Letters of a Woman Homesteader: Iii. The Story of Cora Belle

BURNT FORK, WYOMING, April 15.
DEAR MRS. CONEY, —
. . . Grandma Edmonson’s birthday is the thirtieth of May, and Mrs. O’ Shaughnessy suggested that we give her a party. I had never seen Grandma, but because of something that happened in her family years ago which a few narrow-heads whom it did n’t concern in the least cannot forgive or forget, I had heard much of her. The family consists of Grandma, Grandpa, and little Cora Belle, who is the sweetest little bud that ever bloomed upon the twigs of folly.
The Edmonsons had only one child, a daughter, who was to have married a man whom her parents objected to solely because he was a sheep-man, while their sympathies were with the cattle-men, although they owned only a small bunch. To gain their consent the young man closed out his interest in sheep, at a loss, filed on a splendid piece of land near them, and built a little home for the girl he loved. Before they could get to town to be married Grandpa was stricken with rheumatism. Grandma was already almost past going on with it, so they postponed the marriage, and as that winter was particularly severe, the young man took charge of the Edmonson stock and kept them from starving. As soon as he was able he went for the license.
Mrs. O’Shaughnessy and a neighbor were hunting some cattle that had wandered away and found the poor fellow shot in the back. He was not yet dead and told them it was urgently necessary for them to hurry him to the Edmonsons’ and to get some one to perform the marriage ceremony as quickly as possible for he could not live long. They told him such haste meant quicker death because he would bleed more; but he insisted, so they got a wagon and hurried all they could. But they could not out-run death. When he knew he could not live to reach home he asked them to witness all he said. Everything he possessed he left to the girl he was to have married, and said he was the father of the little child that was to come. He begged them to befriend the poor girl he had to leave in such a condition, and to take the marriage license as evidence that he had tried to do right. The wagon was stopped so the jolting would not make death any harder, and there in the shadow of the great twin buttes he died.
They took the body to the little home he had made, and Mrs. O’ Shaughnessy went to the Edmonsons’ to do what she could there. Poor Cora Jane did n’t know how terrible a thing wounded pride is. She told her parents her misdeeds. They could n’t see that they were in any way to blame. They seemed to care nothing for her terrible sorrow nor for her weakened condition. All they could think of was that the child they had almost worshiped had disgraced them; so they told her to go.
Mrs. O’Shaughnessy took her to the home that had been prepared for her, where the poor body lay. Some way they got through those dark days, and then began the waiting for the little one to come. Poor Cora Jane said she would die then, and that she wanted to die, but she wanted the baby to know it was loved, — she wanted to leave something that should speak of that love when the child should come to understanding. So Mrs. O’Shaughnessy said they would make all its little clothes with every care, and they should tell of the love. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy is the daintiest needleworker I have ever seen; she was taught by the nuns at St. Catherine’s in the ‘ould country.’ She was all patience with poor, unskilled Cora Jane, and the little outfit that was finally finished was dainty enough for a fairy. Little Cora Belle is so proud of it.
At last the time came and Mrs. O’Shaughnessy went after the parents. Long before, they had repented and were only too glad to go. The poor mother lived one day and night after the baby came. She laid the tiny thing in her mother’s arms and told them to call her Cora Belle. She told them she gave them a pure little daughter in place of the sinful one they had lost.
That was almost twelve years ago, and the Edmonsons have lived in the new house all this time. The deed to the place was made out to Cora Belle, and her grandfather is her guardian. . . .
If you traveled due north from my home, after about nine hours’ ride you would come into an open space in the butte lands, and away between two buttes you would see the glimmer of blue water. As you drew nearer you would be able to see the fringe of willows around the lake, and presently a low, red-roofed house with corrals and stables. You would see long lines of ‘buck’ fence, a flock of sheep near by, and cattle scattered about feeding. This is Cora Belle’s home. On the long, low porch you would see two old folks rocking. The man is small, and has rheumatism in his legs and feet so badly that he can barely hobble. The old lady is large and fat, and is also afflicted with rheumatism, but has it in her arms and shoulders. They are both cheerful and hopeful, and you would get a cordial welcome. . . .
When you saw Cora Belle you would see a stout, square-built little figure with long flaxen braids, a pair of beautiful brown eyes and the longest and whitest lashes you ever saw, a straight nose, a short upper lip, a broad, full forehead, — the whole face, neither pretty nor ugly, plentifully sown with the brownest freckles. She is very truly the head of the family, doing all the housework and looking after the stock, winter and summer, entirely by herself. Three years ago she took things into her own hands, and since that time has managed altogether. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, however, tells her what to do.
The sheep, forty in number, are the result of her individual efforts. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy told her there was more money in raising lambs than in raising chickens, so she quit the chickens as a business and went to some of the big sheep men and got permission to take the ‘dogie’ lambs, which they are glad to give away. She had plenty of cows, so she milked cows and fed lambs all day long all last year. This year she has forty head of nice sheep worth four dollars each, and she does n’t have to feed them the year round as she would chickens, and the wolves are no worse to kill sheep than they are to kill chickens. When shearing time came she went to a sheep man and told him she would help cook for his men one week if he would have her sheep sheared with his. She said her work was worth three dollars, that is what one man would get a day shearing, and he could easily shear her sheep in one day. That is how she got her sheep sheared. The man had her wool hauled to town with his, sold it for her, and it brought sixty dollars. She took her money to Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. She wanted some supplies ordered before she went home, because, as she gravely said, ‘the rheumatiz would get all the money she had left when she got home,’ — meaning that her grandparents would spend what remained for medicine.
The poor old grandparents read all the time of wonderful cures that different dopes accomplish, and they spend every nickel they can get their hands on for nostrums. They try everything they read of, and have to buy it by the case, — horrid patent stuff! They have rolls of testimonials and believe every word, so they keep on trying and hoping. When there is any money they each order whatever medicine they want to try. If Mrs. Edmonson’s does n’t seem to help her, Grandpa takes it and she takes his, — that is their idea of economy. They would spend hours telling you about their different remedies and would offer you spoonful after spoonful of vile-looking liquid, and be mildly grieved when you refused to take it. Grandma’s hands are so bent and twisted that she can’t sew, so dear old Grandpa tries to do it.
Mrs. O’Shaughnessy told me that she helped out when she could. Three years ago she made them all a complete outfit, but the ‘rheumatiz’ has been getting all the spare money since then, so there has been nothing to sew. A peddler sold them a piece of gingham which they made up for Cora Belle. It was broad pink and white stripes and they wanted some style to ‘ Cory’s ’ clothes, so they cut a gored skirt. But they had no pattern and made the gores by folding a width of the goods biasly and cutting it that way. It was put together with no regard to matching the stripes, and a bias seam came in the centre behind, but they put no stay in the seam and the result was the most outrageous affair imaginable.
Well, we had a large room almost empty and Mr. Stewart liked the idea of a party, so Mrs. Louderer, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, and myself planned for the event. It was to be a sewing bee, a few good neighbors invited, and all to sew for Grandma.... So Mrs. O’ Shaughnessy went to Grandma’s and got all the material she had to make up. I had saved some sugar-bags and some flour-bags. I knew Cora Belle needed underwear, so I made her some little petticoats of the larger bags and some drawers of the smaller. I had a small piece of white lawn that I had no use for, and of that I made a dear little sunbonnet with a narrow edging of lace around, and also made a gingham bonnet for her. Two days before the time, came Mrs. Louderer, laden with bundles, and Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, also laden. We had all been thinking of Cora Belle. Mr. Stewart had sent by mail for her a pair of sandals for every-day wear and a nice pair of shoes, also some stockings. Mrs. Louderer brought cloth for three dresses of heavy Dutch calico, and gingham for three aprons. She made them herself and she sews so carefully. She had bought patterns and the little dresses were stylishly made, as well as well made. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy brought a piece of crossbar with a tiny forget-me-not polka dot, and also had goods and embroidery for a suit of underwear. My own poor efforts were already completed when the rest came, so I was free to help them.
Late in the afternoon of the twentyninth a funny something showed up. Fancy a squeaky, rickety old wagon without a vestige of paint. The tires had come off and had been ‘set’ at home. That is done by heating the tires red-hot and having the rims of the wheels covered with several layers of burlap, or other old rags, well wet. Then the red-hot the is put on and water hurriedly poured on to shrink the iron and to keep ihe burlap from blazing. Well, whoever had set Cora Belle’s tires had forgotten to cut away the surplus burlap, so all the ragtags were merrily waving in the breeze.
Cora Belle’s team would bring a smile to the soberest face alive. Sheba is a tall, lanky old mare. Once she was bay in color, but the years have added gray hair until now she is roan. Being so long-legged she strides along at an amazing pace which her mate, Balaam, a little donkey, finds it hard to keep up with. Balaam, like Sheba, is full of years. Once his glossy brown coat was the pride of some Mexican’s heart, but time has added to his color also, and now he is blue. His eyes are sunken and dim, his ears no longer stand up in true donkey style, but droop dejectedly. He has to trot his best to keep up with Sheba’s slowest stride. About every three miles he balks, but little Cora Belle does n’t call it balking, she says Balaam has stopped to rest, and they sit and wait till he is ready to trot along again. That is the kind of layout which drew up before our door that evening. Cora Belle was driving and she wore her wonderful pink dress which hung down in a peak behind, fully six inches longer than anywhere else. The poor child had no shoes. The winter had tried the last pair to their utmost endurance and the ‘rheumatiz’ had long since got the last dollar, so she came with her chubby little sunburned legs bare. Her poor little scarred feet were clean, her toe-nails full of nicks almost into the quick, broken against rocks when she had been herding her sheep. In the back of the wagon, flat on the bottom, sat Grandma and Grandpa, such bundles of coats and blankets I can’t describe. After a great deal of trouble we got them unloaded and into the house. Then Mrs. Louderer entertained them while Mrs. O’Shaughnessy and I prepared supper and got a bath ready for Cora Belle. We had a T-bone steak, mashed potatoes, hominy, hot biscuits and butter, and stewed prunes. Their long ride had made them hungry and I know they enjoyed their meal.
After supper Cora Belle and I washed the dishes while Mrs. O’Shaughnessy laid out the little clothes. Cora Belle’s clothes were to be a surprise. The postmistress here also keeps a small store and has ribbon, and when she heard of our plans from Mr. Stewart she sent up a couple of pairs of hair-ribbon for Cora Belle. Soon Mrs. O’Shaughnessy called us, and Cora Belle and I went into the bedroom where she was. I wish you could have seen that child! Poor little neglected thing, she began to cry. She said, ‘They ain’t for me, I know they ain’t. Why, it ain’t my birthday, it’s Granny’s.’ Nevertheless, she had her arms full of them and was clutching them so tightly with her work-worn little hands that we couldn’t get them. She sobbed so deeply that Grandma heard her and became alarmed. She hobbled to the door and pounded with her poor twisted hands, calling all the while, ‘Cory, Cory Belle, what ails you?’ She got so excited that I opened the door, but Cora Belle told her to go away. She said, ‘They ain’t for you, Granny, and they ain’t for me either.’ . . .
People here observe Decoration Day faithfully, and Cora Belle had brought half a wagon-load of iris which grows wild here. Next morning we were all up early, but Cora Belle’s flowers had wilted and she had to gather more, but we all hurried and helped. She said as she was going to see her mother she wanted to wear her prettiest dress, so Gale and Mrs. O’Shaughnessy helped her to get ready. The cemetery is only about two miles away, so we were all down quite early. We were obliged to hurry because others were coming to help sew. Cora Belle went at once to the graves where her parents lie side by side, and began talking to her mother just as though she saw her. ‘You did n’t know me, did you, Mother, with my pretty new things? But I am your little girl, Mama. I am your little Cora Belle.’ After she had talked and had turned every way like a proud little bird, she went to work. And, oh, how fast she worked! Both graves were first completely covered with pine boughs. It looked like sod, so closely were the little twigs laid. Next she broke the stems off the iris and scattered the blossoms over, and the effect was very beautiful. Then we hurried home and everybody got busy. The men took Grandpa off to another part of the ranch where they were fanning oats to plant, and kept him all day. That was good for him because then he could be with the men all day and he so seldom has a chance to be with men. Several ladies came and they all made themselves at home and worked like beavers, and we all had a fine time. . . .
Sedalia was present and almost caused a riot. She says she likes unusual words because they lend distinction to conversation. Well, they do — sometimes. There was another lady present whose children are very gifted musically, but who have the bad name of taking what they want without asking. The mother can neither read nor write, and she is very sensitive about the bad name her children have. While we were all busy some one made a remark about how smart these children were. Sedalia thought that a good time to get in a big word so she said, ‘Yes, I have always said May was a progeny.’ Mrs. McCarty did n’t know what she meant and thought that she was casting reflections on her child’s honesty, so with her face scarlet and her eyes blazing she said, ‘Sedalia Lane, I won’t allow you nor nobody else to say my child is a progeny. You can take that back or I will slap you peaked.’ Sedalia took it back in a hurry, so I guess little May McCarty is not a progeny.
Every one left about four except Gale, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, Mrs. Louderer and the Edmonsons. They had farthest to go so they stayed over night again. We worked until ten o’clock that night over Grandma’s clothes, but everything was thoroughly finished. Every button was on, every thread end knotted and clipped, and some tired workers lay down to rest, as did a very happy child and a very thankful old lady.
Every one got away by ten o’clock the next morning. The last I saw of little Cora Belle was when they had reached the top of a long slope and Balaam had ‘stopped to rest.’ The breeze from the south was playfully fluttering the rags on the wheels. Presently I heard a long ‘hee-haw, heehaw,’ and I knew Balaam had rested and had started.
I have been a very busy woman since I began this letter to you several days ago. A dear little child has joined the angels. I dressed him and helped to make his casket. There is no minister in this whole country and I could not bear the little broken lily-bud to be just carted away and buried, so I arranged the funeral and conducted the services. I know I am unworthy and in no way fitted for such a mission, but I did my poor best, and if no one else is comforted, I am. I know the message of God’s love and care has been told once, anyway, to people who have learned to believe more strongly in Hell than in Heaven.
Dear friend, I do hope that this New Year will bring you and yours fuller joys than you have ever known. If I had all the good gifts in my hands you should certainly be blessed.
Your sincere friend,
ELINORE RUPERT STEWART.

BURNT FORK, WYO., Dec. 28.
DEAR MRS. CONEY, — Our Thanksgiving affair was the most enjoyable happening I can remember for a long time. Zebulon Pike ² came, but I had as a bait for him two fat letters from home. As soon as I came back from his place I wrote to Mrs. Carter and trusted to luck for my letter to reach her. I told her all I could about her brother and how seldom he left his mountain home. I asked her to write him all she could in one letter as the trips between our place and his were so few and far between. So when she received my letter she wrote all she could think of, and then sent her letter and mine to Mothie and Phœbe, who are widows living in the old home. They each took turns writing, so their letters are a complete record of the years ‘Zebbie’ has been gone. The letters were addressed to me along with a cordial letter from Mrs. Carter asking me to see that he got them and to use my judgment in the delivering. I could n’t go myself but I wanted to read the letters to him and to write the answers, so I selected one piece of news I felt would bring him to hear the rest without his knowing how much there was for him.
Well, the boys brought him, and a more delighted little man I am sure never lived. I read the letters over and over, and answers were hurried off. He was dreadfully homesick but could n’t figure on how he could leave the ‘critters,’ or how he could trust himself on a train. Mr. Stewart became interested, and he is a very resourceful man, so an old Frenchman was found who had no home and wanted a place to stay so he could trap. He was installed at Zebulon Pike’s with full instructions as to each ‘critter’s’ peculiarities and needs. Then one of the boys who was going home for Christmas to Memphis was induced to wait for Mr. Parker and to see him safe to Little Rock. His money was banked for him and Mr. Stewart saw that he was properly clothed and made comfortable for the trip. Then he sent a telegram to Judge Carter who met Zebulon Pike at Little Rock and they had a family reunion in Yell County. I have had some charming letters from there, but that only proves what I have always said, that I am the luckiest woman in finding really lovely people and having really happy experiences. Good things are constantly happening to me. I wish I could tell you about my happy Christmas, but one of my New Year’s resolutions was to stop loading you down with twothousand-word letters.
From something you wrote I think I must have written boastingly to you at some time. I have certainly not intended to, and you must please forgive me and remember how ignorant I am and how hard it is for me to express myself properly. I felt after I had written to Mr. Parker’s people that I had taken a liberty, but luckily it was not thought of in that way by them. If you only knew how far short I fall of my own hopes you would know I could never boast. Why, it keeps me busy making over mistakes just like some one using old clothes. I get myself all ready to enjoy a success and find that I have to fit a failure. But one consolation is that I generally have plenty of material to cut generously, and many of my failures have proven to be real blessings.
I do hope this New Year may bring to you the desire of your heart and all that those who love you best most wish for you.
With lots and lots of love from baby
and myself,
Your ex-Washlady,
ELINORE STEWART.

[Undated.]
It was just a few days after the birthday party and Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was with me again. We were down at the barn looking at some new pigs, when we heard the big corral gates swing shut, so we hastened out to see who it could be so late in the day.
It was ‘Zebbie.’ He had come on the stage to Burnt Fork and the driver had brought him on here. . . . There was so much to tell, and he whispered he had something to tell me privately but that he was too tired then; so after supper I hustled him off to bed. . . .
Next morning . . . the men went off to their work and Zebbie and I were left to tell secrets. When he was sure we were alone he took from his trunk a long, flat box. Inside was the most wonderful shirt I have ever seen; it looked like a cross between a nightshirt and a shirt waist. It was of homespun linen. The bosom was ruffled and tucked, all done by hand, — such tiny stitches, such patience and skill. Then he handed me an old daguerreotype. I unfastened the little golden hook and inside was a face good to see and to remember. It was dim, yet clear in outline, just as if she were looking out from the mellow twilight of long ago. The sweet, elusive smile, — I could n’t tell where it was, whether it was the mouth or the beautiful eyes that were smiling. All that was visible of her dress was the Dutch collar, just like what is being worn now. It was pinned with an ugly old brooch which Zebbie said was a ‘breast-pin’ he had given her. Under the glass on the other side was a strand of faded hair and a slip of paper. The writing on the paper was so faded it was scarcely readable, but it said: ‘Pauline Gorley, age 22, 1860.’
Next he showed me a note written by Pauline, simply worded, but it held a world of meaning for Zebbie. It said, ‘I spun and wove this cloth at Adeline’s, enough for me a dress and you a shirt, which I made. It is for the wedding, else to be buried in. Yours, Pauline.’ The shirt, the picture, and the note had waited for him all these years in Mothie’s care. And now I will tell you the story.
Long, long ago some one did something to some one else and started a feud. Unfortunately the Gorleys were on one side and the Parkers on the other. That it all happened before either Zebbie or Pauline was born made no difference. A Gorley must hate a Parker always, as also a Parker must hale a Gorley. Pauline was the only girl, and she had a regiment of big brothers who gloried in the warfare and wanted only the slightest pretext to shoot a Parker. So they grew up, and Zebbie often met Pauline at the quiltings and other gatherings at the homes of non-partisans. He remembers her so perfectly and describes her so plainly that I can picture her easily. She had brown eyes and hair. She used to ride about on her sorrel palfrey with her ‘nigger’ boy Cæsar on behind to open and shut plantation gates. She wore a pink calico sunbonnet and Zebbie says, ‘she was just like the pink hollyhocks that grew by mother’s window.’ Is n’t that a sweet picture? Her mother and father were both dead, and she and her brothers lived on their plantation. Zebbie had never dared speak to her until one day he had driven over with his mother and sisters to a dinner given on a neighboring plantation. He was standing outside near the wall when some one dropped a spray of apple blossoms down upon him from an upper window. He looked up and Pauline was leaning out smiling at him. After that he made it a point to frequent places where he might expect her, and things went so well that presently Cæsar was left at home lest he should tell the brothers. She was a loyal little soul and would not desert although he urged her to, even promising to go away, ‘plumb away, clean to Scott County if she would go.’ She told him that her brothers would go even as far as that to kill him, so that they must wait and hope. Finally Zebbie got tired of waiting and one day he boldly rode up to the Gorley home and formally asked for Pauline’s hand. The bullet he got for his presumption kept him from going to war with his father and brother when they marched away.
Some time later George Gorley was shot and killed from ambush, and although Zebbie had not yet left his bed the Gorleys believed he did it, and one night Pauline came through a heavy rain-storm, with only Cæsar, to warn Zebbie and to beg him, for her sake, to get away as fast as he could that night. She pleaded that she could not live if he were killed and could never marry him if he killed her brothers, so she persuaded him to go while they were all innocent.
Well, he did as she wished and they never saw each other again. He never went home again until last Thanksgiving, and dear little Pauline had been dead for years. She, herself, had taken her little gifts for Zebbie to Mothie to keep for him. Some years later she died and was buried in the dress she mentioned. It was woven at Adeline Carter’s, one of the bitterest enemies of the Gorleys, but the sacrifice of her pride did her no good because she was long at rest before Zebbie knew. He had been greatly grieved because no stone marked her grave, only a tangle of rose-briers. So he bought a stone, and in the night before Decoration Day he and two of Unc Buck’s grandsons went to the Gorley burying ground and raised it to the memory of sweet Pauline. Some of the Gorleys still live there, so he came home at once, fearing if they should find out who placed the stone above their sister they would take vengeance on his poor, frail body.
After he had finished telling me his story I felt just as I used to when Grandmother opened the ‘big chist’ to air her wedding clothes and the dress each of her babies wore when baptized. It seemed almost like smelling the lavender and rose-leaves, and it was with reverent fingers that I folded the shirt, the work of love, yellow with age, and laid it in the box. . . .
Well, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy returned, and early one morning we started with a wagon and a bulging mess-box for Zebbie’s home. We were going a new and longer route in order to take the wagon. Dandelions spread a carpet of gold. Larkspur grew waist-high with its long spikes of blue. The service bushes and the wild cherries were a mass of white beauty. Meadow larks and robins and bluebirds twittered and sang from every branch, it almost seemed. A sky of tenderest blue bent over us and fleecy little clouds drifted lazily across. . . . Soon we came to the pineries, where we traveled up deep gorges and cañons. The sun shot arrows of gold through the pines down upon us and we gathered our arms full of columbines. The little black squirrels barked and chattered saucily as we passed along, and we were all children together. We forgot all about feuds and partings, death and hard times. All we remembered was that God is good and the world is wide and beautiful. We plodded along all day. Next morning there was a blue haze that Zebbie said meant there would be a high wind, so we hurried to reach his home that evening.
The sun was hanging like a great, red ball in the smoky haze when we entered the long cañon in which is Zebbie’s cabin. Already it was dusky in the cañons below, but not a breath of air stirred. A more delighted man than Zebbie I never saw when we finally drove up to his low, comfortable cabin. Smoke was slowly rising from the chimney, and Gavotte, the man in charge, rushed out and the hounds set up a joyful barking. Gavotte is a Frenchman, and he was all smiles and gesticulations as he said, ‘Welcome, welcome! To-day I am rejoice you have come. Yesterday I am despair if you have come because I am scrub, but to-day, behold, I am delight.’
I have heard of clean people, but Gavotte is the cleanest man I ever saw. The cabin floor was so white I hated to step upon it. The windows shone, and at each there was a calico curtain, blue and white check, unironed but newly washed. In one window was an old brown pitcher, cracked and nicked, filled with thistles. I never thought them pretty before, but the pearly pink and the silvery green were so pretty and looked so clean that they had a new beauty. Above the fireplace was a great black eagle which Gavotte had killed, the wings outspread and a bunch of arrows in the claws. In one corner near the fire was a wash-stand, and behind it hung the fishing tackle. Above one door was a gun-rack on which lay the rifle and shotgun, and over the other door was a pair of deer antlers. In the centre of the room stood the square, home-made table, every inch scrubbed. In the side room, which is the bedroom, was a wide bunk made of pine plank that had also been scrubbed, then filled with fresh, sweet pine boughs, and over them was spread a piece of canvas that had once been a wagon sheet, but Gavotte had washed it and boiled and pounded it until it was clean and sweet. That served for a sheet.
Zebbie was beside himself with joy. The hounds sprang upon him and expressed their joy unmistakably. He went at once to the corrals to see the ‘critters,’ and every one of them was safely penned for the night. ‘Old Sime,’ an old ram (goodness knows how old!), promptly butted him over, but he just beamed with pleasure. ‘Sime knows me, dinged if he don’t!’ was his happy exclamation. We went into the cabin and left him fondling the ‘critters.’
Gavotte did himself proud getting supper. We had trout and the most delicious biscuit. Each of us had a crisp, tender head of lettuce with a spoonful of potato salad in the centre. We had preserves made from canned peaches, and the firmest yellow butter. Soon it was quite dark and we had a tiny brass lamp which gave but a feeble light, but it was quite cool so we had a blazing fire which made it light enough.
When supper was over Zebbie called us out and asked us if we could hear anything. We could hear the most peculiar, long-drawn, sighing wail that steadily grew louder and nearer. I was really frightened, but he said it was the forerunner of the wind-storm that would soon strike us. He said it was wind coming down Crag cañon, and in just a few minutes it struck us like a cold wave and rustled, sighing, on down the cañon. We could hear it after it had passed us, and it was perfectly still around the cabin. Soon we heard the deep roaring of the coming storm and Zebbie called the hounds in and secured the door. The sparks began to fly up the chimney. Jerrine lay on a bear-skin before the fire, and Mrs. O’Shaughnessy and I sat on the old blue ‘settle’ at one side. Gavotte lay on the other side of the fire on the floor, his hands under his head. Zebbie got out his beloved old fiddle, tuned up and began playing. Outside the storm was raging, growing worse all the time. Zebbie played and played. The worse the tumult, the harder the storm, the harder he played. I remember I was holding my breath, expecting the house to be blown away every moment, and Zebbie was playing what he called ‘Bonaparte’s Retreat.’ It all seemed to flash before me — I could see those poor, suffering soldiers staggering along in the snow, sacrifices to one man’s unholy ambition. I verily believe we were all bewitched. I should n’t have been surprised to have seen witches and gnomes come tumbling down the chimney or flying in at the door, riding on the crest of the storm. I glanced at Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. She sat with her chin in her hand, gazing with unseeing eyes into the fire. Zebbie seemed possessed, he could n’t tire.
It seemed like hours had passed and the tumult had not diminished. I felt like shrieking, but I gathered Jerrine up into my arms and carried her in to bed. Mrs. O’Shaughnessy came with us. She touched my elbow and said, ‘Child, don’t look toward the window, the banshees are out to-night.’ We knelt together beside the bed and said our beads; then, without undressing save pulling off our shoes, we crawled under our blankets and lay on the sweet, clean pine. We were both perfectly worn out but we could not sleep. There seemed to be hundreds of different noises of the storm, for there are so many cañons, so many crooks and turns, and the great forest too. The wind was shrieking, howling, and roaring all at once. A deep boom announced the fall of some giant of the forest. I finally dozed off even in that terrible din, but Zebbie was not so frenzied as he had been. He was playing ‘Annie Laurie,’ and that song has always been a favorite of mine. The storm began gradually to die away and ‘Annie Laurie’ sounded so beautiful. I was thinking of Pauline and, I know, to Zebbie, Annie Laurie and Pauline Gorley are one and the same.
I knew no more until I heard Zebbie call out, ‘Ho, you sleepy heads, it’s day.’ Mrs. O’Shaughnessy turned over and said she was still sleepy. My former visit had taught me what beauty the early morning would spread before me, so I dressed hastily and went outdoors. Zebbie called me to go for a little walk. The amber light of the new day was chasing the violet and amethyst shadows down the cañons. It was all more beautiful than I can tell you. On one side the cañon walls were almost straight up. It looked as if we might step off into a very world of mountains. Soon Old Baldy wore a crown of gleaming gold. The sun was up. We walked on and soon came to a brook. We were washing our faces in its icy waters when we heard twigs breaking, so we stood perfectly still. From out the undergrowth of birch and willows came a deer with two fawns. They stopped to drink, and nibbled the bushes. But soon they scented strangers, and looking about with their beautiful, startled eyes, they saw us and away they went like the wind. We saw many great trees uptorn by the storm. High up on the cliffs Zebbie showed me where the eagles built every year.... We turned homeward and sat down upon the trunk of a fallen pine to rest and take another look at the magnificent view. Zebbie was silent, but presently he threw a handful of pebbles down the cañon wall. ‘I am not sorry Pauline is dead. I have never shed a tear. I know you think that is odd, but I have never wanted to mourn. I am glad that it is as it is. I am happy and at peace because I know she is mine. The little breeze is Pauline’s own voice; she had a little caressing way just like the gentlest breeze when it stirs your hair. There is something in everything that brings back Pauline: the beauty of the morning, the song of a bird or the flash of its wings. The flowers look like she did. So I have not lost her, she is mine more than ever. I have always felt so, but was never quite sure until I went back and saw where they laid her. I know people think I am crazy, but I don’t care for that. I shall not hate to die. When you get to be as old as I am, child, everything will have a new meaning to you.’
At last we slowly walked back to the cabin, and at breakfast Zebbie told of the damage the storm had done. He was so commonplace that no one ever would have guessed his strange fancy. . . .
I shall never forget Zebbie as I last saw him. It was the morning we started home. After we left the bench that Zebbie lives on, our road wound down into a deeper cañon. Zebbie had followed us to where a turn in the cañon should hide us from view. I looked back and saw him standing on the cliffs, high above us, the early morning sun turning his snowy hair to gold, the breeze-fingers of Pauline tossing the scanty locks. I shall always remember him so, a living monument to a dead past.
ELINORE STEWART.

(To be continued.)