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CHAPTER XXX.
REVIEW.
A few weeks ago I made a short visit to Yasa, our first
home in Minnesota. The occasion was the eighty-seventh
birthday of my mother, who still lives near the old
homestead.* With spirited horses I drove in company with a son
and a grandson over the same road which was first marked
out bv our simple ox wagon thirty-eight years before.
What a change! The former wilderness changed into
smiling fields dressed in the purest green of early summer,
and along the whole road are fine homes, nearly all of which
belong to Swedish-Americans, who commenced their career
as poor immigrants like myself, or to their children, most of
whom are to the manor-born.
We stop twelve miles from Red Wing close to our old farm,
at a little cottage surrounded by tall trees. There, by the
window, sits greatgrandma, watching eagerly for someone
whom she knows always spends that dav with her.
Close to the quiet home stands the l.irge Lutheran church,
one of the finest country churches in America, and to the
peaceful cemetery surrounding it we all soon make a
pilgrimage to scatter flowers on the graves where my good father
and sister, my wife’s parents, sister, and many other near
relatives have found a resting place. The little cemetery is
clothed in a flowcrv carpet of nature’s own garb, and stud-
•Sincc dead.
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