Thankful for the interruption, James quickly left the room.
“What made him cry, father?” said Peter. “Didn’t he like the clothes?”
“Yes, tickled to death with them.”
“Then what made him cry?”
“He cried for joy.”
“I didn’t know anybody ever cried because they were glad.”
“Some folks do; your mother burst out a crying when she stood up to be married to me, and there never was a gladder woman.”
“I guess somebody who didn’t cry was just as glad,” retorted Mrs. Whitman.
“That’s a fact, Alice; and has been glad ever since. Boys, run out and help James water, clean, and harness the horses, because he has got to shift his clothes again. Tell him he is going to meeting with us, and that I want him to drive.”
The great bulk of the people, in that day, rode on horseback, the women on pillions behind their husbands. They had the heavy Conestoga wagons, for six, four, or two horses, to haul wheat to market, and for farm work, but Whitman and a few of his neighbors had covered riding wagons.