"AMONG THE MORMONS"
November, 1913. Letters of a Woman Homesteader | ||
25. "AMONG THE MORMONS" November, 1913.
I have wanted to write you for a long time, but have been so busy. I have had some visit-ors and have been on a visit; I think you would like to hear about it all, so I will tell you.
I don't think you would have admired my appearance the morning this adventure began: I was in the midst of fall house-cleaning which included some papering. I am no expert at the very best, and papering a wall has difficulties peculiar to itself. I was up on a barrel trying to get a long, sloppy strip of paper to stick to the ceiling instead of to me, when in my visitors trooped, and so surprised me that I stepped off the barrel and into a candy-bucket of paste. At the same time the paper came off the ceiling and fell over mine
After we had scraped as much paste as we could off ourselves they explained that they had come to take me somewhere. That sounded good to me, but I could not see how I could get off. However, Mrs. Louderer said she had come to keep house and to take care of the children while I should go with Mrs. O'Shaughnessy to E—. We should have two days' travel by sled and a few hours on a train, then another journey by sled. I wanted to go powerfully, but the paste-smeared room seemed to forbid.
As Mrs. Louderer would stay with the children, Mr. Stewart thought the trip would be good for me. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy knew I wanted to visit Bishop D—, a shining light among the Latter-Day Saints, so she promised we should stay overnight at his
Mr. Beeler is pleasant company, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is so jolly and bright, and I could leave home without a single misgiving with Mrs. Louderer in charge.
The evening sky was blazing crimson and gold, and the mountains behind us were growing purple when we entered the little settlement where the Bishop lives. We drove briskly through the scattered, straggling little village, past the store and the meeting-house,
We knocked on the door, but got no answer. Mr. Beeler went around to the back, but no one answered, so we concluded we would have to try elsewhere for shelter. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy comforted me by remarking, "Well, there ain't a penny's worth of difference in a Mormon bishop and any other Mormon, and D— is not the only polygamist by a long shot."
We had just turned out of the gate when a
Mr. Beeler offered to help the boy get the cattle out, but he said, "No, Paw said it would not matter if they got into the hay, but that he had to knock off some poles on another part of the stockyard so that some horses could get in to eat."
"But," I asked, "isn't that consecrated hay?—isn't it tithing?"
"Yes," he said, "but that won't hurt a bit, only that old John Ladd always pays his tithe with foxtail hay and it almost ruins Paw's horses' mouths."
I asked him if his father's stock was supposed to get the hay.
"No, I guess not," he said, "but they are always getting in accidental like."
We left him to fix the fence so the horses could get in "accidental like," and drove the short distance to "the next best house."
We were met at the door by a pleasant-faced little woman who hurried us to the fire. We told her our plight. "Why, certainly you must stay with me," she said. "I am glad the Bishop and Deb are away. They keep all the company, and I so seldom have any one come; you see Debbie has no children and can do so much better for any one stopping there than I can, but I like company, too, and I am glad of a chance to keep you. You two can have Maudie's bed. Maud is my oldest girl and she has gone to Ogden to visit, so we have plenty of room."
By now it was quite dark. She lighted a lamp and bustled about, preparing supper. We sat by the stove and, as Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said, "noticed."
Two little boys were getting in wood for
"Mamma," said Kittie, the largest of the little girls, "if Aunt Deb does buy a new coat and you get her old one, then can I have yours?"
"I don't know," her mother replied; "I should have to make it over if you did take it. Maybe we can have a new one."
"No, we can't have a new one, I know, for Aunt Deb said so, but she is going to give me
For the first time I noticed the discontented lines on our hostess's face, and it suddenly occurred to me that we were in the house of the Bishop's second wife. Before I knew I was coming on this journey I thought of a dozen questions I wanted to ask the Bishop, but I could never ask that careworn little woman anything concerning their peculiar belief. However, I was spared the trouble, for soon the children retired and the conversation drifted around to Mormonism and polygamy; and our hostess seemed to want to talk, so I just listened, for Mrs. O'Shaughnessy rather likes to "argufy"; but she had no argument that night, only her questions started our hostess's story.
She had been married to the Bishop not long before the manifesto, and he had been married several years then to Debbie. But Debbie had no children, and all the money
"I would never consent," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy.
"Oh, yes, you would if you had been raised a Mormon," said our hostess. "You see, we
"Do you expect to go to heaven, and do you think the man who married you and then discarded you will go to heaven too?" asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy.
"Of course I do," she replied.
"Then," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, "I am afraid if it had been mysilf I'd have been after raising a little hell here intirely."
Our hostess was not offended, and there followed a long recital of earlier-day hard times that you would scarcely believe any one could live through. It seems the first wife in such families is boss, and while they do not live in the same homes, still she can very materially affect the other's comfort.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy asked her if she had married again.
She said, "No."
"Then," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, "whose children are these?"
"My own," she replied.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was relentless. "Who is their father?" she asked.
I was right sorry for the poor little woman as she stammered, "I—I don't know."
Then she went on, "Of course I do know, and I don't believe you are spying to try to stir up trouble for my husband. Bishop D— is their father, as he is still my husband, although he had to cast me off to save himself and me. I love him and I see no wrong in him. All the Gentiles have against him is he is a little too smart for them. 'T was their foolish law that made him wrong the children and me, and not his wishes."
"But," Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said, "it places your children in such a plight; they can't inherit, they can't even claim his name, they have no status legally."
"Oh, but the Bishop will see to that," the little woman answered.
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy asked her if she had still to work as hard as she used to.
"No, I don't believe I do," she said, "for since Mr. D— has been Bishop, things come easier. He built this house with his own money, so Deb has nothing to do with it."
I asked her if she thought she was as happy as "second" as she would be if she was the only wife.
"Oh, I don't know," she said, "perhaps not. Deb and me don't always agree. She is jealous of the children and because I am younger, and I get to feeling bad when I think she is perfectly safe as a wife and has no cares. She has everything she wants, and I have to take what I can get, and my children have to wait upon her. But it will all come right somewhere, sometime," she ended cheerfully, as she wiped her eyes with her apron.
I felt so sorry for her and so ashamed to have seen into her sorrow that I was really
We had just finished breakfast, and few would ever guess that Mrs. D— knew a trial; she was so cheerful and so cordial as she bade us good-bye and urged us to stop with her every time we passed through.
About noon that day we reached the railroad. The snow had delayed the train farther north, so for once we were glad to have to wait for a train, as it gave us time to get a bite to eat and to wash up a bit. It was not long, however, till we were comfortably seated in the train. I think a train ride might not be so enjoyable to most, but to us it was a delight; I even enjoyed looking at the Negro porter, although I suspect he expected to be called Mister. I found very soon after coming West that I must not say "Uncle" or "Aunty" as I used to at home.
It was not long until they called the name of the town at which we wanted to stop. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had a few acquaintances
It appears that one was English and the other a tenderfoot. The tenderfoot was in love with a girl who had filed on a homestead near the ranch on which he was employed, but who was then a waitress in the hotel we were at. She had not seemed kind to the tenderfoot and he was telling his friend about it. The Englishman was trying to instruct him as to how to proceed.
"You need to be very circumspect, Johnny, where females are concerned, but you must n't be too danged timid either."
"I don't know what the devil to say to her; I can barely nod my head when she asks me will I take tea or coffee; and to-night she
"Well," the friend counseled, "you just get her into a corner some'eres and say to 'er, 'Dearest 'Attie, I hoffer you my 'and hand my 'eart.'"
"But I can't," wailed Johnny. "I could never get her into a corner anyway."
"If you can't, you're not hold enough to marry then. What the 'ell would you do with a woman in the 'ouse if you couldn't corner 'er? I tell 'e, women 'ave to 'ave a master, and no man better tackle that job until 'e can be sure 'e can make 'er walk the chalk-line." "But I don't want her to walk any line; I just want her to speak to me."
"Dang me if I don't believe you are locoed. Why, she's got 'e throwed hand 'og-tied now. What d'e want to make it any worse for?"
They talked for a long time and the Englishman continued to have trouble with his
We expected to be astir early anyway, and our curiosity impelled us to see the outcome of the friend's counsel, so we were almost the first in the dining-room next morning. A rather pretty girl was busy arranging the tables, and soon a boyish-looking fellow, wearing great bat-wing chaps, came in and stood warming himself at the stove.
I knew at once it was Johnny, and I saw "'Attie" blush. The very indifference with which she treated him argued well for his cause, but of course he didn't know that. So when she passed by him and her skirt caught on his big spurs they both stooped at once to unfasten it; their heads hit together with such a bump that the ice was broken, although he seemed to think it was her skull. I am sure there ought to be a thaw after all his apologies. After breakfast Mrs. O'Shaughnessy went out to see her friend Cormac
Soon Mrs. O'Shaughnessy returned, and as the drummer was trying to get out to E—, and that was our destination also, she made her way toward him, intending to invite him to ride with us. She wore over her best clothes an old coat that had once belonged to some one of her men friends. It had once been bearskin, but was now more bare skin, so her appearance was against her; she looked like something with the mange. So Mr. Drummer did not wait to hear what she
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's eyes fairly snapped, but she said nothing. I think she took a malicious delight in witnessing the drummer's chagrin when a few moments later our comfortable sleigh and good strong team appeared.
We were going to drive ourselves, but we had to drive to the depot for our suit-cases; but when we got there the ticket-office was not open, so the agent was probably having his beauty sleep. There was a fire in the big stove, and we joined the bunch of men in the depot. Among them we noticed a thin, consumptive-looking fellow, evidently a stranger.
Very soon some men began talking of some transaction in which a Bishop B— was concerned. It seemed they didn't admire the Bishop very much; they kept talking of
Mrs. O'Shaughnessy spoke to an acquaintance of hers and mentioned where we were going. In a short while we got our suit-cases and we were off, but as we drove past the freight depot, the stranger we had noticed
We had dinner with a new settler, and about two o'clock that afternoon we overtook a fellow who was plodding along the road. His name was B—, he said, and he pointed out to us his broad fields and herds. He had been overseeing some feeders he had, and his horse had escaped, so he was walking home, as it was only a couple of miles. He talked a great deal in that two-mile trip; too much for his own good, it developed.
For the first time since B— climbed into our sleigh, the stranger spoke. "Can you tell me where Mrs. Belle B— lives?" he asked.
"Why, yes," our passenger replied. "She is a member of our little flock. She is slightly
"Just how is she related to you?" the stranger asked.
"That," the man replied, "is a matter of protection. I have given her the protection of my name."
"Then she is your wife, is she not?" the stranger asked.
"You must be a stranger in this country," the man evaded. "What is your name?"
But the stranger didn't seem to hear, and just then we came opposite the residence of the Bishop, and the man we had picked up in the road said, "That is my home, won't you get out and warm? My wife will be glad to get acquainted with you ladies."
We declined, as it was only a short distance to the house of the man Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had come to see, so he stayed in the sleigh to show the stranger to the house of Mrs. Belle B—. I can't say much for it as a house, and I was glad I didn't have to go in. The
Next morning, as we returned through the little village, it was all excitement. Bishop B— had been shot the night before, just as he had left the house of Mrs. Belle B—, for what reason or by whom no one knew; and if the Bishop knew he had not told, for he either would not or could not talk.
They were going to start with him that day to the hospital, but they had no hopes of his living.
When we came to Mrs. Belle's house, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy got out of the sleigh and went into the house. I could hear her soothing voice, and I was mighty glad the poor, forlorn woman had such a comforter. . . . . . . . . . .
I was so very glad to get home. How good it all looked to me! "Poop o' Roome" has a calf, and as we drove up to the corral Clyde was trying to get it into the stall with the rest. It is "Poop's" first calf, and she is very
Mrs. Louderer was enjoying herself immensely, she loves children so much. She and Clyde hired the "Tackler"—so called because he will tackle any kind of a job, whether he knows anything about it or not— to paper the room. He thinks he is a great judge of the fitness of things and of beauty. The paper has a stripe of roses, so Tackler reversed every other strip so that some of my roses are standing on their heads. Roses don't all grow one way, he claims, and so his method "makes 'em look more nachul like."
A little thing like wall-paper put on upside down don't bother me; but what would I do if I were a "second"?
"AMONG THE MORMONS"
November, 1913. Letters of a Woman Homesteader | ||