The House
The wagon was piled high with furniture, a team of bay horses standing patently by. The door of the small shanty stood open, and busy adults carried small last items to be tucked here end there. "A11 ready" Father called as he lifted me to the spring seat beside my mother, I waved good-bye to the group of folks and neighbors and thrilled to joyful expectancy as the horses responded to "Git up, Dick, Pomps" and we were off to the Section.

This is my first memory. It was May, 1906 and I was three and a half years old. My second is of Amelia and me running through all the empty,echoing rooms, soon discovering a door that opened to a long flight of stairs leading to the attic, climbing to the top, tripping over my own chubby clumsiness, and falling back dowm. The Section house was a large one for those days, the largest dwelling house in the Valley. It was built for the convenience of the farmers of the United Order who worked the lower valley and cove fields. Two or three families lived in it at the same time, my sister Kezia and brother Charley being among them. It was named the "Section House" for no other reason than that it was built on a certain section of land, which one I never learned.

There were six rooms on the ground floor and three large unfinished ones in the attic. In the center was a large living room, with an adobe fireplace and a convenient closet close by for wood. In back of this room was the kitchen, long and not so wide, with two windows and an outside door. The rooms on each end of the house were used for bedrooms, four in all.

And were we lucky, for Father brought eight of his thirteen living children when he moved to the farm. It must have seemed like a palace to him and Mother, moving as they did from their small United Order shanty. Their home in Heber, too, was small, only three rooms, a hall, and a summer kitchen, yet it was in this small house that ten of their children had been born. The first two, Kezia and Charley, were born in Provo. Irene, the ninth in number, died of whooping cough when three weeks old. This made a family of eleven when they moved from Heber to be objects of interest and curiosity as they were unloaded on a warm May day in 1878 to become members of the United Order at Orderville. By the time Amelia and I came along, the five oldest members of the family were married, and we in no way ever felt we over crowded the family living space.

In order to be nearer his several pieces of farm land, Father made a trade of other property for the Section House. It was a mile south of town; set back from the road about two rods. It faced southeast, for that is the way the valley lies. There was an acre or more of fenced enclosure, ample room for garden plots and the orchard Father was soon to plant.

A flower garden graced each side of the wide path leading from the front gate: first a row of flags; then spicy carnations; colorful snapdragons; yellow and orange French marigolds; vari-colored zinias; tall, white cosmos and, flanking each side fence, a row of hollyhocks--oh the bees and bumble bees we have caught in them! Below the porch there was a low terrace where we planted our morning-glories and watched them climb to the roof on evenly spaced and tightly-stretched strings. The thick row of fragrant four-o'clocks below them were of all hues and colors, and as evening came on we often picked a profusion of them to make our many petty-coated party dolls. There is really no end to the variety of "original" costumes we created. What fun and what memories To this day the smell and sight of four-o'clocks transports me back to childhood and the Section; and through the years in each of our separate gardens, there could be found a row of blooming four-o'clocks.

Two tamarack trees were planted, some distance apart, by the front fence, south of the flower garden. They were started from twigs Brother Pugh of Kanab had given Father just as he was ready to return home after a March conference. Each spring we thrilled to their feathery leaves and flowers, the latter a delicate lilac-pink. These two trees struggled bravely for survival long after all other signs of human occupancy had been obliterated from the scene. Before it was too late, I provided for their continuance by rescuing a slender limb and transplanting it in a corner of our lot in town. It is still alive and blooms profusely each returning spring.

May and June never come, but what I see and smell the roses at the Section. They covered the front fence on each side of the gate: large pink ones; two white, including a moss rose, and a deep, deep red one, the blossoms small but thickly doubled; then the yellow roses which were the first to bloom. We watched them from the tiny bud until they showed color, then gradually burst into full bloom making the heavily loaded bushes thick with a fragrance I can still recall any time, any place.

We thoroughly enjoyed the flower garden, for many of our summer evenings were spent on the large front porch, Father and Mother sitting in chairs, the breeze was cool, I would snuggle close to Mother to be gathered into the comforting shelter of her ample tie apron. We could look across the valley over green fields or fields ripe for the harvests across the willow lined creek in the distance, over to Sugar Knolls and to the tree-fringed crest of White Mountain, where it etches its uneven line against the blue, blue sky. A quiet, peaceful contentment was all about us, in the atmosphere and deep in our hearts. This was our home and we felt happy, contented and secure.

The Hill
From the very edge of the back door yard there was a rather steep incline to the Cove irrigation ditch, for the part of two hills were fenced inside the ample lot. It was a whole world of fantasy for four imaginative young girls with time on their hands. Trees were domiciles for "Brother Farmer" and "Mr. Meredith", living the width of the lot apart. Each home was swept clean by sage brush brooms, rock chairs were provided for comfort, and the rooms were decorated with Wild flowers. Nature also arranged shrubs in handy convenience for houses with several rooms, even spaces left for doors. In these we spent many hours playing with our china dolls and our large families of homemade rag dolls. We journeyed them over rough unbroken roads from one fence to the other in shoebox wagons pulled by a long cord. We took them on picnics to vacation spots where green grass formed an Oasis of tall rushes, meadow grass, scented mint, daisies and dandelions. These flourished in level spots by the side of the small ditch from which we carried water for household use. The water came from the big ditch, and when we were not using it, we turned it off to increase the flow of the field stream.

Above the ditch we built the two doll-sized mountain cabins made with new shingles. Each had a front door and one end window. There were boat-riding facilities for our "doll rags" just at the dooryard's edge, the boats being scraped out halves of water melon. They served well, too, except when occasionally they were drawn into the rapids; then it took expert maneuvering to keep them right side up. I don't remember any fatalities.

Two large cottonwood trees grew near the head gate of the little ditch running down to the house. Under their shade we sat and talked or read or played, our slatted or stiffly-starched gingham sunbonnets lying on the ground near by. We made milkweed flowers, caught donkey-devils, or watched blue bottles skim lightly over the surface of the slowly moving stream. Almost every summer afternoon as soon as dinner was over, especially if the grandchildren were there, we coaxed to go in swimming but we had to wait a full hour before permission was granted lest it interfere with our digestion.

In springtime the hill blossomed gaily with hosts of yellow sego lilies, wild onions, sweet Williams lady's-slippers, and flaming fire posies. Across the ditch, to our delight, redbells and bluebells ventured through the fence growing straight and tall by the wild crab apple bushes that blossomed so pungently fragrant in their pink and white loveliness. Squawberry and serviceberry bushes, weeds and wild roses enlivened the more prevalent sagebrush that grew so thriftily all about us.

The Living Room
Each spring we gathered these early blossoms for a large table bouquet, the last touch to our spring house-cleaning. First Emma, then Ella, took active charge of this spring ritual, but we were all conspicuously in the act from de-nuding the room, to scrubbing the woodwork and floors to a sparkling finish, polishing the windows and all the glassware, taking a sheet to the straw stack at the barnyard and filling it "full" with the cleanest straw available, "and be sure you shake off all the Chaff!" Ella and Julia tacked down the edges of the homemade rag carpet over the straw padding, but Amelia and I did our full share of pulling and stretching. When we first moved to the Section we had only bare floors all through the house, but we carpeted the front room as soon as possible. A newly-stretched carpet over straw is the most enticing place imaginable for an after-dinner nap.

About the time we got the carpet, we also afforded long, lace curtains. They were easily washed, stretched and hung, and were, oh, so elegant. A light calico curtain camouflaged the "goods-box" dressing stand, the top covered with a scarf of white cambric edged with wide, knit lace. Above this hung the mirror with the comb case underneath. This was a familiar spot for Amelia and me, for daily we stood by -- patiently or impatiently--while our long, thick hair was unsnarled, brushed, braided and be-ribboned by Mother or Ella.

There were pictures on the wall and a motto, "What is Home Without a Mother". The cupboard, with glass doors and painted gray, stood in a nook between the fireplace and the front window. To me it was a colorful decoration with all our best dishes on display. In the center on the top shelf was the larger blue willowware platter brought from England in 1854 by Grandfather and

Grandmother Giles
Also in a conspicuous place was a tall-stemmed fruit dish with a lid to cover, knobbed and scalloped and etched with frosted leaves - a gift from Aunt Betsy, Mothers oldest sister. Thin china and glassware were to replace the thick earthenware as time and Mother's birthdays and Christmases rolled by -- beautiful painted plates, cups and saucers, glass pitchers, butter and honey and fruit dishes, novelty hen and rooster sets of bronze and white glass. Mother's cupboard was always a delight to me, both by sight and smell. She kept her spices in the lower part, and every time the doors were open, we got an elusive whiff of the far-away Orient from whence they came.

The mantle above the fireplace was centered by the dependable clear-toned clock. No one but Father was allowed to wind its and he was very particular to do it with split-second timing -- at 9:10 A.M. every Sunday morning. Like milking the cows, it did better when attended to with punctual regularity. Next to the clock, on each side, were tall, matching vases, with smaller ornaments in orderly arrangement -- the red and white earthen dogs, engraved cups; small vases, green and white, containing bouquets of paper flowers.

A fireplace in a room is the natural focal point around which the family gathers. Our's was a generous one, and in the cool weather of spring or autumn, or the biting sting of the long winter months, the pine logs fed the bright yellow flames, filling the room with light and warmth and cheer.

We circled its hearth in prayer every morning, and Father's well-remembered words still linger in our memories. He gave thanks "above all for the Gospel and for a home in these peaceful valleys." He asked for God's blessings "on the labor of our hands, upon the fields and gardens, the flocks and herds; especially upon the authorities of the Church, the missionaries, and those honorable men who represent us in the halls of congress." He prayed for the "poor, the needy, the sick and afflicted, the earth and the elements and all that pertains unto us." He never rushed his prayers, as some are tempted to do, and as we school children often wished he would. We had a mile to walk to school and would have felt scandalized had we been late; so I hope it won't discredit our record of piety if we often glanced surreptitiously at the clock on the mantle to note the slow passing of five long minutes before the final "Amen".

During the winter evenings there was always someone to say, "let's parch corn." So when there was a deep bed of hot coals devoid of flame or smoke, George or Ed did the honor wielding the long handled black fry-pan. We girls would shell a panful of carefully selected ears, sweeping up the waste kernels for the chickens. This was Father's idea, "waste not, want not", was all he needed to say. The one-fourth Irish (or was it one-half) in Father slyly placed potatoes or an onion into the bot ashes or hollow andirons; so Father ate potatoes while we children made way with the corn. After the orchards started to bear, a large pan of apples--pearmains, Jonathans, Ben Davises, and greenings--was brought down from the partitioned bins upstairs.

These diversions in no way interfered with our studies. Each one of us took his own responsibility for preparation of the lessons for the following school day. Amelia and I liked to study our spelling and reading before dark. We had to go over our reading lessons five or ten times aloud, or until we could read it "word perfect." They were not long assignments, one or two pages, or if it were a poem, we had to have it memorized for the next day. I seem to remember Emma studying the longest and hardest but, of course she was the oldest of the eight children that moved to the Section. Our official bed-time was 9:00 P.M., but Emma often sat up until eleven or twelve and seemed to enjoy it. Not so George--he would rather tease the rest of us than to study.

We also had some time for games -- blind man's buff, pussy wants a corner, pretty bird in my cup, and button, button, who wants a button. Father enjoyed a game of checkers with the older boys but I don't remember Mother ever joining in our play.

Father was a prodigious reader and often read aloud some interesting thought or episode. Jane remembered that while living in Heber, he took the New York Ledger and read stories aloud to those who cared to listen. She was always one of them.

Father often reached for the almanac hanging on a nail at the end of the mantle. He studied it thoroughly: the household remedies, the zodiac, the location of the Big and Little Dippers, the Milky Way, the Pleiades, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars and Venus, and which were the morning and evening stars at a particular season. He would take us out at night, summer or winter, to point out to us what was "going on in the heavens above us." He noted and commented on the changes of the moon, the sun, the equinox, the seasons, and acquainted us with the fact that the moon made four trips north each year and the sun but one. To this day I thank him for this brief introduction to astronomy.

He sometimes related his past experiences about his home in Canada--the farms that his father, his brothers, William and Patrick, and himself had established on the outskirts of New Hampton in New Brunswick. It was called Carroll's Ridge. The best description of those early memories is found in the Journal of his oldest son Willard. From this I quote:

Willard's Journal
I was born May 10, 1840 at a backwoods place called Carroll's Ridge, British Province of New Brunswick, Canada -- Post Office, Fredericton. My grandfather, Patrick O'Carroll, with his wife Ann Negus and his sons William, Charles Negus, and Patrick cleared farms adjoining each other.

There I was born and there I remained till I was six years of age. On May10, 1854, my birthday, we took the Steamer "John Warren" on the St. John's River for our start to Utah. Father was presiding elder of the branch in South Hampton and was put in charge of a company of fifty-seven converts on their way to Zion.

I have slight recollection of our home, except that it was a large log house with an upper room reached by a ladder, a large porch facing East with a woodshed. The stable for stock was north toward Grandfather's place. A meadow surrounded the house, and a path led to the spring at the foot of a hill close by.

The recollections I have of home are of seeing men shovel roads through snowdrifts, which, when a pole was laid across, a load of hay on a sled could be driven under the pole; of seeing my father and my mother's brother, James McInelly, mowing in the meadow and hauling hay to the barn on a sled; of seeing a bear killed by grandfather and Uncle William; of being spanked and put to bed by my mother for taking my little brother George upstairs to swing while she was away and had told me not to do so; of being sick and lying in a lumber cradle, and my mother, as she passed back and forth doing her work, teaching me the hymn, "Come All Ye Sons of Zion." I have never forgotten that hymn. I cannot remember When I learned to read.

I remember going aboard the steamer, and of being sick. I remember landing at St. Louis, Mo., and the camp ground at Ft. Leavenworth, where my mother died of cholera, also my brother, Frederiok, and my sister, Emma, they three being buried in one grave.

I remember that start by ox team, but not much of the Journey across the plains, as I was very sick. My brother, George died two weeks after we started the westward trek by team, leaving my father and myself as the only survivors of our family of six. I was so sick and wasted I could not sit up. The days were hot and sultry, and I had no energy, not even enough to brush the flies from my face.

Father was so worn out with loss of sleep and grief and sorrow, that he could scarcely care for our needs and those of the oxen. He often crawled into camp on his hands and knees being too exhausted to stand up and walk. All the long and weary way across the plains he had to lean heavily on the yokes of his oxen for support.

The above extract from Willard's Journal gives the only bit of local color to Fathers first family and home--now, over a hundred years from the writing of this sketch. I treasure this brief backward glance into their home, their lives, their struggles and sorrows, their faith and courage. There is much more we could have learned from Father as he reminisced around the family hearth, had we only realized then how interesting and valuable his experiences would be to us; and how much we would want it when it was too late.

While Father talked to us, or read, and we children listened or studied, Mother sat on the opposite side of the hearth, with her mending basket filled with clothes to be mended--socks to be darned, and stockings and mittens to be knitted. Knitting all the hosiery for a family of ten was, in itself a major project. We girls learned young to give Mother helpful assistance for "idle hands are the devil's workshop". Father's equally potent advice to the boys was, "Find something to do. It is better to dig post holes and fill them up than to lie around wasting your time in idleness". We were not always convinced.

The Kitchen
The kitchen, too, left impressive memories--the small Monitor stove with four lids and a dependable oven; the kettles, skillets and griddles made of iron, black and heavy; the milk pans and basins of tin and the four buckets, two large and two small, made of brass. These were kept bright and shining by scouring with salt and vinegar. Our ample breadbox was a leaky copper wash boiler, with a tight-fitting lid, that kept the bread fresh and moist. This we kept under the end of the work table where it was handy to reach at meal time.

Countless slices of bread and butter with molasses or honey were handed out during the years to hungry children and grandchildren. At times Amelia and I would play we were orphans and had to live on dry crusts and a sip of water and were thankful for that.

The table we ate from had let-down leaves on both sides and sat in the middle of the long kitchen. Attached to the staircase wall was a large flour bin and a utility cupboard for sugar, salt and pepper, spice cans, and small bottles of medicine. The most potent of its contents was the "pepper sass" bottle, fancy and square; it contained small red pepper pods, one-third of the way up, covered to the top with our best vinegar. With time on our hands, and perhaps with a niece or nephew in the baokground, we would cautiously and secretively "pass the bottle around for a bracer". We would then stagger about playing drunk, although I am certain not one of us had ever seen a drunken man's performance.

Long shelves curtained with calico prints, were on the inside wall. They kept from dust and flies our dishes, left-over victuals, and in winter-time, our butter and pans of milk.

The drinking barrel stood in the corner at the foot of the stairs. In the coldest winter weather it would freeze over every night. During the winter the boys hauled all of our water from the creek, except what Mother salvaged from melting clean snow in the various utensils on the stove. In the spring, as soon as the Cove ditch was cleaned, Mother and the girls carried the water from the flume of the small ditch that ran down the hill to the edge of the door yard.

Often in the summertime, when the kitchen was hot and sultry, we would take the table outside and eat our supper during the cool of the evening. We usually had to light the lantern to finish the meal. If we were as early as sunset, our flock of pigeons would put on an interesting variety show, strutting, cooing, soaring in formation only to light on the kitchen roof to coo and strut in a repeat performance.

We bathed once a week in wooden tubs, which were also used for the family wash and for mopping the floors. Our flatirons were of iron and heavy to use. We heated them on top of the stove or occasionally in front of red-hot coals in the fireplace.

We had large washings and ironing but we started to work early in the morning and never let them drag. At times on wash day Emma, or Ella and Julia would stay from school until the forenoon recess, then walk the mile to town by the time the bell rang.

Ella and Julia scrubbed the floor more often than did Amelia and I--during this laborious process, it was "Out!" for everyone else until the floor dried. I remember George appeared at the back door on one such occasion and relishing an opportunity to tease the girls threatened to step on forbidden territory. Ella forbade and Julla protested.

"But I've got something for you", he said soberly.

"What? What?". The girls were excited.

"Let me in," and one foot shoved open the door.

"Don't you dare!" said Ella, and Julia said, "I've got to see it." She stepped over a wet puddle on the floor and peered anxiously at George's closed hand.

"It's especially for you, Julia and here it goes down your back!" Shelooked horrified at the one thing that horrified her most, a large, gray sow bug. Screams pierced the air as sharp as lightning, and she began her retreat while George did a bold follow-up. As her back lined up against the inevitable wall, she turned with a hysterical scream and threw the wet mop toward her target, and like a guided missle, it struck home right in George's face. He went out grinning, as though his was the victory.

If we ran out of "busy work", we would invariably think up something to cook--like trying a new recipe we had found in The "Comfort" or "Household", or making cookies, or honey or molasses candy.

On a winter afternoon the kitchen was a good place to go for privacy, and it was there Amelia and I went to open our first order of paper-back novels, five for a dollar. I chose "Homestead on the Hillside" and immediately began reading. I don't remember what Amelia's was, but all of the books turned out to be absorbing. We could scarcely lay them down to set the table for supper. Later, when the work was done, we coaxed Mother to let us make a fire in the fireplace of her bedroom. She consented and reading by the fire became a delightful and memorable evening. My story was so sad in places that my throat ached, my lips quivered and the tears spilled over. Amelia laughingly teased me, but I was part and parcel of every emotional scene I was reading, and how I suffered!

The Cellar
Across the kitchen dooryard, sligtly northwest, was the cellar, built half way up with rock masonry and finished with lumber. It's thick walls and hard dirt floor, sprinkled with water twice a day, kept it cool in summertime and above freezing in winter. With no windows it was also dark, and as we moved about inside, the only light came through the craok in the slightly-opened door. There was a long table running the length of the room, and the projecting rock masonry formed a wide shelf around three sides It held crock jars and cans of cream, preserves, lard, eggs, and other edibles.

There was a barrel for pickles in one corner, for which we gathered the cucumbers every other morning during the season for them, washed them carefully, leaving a short stem on each so they would keep better. Mother changed the strong solution covering them three times, then weighted them down with thin flat rocks that had been scrubbed and sterilized. Before using the pickles they had to be taken out of the brine, soaked in water twenty-four hours, and then covered with vinegar.

Close by the pickle barrel was one of equal size containing molasses made at Moccasin. On the far end of the table were slabs of bacon, hams and shoulders of well-cured pork, and around Christmas time, pans and basins of headcheese and sausage, liver and rib roasts.

The milk was strained and kept in the cellar, free from dust and flies--this being before the time of screen doors. Pan after pan of milk, spread over one end of the table, was left two days for the cream to rise, ready for the skimming. The old dash churn did efficient service there, how efficient depended on the one who had hold of the handle. It could do a loitering job in separating the butter from the cream, especially if the one operating the dash was at the same time absorbed in a book or magazine.

We were abundantly supplied and everything in the cellar was conveniently arranged and kept spotlessly clean. Looking ahead and preparing for the future was necessary for self-preservation, for the winter weather was uncertain, and on occasions we were snow-bound in the Valley. Marysvale, our nearest freight station was a hundred miles away, and often it took days to break a path over the divide, so a well-filled storehouse was our assurance of a kind of peace that is the result of plenty.

The Horses
One source of never-ending activity was the corral and stackyards. They were southeast of the house and across the main road. When we first moved to the farm there were only straw-thatched sheds for all the animals; two stables for the horses and six smaller ones for the cows. The first team of horses I remember was Dick and Pomp. Dick was a dark bay, rather small, quick to understand, completely trustworthy and always willing to pull more than his share of the load. He had an easy gait for riding and soon had our trust and love. Not so Pomp, who was like a tall, gangling, over-grown boy. His sorrel coat was not shiny like Dick's darker one. When I was lifted up for a ride, I felt dizzy looking down so far to the ground below, the hardness of which I tested more than once, as he started his awkward gait forward to jounce and jostle me from one side to the other with a final dislodging lurch. With the passing experience of horseback r1ding, it slowly dawned on me that it was I, not the horse, who might be the awkward one. Ella, Julia and Amelia could lope or run the horses as they desired without any painful and humiliating finale. We cried when Father sold Dick because he was getting old, such a heartless reason, we felt.

I don't remember the exact sequence of the various horses that entered and left our stables. Father improved the breed as time went on, usually buying purebreds form Dan Seegmiller of Upper Kanab, a man who loved good horses and horse racing. Brother Seegmiller was counsellor in the Kanab Stake Presidency and he and his son Will often stayed at our house during Conference week-end. It was some time before Amelia and I caught on to the fact that taking Emma buggy riding held more significance than merely showing off his blooded teams for Father's benefit. He later took her on the long trek to Mexico and when they returned she was his plural wife.

Now back to horses. One fine looking team we bought from our new brother-in-law was a pair of young, well-built, fancy-stepping geldings with shiny coats. These geldings, which we named Fox and Claude were in the final phase of being broken to work. One spring day Ed was plowing with them in the field below the corral. Fox became frightened and began to run away, forcing Claude into the fiasco with him dragging the bouncing plow close at their heels. Making the turn at the bottom of the fields they ran full speed on a return trip, until they reached the bank of the irrigation ditch. They stumbled forcibly on the small incline and Fox pitched head-frist into the water where he struggled frantically to free himself. The excitement had brought all of us to the scene. We watched Father's fast work as he cut the harness that bound the struggling animal; at the same time he tried to hold its nose out of the water. The odds were against them, and with a final shudder, Fox sank back to struggle no more. To us it was a heart-breaking scene, regardless of the financial loss which was considerable, as the gelding was a promising asset to our horse-power on the farm.

All the horses I remember were work horses except Sailor, a pretty bay with a smooth, fast gait. He won many honors on the race track in town, and Ed always came home smiling on such occasions. Fred and Vine gave their side-saddle to us girls. We felt this ignite a social distinction as it was the only side-saddle in town. However, all girls rode sideways in those days even when using men's saddles.

It was after Father built the new barn and lumber cowsheds, with a harness room attached, that we acquired Cap and Chief - short for Captain and Chieftan. They assumed the sovereignty of the barnyard in no time. In my backward glances to the past, they are always in the picture--Cap, a dark iron-gray, and Chief much lighter. A perfect match they were in size and compatibility. Cap was a noble horse, steady, dependable and willing to pull to the last ounce of his strength, when needed, for work or running races. He was even-tempered and used his "horse sense".

This he needed for a check and balance, having Chief for a teammate. While Chief had many of Cap's fine characteristics, he hued to the adage, "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy". He capriciously chased the pigs, calves, and even the roosters round and round the corral; nudging with his nose, faster and faster, until they all were so excited they missed every good chance to duck in or out, over or under for escape. The louder they grunted or squawked, the more Chief seemed to enjoy the melee. He was a sly craftsman, too, tinkering with the hooks on all the gates and doors around the place, forcing wider the space between pickets, sliding bars back and forth until one end dropped, then another, never satisfied until he made his exit. Wedging the bars didn't deter him--he jumped over. It was "Don't Fence Me In" for our Chieftan.

Often after a day's work and the horses had been unharnessed, Father would turn them out for a canter. They would break loose like Jove's lightning, snorting and kicking their hind legs in the air, racing wildly to the top of the low, clay hill above the barn. There they would stand, silhouetted against the sunset sky, feet firm, heads high, looking for all the world like the proud nobility their names suggested.

The Cows
The cowsheds continued east from the stables, each stall with a front window through which the cows were fed. They were fed regularly sufficient hay and cornfodder to satisfy, but not to waste. I think Amelia almost broke her back cutting cornsuckers and green lucern and carrying heavy armful to place in front of each stable for an appetizer at feeding time. I was three years younger. After the harvest the appetizers were a pan of moistened bran, or field beets, or carrots cut in thin oblong chunks to prevent choking.

One morning Spot got a piece of beet lodged crosswise in her throat, and Ed found her in great agony. He and Father applied every remedy they knew to no avail. Then Ed got on our fastest horse and raced one-half mile away to the Green for Alvin Heaton. With Father and Ed holding her down, and Amelia and I in a secluded spot praying, Alvin carefully inserted the handle of a pitchfork down her throat and dislodged the offending obstacle. They helped her to her feet and she stood silently by, repenting, we hoped, her hasty greediness.

The stable and stall doors were kept locked for awhile to give each animal unhurried time to clean up its manger. Later when the milch cows, and horses were turned loose in the yard, the dry stock did a thorough cleaning up in the mangers, although they had constant use of the strawstack to keep them contentedly munching.

Liz occupied the stall adjoining the barn. She was brindle in color, gentle and motherly, filling the brass buckets at each milking until the foam piled high above the top, and dribbled down the sides, like icing on a birthday cake. She could be milked on the left side as well as the right, or on both sides at once. Each morning she headed the procession of cows as they trailed their way, single file, over the low hill and into the Cove for a day of grazing. She also brought them home at evening time for milking. If they were ever late, Father would call Mage (Major), our black English Shepherd dog, and pointing to the Cove, say, "Go for the cows, Mage!". With out fail he would bring them home, everyone.

Most of our other cows were dark red in color. They were: Cherry Kate, Beauty, Fluff, Christmas, and others. Spot, our only Holstein was the exception.

The Pigs
We raised white Berkshire pigs for home consumption, killing two each year before Christmas. At slaughter time Amelia and I would sit on a high observation point, but invariably at the crucial moment we would shut our eyes and stuff our ears with fingers to deaden the last protesting squeal. The pigs furnished us with all the ham and shoulders, bacon and lard, headcheese and sausage that we could use. Even yet I can recall the appetizing odors that came from our kitchen on cold winter evenings--warmed-over potatoes, hot biscuits or Johnny cake, ham or sausage.

The Chickens
The chickens, poor things, were the only creatures in the large barnyard that didn't eventually get a new house. Year after year they nested and perched in the original straw-thatched coop. They didn't seem to mind, however, as they cackled and crowed and scratched the busy days away. The chickens belonged to Mother, including the profits. They were fed twice a day and fresh water put into their pans, we always kept a rock in the pan, for what hen doesn't like to get in with both feet, or stand on the edge and tip it over for spite or pure deviltry, for hens, like people, have dispositions and personalities.

Game was a perky black hen with a silver collarette around her neck. She was the talkative, gossipy type, poking her bill into everyone’s business. She liked to steal her nest away far under the barn where even the long rake or pitchfork couldn't reach. She would hatch a chick or two, too nervous to wait for the rest, trail them all over the yard the first day, fly in a flapping rage if anyone came near, fussed and fluttered over them a couple of weeks, then off she would go, singing and cackling like a giddy teenager in love. We were often lucky enough to have another mother hen adopt the abandoned chicks. We would slip them under her brooding wings about dark, and by the next morning no one seemed to notice the family increase, not even the hen.

Creepy, a big Domineck with short legs, was the ideal mother. She usually hatched thirteen to fifteen baby chicks from each of her spring and summer settings. She had a large spreads and kept the eggs well covered for three long weeks. She moved slowly and carefully as she scratched and clucked the days away. She stayed with her brood until almost all weaned themselves. It was comical, and almost embarrassing at times, to see her find a bit of food, hold it in her beak, and cluck vigorously until one or two of her gangling young offspring, almost grown, would come running to claim the delectable morsel.

Creepy lived to a ripe old age, the most respected and loved hen in the history of the old thatched coop. Her posterity exceeded that of any other hen on the farm. She came when called and ate grain from our hands in a friendly, companionable way. As time passed her approaching old age was noticeable by a pale comb, falling feathers, and drooping wings. Amelia and I gave her special tid-bits for an appetizer, but we were worried. We found her one day about sundown in the willow-patch below the ditch, all stretched out with wings spread helplessly. Poor Creepy--we couldn't bear to see her die, so we ran to the stables where George had just begun the milking.

We implored his help, but he said, "I'm busy. Anyway, you can't save a sick chicken".

"But it's Creepy," Amelia informed him.

"Well," he said in his cheerful, comforting voice, "the kindest thing you can do for her now is to hit her over the head with a stick and help her out of her misery".

"Oh, we couldn't do that!" we both objected in unison. "It's too cruel."

"Oh, she won't even feel it," came the cheerful information; "and if you don't she won't go to Hen Heaven, that's for sure."

Without another word, we turned sorrowfully away, hunted a suitable weapon, and Amelia dealt the soul-saving blow which insured our beloved Creepy an honored place in the "Never, Never Land" where all good chickens go.

It was fun to hunt for new nests in the barn, the mangers, in the hay, on the loft and under the alleyway, or in the ricks of corn outside in the yard. We have found them in the willows by the fence, and even in sagebrush across the road, in the chaff house, and in the deep straw that roofed the sheds, not to say anything about the coop with its double row of nests and a "wigwam" enticement in each corner.

We kept between forty to seventy-five chickens at a time, and you may know by that, we needed no alarm clock to wake us up at daybreak.

There was tragedy in the hen-house at times from nocturnal visits from coyotes, badgers, skunks and weasels. More of the marauders got away than were caught in the traps Father and the boys disguised so thoroughly, so we had to take our losses.

The Stackyard
The large stackyard was an enticing playground for children, and when the married girls with their children came for a visit, we youngsters made good use of its facilities. We played games, such as "steal-the-stick", "drop-the-handkerchief", and "rotten-egg". For the latter, a rotten egg was placed about ten feet from the starting line. The player was given a long, stiff willow, blindfolded, turned around three times, then started toward the target. If he guessed the spot accurately enough to smash the egg, he won a prize--but oh the price we all had to pay! Have you ever smelled a rotten egg?

In steal-the-stick, sides were chosen and a dividing line drawn. On each side of it an equal number of slender sticks were placed, and the players retired to their respective lines. Then it was a game of dare, steal, and run. When a player was caught with a stolen stick before reaching his own line, he was taken prisoner to the opposite side. The team won who captured the most sticks. It was real fun.

There was the chaff house to play in, and the straw pile to climb onto and slide down or to dig long tunnels through. This we did by relaying the chaff out by handful as the hole got longer and longer. One day Maggie was heading the operation, and the chain gang back of her was diligently moving the straw back and out. Suddenly we heard a frightened scream and a muffled grunt--Maggie and our largest pig had met midway, face to face.

We waded in the ditch below the corral, following it to the long, narrow flume that crossed the flood-wash. Very few of us were brave enough to continue over to the other side through the flume, for the wash was wide and very deep at that particular place. We timid ones would crawl through the fence, cross over the wagon bridge, crawl back again, add continue wading to Will Heaton's land, where tall, wild, native currant bushes grew thriftily. We enjoyed their cool shade, and better still their black and yellow luscious fruit.

After the harvest there were long ricks of corn to race through, to play hide and seek or blind-man's buff; and at least two large stacks of wheat from the plump heads of which we manufactured our private chew of gum to see who could make it last the longest.

The root cellar I shall never forget. Mother often sent Amelia and me for the vegetables she wanted for dinner. It was at the far south side of the stack-yard next to the field fence. Most of it was underground, covered with a rounded dirt roof. We had to go down four or five wooden steps, and I always insisted that Amelia go first to open the door. She didn't like to much better than I, for it was pitch dark inside, and we had to move our way slowly down its long length, reaching for the edges of the vegetable bins to guide our way. It had a damp, earthy smell, mingled with the tantalizing aroma of potatoes, turnips, beets, and carrots, all blended together in an assurance of winter's security for both man and beast. It never withheld its bounty and we were well fed with no knowledge whatsoever of the minerals and vitamins we so abundantly consumed.

From the corral yards we often wandered down the long lane between the Bower's field and ours. Just over the planed wagon bridge that spanned the Mt. Carmel irrigation ditch, we turned right to the Sand Patch, a small half acre of apple orchard and currant bushes. Its cool shade was very welcome on hot summer days, and toward sunset it was the usual destination of our evening stroll. We often climbed through a hole in the fence to the Bower's field where we picked evening primroses along the moist ditch bank, not for a bouquet--they wilted too easily but their fragrant loveliness was irresistible.

The Creek
At the end of the lane we followed down a short but steep, sandy bank and on to the creek. Without doubt it was our favorite playground, and to this day I pity the poor children who are reared without the close proximity to a stream of running water. We had access to five, not including the

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