An Emigrant Wagon And A Forlorn Tent, With A
Camp-Fire And A Pot, Were In The Foreground, But There Was No
Trace Of The Boarding-House, Of Which I Stood A Little In Dread.
The driver went for further directions to the log cabin, and
returned with a grim smile deepening the melancholy of his face
to say it was Mr. Chalmers', but there was no accommodation
for such as him, much less for me!
This was truly "a sell." I
got down and found a single room of the rudest kind, with the
wall at one end partially broken down, holes in the roof, holes
for windows, and no furniture but two chairs and two unplaned
wooden shelves, with some sacks of straw upon them for beds.
There was an adjacent cabin room, with a stove, benches, and
table, where they cooked and ate, but this was all. A hard,
sad-looking woman looked at me measuringly. She said that they
sold milk and butter to parties who camped in the canyon, that
they had never had any boarders but two asthmatic old ladies, but
they would take me for five dollars per week if I "would make
myself agreeable." The horses had to be fed, and I sat down on a
box, had some dried beef and milk, and considered the matter. If
I went back to Fort Collins, I thought I was farther from a
mountain life, and had no choice but Denver, a place from which I
shrank, or to take the cars for New York. Here the life was
rough, rougher than any I had ever seen, and the people repelled
me by their faces and manners; but if I could rough it for a few
days, I might, I thought, get over canyons and all other
difficulties into Estes Park, which has become the goal of my
journey and hopes. So I decided to remain.
September 16.
Five days here, and I am no nearer Estes Park. How the days pass
I know not; I am weary of the limitations of this existence.
This is "a life in which nothing happens." When the buggy
disappeared, I felt as if I had cut the bridge behind me. I sat
down and knitted for some time - my usual resource under
discouraging circumstances. I really did not know how I should
get on. There was no table, no bed, no basin, no towel, no
glass, no window, no fastening on the door. The roof was in
holes, the logs were unchinked, and one end of the cabin was
partially removed! Life was reduced to its simplest elements. I
went out; the family all had something to do, and took no notice
of me. I went back, and then an awkward girl of sixteen, with
uncombed hair, and a painful repulsiveness of face and air, sat
on a log for half an hour and stared at me. I tried to draw her
into talk, but she twirled her fingers and replied snappishly in
monosyllables. Could I by any effort "make myself agreeable"? I
wondered. The day went on. I put on my Hawaiian dress, rolling
up the sleeves to the elbows in an "agreeable" fashion. Towards
evening the family returned to feed, and pushed some dried beef
and milk in at the door. They all slept under the trees, and
before dark carried the sacks of straw out for their bedding. I
followed their example that night, or rather watched Charles's
Wain while they slept, but since then have slept on blankets on
the floor under the roof. They have neither lamp nor candle, so
if I want to do anything after dark I have to do it by the
unsteady light of pine knots. As the nights are cold, and free
from bugs, and I do a good deal of manual labor, I sleep well.
At dusk I make my bed on the floor, and draw a bucket of ice-cold
water from the river; the family go to sleep under the trees, and
I pile logs on the fire sufficient to burn half the night, for I
assure you the solitude is eerie enough. There are unaccountable
noises, (wolves), rummagings under the floor, queer cries, and
stealthy sounds of I know not what. One night a beast (fox or
skunk) rushed in at the open end of the cabin, and fled through
the window, almost brushing my face, and on another, the head and
three or four inches of the body of a snake were protruded
through a chink of the floor close to me, to my extreme disgust.
My mirror is the polished inside of my watchcase. At sunrise
Mrs. Chalmers comes in - if coming into a nearly open shed can be
called IN - and makes a fire, because she thinks me too stupid to
do it, and mine is the family room; and by seven I am dressed,
have folded the blankets, and swept the floor, and then she puts
some milk and bread or stirabout on a box by the door. After
breakfast I draw more water, and wash one or two garments daily,
taking care that there are no witnesses of my inexperience.
Yesterday a calf sucked one into hopeless rags. The rest of the
day I spend in mending, knitting, writing to you, and the various
odds and ends which arise when one has to do all for oneself. At
twelve and six some food is put on the box by the door, and at
dusk we make up our beds. A distressed emigrant woman has just
given birth to a child in a temporary shanty by the river, and I
go to help her each day.
I have made the acquaintance of all the careworn, struggling
settlers within a walk. All have come for health, and most have
found or are finding it, even if they have not better shelter
than a wagon tilt or a blanket on sticks laid across four poles.
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