"Why, Mrs. Brown," said I, "you must recollect me: I was a juryman on the trial between Filkins and Beadle."
"Come to take a good look at you, and so you was; but I was so frustered that day that I didn't know which eend I stood on. How pesky sassy them 'turneys-at-la' are!" continued Mrs. Brown, as she seated herself in the big rocking-chair.
"Mrs. Brown, have you lived long in this country?" I asked.
"Why, bless your soul, yes! Didn't you know that? We come in from the 'Hio twenty years ago, and lived her 'fore there was anybody, nor nothing but bears and catamounts."
"How, in the world, did you manage to get through the country twenty years ago?" I asked.
"Well, it was a pretty orful time," said the old lady; "it almost brings the tears into my eyes now to think on't. There was my husband and four children—Lem and Jim, and Molly and Bessy. Lem was about twenty, and Jim about fifteen, and Molly and Bessy ten and twelve; and we were all piled inter a big cover'd wagon, drawn by two yoke of cattle, with what little furniter we had; and in this kinder way we started for—I didn't know where."
"Where did you eat and sleep?" inquired I.
"We bunk'd in the wagon nights, and camp'd out to eat; and so we travelled for two months."
"But you got through all safe?" I said.
"No, we didn't," said she, heaving a sigh; "little Bessy died" (she wiped away a tear); "she got the measles somewhere on the road; and everybody was afraid of catchin' on 'em; and nobody would come near us, and so we had to stop and take care of her in the wagon the best way we could. We done all we could think of, but she kept growin' worse and worse, 'till one mornin' she died."