even the bravest of the men had tears in their eyes when little Patty patted mother's cheek and said, 'I want to see papa, but I will take good care of Tommy, and I do not want you to come back.' Meanwhile we traveled on, heavy-hearted, struggling through the snow single file. The men on snow-shoes broke the way and we followed in their tracks. At night we lay down on the snow to sleep, to awake to find our clothing all frozen. At break of day we were on the road again.... The sunshine, which it would seem would have been welcome, only added to our misery. The dazzling reflection made it very trying to our eyes, while its heat melted our frozen clothing and made it cling to our bodies. Jim was too small to step in the tracks made by the men, and to walk at all he had to place his knee on the little hill of snow after each step, and climb over it. Mother and I coaxed him along by telling him that every step he took he was getting nearer papa and nearer something to eat. He was the youngest child that walked over the Sierra Nevada.

"On their way to our rescue the relief party from Sutter's Fort had left meat hanging on a tree for our use as we came out. What was their horror when we reached the spot to find that it had been taken by wild animals. We were starving again—where could we get food? As we were trying to decide on our next move, one of the men who was in the lead ahead stopped, turned, and called out:

"'Is Mrs. Reed with you? If she is, tell her Mr. Reed is here!' There before us stood father! At the sight, mother, weak with joy, fell on her knees with outstretched arms, while I tried to run to meet him, but found myself too much exhausted, so I just held out my arms, too, and waited! In a moment he was where we could touch him and know that he was flesh and blood and not just a beautiful dream. He had planned to meet us just where we were, and had brought with him fourteen men and a generous supply of bread.

"As he knelt and clasped mother in his arms she told him that Patty and Tommy were still at the lake, and with a horrified exclamation, he started to his feet. 'I must go for them at once,' he said. 'There is no time to lose.' With one long embrace off he went as if on winged feet, traveling the distance which had taken us five days to go in two, we afterward heard. He found the children alive, to his great joy, but, oh, what a sight met his gaze! The famished little children and the death-like look of all at the lake made his heart ache. He filled Patty's apron with biscuits, which she carried around, giving one to each person. He also had soup made for the infirm, and rendered every possible assistance to the sufferers, then, leaving them with provisions for seven days, he started off, taking with him seventeen who were able to travel, and leaving at the lake three of his men to aid those who were too weak to walk.

"Almost as soon as father's party started out, they were caught in a terrible snow-storm and hurricane, and his description of the scene later was heart-breaking, as he told about the crying of the half-frozen children, the lamenting of the mothers and suffering of the whole party, while above all could be heard the shrieking of the storm king. One who has never seen a blizzard in the Sierras can have no idea of the situation, but we knew. All night father and his men worked in the raging storm, trying to put up shelters for the dying women and children, while at times the hurricane would burst forth with such fury that he felt frightened on account of the tall timber surrounding the camp. The party was almost without food, having left so much with the sufferers at the lake. Father had cached provisions on his way to the lake, and had sent three men forward to get it before the storm set in, but they could not get back. At one time the fire was nearly gone; had it been lost, all would have perished. For three days and three nights they were exposed to the fury of that terrible storm; then father became snow-blind, and would have died if two of his faithful comrades had not worked over him all night, but from that time all responsibility of the relief work was taken from him, as he was physically unfit.

"At last the storm abated, and the party halted, while father with Mr. McCutchen and Mr. Miller went on ahead to send back aid for those who were exhausted from the terrible journeying. Hiram Miller carried Tommy, while Patty started bravely to walk, but soon she sank on the snow and seemed to be dying. All gathered around in frantic efforts to revive the child, and luckily father found some crumbs in the thumb of his woolen mitten which he warmed and moistened between his own lips, and fed Patty. Slowly she came to life again, and was carried along by different ones in the company, so that by the time the party reached Woodworth's Camp she was quite herself again, and as she sat cozily before a big camp-fire she fondled and talked to a tiny doll which had traveled with her all the way from Springfield and which was her chosen confidante.

"As soon as father's party reached Woodworth's Camp a third relief party started back to help those who were slowly following, and still another party went on to Donner Lake to the relief of those who were still living. But many of that emigrant band lie sleeping to-day on the shore of that quiet mountain lake, for out of the eighty-three persons who were snowed in there, forty-two died, and of the thirty-one emigrants who left Springfield on that lovely April morning of 1846, only eighteen lived to reach California. Among them were our family, who, despite the terrible hardships and hideous privations we had suffered, yet seemed to have been especially watched over by a kind Providence, for we all lived to reach our goal, and were the only family who were not obliged at some part of the journey to subsist on human flesh to keep from perishing. God was good to our family, and I, Virginia, testify to the heroic qualities which were developed in even the youngest of us, and for my own part, I gratefully recognize the blessings which came to me from an unqualified faith in God and an unfaltering trust that He would take care of us—which He did.

"Mother, Jimmy and I reached California and were taken at once to the home of the mayor, Mr. Sinclair, where we were given a warm welcome and where nothing was left undone for our comfort. But we were still too anxious to be happy, for we knew that father's party had been caught in the storm." Virginia says: "I can see mother now as she stood leaning against the door for hours at a time, looking at the mountains. At last—oh wonderful day—they came, father, Patty and Tommy! In the moment of blissful reunion tears and smiles intermingled and all the bitterness and losses and sorrows of the cruel journey were washed away, leaving only a tender memory of those noble souls who had fared forth, not to the land of their dreams, but to a far country whose maker and builder is God.

"And for us, it was spring in California!"



LOUISA M. ALCOTT: AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN"

In a pleasant, shady garden in Concord, Massachusetts, under a gnarled old apple-tree, sat a very studious looking little person, bending over a sheet of paper on which she was writing. She had made a seat out of a tree stump, and a table by laying a board across two carpenter's horses, whose owner was working in the house, and no scholar writing a treatise on some deep subject could have been more absorbed in his work than was the little girl in the garden.

For a whole long hour she wrote, frequently stopping to look off into the distance and bite the end of her pencil with a very learned look, then she would bend over her paper again and write hard and fast. Finally, she laid down her pencil with an air of triumph, jumped up from the stump and rushed toward the house.

"Mother! Anna! I've written a poem about the robin we found this morning in the garden!" Dashing into the library she waved the paper in the air with a still more excited cry: "Listen!" and dropped on the floor to read her poem to a much thrilled audience of two. With great dramatic effect she read her lines, glancing up from time to time to see that she was producing the proper effect. This is what she read:

TO THE FIRST ROBIN

Welcome, welcome, little stranger, Fear no harm and fear no danger, We are glad to see you here, For you sing "Sweet Spring is near."

Now the white snow melts away, Now the flowers blossom gay, Come, dear bird, and build your nest, For we love our robin best.

She finished with an upward tilt of her voice, while her mother excitedly flourished the stocking she was darning over her head, crying: "Good! Splendid!" and quiet Anna echoed the words, looking with awe at her small sister, as she added, "It's just like Shakespeare!"

The proud mother did not say much more in praise of the budding poetess's effort, for fear of making her conceited; but that night, after the verses had been read to a delighted father, and the young author had gone happily off to bed, the mother said:

"I do believe she is going to be a genius, Bronson!"

Yet, despite the prediction, even an appreciative parent would have been more than surprised had she been able to look into the future and had seen her daughter as one of the most famous writers of books for young people of her generation. The little girl who sat under the apple-tree on that day in early spring and wrote the verses was no other than Louisa May Alcott, and her tribute to the robin was to be treasured in after years as the first evidence of its writer's talent.

Louisa, the second daughter of Amos Bronson and Abba May Alcott, was born in Germantown, Pa., on the 29th of November, 1832, and was fortunate in being the child of parents who not only understood the intense, restless and emotional nature of this daughter, but were deeply interested in developing it in such a way that her marked traits would be valuable to her in later life. To this unfailing sympathy of both father and mother the turbulent nature owed much of its rich achievement, and Louisa Alcott's home surroundings and influences had as much to do with her success as a writer as had her talent, great as that was.

At the time of her birth her father was teaching school in Germantown, but he was a man whose ideas were original and far in advance of his time, and his way of teaching was not liked by the parents of his pupils, so when Louisa was two years old and her older sister, Anna, four, the family went to Boston, where Mr. Alcott opened his famous school in Masonic Temple, and enjoyed teaching by his own new methods, and when he was happy his devoted wife was equally contented.