Letters of a Woman Homesteader | Page 3

galloped along the edge of the cañon,
outlined black and clear by the setting sun. His curiosity overcame him
at last, so he sat down and waited to see what manner of beast we were.
I reckon he was disappointed for he howled most dismally. I thought of
Jack London's "The Wolf."
After we quitted the cañon I saw the most beautiful sight. It seemed as
if we were driving through a golden haze. The violet shadows were
creeping up between the hills, while away back of us the snow-capped
peaks were catching the sun's last rays. On every side of us stretched
the poor, hopeless desert, the sage, grim and determined to live in spite
of starvation, and the great, bare, desolate buttes. The beautiful colors
turned to amber and rose, and then to the general tone, dull gray. Then
we stopped to camp, and such a scurrying around to gather brush for
the fire and to get supper! Everything tasted so good! Jerrine ate like a
man. Then we raised the wagon tongue and spread the wagon sheet
over it and made a bedroom for us women. We made our beds on the
warm, soft sand and went to bed.
It was too beautiful a night to sleep, so I put my head out to look and to
think. I saw the moon come up and hang for a while over the mountain
as if it were discouraged with the prospect, and the big white stars

flirted shamelessly with the hills. I saw a coyote come trotting along
and I felt sorry for him, having to hunt food in so barren a place, but
when presently I heard the whirr of wings I felt sorry for the sage
chickens he had disturbed. At length a cloud came up and I went to
sleep, and next morning was covered several inches with snow. It didn't
hurt us a bit, but while I was struggling with stubborn corsets and shoes
I communed with myself, after the manner of prodigals, and said:
"How much better that I were down in Denver, even at Mrs. Coney's,
digging with a skewer into the corners seeking dirt which might be
there, yea, even eating codfish, than that I should perish on this
desert--of imagination." So I turned the current of my imagination and
fancied that I was at home before the fireplace, and that the backlog
was about to roll down. My fancy was in such good working trim that
before I knew it I kicked the wagon wheel, and I certainly got as warm
as the most "sot" Scientist that ever read Mrs. Eddy could possibly
wish.
After two more such days I "arrived." When I went up to the office
where I was to file, the door was open and the most taciturn old man sat
before a desk. I hesitated at the door, but he never let on. I coughed, yet
no sign but a deeper scowl. I stepped in and modestly kicked over a
chair. He whirled around like I had shot him. "Well?" he interrogated. I
said, "I am powerful glad of it. I was afraid you were sick, you looked
in such pain." He looked at me a minute, then grinned and said he
thought I was a book-agent. Fancy me, a fat, comfortable widow, trying
to sell books!
Well, I filed and came home. If you will believe me, the Scot was glad
to see me and didn't herald the Campbells for two hours after I got
home. I'll tell you, it is mighty seldom any one's so much appreciated.
No, we have no rural delivery. It is two miles to the office, but I go
whenever I like. It is really the jolliest kind of fun to gallop down. We
are sixty miles from the railroad, but when we want anything we send
by the mail-carrier for it, only there is nothing to get.
I know this is an inexcusably long letter, but it is snowing so hard and
you know how I like to talk. I am sure Jerrine will enjoy the cards and

we will be glad to get them. Many things that are a comfort to us out
here came from dear Mrs. ----. Baby has the rabbit you gave her last
Easter a year ago. In Denver I was afraid my baby would grow up
devoid of imagination. Like all the kindergartners, she depended upon
others to amuse her. I was very sorry about it, for my castles in Spain
have been real homes to me. But there is no fear. She has a block of
wood she found in the blacksmith shop which she calls her "dear baby."
A spoke out of a wagon wheel is "little Margaret," and a barrel-stave is
"bad