To and Through Nebraska

by Frances I. Sims Fulton

Seated again—

"Frank," father says, "I guess you will have to be my chore boy while Norval is away. Come, I'd like you to turn the grindstone for me while I make a corn cutter."

Now, who wouldn't turn a grindstone for a dear, good father?

There stood father with a broken "sword of Bunker Hill" in his hand that he found on the battle field of Bunker Hill, in Virginia.

"Now, father, if you are sure that was a rebel sword, I'll willingly turn until it is all ground up; but if it is a Union sword, why then, "Hang the old sword in its place," and sharpen up your old corn cutters, and don't let's turn swords into plowshares now even though it be a time of peace."

I lock the door and again take up my pen. "Rattle, rattle at the latch," and "Oo witing, Aunt Pet? Baby and Emma wants to kiss Aunt Pet!" comes in baby voice through the key-hole. The key is quickly turned, and my little golden-haired "niece" and "lover" invade my sanctum sanctorum, and for a time I am a perfect martyr to kisses on the cheeks, mouth, and, as a last resort for an excuse, my little lover puts up his lips for a kiss "on oo nose." Now, who wouldn't be a martyr to kisses—I mean baby kisses?

Thus my time went until the grapes and peaches were ripe, and then came the apples—golden apples, rosy-cheeked apples, and the russet brown. And didn't we children help to eat, gather, store away, and dry until I finished the drying in a hurry by setting fire to the dry house. The cold days came before I got rightly settled down to write again, and although cold blows the wind and the snow is piling high, while the thermometer says 20° below, yet all I have to do is to take up a cracked slate and write. But I write right over the crack now until the slate is filled, and then it is copied off; I write I live the days all over again; eating Mrs. Skirving's good things, riding behind oxen and mules, crossing the Niobrara, viewing the Keya Paha, standing on Stone Butte, walking the streets of Valentine, and even yet I feel as though I was running the gauntlet, while the cowboys line the walks. Government mules are running off with me, now I am enjoying the "Pilgrim's Retreat," and I go on until I have all told and every day lived over again in fond memory. And through it I learn a lesson of faith and trust.

So I wrote away until February 16, when I again left my dear home for the west, to have my book published. Went via DuBois and Bradford. Left Bradford March 19, for Buffalo, on the R. & P.R.R. The country along this road presents a wild picture, but I fear it would be a dreary winter scene were I to attempt to paint it, for snow drifts are yet piled high along the fence corners. At Buffalo I took the Michigan Central R.R. for Chicago. I catch a glimpse of Lake Erie as we leave Buffalo, and then we follow Niagara river north to the Falls. Reader, I will do the best I can to tell you of my car-window view of Niagara. We approach the Falls from the south, and cross the new suspension bridge, about two miles north of the Falls. Just below the bridge we see the whirlpool, where Capt. Webb, in his reckless daring, lost his life. The river here is only about 800 feet wide, but the water is over 200 feet deep. The banks of the river are almost perpendicular, and about 225 feet from top to the water's edge. Looking up the river, we can catch only a glimpse of the Falls, as the day is very dull, and it is snowing quite hard; but enough is seen to make it a grand picture. Across the bridge, and we are slowly rolling over the queen's soil. Directly south we go, following close to the river. When we are opposite the Falls the train is stopped for a few minutes, while we all look and look again. Had the weather been favorable, I would have been tempted to stop and see all that is to be seen. But I expect to return this way at a more favorable time, and shall not then pass this grand picture so quickly by. The spray rises high above the Falls, and if the day was clear, I am told a rainbow could be seen arching through the mist. The banks of the river above the Falls are low, and we can look over a broad sheet of blue water. But after it rushes over the Falls it is lost to our view. I wish I could tell you more, and tell it better, but no pen can do justice to Niagara Falls.

I was rather astonished at Canada. Why, I did not see more prairie or leveler land in the west than I did in passing through Canada. The soil is dark red clay, and the land low and swampy.

A little snow was to be seen along the way, but not as much as in New York; the country does not look very thrifty; poor houses and neglected farms; here and there are stretches of forest. Crossed the Detroit river on a boat as we did the Missouri, but it is dark and I can only see the reflection of the electric light on the water as we cross to the Michigan shore. The night is dark and I sleep all I can. I did not get to see much of Michigan as we reached Chicago at eight, Friday morning. But there was a friend there to meet me with whom I spent five days in seeing a little mite of the great city. Sunday, I attended some of the principal churches and was surprised at the quiet dress of the people generally and also to hear every one join in singing the good old tunes, and how nice it was; also a mission Sunday-school in one of the bad parts of the city, where children are gathered from hovels of vice and sin by a few earnest christian people who delight in gathering up the little ones while they are easily influenced. Well, I thought, Chicago is not all wicked and bad. It has its philanthropists and earnest christian workers, who are doing noble work. Monday, Lincoln Park was visited, and how I did enjoy its pleasant walks on that bright day, and throwing pebbles into Lake Michigan. Tuesday, went to see the panorama of the battle of Gettysburg. There now, don't ask me anything about it, only if you are in Chicago while it is on exhibition, go to corner Wabash avenue and Hubbard Court, pay your fifty cents and look for yourself. I was completely lost when I looked around, and felt that I had just woke up among the hills of Pennsylvania. But painted among the beautiful hills was one of the saddest sights eyes ever looked upon. The picture was life size and only needed the boom of the artillery and the groans of the dying to give it life. Wednesday morning brother Charles came with a party of twenty, bound for the Platte Valley, Nebraska, but I could not go with them as they went over the C. & N.W.R.R., and as I had been over that road, I wished to go over the C.B. & Q.R.R. for a change; so we met only to separate. I left on the 12.45, Wednesday, and for a way traveled over the same road that I have before described. There is not much to tell of prairie land in the early spring time and I am too tired to write. We crossed the Mississippi river at Burlington, 207 miles from Chicago, but it is night and we are deprived of seeing what would be an interesting view. Indeed it is little we see of Iowa, "beautiful land," as so much of it is passed over in the night. 482 miles from Chicago, we cross the Missouri river at Plattsmouth. 60 miles farther brings us to Lincoln, arriving there at 12 M. March 27. I surprised Deacon Keefer's again just at tea-time. Mother Keefer received me with open arms, and my welcome was most cordial from all, and I was invited to make my home with them during my stay in Lincoln.