Three other travelers were here for the night, a Keya Paha man, a Mr. Philips, of Iowa, and Mr. Truesdale, of Bradford, Pa.
"How did the rest get started?" Mrs. R. asks of her husband.
"Well, Mr. Morrison started with his oxen, with Willie Taylor, and Mrs. M. and Mrs. Taylor rode in the buggy tied to the rear end of the wagon. Mr. Barnwell and several others made a start with his team of oxen. But Mr. Taylor's horses would not pull a pound, so he will have to take them back to the owner and hunt up a team of oxen." We had expected to all start at the same time, and perhaps tent out at night. A good supper is refreshing to tired travelers, but it is late before we get laid down to sleep. At last the ladies are given two beds in a new apartment just erected last week, and built of cedar logs with a sod roof, while the men throw themselves down on blankets and comforts on the floor, while the family occupies the old part.
About twelve o'clock the rain began to patter on the sod shingles of the roof over head, which by dawn was thoroughly soaked, and gently pouring down upon the sleepers on the floor, causing a general uprising, and driving them from the room. It won't leak on our side of the house, so let's sleep awhile longer; but just as we were dropping into the arms of Morpheus, spat! came a drop on our pillow, which said, "get up!" in stronger terms than mother ever did. I never saw a finer shower inside a house before. What a crowd we made for the little log house, 14×16 feet, built four years ago, and which served as kitchen, dining room, chamber, and parlor, and well crowded with furniture, without the addition of fourteen rain-bound travelers, beside the family, which consisted of Mrs. Slack, proprietress, a daughter and son-in-law, and a hired girl, 18 heads in all to be sheltered by this old sod roof made by a heavy ridge pole, or log laid across at the comb, which supports slabs or boards laid from the wall, then brush and dried grass, and then the sod. The walls are well chinked and whitened. The door is the full height of the wall, and the tallest of the men have to strictly observe etiquette, and bow as they enter and leave the house. Mr. Boggs invariably strikes a horse shoe suspended to the ceiling with his head, and keeps "good luck" constantly on the swing over us. The roof being old and well settled, keeps it from leaking badly; but Mrs. S. says there is danger of it sliding off or caving in. Dear me! I feel like crawling under the table for protection.
Rain! rain! think I will give the barometer the full name of R. Stone Wiggins! Have a mind to throw him into the river by way of immersion, but fear he would stick in a sand-bar and never predict another storm, so will just hang him on the wall out side to be sprinkled.
The new house is entirely abandoned, fires drowned out, organ, sewing machine, lunch baskets, and bedding protected as well as can be with carpet and rubber coats.
How glad I am that I have no luggage along to get soaked. My butter and meat was lost out on the prairie or in the river—hope it is meat cast adrift for some hungry traveler—and some one has used my loaf for a cushion, and how sad its countenance! Don't care if it does get wet! So I just pin my straw hat to the wall and allow it to rain on, as free from care as any one can be under such circumstances. I wanted experience, and am being gratified, only in a rather dampening way. Some find seats on the bed, boxes, chairs, trunk, and wood-box, while the rest stand. We pass the day talking of homes left behind and prospects of the new. Seven other travelers came in for dinner, and went again to their wagons tucked around in the canyons.
The house across the river is also crowded, and leaking worse than the hotel where we are stopping. Indeed, we feel thankful for the shelter we have as we think of the travelers unprotected in only their wagons, and wonder where the rest of our party are.
The river is swollen into a fretful stream and the sound of the waters makes us even more homesick.
"More rain, more grass," "more rain, more rest," we repeated, and every thing else that had a jingle of comfort in it; but oftener heard, "I do wish it would stop!" "When will it clear off?" "Does it always rain here?" It did promise to clear off a couple of times, only to cloud up again, and so the day went as it came, leaving sixteen souls crowded in the cabin to spend the night as best we could. Just how was a real puzzle to all. But midnight solves the question. Reader, I wish you were here, seated on this spring wagon seat with me by the stove, I then would be spared the pain of a description. Did you ever read Mark Twain's "Roughing It?" or "Innocents Abroad?" well, there are a few innocents abroad, just now, roughing it to their hearts' content.