A FUNERAL.
Tuesday, May 16.
The boys sat up with the corpse last night. I stayed with Gus. We had only just shut ourselves in when a terrific storm came upon us; the wind blew, and the rain fell in torrents. Before eleven o’clock it had passed; soon after Gus slept heavily. It seemed hours before I slept. Very early this morning Gus awakened me praying. How surely do the sorrows of this life drive us to the mercy-seat for comfort, refuge and strength.
“Had earth no thorns among its flowers,
And life no fount of tears,
We might forget our better home
Beyond this vale of tears.”
What a precious, what a comforting, satisfying faith the Presbyterian faith must be, if one can really and conscientiously accept it. According to their belief one never dies, nothing ever happens without God’s providence, approval, and foreknowledge that it will happen in just that way.
I wish I could accept such a faith, and believe it, but I cannot. I do not believe it was ordained that Mr. Milburn should die in that way and at that time. I believe it was an accident that might have been prevented by the most trivial circumstance. The laws of nature are inexorable. If a bullet is shot into a vital part of the body it kills. Yet God is able to bring good out of this seemingly great and grievous evil. I do not know which suffers most—the poor boy whose gun did the deed or Gus. They seem to take comfort in each other’s society, and are together the most of the time to-day. I am so sorry for both of them.
The funeral services of the Presbyterian Church were held at two o’clock this afternoon, a resident minister officiating. Mr. Milburn was very nicely laid away, and his grave marked and enclosed with a neat, strong fence before Gus and I left the cemetery. The people have been so very kind. The funeral was largely attended for a stranger in a strange place. There is no telegraph office here, so we have had to write letters instead of sending telegrams.
I believe Gus’s plans are to go on with us to the Missouri River, sell her outfit, and return home by steamboat down the Missouri River, up the Mississippi to Canton, where friends will meet her and go with her to Etna.
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Wednesday, May 17.
Another night with Gus. She wakes in the morning to weep. We started once more on our now sad journey. I have ridden with Gus all day. We do not hear the sound of song and laughter as we did last week; we all seem to be under a pall. We came through Redoak this morning, are camping in a beautiful place, near a pleasant, homelike farmhouse. The weather is perfect.
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Thursday, May 18.
The friends that stayed with us Sunday night told us that the authorities are not allowing emigrants to take the northern route, because of the Indian depredations that have been committed on that route. That if we went to Council Bluffs we would have to come down the river to Platsmouth to get on the southern route. So we changed our course accordingly.
We came through Whitecloud, Glenwood and Pacific City to-day. At Whitecloud I made a few purchases, traded with a little German merchant who crossed the plains a year ago; he says we have a delightful trip before us. He expects to go again to the Rocky Mountains, and make his home there, as soon as he can sell out and settle up his business here.
Just before we came to Glenwood, as the girls passed on their ponies, Gus said to me, “Sallie, go ride your pony, too; you have not had a ride for several days. Pardon me if I have been selfish in my great sorrow.”
“No, Gus, I would rather stay with you than to ride Dick, as long as you need me.”
“Thank you, dear; your company has been very grateful to me, but now I would really enjoy seeing you ride through Glenwood.”
To please her, and myself, too, I soon had saddled and mounted Dick and overtaken the girls. As we were riding through Glenwood a photographer sent a messenger to request us to “Please stop five minutes and let him take our picture.” We rode to the position indicated, doffed our sun-bonnets, and looked as pleasant as we could. We did not wait to see the proof, and I expect he was disappointed.
Pacific City is on the Missouri bottom, or lowlands. Above the town are the highest bluffs I have ever seen. We hitched our ponies and climbed to the top. The view was magnificently grand, the sun sinking in the west, the river could be seen in the distance, with large trees on the banks, the lowland between the bluffs and the trees was dotted with cattle and horses grazing, here and there a pond or small lake with its waters shining and sparkling in the glimmering sunset, the city below us in the shadow of the bluffs. Everything was so sweet and peaceful, we were more than paid for our climb. The wagons had passed before we came down, so we mounted and hastened to overtake them before driving into camp.