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flood-wash which was dry most of the time. It was practically forbidden territory, especially in stormy weather. Even on dry, sunny afternoons when we bravely explored its depths, I was suspiciously uneasy, glancing frequently upstream to see if the head of a big flood was almost upon us. All the heavy thunderstorms and cloud-bursts originated at the head of the Cove. When pandemonium unleashed its bonds, a goodly portion of it rumbled and roared its way down the wash in a flood of stinking, seething, frightening, and uncontrollable fury. We always rushed to see the awful performance.

The creek had its floods, too, big and little, but whatever the size of the flood it was bound to change the bed of the stream, making new and ominous-looking pools, at whose depth and dangers we could only guess. When we went swimming after a flood in our oldest and most faded calico dresses, Julia was always the one to lead the vanguard in the explorations. She approached cautiously step by step, probing thoroughly with a long stick first to one side then the other, followed single file by Ella, Amelia, and I; each with a stick of her own.

Our destination was always the same, for we never stopped wading until we arrived at "The Springs". It was a fairyland to us, with the curving stream, a widened oasis, where the grass was luxuriant and the willows tall like a forest, with rushes and cat-tails generously intermingled. At the bend of the creek and up a narrow strip of sandy beach, two springs bubbled and sparkled and over-ran into a shallow stream bed, flowing crystal clear, until it reached and mingled with the quiet, rippling waters of the Virgin River. We often enlarged these springs, but the loose shifting sand invariably refilled them before our next return.

The sand was moist all along the river's edge, and by standing in the same spot and churning up and down with our feet, we could quickly make a "pudding" or a "bowl of foaming yeast". Going further back, where the sand was more solid, we constructed adobe houses, furrowed small gardens or larger fields. Up the creek a short distance, we would divert water into an irrigation ditch and soon it was running down each tiny furrow of the already damp fields.

We also trafficked in polliwogs. First we made ponds by letting the water seep through into scooped-out depressions along the bank; then we hunted down the source of material. We didn't have far to go, for this secluded oasis was the natural habitat for their forebears, the frogs. Every night after sundown, from all over the farm we could hear their competitive variations of the tuba and the bass fiddle. In stagnant, shallow depressions along the edge of the creek we would find their offspring, from slimy strings of unhatched eggs to blobs or brown wriggling ugliness, to beginnings of tails, to tails or propelling length and agility, on to the budding and boasting of "legs that can hop like pa's and ma's."

Without declaring myself, I left the collecting to others, but Martha eventually caught on. One day she came up to me and said "Amy, I've got a piece of pretty cloth I'll give you for your rag dolls if you'll hold for two minutes what I've found. Now shut your eyes and hold out your hand". Pretty cloth was not in every day's barter at that time, so out went my hand. I was instantly chilled by the cold, wet mass of wriggling polliwogs playing havoc with my self-control. The piercing scream was most unladylike, as with all my might I threw the offensive cargo into "kingdom come." I would have died on the spot rather than suffer a continuation of the revulsion my finicky nerves received, relaying the shock to every part of my body. After laughing and calling me a baby, they all went to work gathering up the scattered polliwogs in great haste lest they should die, being too long out of water.

The east bank of the creek was high and of pure sand, so easy to dig into, and irresistible. There we made innumerable cliff dwellings, Indian style, each with the front as small as our hands could work through, the interior a large room, with smaller side rooms laboriously excavated. One forenoon while we were all digging in our own private property, I found a nice round hole already started. "What luck", I thought as I reached for further exploration. Suddenly my hand clamped down on something cold and squashy; I uttered a stifled scream, falling backward as I threw the obnoxious creature as far as I could--then I knew no more; I was in a dead faint. By the time I revived, some of the nephews had rescued the object of my fear and brought it close for my inspection. This time I yielded to nausea and began to cry. It was such an ugly toad, pale and numb from its winter's hibernation. With Amelia and Sarah each hold of one of my hands, I was led up to the house where dinner was in process for the grownups. I was put in Father's rocking chair, given a dish of rice pudding then slept the afternoon away.

Before leaving the subject of the creek, there is one more memory to recall, not mine nor Amelia's--no! We cut ourselves off from that one. We were playing in the barn one July afternoon when a sudden thunder storm rolled noisily over. After it subsided we heard Ella and Julia calling us as they came our way.

"Let's hide!" Amelia said. "They only want us to come and do dishes." So we did just that, faint whispering our only communication. After an hour or so we made our exit and meandered slowly up to the house.

"For goodness sakes, where have you girls been?" Julia demanded at once. "We called and called you to come with us to watch the flood. It was the biggest one that ever came down the creek. We got there just in time to see the head of it. It was like a wall four feet high and came all at once--crashing trees on top and rolling boulders on the bottom. You girls sure missed a sight you'll never see again!"

And so we did, and to this day we are filled with regret about the whole matter.

The West Hill
The hill west of the house was another source of delightful adventure. Above the ditch and over the criss-cross fence, a stiff climb to the top, and we were above the fields and valleys free to roam at will on any spur or hollow within eyes' reach. Usually we stayed within the limits of "purhill" which reached as far back as the road that cut over to the Cove, another farm over the hill.

Our eternal quest was gum hunting from the scrub pinion pines. "Let's play they're Indians" added zest to the search. The trees that gave generously of their clear amber gum were good Indians, and the ones that kept hidden all their store save perhaps a measly lump or two were mean and stingy. A few trees had what seemed an inexhaustible supply so we never went away with empty pockets.

We built houses under some of the large rocks, planted cedar boughs for landscaping effect, and should it be after a summer shower, we would gather a big lump of clay and tote it over for architectural purposes. We could easily spend all afternoon molding our families and all needed furniture. We made stoves with hearths, carved in lids, and oven doors. We molded kettles buckets and dash churns, bedsteads with pillows, bureaus, cupboards, tables and chairs. Now such busy work is called clay-modeling; then it was called playing in the mud.

Indians
However, our most dramatic memories of the hill were the Indians. We usually heard them before we saw them, their noisy clatter and chatter coming through the quiet evening air right into the kitchen where we women folks were busy with preparations for supper.

They had come the long way from Moccasin on horseback, their travois poles dragging behind thin, shaggy ponies. The procession would be headed by the men of the tribe riding, naturally, the best horses, followed by the women and children. The loaded travels, dangled pots and kettles tied loosely to the poles, clattering noisily as the horses Jogged up the road. They followed the south fence line up the hill, crossed the ditch, then turned north to the highest hill and pitched camp on its rounded crest. There was a great hustle and bustle as axes swung to cut the center poles for their wickiups. Choog was the first captain of the tribe that I remember. Just why we called them Captain, instead of Chief, I do not know, but it was always Captain Choog, Captain Frank or CaptainJohn. Choog had great respect for Father and often sought his counsel. He had his worries and problems, as our bishops do, temporal and moral Justice being long and seriously pondered and debated.

The Indians never came to the house unless they wanted something--potatoes, bacon, bread or flour; and how very filthy were the sacks they held out to receive the bounty. I can see Mother now pouring flour from a tin basin into the squaw's open sack, ever so careful that the basin touched at no angle the dirty receptacle.

Being rather timid by nature, I was always a bit shy of the Indians, especially Shookum, afraid any minute he might let out a war whoop, grab suddenly, and hide me under the blanket he always wore to cover his withered arm. He seldom spoke, and his dour and sullen countenance made me shudder at the thought of being his captive. OId Dry and his squaw were two of a kind. "Old One-Hundred" we called them, and they looked it, wrinkled, wizened and weather-beaten. Yet they were active, and "Mrs." Dry was a vertible shrew--explanation enough for Old Dry's cantankerous disposition.

One Sunday afternoon we children decided to stay home instead of going back to town to attend sacrament meeting with Father and Mother. We played in and out of the house with abandon until one of us suddenly spied old Dry coming up the road. Fear struck us, we scampered into the house, locked all the doors and pulled down the window shades. We hurried upstairs to get as far away as possible, peeking cautiously through the south window to follow his progress. True to our fears we saw him turn in at the lower gate. He tried the front door first, then the kitchen door. "Rattle, bang, rattle, bang!", came the terrifying clamor up the stairwell, and we were practically paralyzed with fear. After that noise finally ceased, we heard a clatter in the tool shed, and we were fearful of all Father's hoes, axes, and shovels being stolen. But when the noise finally subsided, through the window we saw Dry turning the point and out of sight. We found no evidence of his having taken a single tool.

Amelia was rather fascinated with the Indians and would often go up to the ditch to play while they were camped on the hill. One Indian girl, less shy than the rest, would venture through the fence, and in spite of the language barrier, they contrived a mutual understanding. The Indian girl gathered willows from the ditch bank and began to build a small tepee. Amelia, watching her, offered a helping hand, and soon they were working and building in friendly cooperation.

An older boy sometimes came down to help, or teasingly, hinder. "Striped Sleeves", we called him from the pink and white striped shirt he wore. It was outstandingly different from those worn by other boys of the tribe. We used to tease Amelia about her Indian beau, for what else but a special interest would lure him as far as the front fence on which he would sit for a long, and what appeared to be, a lonely vigil. "Spring in the air" was not quite sufficient for an excuse.

In August after the wheat was out, we knew without guessing that the Indians would again be pitching camp. Gleaning wheat in the fields up and down the Valley was a seasonal, thrifty, and quite profitable enterprise. The poorer families in town would often garner the scattered grain to grind for mush or flour, or use for boiled wheat, frumpity, or chicken feed. Father paid us girls cash for what we gleaned for chicken feed, and cash in a child's hand in those days was a thrilling experience. For me it usually meant a new ribbon for my hair.

The squaws were patient, steady workers in their struggle for survival; Uncle Sam had not yet opened his purse strings in their behalf. It was Brigham Young's counsel we followed to "feed them, not fight them." Not being in a position to take care of the several sackfuls of flail-threshed wheat each family gathered, the Indians asked Father for a storage space in his granary, which was willingly given. Any time of the year, they could be trusted to go in alone, never once taking other than their own sacks, not disturbing Father'a bins full of loose grain.

The Indians never forgot Father's kindness, as Ed had convincing proof, years after Father was no longer with us. Ed was manager Of the Co-op Store at the time. An old Indian entered one day and stood silently by the counter until all other customers had been waited on and gone. Then he said, "You know Charley Carroll?"

"Yes", Ed said.

"You Charley Carroll's boy?"

"Yes."

"He good man," was the next comment.

"Yes, he was," Ed agreed.

"You good man like father?" The conversation was beginning to take on a new meaning.

"Yes, I think so", Ed vouchsafed.

"Then give me a sack of flour." Ed smilingly came through.

Our brother Charley was also a special friend of the Indians. In the early part of the 1900's Captian John was chief of the tribe. He and his pretty wife Mollie were great favorites with the town people. Soon after one of her babies was born, Mollie went to Charley's home, sat without talking as was customary with them, until Amelia, Charley's wife, said, "What is your baby's name?"

"No name", Mollie ventured.

"If you will name it Amelia for me, I will make it a new dress", Amelia promised. Amelia it was, and the new dress was the Indian's favorite color, a bright red.

John became ill and died fairly young. There was great mourning among the tribesmen; the town people, too, were deeply grieved, for John was a good chief and a fine man by any standard. He asked to be buried in the white-man's cemetery, and the request was gladly granted. Many of the white people came to the grave side services conducted by Bishop Esplin. Years later, in the late l940's, Charles, who was then almost ninety years old and living in Palo Altos, California, sent Ed sufficient money to cover the cost of a granite headstone for John's grave and asked him to supervise the installation. When finished, Ed sent word to the Moccasin Indians and several came over to mingle with many of the town-folk at appropriate grave side services. So John is among his friends, and because of Charley's long and proven friendship, his resting place will not soon be obliterated by the ravages of time or weather.

The Harvest
The fall of the year is rich in memories--the entire valley checkered with fields of ripe, golden grain, green lucerne patches, yellow, tasseled corn, all standing in prolific anticipation of an abundant yield.

Father, who had known long hours of back-breaking labor in cradling grain,must have experienced deep satisfaction when he bought the first McCormick wheat binder in the Valley. It looked so new and complicated but it really worked, we were convinced as Fred on the seat, and Amelia and I following round after round, saw its sharp blades cut the grain, carry it up the canvas apron to the bundle platform, Juggle it a moment, and unbelievable as it seemed, actually tie each bundle with a twine string before dropping it on the ground.

When the grain was shocked the whole field looked like a large Indian encampment. In the field below the corral we often took our dolls and set up house-keeping on the shady side of the shocks. The busy hens were of the same mind, it seemed, for frequently we found there a nest of newly-laid eggs.

Father and the boys built a neat, new shed to proteet the binder from the weather. It was southwest of the vegetable cellar with only the fence between it and the road. A new canvas sheltered it from the east to keep out dust, heat and rain. This shed was another fascinating place to play house.

The binder was kept busy, for it not only harvested our grain, but that of many other farmers. It was often left in the fields all night, and if a storm was brewing, the cover was tied down securely. One day at the dinner hour, a sudden shower thundered its way up the valley. The binder, Ed exploded as he rushed for the door. The rest of us finished our dinner to the tune of a terrific downpour of rain, feeling sorry for Ed all the while. When he returned he was soaked to the skin and was stunned and hazey from a stroke of lightning he had received while covering the big machine. "I got there just in time", he said proudly, ignoring his close call in his elation that the binder was under cover, safe and dry.

Hauling the grain and stacking it was a major operation. All the boys helped with the shocking and loading; but Father and Fred did the stacking, they being more adept at shaping and rounding out the sides and top evenly to shed the storms. If moisture penetrated the stack as far in as the wheat heads, the kernels would sprout, or mold, and the whole crop would be ruined.

Threshing time was the thrill of the season for us children. It lasted two or three days, according to the amount of grain one had, or how many times the thresher broke down. The men who operated the thresher liked to get it set the night before in order to get an early start the next morning. The horses also would be left in our barn overnight for convenience. At the break of dawn, we would be awakened by the penetrating hum of the thresher in aiction, and as soon as breakfast was over, we children, and often the grandchildren, would find a safe perch where we could watch the noisy, bustling scene of action.

There was a regular crew of four to six, and the extra helpers were enlisted from the family or hired from town. Four operated on the stack: two to pitch the bundles, one to cut the twine, and one to feed, evenly, the loosened bundle into the machine. This was the most particular job of all. Ean Fackrell operated the driver's platform from which he guided six span of horses around and around in a circle, setting in motion the whole complicated operation and leaving a circular path of powdered chaff that provided a playground for us children for weeks and weeks.

As the chaff and straw were separated, they were carried on separate shafts and each dumped into it's alloted place, where it was pitched or shoved along by men or boys with pitchforks and rakes. Dust and fine chaff filled the air, carried even as far as the house. Each man wore a large red or blue bandana tied closely about his neck. Near the spout where the grain came through in a steady stream, stood alternating wagons which as they were loaded, rushed to the granary located across the road from the house, Just inside the lower fence. Father, at the spout, had to make a nimble exchange as an empty sack was handed to him from a man on the left. He passed it on, when filled, to the man on the right who quickly tied it, then released it to one of the loaders.

It seems a marvel to me now, the cooperation we children received at the granary from our brothers or the hired help. We could Jump in ahead of the sacks to have the grain dumped on us in full two bushel measure; crawling out from under was not a magician's trick--too slow a process. Father let us have our fun as long as we didn't scatter the grain over the edges of the bins.

At the house there was excitement, too, for feeding the threshers three meals a day, aside from our large family, kept the womenfolk more than busy. It was the feast time of the year, and there were many to share it. And the menu! Just listent: mashed potatoes with chicken gravy, chicken with dressing, fried ham with hot biscuits, green beans, carrots, cabbage with cream, cucumber, cream layercake, jelly layer cakes, coffee cake, fresh or dried apple pies, dried plum and custard pies, preserves and jellies, water, milk, and lemonade. Not all the above dishes were served at one meal, but they stand out in my memory as being some of the favorites that graced the table in the big living room, at the threshing time, on holidays, for conference time, or just plain visiting.

Autumn brought its extra work as it does today. In the eighties and the nineties in our locale, we knew nothing of canning fruit for winter use. We either dried it or made preserves. Before our own orchards started to yield, we got our fruit from older orchards: apples and plums from town, big blue plums and greengages from the Green where Lucy lived part of the time. The menfolk would pick and haul the fruit down to the farm in homemade willow baskets, then all free hands would get busily into the act--peeling, coring, stoning, and last and hardest, spreading them evenly piece by piece, to dry in the sun. The pieces were put outside up on wooden driers about two by four feet. Cloudy weather and sudden showers often hindered a perfect curing. At the first sprinkle we would grab the oilcloths from the table, or older ones kept handily near, rush out to pile the fruit-laden boards, cover with weighted down oilcloths, and leave the results to fate and the weather. At times neither was cooperative, and we would not only have to throw the fruit away, but hours of hard labor went down the drain.

Sugar, or the money to buy it, was often scarce, but we did make five or ten gallons of delicious red, blue, and greengage plum preserves; also apples and peaches, red Indian cling, spiced and pickled. Father's favorite was pears, sweet and soft and amber from slow cooking. To add variety there was also a few quarts of tart goose berry preserves and English currant jelly, Mother's favorite delicacy. The English currants we really earned, aside from having to pay cash for them. We would walk the mile to town in late afternoon, and from Brother Hessicar's long row of bushes, fill our buckets with clusters of the tempting, red-ripe berries. The next morning, early, the jelly would be made and poured into small containers and set aside to cool. Preserves were special desserts and somewhat frugal servings were the unspoken procedure in helping ourselves. Sitting next to Mother as I always did, I received many a nudge from her elbow to remind me more emphatically than words--"That is enough."

We could eat lavishly as we wished of Moccasin molasses, bought by the barrel, or of the honey our own five hives of bees so generously provided. I recall so vividly the large pans of honey, still in the comb, that Father carried down the hill and into the kitchen. There were always a few angry bees buzzing around his veiled head, twine-tied shirt sleeves, and gloved hands. Even old Mage, at his approaoh, dropped his tail and backed out of the door-yard and under the porch. Slices of clear, amber honey, still in the comb, dripping slowly from the edges into the bottom of our glass honey dish was a sight for a gourmet's stomach and an artist's eye. I had both.

The Gristmill
One of our enjoyable excursions before winter set in, was a trip to the gristmill in Glendale. It was five miles away, and with a loaded wagon that is quite a distance, and there are harder seats than bulging sacks of wheat. We could hear the noisy operation long before we arrived--churning of the water as it turned the big wheels, the complicated mass of machinery inside, the conversation, loud indeed, to be heard, the fine flour dust all over everything, especially the miller. We saw the huge hopper into which the wheat was dumped and the separate bins where the flour, shorts, or meddlings and the bran were stored.

We took our portion home in hundred-pound seamless sacks, which the men shouldered with seeming ease. We would moisten the bran for the pigs, cows and chicken, and mix the shorts in the pigs' swill. It was too fine for the chickens, who found it difficult to get it past their necks. To remedy this Mother would mix it into a batch of bread, and in spite of its being heavy and dark, we children clamored for it when fresh out of the oven and soaked with yellow butter. We called it "chicken bread." There was not so much knowledge then about the value of the whole grain, so we grew strong and healthy eating white bread while feeding, for the most part, the vitamins and minerals to the pigs and chickens. They were healthy, too.

It was Brigham Young's counsel and Father's practice to keep two years supply of wheat on hand in case of heavy storms or other unforeseen disaster.

Father would plant a patch of oats for the horses, and I well remember the one below the corral. It was there Amelia and I paused one afternoon as we strolled through the fields. Absentmindedly we plucked at the long, narrow green leaves, and suddenly Amelia said "Look at this--at all of these," and she pointed out the clear pattern of the letter "B" on each leaf as it was plainly etched in a dark green. "'B' for blood and that means war." We hurried to the house with our alarming discovery to be met with, "Time will tell". Within a few months the U.S. Maine was sunk in Manila Harbor; the battle cry of "Remember the Maine" rallied volunteers under Teddy Roosevelt's leadership, and his Rough Riders stormedSan Juan Hill to place on its crest the Stars and Stripes. The Spanish War was short-lived due to the destruction of the Spanish fleet under the indomitab1e courage and leadership of Sampson and Dewey.

Father also planted a small patch of broom corn and spent his spare time during the winter making brooms. They lasted a long time because they were well made. Aside from keeping us plentifully supplied, he sold some to individuals and to the stores, including the one in Kanab.

School
With the approach of autumn the thought and feeling of school inevitably permeated the air. We had only seven months of sohool, beginning the first week in October and ending the last of April. The older pupils, at that, were often two to five weeks late and quit that many weeks before school closed, according to how long the busy parents thought their help was necessary on the farm or in the house.

Ours was a three-room school, not all under the same roof. Our principal was always imported and sometimes the intermediate-grade teacher also. How well I remember my first day of school, Mother walked all the way through the fields with Amelia and me and stood by the exit bars watching wistfully as we trudged up the dusty road. As we neared the schoolhouse, Amelia took me by the hand and led me in. The teacher, Susannah Fackrell, was standing on a table winding the big clock that hung on the wall. She was a large, plump woman and spoke to us kindly. When she climbed down, she put her arm around me and said she was glad I was coming to school. Her special attention eased the tightness in my chest, the lump in my throat, and the loneliness in my heart from being so far and so long away from Mother.

My first lesson was from a chart with leaves about two and a half by three feet in size. The picture of a man stood out impressively, and the word "man" written below, then the sentence, "I see a man," which we repeated aloud in unison. Then came "cat" and "dog" with each continuing page introducing new words and long sentences. By the time we reached the last page, two months later, we had a long paragraph to read. After we mastered the chart lesson, we were given our first Reader.

My first day must have been a success for I never remember, but once, of not liking school. Our teachers then knew little of psychology, but most of them were kind and loved children. Maria Hoyt Porter, my second teacher, was a good example. I learned rapidly under her. We seemed to be shifted about quite frequently, changing teachers or classrooms. For a short time, Clara Esplin taught our group on the stage of the old dining hall. She had been all the way to Provo to attend school for a year. That was something in those days. She was lively and cheerful, and I had a special reason for liking her. The first day she arranged the seating, I found myself sitting by a boy--Roy Rollins. I was bashful and uncomfortable and started to cry.

She came to my desk and asked, "What is the matter?"

I wiped my eyes and said, "I want to sit by Marthy," and she cheerfully rearranged two seats for my aocomodation. She later married my brother Fred. In succession I progressed under Ruhama Adair (Payne), Sarah Hopkins (Smith) from Glendale, Rose Seegmiller (Fuller) from Upper Kanab, and Tena Forsyth (Mae Farlane) from St. George. The latter was like a fairy princes, so beautiful were the dresses she wore. Just think--a white embroidery dress for school with a wide blue ribbon sash, large bows in the back and streamers almost to the bottom of the long skirt. She changed her dress almost every day, and I never tired of looking at her. J. M. Lauritzen was my first male teacher. He always had a beautiful picture drawn on one of the blackboards. His was an esthetic nature, and the lively, robust boys took advantage of his gentle ways, and the school was frequently buzzing with noisy, unscheduled side-shows. His wife, Annie, was a minor poet, and from this union came the now well-known novelist Jonreed Lauritzen, formerly of Shortcreek, now of Los Angeles.

Then came John Wesley Wharf from Salt Lake City, who ruled with an ironhand, or tried to. Some of the "upper classmen" stood firmly and fought to preserve their freedoms and the girls cheered and cooperated from the sidelines. The young fry stood back in fear and trembling. The grown girls joined the battle line with subtle tactics when the Principal began surreptiously unspecting the girls' privy. It stood at the head of the playground on one side, the boys' on the other next to Ed Lamb's fence. Mr. Wharf had found questionable inscriptions in the boys' private domains so concluded the girls' like territory needed "surprise inspections" also. To this the girls vigorously objected as his timing was not always convenient. The town mothers began an uprising, and my sister-in-law Amelia composed a very appropriate and accusing poem to tack on the inside wall. We knew "he" had entered again for the poem had been torn away and was seen no more.

There was talk of dismissing him, and students began to quit school earlier than usual. A month before the close of school our ranks were pretty well thinned. Ed quit, then Ella and Julia, and finally the folks let Amelia stay home. By that time there was only a handful left. I was afraid of the teacher, hated school for the first time, and two weeks before school was to close, I went to Mother with, "Ma, can I quit school?" (It was always "Pa" and "Ma" in those days, or if you wanted to be fancy, "papa" and "mamma".)

"Ask pa," she told me, so I asked him.

"Why do you want to quit?" Father asked.

I summed up the reasons: "I am tired of school, almost all the rest have quit, and besides I am not learning a thing!"

"If you learn nothing more than to stick with it, that is enough," was father's quiet dismissal of the issue. So I was one of six who stuck with it to the last day. Jane wouldn't let Martha quit, either, and we were a real comfort to each other.

Then the Cutler brothers from GlendaIe came to the rescue. Allen taught two years and Edwin, four. Allen was kind, patient, and understanding, giving special attention and help to backward students. Edwin was more alert, a better disciplinarian, and an expert teacher. While in the process of orienting us to his methods and expectations, we saw on the blackboard one morning a new "commandment," "There shall be no communication in school. Naturally, some challenged the edict, but the reins were in the hands of a capable teacher, and there were very few to kick over the traces. His time and lesson material were well arranged, and he was full of interesting information. He taught us cleanliness and neatness in person and speech, concentration and thoroughness in study and class preparation, and clear diction in speech delivery. He taught us, for the first time, the use of diacritical marks and the frequent use of the dictionary. He gave us elocutionary instructions in our reading classes; taught neatness in writing and drawing. He also gave public programs on all patriotic or special occasions. He emphasized the reading and appreciation of good literature, and I give him credit for starting me on the long continuing line of reading and studying and enjoying both American and English authors. He was expert in teaching grammars and, with "Reed and Kellog" as a text book, I feel we received a very solid foundation in that vital subject. The untold number of sentences we parsed and diagramed etched a clear design of sentence construction upon my mind which has remained throughout my life.

It was this Mr. Cutler who in 1898 held the first graduation exercises ever held in Orderville with an excellent program, ribbon-tied diplomas, and the gift of a classic book to each graduate. He made a grand sweep by including the best students in several classes. I was among the youngest, the majority being near Amelia's age. He organized a ninth grade the next year, and I felt as if I was in college. We studied algebra, rhetoric, American Literature, geology, etc.. That year remains in my memory as the happiest and most profitable school year of my life. This was Edwin's last year of teaching, as he joined Allen the next fall to go East to begin studying for the medical profession. They became outstanding doctors and both settled in Idaho.

School meant getting up early, for, except in inclement weather, we walked the distance to town. It was invigorating exercise and gave our cheeks the rosy glow of health. On cold, windy days it also chapped our hands and faces, and, at times, our knuckles cracked and bled. But we had a remedy for that: before going to bed at night, we would soak our hands in bran water, warm some mutton tallow, and work it thoroughly into the rough surfaces. The tallow was more healing than was lard or butter. The first jar of vasaline and box of camphor ice we afforded, when they finally appeared on the store shelves, were very choice and made us feel elegant indeed.

In the late fall and early winter, Father and the boys used the team for hauling wood or posts or other essential work; then, no matter what the weather, we walked. With never a thought of staying home, we trudged through rain and mud, cold north wind, snow and sleet--with no overshoes. We had sturdy leather shoes, high-tops, laced or buttoned. Our stockings were long and black and knit of homespun yarn. We wore capes that flared and let in the cold. They were made of local, factory woven, plaid woolen cloth, red and black, and trimmed with three rows of green and black braid, very pretty. They were unlined and not very warm. I remember one particularly snowy morning, mother let me wear her beautiful Scotch plaid shawl which was much warmer, fitted more snugly, and covered me almost to the bottom of my dress.

We carried our lunch in a tin lunch bucket and kept it under the edge of one of our desks. The Esplins from the Farm and the Porters and Carlings from across the creek and a few others did the same. Sometimes we ate at our desks, other times in the entrance hall, which was too public for me to enjoy.

At recess and noon we played ball-liners and rounders, steal-the-stick, marbles, jacks, drop-the-handkerchief, Jump-the-rope, etc.. Every child was doing something: playing, laughing, shouting, disputing loudly, even quarreling. Then the bell tapped shortly, we dropped everything, quickly lined up to mareh in, and quietly (maybe) take our seats. In the class room there was the usual subversive actions going on until caught by the teacher's ever-roving eye: chewing pine gum, eating apples or parched corn, playing with paper dolls, and occasionally sewing for rag dolls, passing notes, and whispering without permission--all, of course, with open books on the desk, to look at studiously should the teacher glance our way.

We seldom lingered after school to play with the town children. Perhaps that is one of the reasons we grew up rather reserved, not prone to mingle freely and easily with the crowd as many are able to do. I don't remember that we were urged by our parents to hurry home, but we had the mile to walk, work to do, and lessons to prepare for the next day. We were quite conscientious about all these, an inherent family trait, it seems.

We walked through the fields to and from school to shorten the distance, except when the dry stock were brought in from their summer range on the mountain and put in the fields to graze a few weeks before being taken south to the winter ranges. George was boldly brave and laughed at us when we were afraid, but when the boys weren't with us, we took the safe and long way around.

Ironically enough, this safe way provided Amelia and me with our most harrowing experience. Clarissa Esplin, our close friend from the farm a mile North of town, had stayed with us the night before. On our way to school, at a bend in the road, we suddenly found ourselves face to face with a small herd of cattle being driven by two or three young boys on horseback, followed by two loaded wagons. (It was Brother Chamberlain's outfit. He was moving his wife Ella and their family to Kanab, Just after his appointment as first counselor in the stake presidency.) With the small herd of cattle was a huge, purebred Holstein bull. Instead of climbing the fence as we should have done, it was easier to make a detour above the road. As we passed the bull stopped and looked us over, but we hurried on. Our pulses keeping pace with our footsteps. Just why no one saw him leave the herd, I'll never understand, but we soon noticed that he was following us with a determination that boded no good.

Our nearest escape was the highest clay hill in sight. It loomed up before us, and we rushed to it's refuge. About a third of the way up we ventured a backward look, and sure enough, the bull was trailing us. About half-way up one of us said, "let's prays". We knelt under a tree: the bull stopped short, but with our first words of supplication, he shook his head angrily and began to climb with greater speed. Up we Jumped, and on we went, never daring to look back until we reached the top. By that time the bull was half-way up the hill and still coming. We slid most of the steep way down and were now within view of the Frank Steven's house, which gave us a comforting assurance of rescue. We wound our way over small foot hills and through "cedar" trees and bushes and were safe on the road at the edge of town when the first bell rang for school.

Julia remembered a morning when we were younger hurrying through the fields for fear of being late. Fear of being late was an obsession with us, although we never were. Almost out breath, Julia said, "Let's stop and pray."

George, older, practical, and independent gave her a vigorous push, grabbed me in his arms and shouted, "let's run!" That saved the day, our reputations and our self-respect.

The path through the fields followed the irrigation ditch, and half-way between town and the Section, there were several large cottonwood trees which afforded a shady place to rest on one convenient fallen log. This we often did when not in a hurry. Willows, weeds and large grasses grew along the ditch bank, and in the spring the dry land above was dotted with flowers and small shrubs, mostly wild sage. Often we loitered sufficiently long to gather a bouquet of wild flowers for Mother--quite an assortment, too--sweet williams, lady's-slippers, fire posies, purple daisies, blue flax, and red bells.

Speaking of the 'Big Cottonwoods', as we called them, brings to my mind another experience connected with them. I had spent the night at Jane's, having gone to town to attend a meeting held by two professors from the Murdock Academy in Beaver. They were fluent and convincing orators and made it sound so urgent and so easy to go to high school if you only had the desire and determination--that was all it took for the way to open up before you. They told of how President Cluff of the B.Y.U. walked the long distance with all his worldly possessions tied in a bundle and carried on his back. He succeeded and so did the many other courageous men they told us about, multiplying incident after incident, firing to a burning blaze our enthusiasm for an education. My particular fire was still glowing brightly the next day as I took the road for home. At the cottonwoods I stopped to rest. There was a quiet, peaceful atmosphere all about, and not a soul in sight from any direction. It was a good time and place to pray, so I knelt down and asked the Lord to open up the way for me to attend high school. I was very anxious for an education and would He please soften Father's heart on the subject; for I well knew he was the one by whom the way could be opened.

During the afternoon I had a good chance to approach Father on the subject and was startled by his quick and ready reply. "Why, yes, you can go to school if you are willing to take your portion of the property for that purpose and then be responsible for yourself after that." Me? Alone on my own? I could never make it! And there the subject dropped.

Three years later we were living in town--Mother, Ella, and I--for Father had passed on. The professors were still making their annual appeal for high school students. We talked of the Murdock Academy, of the B.Y.U. at Provo, and then our friend Clarissa Esplin called in one day on her way to the Farm. She had been one year to the branch Normal at Cedar City. Tuition was only five dollars, and her brother George would take us over by team and wagon. This was B.C. (before cars), at least in our end of the state. By taking all of our supplies from home, Mother felt it might be possible for me to go for at least one, maybe two years. I went three and graduated. Though it was later than I had hoped, my prayers were answered, and I was elated with this opportunity to further my education.

Illness in the Family
One particular school morning is etched more clearly on my mind than any other. It was soon after the holidays, early in January, when I was nine or ten years old. Heavy storms, two feet or more of snow, followed one after the other with only a brief spell between to melt and again freeze the earth's white mantle. I awoke in the morning feeling anything but my usual robust self, drooped around a bit until Mother said, "Amy don't you feel good this morning?"

"Not very", was my languid reply.

"Then, maybe you had better stay home today," and I felt relieved.

"Oh, she's not sick enough to stay out of school. She's just putting on," commented Ella aloud, as she busily piled up the breakfast plates. That threw the balance of Mother's indecision her way, so I finished getting ready and off we went.

The snow lay at least two feet deep, and more in drifts, and was crusted on top. It was bitter cold. There was little traffic in weather like that, so we broke our own trail through the fields, first walking on top of the frozen crust, then breaking through to the ground, at times with both feet, other times with just one. Up and down, up and down, the four of us trailed the difficult way and arrived at the school house wet almost to the waist, at least I was, being the smallest one. I was very tired and soon my head began to ache. By noon my throat was sore and my cheeks flushed with fever. I was an easy victim for attacks of sore throat, but their frequency didn't make them hurt less. When I arrived home that night, Mother gave me some hot ginger tea and mixed up half a glass of the usual gargle, diluted vinegar with a generous proportion of salt and black pepper. I swallowed these remedies with difficulty but was no better the next morning, or the next, nor the one following. My feet began to swell, then my knees and hands, and I became painfully stiff all over. Thus was started my first attack of inflammatory rheumatism.

Sister Bowers, midwife and "country doctor" for the community, was sent for. She would come day or night in an uncovered wagon clinging to a bouncy spring seat by the side of the driver. We had no aspirin or other pain-killing tablets in those days. Herbs were our cure-all--if they did the job. I was given, in turn, salts, castor oil, spearmint, sulphur and molasses, wild sage, composition and hot drops, Indian root, bitter root, catnip, and hop tea--eleven in all--to purify my blood and act as a tonic. If they helped, it was to a minor degree. For weeks I lay helpless and in extreme pain, having to be lifted about, even to be turned over.

The nights were long and quiet, and different members of the family took turns sitting up with me. My cot was in the living room, and a bed on the floor was made for those who had the night watch. During my most critical period, Vine and her husband Fred came every other night; and Jane came frequently bringing her children with her. When I became unusually restless, I would call Vine to ask Fred to sing to me. He had a variety of songs, both hymns and popular songs. When only the immediate family was there, I would call for Father and my brother Fred to administer to me, or Just to turn me over. Fred, who had such a gentle touch, was the only one who could lift me without it hurting.

One night Mother was sitting alone by my bed, with only a faint flicker from the fireplace lighting the room. I felt unusually exhausted and restless. Suddenly I felt a tingling sensation and a warm glow flooded my entire body. Mother started to cry, "Oh, she's dying, she's dying." Fred and Vine sprang up from their bed on the floor; Father came hurriedly from the bedroom. They turned the lamp wick up and stirred the fire for better light.

My eyes were wide open, and I said, "No, I am better. I feel better all over; there is hardly any pain."

We all felt that was the turning point of my illness, but convalescence was a long, slow process. By March there were occasionally balmy enough days when I could be wrapped in a blanket and sit in my little blue, home-made chair on the sunny side of the house. It felt good to soak in the warm sunshine with its soothing, healing caress. I was able to attend the last month

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