Ten American Girls From History

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[Illustration: VIRGINIA GOES FORTH TO FIND HER EXILED FATHER]

"Suddenly on the midnight air came the wild howl of coyotes. From the
distance echoed an even more hideous cry--that of the panther, seeking
for prey. At that sound Milton's hair literally stood on end, and if I
had shown one sign of weakening he would gladly have given up the
search. But I went on, closing my ears to the dreaded sounds. All of a
sudden my heart beat so wildly that I was obliged to press my hand
over it to quiet its hammering. What I heard or saw or felt I can
never explain, but I know that all the terror of my thirteen years of
life seemed to be condensed into one moment of dread. And yet go on I
must, praying to God to protect us and let me find father. I pushed
ahead, with panic holding me in its wild grip as I pictured a horrible
death if we should be captured by Indians. Then suddenly with
wide-strained eyes and fluttering heart, I forgot all weariness and
fear. In the far distance a dim, flickering light. Gripping Milt's
arm, I whispered:

"'Father!'

"No sooner had I said it than I thought, 'Perhaps it is an Indian
camp-fire.' But common sense put that aside, for I was sure I had seen
father's horse's hoofprints, and certainly they would lead to him. But
suppose he had been captured by Indians, and this fire we were coming
to should lead to horrible disclosures. All this went through my mind,
but I said nothing of it to Milton. I just went walking steadily on.
Oh, how far away the light was! Would we never reach it? It seemed as
if the more we walked the farther from it we were. But no, it was
he--it was--it was! With a glad cry of, 'Oh, father! father!' I
rushed forward and flung myself in his arms.

"'My child, my Virginia!' he exclaimed, when surprise had let him find
his voice. 'You should not have come here!'

"'But I _am_ here,' I cried, 'and I've brought you some food and your
gun, and a blanket, and a little coffee, and some crackers! And here's
a tin cup, too, and your pistols, and some powder and caps. Oh, and
here are some matches, too!' I exclaimed, holding out one after
another of the precious articles to his astonished gaze, and laughing
and crying as I talked.

"It was almost pitiful to see father's astonishment at the thought
that some one had come to help him in his terrible plight, and as he
took the things I had brought he kissed and fondled me like a little
child, and said that, God helping him, he would hurry on to California
and secure a home for his beloved family--and it seems conceited to
mention it, but he called me his 'brave daughter' over and over again,
until I was glad of the darkness to hide my burning cheeks. Then in
the protecting darkness, with Milton to stand guard, we sat together
and talked of mother and Patty and the boys, and of what we should do
while we were parted from him. Father was the first to remember that
dawn would soon flush the east, and rising, he kissed me again and
tried to say farewell.

"'But I'm not going back!' I cried. 'I'm going with you. Milt will go
back, but I am going on with you.' Seeing his stern, set face, I
pleaded, piteously: 'Oh, don't send me back--I can never bear to see
those cruel men again. Let me go with you?' He turned a white, drawn
face to mine.

"'For mother's sake, dear,' he said, 'go back and take care of her.
God will care for me.' Before I could cry out or make a move to go
with him, he had gathered up the articles I had brought him, jumped
on his horse, and ridden away into the solitude of the Western desert.
Milton and I were left alone to find our way back to the encampment
where mother was watching and waiting for me with an eager, aching
heart. When my straining eyes had seen the last of that solitary
figure riding off into the black desert, I turned abruptly away, and
Milt and I crept back over the vast desert. Before there was a glimmer
of dawn I was safely clasped in mother's arms, repeated my comforting
news over and over again that we had found father, that he was well
and on his way to that land toward which our own faces were turned."

In this simple, direct fashion has Virginia Reed told of a heroic deed
in the history of brave pioneer girls--but as the story comes from her
pen, it is scarcely possible to realize the anxiety, the torturing
fear, the hideous danger of such an expedition as that one of hers
when at midnight, on the great plains, she set out to find her father.

"After that," she says, "though we were obliged to travel on, and
though the party tried to be friendly with us, our hearts were sore
and our thoughts were centered on father, journeying on alone. But as
we went on we found welcome surprises by the way. A note written by
him, stuck on a forked twig by the wayside, feathers scattered over
the path to show that he had killed a bird and was not hungry. When we
had found such evidence of his being alive and well, mother would be
light-hearted for a whole day. Then the signs ceased, and mother's
despair was pitiful to see. Had he been killed by the Indians or
perhaps died of starvation? Patty and I were afraid we would lose
mother, too. But starvation was menacing the whole party, and she was
roused to new strength in a desire to protect her children from that
fate. And even more ominous in their portent of disaster, before us
rose the snow-capped Sierra Nevada mountains, which we must cross
before the heavy snows fell, and the question was, could we do it? We
left our wagon behind, which was too heavy for the mountain trip,
placed in it every article we could do without, packed what we needed
in another, and struggled on as best we could until the 19th of
October, when we had a great joy. As we were wearily traveling along
the Truckee, up rode Mr. Stanton and with him were seven mules loaded
with provisions! No angel from the skies could have been more welcome,
and, hungry though we were, better than food was the news that father
was alive and pushing on to the west. Mr. Stanton had met him near
Sutter's Fort, and had given him provisions and a fresh horse. Oh, how
relieved mother was! I think she could not have eaten a mouthful,
hungry as she was, without the glad tidings. Father had asked Mr.
Stanton to personally conduct us across the Sierras before snow came,
which he had promised to do, so with new courage we hurried on,
keeping a close watch on those gaunt peaks ahead of us, which we must
climb before realizing our dreams. Although it was so early in the
season, all trails were covered with snow, but we struggled on, mother
riding one mule with Tommy in her lap, Patty and Jim on another,
behind two Indians who had accompanied Mr. Stanton, and I riding
behind our leader. But though we did all in our power to travel fast,
we were obliged to call a halt before we reached the summit, and camp
only three miles this side of the crest of the mountain range.

"That night," says Virginia, "came the dreaded snow. Around the
camp-fires under the trees great feathery flakes came whirling down.
The air was so full of them that one could see objects only a few feet
away. The Indians knew we were doomed and one of them wrapped his
blanket about him and stood all night under a tree. We children slept
soundly on our cold bed of snow, which fell over us so thickly that
every few moments my mother would have to shake the shawl--our only
covering--to keep us from being buried alive. In the morning the snow
lay deep on mountain and valley, and we were forced to turn back to a
lake we had passed, which was afterward called 'Donner Lake,' where
the men hastily put up some rough cabins--three of them known as the
Breen cabin, the Murphy cabin, and the Reed-Graves cabin. Then the
cattle were all killed, and the meat was placed in the snow to
preserve it, and we tried to settle down as comfortably as we could,
until the season of snow and ice should be over. But the comfort was a
poor imitation of the real thing, and now and then, in desperation, a
party started out to try to cross the mountains, but they were always
driven back by the pitiless storms. Finally, a party of fifteen, known
in later days as the 'Forlorn Hopes,' started out, ten men and five
women, on snow-shoes, led by noble Mr. Stanton, and we heard no more
of them until months afterward.

"No pen can describe the dreary hopelessness of those who spent that
winter at Donner Lake," says Virginia. "Our daily life in that dark
little cabin under the snow would fill pages and make the coldest
heart ache. Only one memory stands out with any bright gleam.
Christmas was near, and there was no way of making it a happy time.
But my mother was determined to give us a treat on that day. She had
hidden away a small store of provisions--a few dried apples, some
beans, a bit of tripe, and a small piece of bacon. These she brought
out, and when we saw the treasures we shouted for joy, and watched the
meal cooking with hunger-sharpened eyes. Mother smiled at our delight
and cautioned:

"'Children, eat slowly, for this one day you can have all you wish!'
and never has any Christmas feast since driven out of my memory that
most memorable one at Donner Lake.

"Somehow or other the cold dark days and weeks passed, but as they
went by our store of supplies grew less and less, and many died from
cold and hunger. Frequently we had to cut chips from the inside of our
cabin to start a fire, and we were so weak from want of food that we
could scarcely drag ourselves from one cabin to the other, and so four
dreadful months wore away. Then came a day when a fact stared us in
the face. We were starving. With an almost superhuman strength mother
roused. 'I am going to walk across the mountains,' she said; 'I cannot
see my children die for lack of food.' Quickly I stood beside her. 'I
will go, too,' I said. Up rose Milt and Eliza. 'We will go with you,'
they said. Leaving the children to be cared for by the Breens and
Murphys, we made a brave start. Milt led the way on snow-shoes and we
followed in his tracks, but Eliza gave out on the first day and had to
go back, and after five days in the mountains, we, too, turned back
and mother was almost exhausted, and we went back just in time, for
that night there was the most fearful storm of the winter, and we
should have died if we had not had the shelter of our cabins. My feet
had been badly frozen, and mother was utterly spent from climbing one
high mountain after another, but we felt no lasting bad effects from
the venture. But we had no food! Our cabins were roofed over with
hides, which now we had to take down and boil for food. They saved
life, but to eat them was like eating a pot of glue, and I could not
swallow them. The roof of our cabin having been taken off, the Breens
gave us a shelter, and when Mrs. Breen discovered what I had tried to
hide from my own family, that I could not eat the hide, she gave me
little bits of meat now and then from their fast-dwindling store.

"One thing was my great comfort from that time," says Virginia. "The
Breens were the only Catholics in the party, and prayers were said
regularly every night and morning in their little cabin, Mr. Breen
reading by the light of a small pine torch, which I held, kneeling by
his side. There was something inexpressibly comforting to me in this
simple service, and one night when we had all gone to bed, huddled
together to keep from freezing, and I felt it would not be long before
we would all go to sleep never to wake again in this world, all at
once I found myself on my knees, looking up through the darkness and
making a vow that if God would send us relief and let me see my father
again, I would become a Catholic. And my prayer was answered.

"On the evening of February 19th, we were in the cabin, weak and
starving, when we heard Mr. Breen's voice outside, crying:

"'Relief, thank God! Relief!'

"In a moment, before our unbelieving eyes, stood seven men sent by
Captain Sutter from the fort, and they had brought an ample supply of
flour and jerked beef, to save us from the death which had already
overtaken so many of our party. There was joy at Donner Lake that
night, for the men said: 'Relief parties will come and go until you
have all crossed the mountains safely.' But," Virginia's diary says:
"mingled with one joy were bitter tears. Even strong men sat and wept
as they saw the dead lying about on the snow, some even unburied, as
the living had not had strength to bury them. I sorrowed most for Milt
Elliott--our faithful friend, who seemed so like a brother, and when
he died, mother and I dragged him out of the cabin and covered him
with snow, and I patted the pure white snow down softly over all but
his face--and dragged myself away, with a heart aching from the pain
of such a loss.

"But we were obliged to turn our thoughts to the living and their
future, and eagerly listened to the story of the men, who told us that
when father arrived at Sutter's Fort, after meeting Mr. Stanton, he
told Captain Sutter of our desperate plight and the captain at once
furnished horses and supplies, with which father and Mr. McCutchen
started back, but were obliged to return to the fort, and while they
were conferring with Captain Sutter about their next move, the seven
living members of the 'Forlorn Hope' party who had left us the first
part of the winter, arrived at the fort. Their pale, worn faces told
the story and touched all hearts. Cattle were killed and men were up
all night drying beef and making flour by hand-mills for us; then the
party started out to our rescue and they had not reached us one moment
too soon!

"Three days later, the first relief started from Donner Lake with a
party of twenty-three men, women, and children, and our family was
among them. It was a bright, sunny day and we felt happy, but we had
not gone far when Patty and Tommy gave out. As gently as possible I
told mother that they would have to go back to the lake and wait for
the next expedition. Mother insisted that she would go back with them,
but the relief party would not allow this, and finally she gave in and
let the children go in care of a Mr. Hover. Even the bravest of the
men had tears in their eyes when little Patty patted mother's cheek
and said, 'I want to see papa, but I will take good care of Tommy, and
I do not want you to come back.' Meanwhile we traveled on,
heavy-hearted, struggling through the snow single file. The men on
snow-shoes broke the way and we followed in their tracks. At night we
lay down on the snow to sleep, to awake to find our clothing all
frozen. At break of day we were on the road again.... The sunshine,
which it would seem would have been welcome, only added to our misery.
The dazzling reflection made it very trying to our eyes, while its
heat melted our frozen clothing and made it cling to our bodies. Jim
was too small to step in the tracks made by the men, and to walk at
all he had to place his knee on the little hill of snow after each
step, and climb over it. Mother and I coaxed him along by telling him
that every step he took he was getting nearer papa and nearer
something to eat. He was the youngest child that walked over the
Sierra Nevada.

"On their way to our rescue the relief party from Sutter's Fort had
left meat hanging on a tree for our use as we came out. What was their
horror when we reached the spot to find that it had been taken by wild
animals. We were starving again--where could we get food? As we were
trying to decide on our next move, one of the men who was in the lead
ahead stopped, turned, and called out:

"'Is Mrs. Reed with you? If she is, tell her Mr. Reed is here!' There
before us stood father! At the sight, mother, weak with joy, fell on
her knees with outstretched arms, while I tried to run to meet him,
but found myself too much exhausted, so I just held out my arms, too,
and waited! In a moment he was where we could touch him and know that
he was flesh and blood and not just a beautiful dream. He had planned
to meet us just where we were, and had brought with him fourteen men
and a generous supply of bread.

"As he knelt and clasped mother in his arms she told him that Patty
and Tommy were still at the lake, and with a horrified exclamation, he
started to his feet. 'I must go for them at once,' he said. 'There is
no time to lose.' With one long embrace off he went as if on winged
feet, traveling the distance which had taken us five days to go in
two, we afterward heard. He found the children alive, to his great
joy, but, oh, what a sight met his gaze! The famished little children
and the death-like look of all at the lake made his heart ache. He
filled Patty's apron with biscuits, which she carried around, giving
one to each person. He also had soup made for the infirm, and rendered
every possible assistance to the sufferers, then, leaving them with
provisions for seven days, he started off, taking with him seventeen
who were able to travel, and leaving at the lake three of his men to
aid those who were too weak to walk.

"Almost as soon as father's party started out, they were caught in a
terrible snow-storm and hurricane, and his description of the scene
later was heart-breaking, as he told about the crying of the
half-frozen children, the lamenting of the mothers and suffering of
the whole party, while above all could be heard the shrieking of the
storm king. One who has never seen a blizzard in the Sierras can have
no idea of the situation, but we knew. All night father and his men
worked in the raging storm, trying to put up shelters for the dying
women and children, while at times the hurricane would burst forth
with such fury that he felt frightened on account of the tall timber
surrounding the camp. The party was almost without food, having left
so much with the sufferers at the lake. Father had _cached_ provisions
on his way to the lake, and had sent three men forward to get it
before the storm set in, but they could not get back. At one time the
fire was nearly gone; had it been lost, all would have perished. For
three days and three nights they were exposed to the fury of that
terrible storm; then father became snow-blind, and would have died if
two of his faithful comrades had not worked over him all night, but
from that time all responsibility of the relief work was taken from
him, as he was physically unfit.

"At last the storm abated, and the party halted, while father with Mr.
McCutchen and Mr. Miller went on ahead to send back aid for those who
were exhausted from the terrible journeying. Hiram Miller carried
Tommy, while Patty started bravely to walk, but soon she sank on the
snow and seemed to be dying. All gathered around in frantic efforts to
revive the child, and luckily father found some crumbs in the thumb
of his woolen mitten which he warmed and moistened between his own
lips, and fed Patty. Slowly she came to life again, and was carried
along by different ones in the company, so that by the time the party
reached Woodworth's Camp she was quite herself again, and as she sat
cozily before a big camp-fire she fondled and talked to a tiny doll
which had traveled with her all the way from Springfield and which was
her chosen confidante.

"As soon as father's party reached Woodworth's Camp a third relief
party started back to help those who were slowly following, and still
another party went on to Donner Lake to the relief of those who were
still living. But many of that emigrant band lie sleeping to-day on
the shore of that quiet mountain lake, for out of the eighty-three
persons who were snowed in there, forty-two died, and of the
thirty-one emigrants who left Springfield on that lovely April morning
of 1846, only eighteen lived to reach California. Among them were our
family, who, despite the terrible hardships and hideous privations we
had suffered, yet seemed to have been especially watched over by a
kind Providence, for we all lived to reach our goal, and were the only
family who were not obliged at some part of the journey to subsist on
human flesh to keep from perishing. God was good to our family, and I,
Virginia, testify to the heroic qualities which were developed in even
the youngest of us, and for my own part, I gratefully recognize the
blessings which came to me from an unqualified faith in God and an
unfaltering trust that He would take care of us--which He did.

"Mother, Jimmy and I reached California and were taken at once to the
home of the mayor, Mr. Sinclair, where we were given a warm welcome
and where nothing was left undone for our comfort. But we were still
too anxious to be happy, for we knew that father's party had been
caught in the storm." Virginia says: "I can see mother now as she
stood leaning against the door for hours at a time, looking at the
mountains. At last--oh wonderful day--they came, father, Patty and
Tommy! In the moment of blissful reunion tears and smiles intermingled
and all the bitterness and losses and sorrows of the cruel journey
were washed away, leaving only a tender memory of those noble souls
who had fared forth, not to the land of their dreams, but to a far
country whose maker and builder is God.

"And for us, it was spring in California!"

LOUISA M. ALCOTT: AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN"

In a pleasant, shady garden in Concord, Massachusetts, under a gnarled
old apple-tree, sat a very studious looking little person, bending
over a sheet of paper on which she was writing. She had made a seat
out of a tree stump, and a table by laying a board across two
carpenter's horses, whose owner was working in the house, and no
scholar writing a treatise on some deep subject could have been more
absorbed in his work than was the little girl in the garden.

For a whole long hour she wrote, frequently stopping to look off into
the distance and bite the end of her pencil with a very learned look,
then she would bend over her paper again and write hard and fast.
Finally, she laid down her pencil with an air of triumph, jumped up
from the stump and rushed toward the house.

"Mother! Anna! I've written a poem about the robin we found this
morning in the garden!" Dashing into the library she waved the paper
in the air with a still more excited cry: "Listen!" and dropped on the
floor to read her poem to a much thrilled audience of two. With great
dramatic effect she read her lines, glancing up from time to time to
see that she was producing the proper effect. This is what she read:

TO THE FIRST ROBIN

Welcome, welcome, little stranger,
Fear no harm and fear no danger,
We are glad to see you here,
For you sing "Sweet Spring is near."

Now the white snow melts away,
Now the flowers blossom gay,
Come, dear bird, and build your nest,
For we love our robin best.

She finished with an upward tilt of her voice, while her mother
excitedly flourished the stocking she was darning over her head,
crying: "Good! Splendid!" and quiet Anna echoed the words, looking
with awe at her small sister, as she added, "It's just like
Shakespeare!"

The proud mother did not say much more in praise of the budding
poetess's effort, for fear of making her conceited; but that night,
after the verses had been read to a delighted father, and the young
author had gone happily off to bed, the mother said:

"I do believe she is going to be a genius, Bronson!"

Yet, despite the prediction, even an appreciative parent would have
been more than surprised had she been able to look into the future and
had seen her daughter as one of the most famous writers of books for
young people of her generation. The little girl who sat under the
apple-tree on that day in early spring and wrote the verses was no
other than Louisa May Alcott, and her tribute to the robin was to be
treasured in after years as the first evidence of its writer's talent.

Louisa, the second daughter of Amos Bronson and Abba May Alcott, was
born in Germantown, Pa., on the 29th of November, 1832, and was
fortunate in being the child of parents who not only understood the
intense, restless and emotional nature of this daughter, but were
deeply interested in developing it in such a way that her marked
traits would be valuable to her in later life. To this unfailing
sympathy of both father and mother the turbulent nature owed much of
its rich achievement, and Louisa Alcott's home surroundings and
influences had as much to do with her success as a writer as had her
talent, great as that was.

At the time of her birth her father was teaching school in
Germantown, but he was a man whose ideas were original and far in
advance of his time, and his way of teaching was not liked by the
parents of his pupils, so when Louisa was two years old and her older
sister, Anna, four, the family went to Boston, where Mr. Alcott opened
his famous school in Masonic Temple, and enjoyed teaching by his own
new methods, and when he was happy his devoted wife was equally
contented.

Louisa was too young to go to school then, except as a visitor, but
her father developed her young mind at home according to his own
theories of education, and during the remainder of the all-too short
days the active child was free to amuse herself as she chose. To play
on the Common was her great delight, for she was a born investigator,
and there she met children of all classes, who appealed to her
many-sided nature in different ways. Louisa was never a respecter of
class distinctions--it did not matter to her where people lived, or
whether their hands and faces were dirty, if some personal
characteristic attracted her to them, and from those early days she
was unconsciously studying human nature, and making ready for the work
of later years.

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