e skirmish line, I remember how cold and blue the water
was, and that it was so deep as to come into our vest pockets. We walked
up to the Indians and said "How," and gave some presents of copper cents
and tobacco. We soon saw that they were merely looking on to see us ford
the stream. They were Pawnees, and were gaily dressed and armed with
bows and arrows. We passed several pipes among them, and, seeing that
they were quiet, the train was signalled, and all came through the ford
without any mishap, excepting, that the water came up from four to six
inches in the wagon-bed, making the ride extremely hazardous and
uncomfortable for Mrs. Wadsworth, who was necessarily drawn through the
water in an alarming and nerve-trying manner. But she was one of the
bravest of women, and in this instance, as in many others of danger and
fatigue before we reached our journey's end, she displayed such courage
and good temper, as to win the admiration of all the company. The sacks
of flour and other contents of the wagons were pretty badly wet, and,
after we were again on the open prairie, we bade the Indians good-bye,
and all hands proceeded to dismount the wagons, and spread their
contents on the grass to dry.

An "Altar of remembrance," is sure to be established at each of these
halting places along life's trail. A company of kin-folk and
neighbor-folk hitting the trail simultaneously, having a common goal and
actuated by common interests, are drawn wonderfully close together by
the varied incidents and conditions of the march, and, at the spots
thus made sacred, memory never fails to halt, as in later life it makes
its rounds up and down the years. Not fewer in number than the stars,
which hang above them at night, are the altars of remembrance, which
will forever mark the line of immigration and civilization from east to
west across our prairie country.

CHAPTER II.

"GOD COULD NOT BE EVERYWHERE AND SO HE MADE MOTHERS."

We now moved on in the direction of Diller and Endicott, where we joined
the main line of immigration coming through from St. Joe, and, crossing
the Big Blue where Marysville, Kansas, is located, we were soon coming
up the Little Blue, passing up on the east side, and about one-half mile
this side of Fairbury.

Our trail now lay along the uplands through the day, where we could see
the long line of covered wagons, sometimes two or three abreast, drawing
itself in its windings like a huge white snake ac