From the Juvenile Instructor, 1891 –

Three Mormon Boys

By Homespun [Susa Young Gates]

Chapter 1

Seven-year-old Bertie came in from school, and seeing his mother in tears, flung his cap down and rushed up to her, exclaiming between his hugs, “What’s the matter, mother’ Have you got the toothache? Or is Tad sick?”

The mother pressed the child to her heart and sobbingly answered, “Oh, my dear boy, we are all called to go down to Dixie, and your papa is going to go just as soon as he can get ready.”

“Where’s Dixie, mother?”

“It’s a hot, miserable country away down in the very end of this territory. And there is nothing there but sand, black rocks and Indians. Oh dear, oh dear! “

“Never mind that, ma,” comforted the boy, “you know pa and I will be there and the Indians shan’t touch you. I’m going to get a bow and arrow this very day, and then I can shoot all the Indians. Please don’t cry, ma, for it makes me cry, too.” And straightway the little boy’s boasted heroics melted into a loud sob and the two cried and mourned until nature exhausted herself, and Bertie announced the perfectly vacant state of his internal regions, whereupon the tiny mother ran to repair the damages made by study and play in the boy’s vigorous body; and Dixie and its terrors were forgotten for the moment.

Bertie and his next younger brother, Mark, lay a long while that night talking about the awful prospects in store for them, and although their words were doughty their two hearts beat with heavy muffled throbs, as one after another vivid pictures of the imagined dangers to be encountered, were drawn and discussed.

“I don’t feel sleepy at all, Mark, do you?” finally questioned Bertie, whose eyes were heavy with sleep, but whose fears kept the lids propped open.

“Not very,” answered the smaller boy, who leaned somewhat on the superior age of his brother for protection and comfort. “Let’s say our prayers, Bertie, and then we will get sleepy.” This wee philosopher put his own suggestion into practice and what with the drowsy monotone of the whispered prayers, and the peace that followed the invocation for divine protection, the boys were soon asleep.

Bertie lived in a large, new house, in this year, 186 — , that we are writing about, near the central part of Salt Lake City, and he had a good, kind father, the most unselfish “I little mothers, while for playmates he had a younger brother, Mark, whose bright black eyes were the exact counterpart of Bertie’s own gray ones, and whose curly black hair was as unlike his older brother’s, rather straight, brown hair as was possible. Then there was a younger brother still, little Tad, with his blue eyes, curly, light-brown hair, and his short duckling legs, which persisted in “tagging” the older boys wherever and whenever possible.

A great big house with a basement kitchen, and upstairs parlor and bedrooms. A well-filled orchard all around the house, the well holding its reservoir of cool clear water just at the back door; while in the front and back of the house great porches there were for a summer’s shady rest, and a winter’s rousing romp for the little boys; that was the home of the Wilsons.

It was September, in the year of 186 — , and Papa Wilson had just returned from a long mission to England. Now he was called to go down to Dixie and take his family. You may be sure Bertie and Mark enjoyed all the many and hasty preparations. There were the old oxen to be fitted up with new yokes, and the mules, Jack and Nell, to be grained for the long trip ahead. Then, of course, the moment school was out, Bertie and Mark, with Tad at their heels, were in the barn or yard watching papa get wagons, the one carriage and all the fixtures of harness, camping outfit and packing boxes ready for the move.

When the day of the departure from the city came around, which was in the latter part of October, Bertie ran hastily up to his school and interrupting the geography class, which was standing up in front of the mistress droning out, “Lake Erie, Lake Ontario, Lake Champlain, Moosehead Lake,” up to his teacher and said breathlessly, “we are going to start now for Dixie; goodby, Sister Harrison.”

Then indeed the school was in an uproar, and Bertie was taken by one of the larger girls to every one of the girls to receive a goodby kiss. That was certainly pay enough to go clear to Mexico for, and the little fellow’s tears ran fast and joyfully as all expressed their grief at parting with him. He thought of the parting nearly all the way home, until he caught sight of Jack and Nell hitched up and standing before the front gate with the roomy, light spring wagon, dignified by the name of carriage, close at their waiting heels.

“Oh ma, have you got my kite, ball and marbles, and our tin whistle and the drum, and the apples and some fried cakes for my dinner and the gray cat, and the peas to plant and — and “

Here granny, who was papa’s first wife and had never had any children of her own, called Bertie to come in and kiss her goodby. And then how she did cling to him and sob, and how dear little Bertie did sob in sympathy, too, for next to his mother he loved this odd, good, loving granny, with her sharp, bright intellect, and her devotion to every thing pertaining to this little boy. One passionate squeeze of the slender little body, and granny released the child to run and jump into the waiting carriage, where mama, Aunt Eliza and the three little boys were being carefully packed away by papa’s loving hands. The whip was laid around Jack and Nell by papa, and away they rode down the State road with some heavy hearts inside and some very sad tears in the eyes of lonely granny left all alone in the big city home.

The night that the party camped in Cove Fort Valley it was snowing with a light and soft persistency. Great fires were lighted, and then the little boys saw one of the prettiest natural fireworks ever witnessed. A high, proud-limbed pine tree was set on fire by papa, and the way that tree blazed and sputtered and fumed made three pairs of boyish legs caper and dance to a fine active tune. Up, up, into the darkly purple sky flashed and sparkled the leaping flames, the tiny spiked leaves crisping and cringing with their fiery bath. Sparks of fire shot through the air and danced up into the dark upper canopy with force and beauty.

The older boys stood with eager, darting glances watching the sparks fly up, when a harsh, gutteral voice from the gloom on the other side of the tree, grunted:

“Tooidgy shungry. Nini ashen te shotcop.”

“Kotch kari,” answered the bigger boy, with a huge lump in his throat and a quick, nervous pressure of his brother’s hand. But was he not a boy? And was he not going to be a brave man some day? And did not his father say Indians were not to be feared if boys were obedient to the words of their parents?

Bertie at that moment, from a deep desire to be so, felt himself to be the most obedient boy in the whole world; so he stood his ground manfully, and with only the most delicate quiver in his voice, pointed to the distant camp fire, and told the Indian to go there for his bread.

Indeed, the two boys led the way to the camp fire, with surprising willingness to leave the fascinating tree; but not until within moderately hailing distance did Bertie’s shrill voice inform papa that here was a hungry Indian.

Once within the light of the camp fire, the boys saw that the Indian had some sort of meat slung over his shoulder. When the fact became known that it was bear’s meat, the boys were in a quiver of fear. Really Indians were bad enough, but bears!

“Say, Mark, let’s go sit by pa, shall we? It’s warm over there where he is, and I want to hear what he is telling mother.”

The father observed the action of the little boys, and turning to them in his quizzical, half serious way, said: “What’s the matter, boys? You surely are not afraid of this poor, hungry Indian? Men cannot afford to be cowards; for when there is no danger they are never afraid, and when there is danger they haven’t any time to fool away in being afraid.”

The lesson sank deep into the boys’ hearts. They sat up as straight as arrows, and went calmly off to bed with the coolest air of unconcern. The mother followed them, and arranged the cramped quarters in the end of the wagon box with as much comfort as she could.

After their prayers were said, she repeated a few loving words, and added:

“You know, dears, the Lord always sends two angels at night to guard us, as then we are asleep and need extra care.”

Like the men do when they put on an extra guard at night if we are near the Indians, mama?” questioned Bertie?

“Yes, dearie, and so you need not ever think again of being afraid, for papa and you must take care of me and Aunt Sarah.”

From that day Bertie never forgot his father’s rebuke nor his mother’s tender assurance.

(To be continued)