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“Twenty-two years.”
“A very long time, isn’t it?”
“No, can’t say that. To the one who has labored and
struggled, hoped and enjoyed, it seems but a brief space.
No, twenty-two years is decidedly a short time.”
Our conversation drifted off on other things. “I well
remember,” she said, “the time when we first came out
here. Drove a yoke of oxen. That was the way poor
folks traveled in those days. When we came across the
country, fifty miles south of here it seemed to me the
homeliest country I ever saw. I asked Andrew, our
oldest son now, who was driving, if it was very far yet to
the claim. Andrew, I suppose, thought I was weary of
the long journey, so he said: ‘No, mother; now it is not
far.’ Then I am sure I cried, for I never saw a country
less to my liking. Never thought anything could grow
there, either. Can’t tell how glad I was for every mile
our caravan moved on further to the north. Now and
then we halted a little. Every time I anxiously asked
Andrew, ‘Is it here?’ ‘No, mother, yet farther to the
north.’ So I cheered up a little, and as we moved on
again I thanked God that the claim was not where we
had halted last. To pray to Him about the country where
Andrew had taken the claim might be more to my liking,
but I dared not. That I thought would be sin. Yet I
am not so sure that I didn’t do it; the human heart is
so frail, you know. Northward we moved slowly, but
steadily, and, somehow, I began to like the country
better as we passed on, especially as I now noticed a white
flower growing here and there on the prairie. Once
something broke, and Andrew stepped down to patch it
up. ‘Is it here, Andrew?’ I called out to him. ‘No,
mother, it is farther yet.’ Then I became more cheerful,
and — would you believe me, when we came out here, it
seemed to me the prettiest country that God ever made.
Thanks be to Him! He hath done everything well,” she
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