Letters of a Woman Homesteader: A Wedding and Other Matters

BURNT FORK, WYO., NOV. 22.
MY DEAR FRIEND, —
I was dreadfully afraid that my last letter was too much for you and now I feel plumb guilty. I really don’t know how to write you for I have to write so much to say so little, and now that my last letter made you sick I almost wish so many things did n’t happen to me for I always want to tell you. Many things have happened since I last wrote and Zebulon Pike is not done for by any means, but I guess I will tell you my newest experience.
I am making a wedding dress. Don’t grin, it is n’t mine, — worse luck! But I must begin at the beginning. Just after I wrote you before, there came a terrific storm which made me appreciate indoor cosiness, but as only baby and I were at home I expected to be very lonely. The snow was just whirling when I saw some one pass the window. I opened the door and in came the dumpiest little woman and two daughters. She asked me if I was ‘ Mis’ Rupit.’ I told her that she had almost guessed it, and then she introduced herself. She said she was ‘Mis’ Dane,’ that she had heard there was a new stranger in the country, so she had brought her twin girls, Sedalia and Regalia, to be neighborly. While they were taking off their many coats and wraps it came out that they were from Linwood, thirty miles away. I was powerful glad I had a pot roast and some baked beans.
After we had put the horses in the barn we had dinner and I heard the story of the girls’ odd names. The mother is one of those ‘comfy,’ fat little women who remain happy and bubbling with fun in spite of hard knocks. I had already fallen in love with Regalia, she is so jolly and unaffected, so fat and so plain. Sedalia has a veneer of most uncomfortable refinement. She was shocked because Gale ate all the roast she wanted, and if I had been very sensitive I would have been in tears, because I ate a helping more than Gale did.
But about the names. It seemed that ‘Mis’ Dane’ married quite young, was an orphan, and had no one to tell her things she should have known. She lived in Missouri, but about a year after her marriage the young couple started overland for the West. It was in November, and one night when they had reached the plains a real blue blizzard struck them. ‘Mis’ Dane’ had been in pain all day and soon she knew what was the matter. They were alone and it was a day’s travel back to the last house. The team had given out and the wind and sleet were seeing which could do the most meanness. At last the poor man got a fire started and a wagon sheet stretched in such a manner that it kept off the sleet. He fixed a bed under the poor shelter and did all he could to keep the fire from blowing away, and there, a few hours later, a little girl baby was born. They melted sleet, in the frying pan to get water to wash it. ‘Mis’ Dane’ kept feeling no better fast, and about the time they got the poor baby dressed a second little one came.
That she told me herself is proof she did n’t die, I guess, but it is right hard to believe she did n’t. Luckily the fire lasted until the babies were dressed and the mother began to feel better, for there was no wood. Soon the wind stopped and the snow fell steadily. It was warmer, and the whole family snuggled up under the wagon sheet and slept.
Mr. Dane is a powerful good husband. He waited two whole days for his wife to gain strength before he resumed the journey, and on the third morning he actually carried her to the wagon. Just think of it! Could more be asked of any man?
Every turn of the wheels made poor ‘Mis’ Dane’ more homesick. Like Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch, she had a taste for geographical names, and ‘ Mis’ Dane’ is very loyal, so she wanted to call the little firstborn ‘Missouri.’ Mr. Dane said she might, but that if she did he would call the other one ‘Arkansas.’ Sometimes homesickness would almost master her. She would hug up the little red baby and murmur ‘Missouri,’ and then daddy would growl playfully to ‘Arkansas.’
For three years poor Gale was just ‘t’ other one.’ Then the Danes went to Green River where some lodge was having a parade. They were watching the drill when a ‘bystander that was standing by’ said something about the ‘fine regalia.’ Instantly‘Mis’Dane’ thought of her unnamed child; so since that time Gale has had a name.
There could be no two people more unlike than the sisters. Sedalia is really handsome, and she is thin. But she is vain, selfish, shallow and conceited. Gale is not even pretty, but she is clean and she is honest. She does many little things that are not exactly polite, but she is good and true. They both went to the barn with me to milk. Gale tucked up her skirts and helped me. She said, ’I just love a stable, with its hay and comfortable, contented cattle. I never go into one without thinking of the little baby Christ. I almost expect to see a little red baby in the straw every time I peek into a manger.’
Sedalia answered, ‘ Well, for heaven’s sake, get out of the stable to preach. Who wants to stand among these smelly cows all day?’
They stayed with us almost a week, and one day when Gale and I were milking she asked me to invite her to stay with me a month. She said to ask her mother, and left her mother and myself much together. But Sedalia stuck to her mother like a plaster and I just could not stand Sedalia a whole month. However, I was spared all embarrassment, for ‘Mis’ Dane’ asked me if I could not find work enough to keep Gale busy for a month or two. She went on to explain that Sedalia was expecting to be married and that Gale was so ‘common’ she would really spoil the match. I was surprised and indignant, especially as Sedalia sat and listened so brazenly, so I said I thought Sedalia would need all the help she could get to get married and that I should be glad to have Gale visit me as long as she liked.
So Gale stayed on with me. One afternoon she had gone to the post-office when I saw Mr. Patterson ride up. He went into the bunk-house to wait until the men should come. Now, from something Gale had said I fancied that Bob Patterson must be the right man. I am afraid I am not very delicate about that kind of meddling, and while I had been given to understand that Patterson was the man Sedalia expected to marry, I did n’t think any man would choose her if he could get Gale, so I called him. We had a long chat and he told me frankly he wanted Gale but that she did n’t care for him, and that they kept throwing ‘that danged Sedalia ’ at him. Then he begged my pardon for saying ‘danged,’ but I told him I approved of the word when applied to Sedalia, and broke the news to him that Gale was staying with me. He fairly beamed. So that night I left Gale to wash dishes and Bob to help her while I held Mr. Stewart a prisoner in the stable and questioned him regarding Patterson’s prospects and habits. I found both all that need be, and told Mr. Stewart about my talk with Patterson, and he said, ‘Wooman, some day ye’ll gang ploom daft.’ But he admitted he was glad it was the ‘ bonny lassie, instead of the bony one.’ When we went to the house Mr. Stewart said, ‘Weel, when are you douchy bairns gangin’ to the kirk?’
They left it to me, so I set Thanksgiving Day, and as there is no kirk to gang to, we are going to have a justice of the peace and they are to be married here. We are going to have the dandiest dinner that I can cook, and Mr. Stewart went to town next day for the wedding dress, the gayest plaid outside of Caledonia. But Gale has lots of sense and is going to wear it. I have it almost finished, and while it does n’t look just like a Worth model, still it looks plumb good for me to have made. The boys are going up after Zebulon Pike, and Mr. Stewart is going after ‘Mis’ Dane.’ Joy waves are radiating from this ranch and about Thanksgiving morning one will strike you.
With lots of love and happy wishes, Your ex-Washlady,
ELINORE RUPERT.

DEAR MRS. CONEY,—
... I think everyone enjoyed our Thanksgiving programme except poor Gale. She was grieved, I verily believe, because Mr. Patterson is not Mormon and could not take Sedalia and herself also. I suppose it seemed odd to her to be unable to give way to Sedalia as she had always done.
I had cooked and cooked. Gale and Zebulon Pike both helped all they could. The wedding was to be at twelve o’clock, so at ten I hustled Gale into my room to dress. I had to lock the door to keep her in and I divided my time between the last touches to my dinner and the finishing touches to Gale’s toilet and receiving the people. The Dane party had not come yet and I was scared to death lest Sedalia had had a tantrum and that Mr. Stewart would not get back in time. At last I left the people to take care of themselves for I had too much on my mind to bother with them. Just after eleven Mr. Stewart, ‘Mis’ Dane,’ Sedalia and Pa Dane ‘arriv’ and came at once into the kitchen to warm. In a little while poor, frightened Gale came creeping in, looking guilty. But she looked lovely, too, in spite of her plaid dress. She wore her hair in a coronet braid, which added dignity and height, as well as being simple and becoming. Her mother brought her a wreath for her hair, of lilies of the valley and tiny pink rosebuds. It might seem a little out of place to one who did n’t see it, but the effect was really charming.
Sedalia did n’t know that Mr. Stewart had given Gale her dress, so, just to be nasty, she said as soon as she saw Gale, ‘Dear me, when are you going to dress, Gale? You will hardly have time to get out of that horse-blanket you are wearing and get into something decent.’ You see, she thought it was one of my dresses fixed over for Gale. Presently Sedalia asked me if I was invited to the ‘function.’ She had some kind of rash on her face and Zebulon Pike noticed the rash and heard the word ‘ function,’ so he thought that was the name of some disease and asked Mr. Stewart if the function was catching. Mr. Stewart had heard Sedalia but knew ‘Zebbie’ had not heard all that was said and how he got the idea he had, so he answered, ‘yes, if ye once get the fever.’ So Zebulon Pike privately warned everyone against getting the ‘function’ from Sedalia. There are plenty of people here who don’t know exactly what a function is, myself among them. So people edged away from Sedalia and some asked her if she had seen the doctor and what: he thought of her case. Poor girl, I’m afraid she did n’t have a very enjoyable time.
At last the ‘Jestice’ of the Peace came, and I hope they live happy ever afterward. That night a dance was given to celebrate the event and we began to have dinner immediately after the wedding so as to get through in time to start, for dances are never given in the home here, but in ‘the hall.’ Every settlement has one and the invitations are merely written announcements posted everywhere. We have what Sedalia calls ‘homogenous ’ crowds. I would n’t at tempt to say what she means, but as everybody goes no doubt she is right.
Our dinner was a success, but that is not to be wondered at. Every woman for miles around contributed. Of course we had to borrow dishes but we could n’t think of seating everyone, so we set one table for twenty-four and had three other long tables, on one of which we placed all the meats, pickles and sauces, on another the vegetables, soup and coffee, and on the third the pie, cakes, ice-cream and other desserts. We had two big, long shelves, one above the other, on which were the dishes. The people helped themselves to dishes and neighbors took turns at serving from the tables, so people got what they wanted and hunted themselves a place to sit while they ate. Two of the cowboys from this ranch waited upon the table at which were the wedding party and some of their friends. Boys from other ranches helped serve and carried coffee, cake and ice-cream. The table cloths were tolerably good linen and we had ironed them wet so they looked nice. We had white lace-paper on the shelves and we used drawn-work paper napkins. As I said, we borrowed dishes, or, that is, every woman who called herself our neighbor brought whatever she thought we would need. So after everyone had eaten I suggested that they sort out their dishes and wash them, and in that way I was saved all that work. We had everything done and were off to the dance by five o’clock. We went in sleds and sleighs, the snow was so deep, but it was all so jolly. Zebbie, Mr. Stewart , Jerrine and I went in the bobsled. We jogged along at a comfortable pace lest the ‘ beasties ’ should suffer, and every now and then a merry party would fly past us scattering snow in our faces and yelling like Comanches. We had a lovely moon then and the snow was so beautiful! We were driving northward, and to the south and back of us were the great sombre, pine-clad Uintah Mountains, while ahead and on every side were the bare buttes, looking like old men of the mountains, — so old they had lost all their hair, beard and teeth.
My happy Christmas resulted from the ex-sheriff of this county being snowbound here. It seems that persons who come from a lower altitude to this country frequently become bewildered, especially if in poor health, leave the train at any stop and wander off into the hills, sometimes dying before they are found. The ex-sheriff cited a case, that of a young German who was returning from the Philippines where he had been discharged after the war. He was the only child of his widowed mother who has a ranch a few miles from here. No one knew he was coming home. One day the cook belonging to the camp of a construction gang went hunting and came back running, wild with horror. He had found the body of a man. The coroner and the sheriff were notified and next morning went out for the body, but the wolves had almost destroyed it. High up in a willow, under which the poor man had lain down to die, they saw a small bundle tied in a red bandana and fast to a branch. They found a letter addressed to whoever should find it , saying that the body was that of Benny Louderer and giving them directions how to spare his poor old mother the awful knowledge of how he died. Also there was a letter to his mother asking her not to grieve for him and to keep their days faithfully. ‘Their days,’ I afterward learned, were anniversaries which they had always kept, to which was added ‘Benny’s day.’
Poor boy! When he realized that death was near his every thought was for the mother. Well, they followed his wishes, and the casket containing the bare, gnawed bones was sealed and never opened. And to this day poor Mrs. Louderer thinks her boy died of some fever while yet aboard the transport. The manner of his death has been kept so secret that I am the only one who has heard it.
I was so sorry for the poor mother that I resolved to visit her the first opportunity I had. I am at liberty to go where I please when there is no one to cook for. So, when the men left, a few days later, I took Jerrine and rode over to the Louderer ranch. I had never seen Mrs. Louderer and it happened to be ‘Benny’s day’ that I blundered in upon. I found her to be a dear old German woman, living all alone; the people who do the work on the ranch living in another house two miles away. She had been weeping for hours when I got there, but in accordance with her custom on the many anniversaries, she had a real feast prepared, although no one had been bidden.
She says that God always sends her guests, but that was the first time she had had a little girl. She had a little daughter once herself, little Gretchen, but all that was left was a sweet memory and a pitifully small mound on the ranch, quite near the house, where Benny and Gretchen are at rest beside ‘der fader, Herr Louderer.’
She is such a dear old lady! She made us so welcome and she is so entertaining. All the remainder of the day we listened to stories of her children, looked at her pictures, and Jerrine had a lovely time with a wonderful wooden doll that they had brought with them from Germany. Mrs. Louderer forgot to weep in recalling her childhood days and showing us her treasures. And then our feast, — for it was verily a feast. We had goose and it was so delicious. I could n’t tell you half the good things any more than I could have eaten some of all of them.
We sat talking until far into the night, and she asked me how I was going to spend Christmas. I told her, ‘ Probably in being homesick.’ She said that would never do and suggested that we spend it together. She said it was one of their special days and that the only happiness left her was in making some one else happy, so she had thought of cooking some nice things and going to as many sheep camps as she could, taking with her the good things to the poor exiles, the sheep-herders. I liked the plan and was glad to agree, but I never dreamed I should have so lovely a time. When the queer, old wooden clock announced two we went to bed.
I left quite early the next morning with my head full of Christmas plans. You may not know, but cattle men and sheep men cordially hate each other. Mr. Stewart is a cattle man and so I did n’t mention my Christmas plans to him. I saved all the butter I could spare for the sheep-herders; they never have any. That and some jars of gooseberry jelly was all I could give them. I cooked plenty for the people here, and two days before Christmas I had a chance to go down to Mrs. Louderer’s in a buggy, so we went. We found her up to her ears in cooking, and such sights and smells I could never describe. She was so glad I came early, for she needed help. I never worked so hard in my life or had a pleasanter time.
Mrs. Louderer had sent a man out several days before to find out how many camps there were and where they were located. There were twelve camps and that means twenty-four men. We roasted six geese, boiled three small hams and three hens. We had besides several meat loaves and links of sausage. We had twelve large loaves of the best rye bread; a small tub of doughnuts; twelve coffee cakes, more to be called fruit cakes, and also a quantity of little cakes with seeds, nuts and fruit in them, — so pretty to look at and so good to taste. These had a thick coat of icing, some brown, some pink, some white. I had thirteen pounds of butter and six pint jars of jelly, so we melted the jelly and poured it into twelve glasses.
The plan was, to start real early Christmas Eve morning, make our circuit of camps, and wind up the day at Frau O’Shaughnessy’s to spend the night. Yes, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy is Irish, — as Irish as the pigs in Dublin. Before it was day the man came to feed and to get our horses ready. We were up betimes and had breakfast. The last speck was wiped from the shining stove, the kitchen floor was scrubbed, and the last small thing put in order. The man had four horses harnessed and hitched to the sled, on which was placed a wagon-box filled with straw, hot rocks and blankets. Our twelve apostles, that is what we called our twelve boxes, were lifted in and tied firmly into place. Then we clambered in and away we went. Mrs. Louderer drove, and Tam O’Shanter and Paul Revere were snails compared to us. We did n’t follow any road either, but went sweeping along across country. No one else in the world could have done it unless they were drunk. We went careening along hillsides without even slacking the trot. Occasionally we struck a particularly stubborn bunch of sage-brush and even the sled-runners would jump up into the air. We did n’t stop to light, but hit the earth several feet in advance of where we left it. Luck was with us, though. I hardly expected to get through with my head unbroken, but not even a glass was cracked.
It would have done your heart good to see the sheep men. They were all delighted, and when you consider that they live solely on canned corn and tomatoes, beans, salt pork, and coffee, you can fancy what they thought of their treat. They have mutton when it is fit to eat, but that is certainly not in winter. One man at each camp does the cooking and the other herds. It does n’t make any difference if the cook never cooked before, and most of them never did. At one camp, where we stopped for dinner, they had a most interesting collection of fossils. After delivering our last ‘apostle,’ we turned our faces toward Frau O’Shaughnessy’s, and got there just in time for supper.
Mrs. O’Shaughnessy is a widow too, and has quite an interesting story. She is a dumpy little woman whose small nose seems to be smelling the stars, it is so tip-tilted. She has the merriest blue eyes and the quickest wit. It is really worth a severe bumping just to be welcomed by her. It was so warm and cosy in her low, little cabin. She had her table set for supper, but she laid plates for us and put before us a beautifully roasted chicken. Thrifty Mrs. Louderer thought it should have been saved until next day, so she said to Frau O’Shaughnessy, ‘We hate to eat your hen, best you save her till to-morrow.’ But Mrs. O’Shaughnessy answered, ‘Oh,’tis no mather, ’tis an ould hin she was anny way.’ So we enjoyed the ‘ould hin,’ which was brown, juicy and tender.
When we had finished supper and were drinking our ‘tay,’ Mrs. O’Shaughnessy told our fortunes with the tealeaves. She told mine first and said I would die an old maid. I said it was rather late for that, but she cheerfully replied, ‘Oh, well, better late than niver.’ She predicted for Mrs. Louderer that she should shortly catch a beau. “Tis the next man you see that will come coortin’ you.’ Before we left the table some one knocked and a young man, a sheep-herder, entered. He belonged to a camp a few miles away and is out from Boston in search of health, He had been into town and his horse was lamed so he could not make it into camp and he wanted to stay over night. He was a stranger to us all, but Mrs. O’Shaughnessy made him at home and fixed such a tempting supper for him that I am sure he was glad of the chance to stay. He was very decidedly English, and powerfully proud of it. He asked Mrs. O’Shaughnessy if she was Irish and she said, ‘No, ye haythen, it s Chinese Oi am. Can’t yez tell it be me Cockney accint?’ Mr. Boutwell looked very much surprised. I don’t know which was the funnier, the way he looked or what she said.
We had a late breakfast Christmas morning, but before we were through Mr. Stewart came. We had planned to spend the day with Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, but he did n’t approve of our going into the sheep district, so when he found where we had gone he came after us. Mrs. Louderer and he are old acquaintances and he bosses her around like he tries to boss me. Before we left, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy’s married daughter came, so we knew she would not be lonely.
It was almost one o’clock when we got home, but all hands helped and I had plenty cooked anyway, so we soon had a good dinner on the table. Mr. Stewart had prepared a Christmas box for Jerrine and me. He does n’t approve of white waists in the winter. I had worn one at the wedding and he felt personaly aggrieved. For me in the box were two dresses, that is, the material to make them. One is a brown and red checked, and the other green with a white fleck in, both outing flannel. For Jerrine there was a pair of shoes and stockings, both stockings full of candy and nuts. He is very bluff in manner, but he is really the kindest person.
Mrs. Louderer stayed until New Year’s day. My Christmas was really a very happy one.
Your friend,
ELINORE RUPERT.
. . . An interesting day on this ranch is the day the cattle are named. If Mr. Stewart had children he would as soon think of leaving them unnamed as to let a ‘beastie’ go without a name.
On the day they vaccinated he came into the kitchen and told me he would need me to help him name the ‘critters.’ So he and I ‘assembled ’ in a safe place and took turns naming the calves. As fast as a calf was vaccinated it was run out of the chute and he or I called out a name for it and it was booked that way.
The first two he named were the Duke of Monmouth and the Duke of Montrose. I called my first Oliver Cromwell and John Fox.¹ The poor ‘mon’ had to have revenge, so the next ugly, scrawny little beast he called ‘The Poop of Roomed And it was a heifer calf too.
This morning I had the startling news that the ‘Poop’ had eaten too much alfalfa and was all ‘swellit oop,’ and, moreover, he had ‘stealit it.’ I don’t know which is the more astonishing, that the Pope has stolen alfalfa, or that he has eaten it.
We have a swell lot of names, but I am not sure I could tell you which is ‘Bloody Mary,’ or which is Elizabeth, or, indeed, which is which of any of them. E. R.

BURNT FORK, WYO., Dec. 1,
DEAR MRS. CONEY, —
I feel just like visiting to-night, so I am going to ‘play like’ you have come. It is so good to have you to chat with. Please be seated in this low rocker, it is a present to me from the Pattersons and I am very proud of it. I am just back from the Patterson ranch and they have a dear little boy who came the twentieth of November and they call him Robert Dane.
I am sure this room must look familiar to you for there is so much in it that was once yours. I have two rooms, each fifteen by fifteen, but this one on the south is my ‘really’ room and in it are my treasures. My house faces east and is built up against a side hill, or should I say hillside? Anyway, they had to excavate quite a lot. I had them dump the dirt right before the house and terrace it smoothly. I have sown my terrace to California poppies, and around my porch, which is six feet wide and thirty long, I have planted wild cucumbers.
Every log in my house is as straight as a pine can grow. Each room has a window and a door on t he east side and the south room has two windows on the south with space between for my heater, which is one of those with a grate front so I can see the fire burn. It is almost as good as a fireplace. The logs are unhewed outside because I like the rough finish, but inside, the walls are perfectly square and smooth. The cracks in the walls are snugly filled with ‘daubing’ and then the walls are covered with heavy, gray building-paper, which makes the room very warm, and I really like the appearance. I had two rolls of wall-paper with a bold rose pattern. By being very careful I was able to cut out enough of the roses, which are divided in their choice of color as to whether they should be red, yellow, or pink, to make a border about eighteen inches from the ceiling. They brighten up the wall and the gray paper is fine to hang pictures upon. Those you have sent us make our room very attractive. The woodwork is stained a walnut brown, oil finish, and the floor is stained and oiled just like it. In the corners by the stove and before the windows we take our comfort.
From some broken bamboo fishing rods I made frames for two screens. These I painted black with some paint that was left from the buggy, and Gavotte fixed the screens so they will stay balanced, and put in castors for me. I had a piece of blue curtain calico and with brass-headed tacks I put it on the frame of Jerrine’s screen, then I mixed some paste and let her decorate it to suit herself on the side that should be next her corner. She used the cards you sent her. Some of the people have a suspiciously tottering appearance, perhaps not so very artistic, but they all mean something to a little girl whose small fingers worked patiently to attain satisfactory results. She has a set of shelves on which her treasures of china are arranged. On the floor is a rug made of two goatskins dyed black, a present from Gavotte who heard her admiring Zebbie’s bearskin. She has a tiny red rocking-chair which she has outgrown, but her rather dilapidated family of dolls use it for an automobile. For a seat for herself she has a small hassock that you gave me, and behind the blue screen is a world apart.
My screen is made just like Jerrine’s except that the cover is cream material with sprays of wild roses over it. In my corner I have a cot made up like a couch. One of my pillows is covered with some checked gingham that ‘Dawsie’ cross-stitched for me. I have a cabinet bookcase made from an old walnut bedstead that was a relic of the Mountain Meadow Massacre. Gavotte made it for me. In it I have my few books, some odds and ends of china, all gifts, and a few fossil curios. For a floor covering I have a braided rug of blue and white, made from old sheets and Jerrine’s old dresses. In the centre of my room is a square table made of pine and stained brown. Over it is a table cover that you gave me. Against the wall near my bed is my ‘dresser.’ It is a box with shelves and is covered with the same material as my screen. Above it I have a mirror, but it makes ugly faces at me every time I look into it. Upon the wall nearby is a matchholder that you gave me. It is the heads of two fisher-folk. The man has lost his nose, but the old lady still thrusts out her tongue. The material on my screen and ‘dresser’ I bought for curtains, then decided to use some white crossbar I had. But I wish I had not, for every time I look at them I think of poor little Mary Ann Parker.
I am going to make you a cup of tea and wonder if you will see anything familiar about the teapot. You should, I think, for it is another of your many gifts to me. Now I feel that you have a fairly good idea of what my house looks like, on the inside anyway. The magazines and Jerrine’s cards and Mother Goose book came long ago, and Jerrine and I were both made happy. I wish I could do nice things for you, but all I can do is to love you.
Your sincere friend,
ELINORE RUPERT.

BURNT FORK, WYO., April 5.
DEAR MRS. CONEY, —
I find upon re-reading your letter that I did not answer it at all when I wrote you. You must think me very indifferent, but I really don’t mean to be.
My house joins on to Mr. Stewart’s house. It was built that way so that I could ‘hold down’ my land and job at the same time. I see the widsom of it now though at first I did not want it; that way. My boundary lines run within two feet of Mr. Stewart’s house, so it was quite easy to build on.
I think the Pattersons’ ranch is about twenty-five miles from us. I am glad to tell you they arc doing splendidly. Gale is just as thrifty as she can be and Bobby is steady and making money fast. Their baby is the dearest little thing. I have heard that Sedalia is to marry a Mormon bishop, but I doubt it. She puts on very disgusting airs about ‘our Bobby’ and she patronizes Gale most shamefully, but Gale, bless her unconscious heart, is so happy in her husband and son that she does n’t know Sedalia is insulting.
My dear old Grandmother whom I loved so much has gone home to God. I used to write long letters to her. I should like a few addresses of old persons who are lonely as she was, who would like letters such as I write. You know I can’t be brief. I have tried and cannot. If you know of any persons who would not tire of my long accounts and would care to have them, you will be doing me a favor to let me know.
I have not treated you quite frankly about something you had a right to know about. I am ashamed and I regret very much that I have not told you. I so dread the possibility of losing your friendship that I will never tell you unless you promise me beforehand to forgive me. I know that is unfair, but it is the only way I can see out of a difficulty that my foolish reticence has led me into. Few people, perhaps, consider me reticent, but in some cases I am afraid I am even deceitful. Won’t you make it easy to “fess’ so I may be happy again?
Truly your friend, ELINORE RUPERT.

BURNT FORK, WYO., June 16.
MY DEAR FRIEND, —
Your card just to hand. I wrote you some time ago telling you I had a confession to make and have had no letter since, so thought perhaps you were scared I had done something too bad to forgive. I am suIfering just now from eye-strain and can’t sec to write long at a time, but I reckon I had better confess and get it done with.
The thing I have done is to marry Mr. Stewart. It was such an inconsistent thing to do that I was ashamed to tell you. And, too, I was afraid you would think I did n’t need your friendship and might desert me. Another of my friends thinks that way.
I hope my eyes will be better soon and then I will write you a long letter. Your old friend with a new name, ELINORE STEWART,

(To be continued)