"Good-mornin', missis; and why are you sittin' out thar, when thar is such a nice cabin to be in?"
She could not understand how I could prefer seeing the country to sitting in a Pullman.
I had imagined that the West was a land of beef and cream; I soon learned my mistake, much to my dismay. It was almost an impossibility to get aught else than salt meat, and cream was like the stars—out of reach.
It was with regret we learned just before retiring on the evening of our third day out from St. Louis, that morning would find us in El Paso. I cannot say what hour it was when the porter called us to dress, that the train would soon reach its destination. How I did wish I had remained at home, as I rubbed my eyes and tried to dress on my knees in the berth.
"It's so dark," said my mother, as she parted the curtains. "What shall we do when we arrive?"
"Well, I'm glad it's dark, because I won't have to button my boots or comb my hair," I replied, laughing to cheer her up.
I did not feel as cheerful as I talked when we left the train. It had been our home for three days, and now we were cast forth in a strange city in the dark. The train employés were running about with their lanterns on their arms, but no one paid any attention to the drowsy passengers.
There were no cabs or cabmen, or even wheelbarrows around, and the darkness prevented us from getting a view of our surroundings.
"This has taught me a lesson. I shall fall into the arms of the first man who mentions marry to me," I said to my mother as we wended our way through freight and baggage to the waiting-room, "then I will have some one to look after me."
She looked at me with a little doubting smile, and gave my arm a reassuring pressure.