Sunday, September 20, 2020

Living up to Her Name

 

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Cold from their trek that day, the Martin Handcart company settled in for the night. George Grant had something that others in the company were anxious for. Some where grabbing to get at the much sought for commodity. Others were grabbing more than their fair share before all received some. Patience Loader was waiting her turn when George Grant noticed. She said to him, “my names Patience and I’ve been Patiently waiting, “ causing George to chuckle as he handed her what she was waiting for. What was it George was handing out?

a.                  Wood to start a fire

b.                  Flour

c.                   Buffalo meat

d.                  Extra blankets

 

Last Sunday’s answer:

B.   That the rescue companies were very close

From the life of Patience Loader Rozsa Archer:   I will say we traveled on all day in the snow but the weather was fine and in the middle of the day the sun was quite warm. Sometime in the afternoon a strange man appeared to me as we was resting as we got up the hill. He came and looked in my face. He said is you Patience. I said yes. He said again I thought it was you. Travel on. There is help for you. You will come to a good place. There is plenty. With this he was gone. He disappeared. I looked but never saw where he went. This seemed very strange to me. I took this as someone sent to encourage us and give us strength.  

We traveled on and when we got into camp there was five or six of the brethren with their wagons camped there. They had been and got quantities of wood and they had already made about a dozen big fires for us and there was plenty of lovely spring water. That was a great treat to us for the last water we had seen was when we crossed the Platt River. We had nothing but snow water and that did not taste very good as we had to melt it over the campfire and it tasted of sage brush sometimes cedar wood smoke. We felt very thankful to our brethren for making us these good fires and supplying us with wood so abundantly. I really must say that I was very thankful for since our dear father died it had fallen on me and my sister Maria to get the most of our wood and I thought it was so good that we did not have wood to get that night after such hard pulling all day through the snow and it was nearly dark when we got in camp.

Women’s Voices-An Untold History of The Latter-day Saints 1830-1900 (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1982), 231.

Sunday, September 13, 2020

“Is You Patience?”

 

Patience Loader

When Patience Loader was crossing the plains with the Martin handcart company, and while resting, a man appeared to her. After asking, “Is You Patience?” he then shared his message. What did he tell her?

a.                  That her handcart had a flat tire

b.                  That the rescue companies were very close

c.                   That she would make it to the Salt Lake Valley safely

d.                  Where she could send the company hunters to find buffalo

Last Sunday’s answer:

C. 1/10

From the life of Elizabeth Haven Barlow:   Those who were put into Liberty [jail] for treason and at Richmond [jail] for murder, have been falsely imprisoned, and they even now hold an action against the state [of] Missouri for this treatment. What these things will result in we know not. Things have transpired within one year which the Church looked not for, and what another year will accomplish is known only in futurity. When Heber Kimball (one of the Twelve) was in England he had a vision of future scenes. He remarked to me one day that the past scenes was not one tenth of the tribulations which I should soon see. Therefore, said he, “Sister, prepare thyself for greater things.”

Women’s Voices-An Untold History of The Latter-day Saints 1830-1900 (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1982), 110.

Sunday, September 6, 2020

Heber’s Prophecy of Things to Come

 

Elizabeth Haven Barlow.jpg

Elizabeth Haven Barlow

When Heber C. Kimball was serving his mission in England, he experienced a vision of future events to transpire in the Church. One day while visiting with Elizabeth Haven Barlow and reminiscing of the events surrounding the Missouri troubles, Elder Kimball told her she hadn’t seen what fraction of things to come?

a.                  ¼

b.                  ½

c.                   1/10

d.                  1/16

Wednesday answer:

A.                     The keys to the Kirtland Temple.

From the life of Hepzibah Richards:   For some days past the aspect of things has been rapidly changing, and to the view of all appears to be gathering blackness. A large number have dissented from the body of the church and are very violent in their opposition to the Presidency and all who uphold them. They have organized a church and appointed a meeting in the house [Kirtland Temple] next Sabbath. Say they will have it, if it is by the shedding of blood. They have the keys already.

The printing-office has been attached on a judgment that [Grandison] Newel held against the Presidents of [Kirtland] money. Last Monday it was sold at auction into the hands of Mr. Millican, one of the dissenters. At one o’ clock the night following Cousin Mary waked me, and said that Kirtland was all in flames. It proved to be the Printing-office—the fire was then in its height and in one hour it was consumed with all its contents. The Temple and other buildings badly scorched. Tuesday eve a meeting was held and a patrol consisting of 21 men 3 for each night in the week chosen to guard the city to prevent further destruction by fire. A part of these men are members of the church—a part dissenters. We feel that we are in jeopardy every hour; tho’ we possess a good degree of confidence that we shall be preserved and guided to a place of safety.

Women’s Voices-An Untold History of The Latter-day Saints 1830-1900 (Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Company, 1982), 70-71.


Wednesday, September 2, 2020

They Wouldn’t Give it Back

 

See the source image

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According to early Saint, Hezibah Richards, what did the apostates in Kirtland have in their possession that belonged to the Church?

a.                  The keys to the Kirtland Temple

b.                  The original manuscript to the Book of Mormon

c.                   The Urim and Thummim

d.                  Joseph Smith’s Bible

Yesterday’s answer:

B.   He ran away from home to live with the natives

From the life of Nick Wilson: Nick Wilson was born in Nauvoo, Illinois, and crossed the plains with his family when he was seven years old. His family settled in what today is the Grantsville area, and son Nick was given the responsibility of herding sheep in a very desolate, lonely desert. He made friends with some Shoshone Indians and was offered a pony if he would go with them. He couldn’t resist the pony so he decided to accept their offer. [He lived with the Shoshone Indians for two years]:   One day we were getting wood, and having cut more than we could carry in one trip, I went back for it when a boy ran up to me and said, “You’re a squaw,” and spit at me. I threw down my wood and struck out after him. He ran yelping at every jump, expecting me, I guess, to kick his head off. But Washakie happened to see us and called to me to stop. It was lucky for that papoose that he did. I went back and got my wood and took it to the tepee.

 

Washakie wanted to know what it was all about. I told him what the boy had done. He said he did not want to start another camp fight, but he did want me to take my own part. He said that he had been watching how things were going, and he was glad to say that, so far as he knew, I had never started a fuss. He did not think that I was quarrelsome if I was let alone. He was glad, he said, to see me stand up for myself; for if I was cowardly the papooses would give me no peace.

One day I heard an Indian talking to Washakie and telling him it was not right for him to let me do squaw’s work; it would set a bad example for the other boys. Washakie replied that he thought it was a good example, and if some of the older ones would take it, it would be better for their squaws.

“We burden our women to death,” he said, “with hard labor, I did not think so much about it until Yagaki [Nick Wilson] came. I see now how much he helps mother and how much hard work she has to do. Yagaki appears to be happier helping mother than he is when playing with the other boys. I believe that she would have gone crazy if it had not been for him, her troubles over the loss of father and my brothers were so great. I do believe that the Great Spirit sent the little white boy to her.”

Chronicles of Courage, Lesson Committee (Salt Lake City: Talon Printing, 1997), 8: 338-339.

 

 

The following is a number of pages, but well worth your reading if, as Paul Harvey used to say, you want to know “the rest of the story.”

 

 

From the life of Nick Wilson:   Our winter camp was a very beautiful place with plenty of game and an abundance of good dry wood. We had nearly everything that was needed to make us happy. All of the sick Indians got well, and we were getting along finely when one day some of Pocatello’s Indians came to our camp.

   That night Washakie called a council of the tribe to meet in the War Chief’s tepee. I thought this strange, for he had always held his councils in our tepee. The next morning they held another council, so I thought I would go over and see what it was all about. But when I got to the door of the council tepee, I met an Indian who told me to run back, that they did not want me in there. This puzzled me, for I had never before been sent away from the councils.

     When I got back to our tepee, mother and Hanabi were both crying. I knew then that something serious was up, but they would not tell me a word about it. I thought that Pocatello’s Indians wanted Washakie to help them in some bloody affair with the whites.

     Things went on in this way for four days. The Indians kept on holding councils, but I could not learn what was the cause. I saw other squaws come to our tepee, but when I came near them, they would stop talking. This made me think that the trouble had something to do with me, and I worried a good deal about it.

     On the fifth morning Washakie sent for me. I went and found about fifteen Indians at the council. The War Chief first asked me how old I was.

     “About fourteen years,” I answered.

     “How old were you when you left home?” he went on.

     “Nearly twelve.”

     “Were you stolen away or did you come to us of your own accord?” was his next question.

     I told him that I ran away; nobody forced me to come; but two Indians coaxed me and gave me my pinto pony.

     He then told me that I might go. When I got back to our tepee mother and Hanabi wanted to know what had happened and I told them.

     That night the council was continued in Washakie’s tepee. The War Chief asked me some more questions. He wanted to know how the Indians treated me, and why I ran away from home.

     I told him that I had been treated just as well by the Indians as I had ever been treated by the whites, and that I ran away because I was tired of herding sheep alone. Besides, I wanted the pinto pony and the only way I could get him was to go with the Indians, so I went.

     “Have the Indians kept their promises with you?” the War Chief asked.

     “They have done everything they said they would do.” I told him; “I haven’t any fault to find with them.”

     Washakie then said that he had told the Indians they might offer me the pony if I would come; but they were not to force me away from home. “So when he came,” the chief continued, “we gave the squaw who owned the pinto four colts for him. I gave her a yearling, mother gave two others, and Morogonai gave one. We never told the boy that he could have the pony; but we all understood that it belonged to him. Afterwards I gave him another horse for breaking some colts for me.”

     The War Chief asked me whether I would rather live with the white people or the Indians. I told him I would sooner live with the Indians. With that the council broke up and the Indians went to their various tepees.

     “What does all this mean?” I asked Washakie.

     “You will know in the morning,” he replied.

     “If they intend to take my pony away,” I said, “I will slip out in the night.”

     “They are not going to do that,” said my mother; “whenever you go, that horse goes with you.”

     We all went to bed that night wondering what would happen next day. It was a long night for me, for I did not sleep much.

     Morning came at last, and after breakfast the War Chief with several other Indians came to our tepee. With them were the Pocatello Indians. When they were all inside the tepee, Washakie told me that these Indians had been down to the place where my people lived; that my father said I had been stolen by the Indians; that he was raising a big army to come and get me; and that he was going to kill every Indian he could find. Washakie asked me what I thought about it. I told him that it was not so.

     “In the first place,” I said, “my people do not want to fight the Indians; and besides, if my father had been coming after me he would have come long before this. I don’t believe one word of it.”

     Washakie was of the same opinion as I was.

     Then one of Pocatello’s Indians said he had just come from Salt Lake City and many people there had asked him whether he knew anything about the boy that had been stolen from the whites. He said that all through the white men’s towns they were getting ready to fight, and he knew that they were coming to get me.

   “I know that are not,” I said, “for I have heard my father say many times that if any of his boys ran away he should never come home again; besides, my father has an old Gosiute Indian living with him who knows all about my running away.”

     Washakie said that it did not look reasonable to him that they would wait so long and then come to hunt the boy, especially at that time of the year.

     This made the Pocatello Indians angry. “All right,” they said, “believe that white boy if you would rather than believe us; but if you get into a fight with the white men, you need not ask us to help you.”

     Washakie said that he was not going to have any trouble with the whites if he could avoid it.

     “No,” they said, “you are too big a coward to fight anything”; and off they strutted as mad as hornets. As they went out they said to one of our Indians that they would like to get that little white devil out in the brush and they would soon have another white, curly-headed scalp to dance around.

     When the council met again that night, they did not have much to say; they all appeared to be in a deep study. After a little while Washakie said he thought it would be a good thing to send some of our Indians to the white settlements to find out what was going on.

     “That is the best thing to do,” said old Morogonai, “but who will go?”

     “It will not be hard to get men enough to go,” said Washakie.

     The War Chief said it would be better for the white boy to go himself and end all the trouble; for if his folks were coming after him that would stop then and settle the dispute. Nearly all of the council agreed with the War Chief.

     Washakie asked me what I thought about it. I told him that I did not know the way home and I would not go.

     “If the council decides that it is the wisest plan for you to go,” said the chief, “we will find a way for you to get home safe.” He then asked each member of the council what he thought about it, and all were of the opinion that was the best thing to do.

     Mother talked and cried a great deal. I do not remember all she said, but I know that she begged them to send someone else. Washakie was silent for a long time, then he said that I had better go; that he would send two of his men with me to the nearest white town and then I could get home myself.

     “I want you to go home,” he said, “and when you get there, tell the truth. Tell your father that you came to us of your own accord; and then if you want to come back, we shall be glad to have you come and live with us always.”

     “All right,” I said, “I will go home if you want me to, but I will not stay there.”

     How mother did take on! It seemed as if it would break her poor old heart, and Hanabi took it very hard, too. I told them not to feel bad, for I would soon come back.

     In a few days, I was to leave, so we began to get ready for the journey. Hanabi and some other squaws set to work to make my clothes, and they soon had enough to dress me in first-class Indian style. The Indians gave me so many buffalo robes and buckskins that one horse could not carry them; so Washakie said that I might have one of the horses they had captured from the Crows.

     When the two Indians that were to go with me said they were ready, we packed up. I had in my pack seven buffalo robes, fifteen large buckskins, and then pairs of very fine moccasins. It was a bulky load, but not very heavy. Just as I was leaving, the little boys gave me so many arrows that I could not get them all in my quiver.

     When we started to leave the village, how my mother did cry! I tried to comfort her by telling her not to feel bad, for I should soon be back. Little did I think it would be the last time I should see her, for I fully intended to return that fall.

     We took plenty of dried meat with us to last us through the trip, and away we went. On the fourth day, at noon, we came to a place on the Bear River about twenty-miles north of Brigham City, Utah. We stayed there the rest of the day to give our horses a little rest. The two Indians said that they would go no farther, for I could find the way from there very well.

     The next morning they helped me pack my horses and put me on the right trail, telling me not to ride too fast, for I could get to the white settlement long before night.

     As I left them I said, “You may look for me back in a few days.”

     “Don’t try to come back this fall,” they said, “for it is getting to late to cross the mountains, and we may have a big snow at any time now. It will take you six days to get home from here, and that will make it too late for you to return. You had better stay home this winter. The Indians will be there next summer. You can come back with them.”

     About noon I came to some warm springs. I thought it would be a good idea to wash my face and hands as I had not done it very often for the past two years. I saw that I had plenty of time, for the sun was high, so I unpacked and staked my horses and went to work to give myself a good scrubbing. I ran my fingers through my hair to get the snarls out, but after all my fussing I could not see that I looked much better.

     My hands were like an Indian’s and my costume was in the latest Indian fashion. My leggings were trimmed with new red flannel, my shirt was of antelope shins, and my frock of heavy buckskin, smoked to a nice reddish hue, with beads of all colors in wide striped down the breast and on the shoulders, and fringes all around the bottom that reached nearly to my knees. My cap was made of rawhide, with notches around the top, and looked like a crosscut saw turned upside down. It came to a peak in front, and mother had put a crown in it with muskrat skin.

     After I had scrubbed off all the dirt I could, I packed up and started again.  Could see the little town long before I came to it. At the first house I reached a man who had just driven up with a load of hay. When I asked him where I could find a place to camp, he told me to stay at his place if I wanted to, that he had plenty of horses I tied them under the shed and fed them. By that time the man came out and said that supper was ready. I told him that I had plenty to eat and would rather not go in.

     “Come and eat with me,” he insisted, and taking me by the hand, he led me into the house.

     The women and children stared at me so hard that I felt uncomfortable. The children would look at me, then turn to one another and laugh.

     “I suppose you would like to wash before you eat,” said the lady. She gave me some water and soap. It was the first soap I had seen for two yours. After I had washed, she told me to sit down at the table.

     “Don’t you take off your hat when you eat?” the man asked.

     “No,” I said.

     “Will you please take it off here?”

     I pulled it off.

     They had bread and butter and potatoes and gravy and milk—the first I had seen since I left home. But I was mighty glad when I got away from the table.

     I went out and watered my horses and gave them some more hay. By this time it was dark, so I made my bed and turned in. Just as I was getting into bed, I saw this man go down town and pretty soon he came back with three more men. I saw them go into the house. Shortly afterwards he came out and said that the bishop was in the house and would like to have a talk with me. I told him that I did not want to talk; but he kept at me until I got up and went into the house.

     The bishop said his name was Nichols, or something like that then he added, “I see by your dress that you have been with the Indians.”

     I told him that I had lived with them for a year or two.

     He said that he had read in the papers about a little boy running away with the Indians, and he thought I might be that boy.

     “Maybe I am,” I said.

     “To what tribe do you belong?”

     “Washakie’s tribe.”

     “I have heard,” he said, “that Washakie is a chief among the Shoshones and that his tribe is friendly to the white people. What do you know about them?”

     “Washakie’s band,” I replied, “are good Indians, I have heard the chief say many times that he was a friend to the people of Utah, that he had seen their big chief, who was a very good ‘tibo.’”

     “What is that?” he asked.

     “Oh, I forgot, I was talking to white men,” I said; “’tibo’ means friend.”

     I told them that he had no need to fear Washakie’s tribe, but that old Pocatello had drawn away some of Washakie’s Indians, and that they were bad Indians, who were doing everything against the whites they could. Washakie had told me that they were killing the emigrants and stealing their horses and burning their wagons.

     Well, this bishop talked and talked, and asked me ten thousand questions, it seemed to me. Finally the woman took pity on me and said, “Do let the poor boy rest.”

     I told them I had always been in bed by dark and that I felt pretty tired.

     “Well,” said the bishop, “you may go to bed now, and I will see you in the morning. You had better come down to my house and stay all day. I should like very much to have Brother Snow talk with you.”

     I didn’t say anything, but I thought that neither Snow nor rain would catch me in that place another day, so I was up by the peep of day and away I went. I traveled seven or eight miles and stopped by some hot springs, unpacked my horses, and got me something to eat. I thought that I would not stop in any more houses where bishops could get hold of me and talk me to death.

     After my horses had fed, I started on my way again and after traveling about ten miles more, I came to a place called Ogden. As I was going along the main street a man standing by a store stopped me and began talking Indian to me. He asked me where I had been. I told him. While we were talking, several more men came up and one of them asked me where I was going to camp that night. I told him that I did not know, but that I would go on down the road a piece until I found grass and water. He asked me to put my horses in his corral and give them all the hay they could eat.

     “No,” I said, “I would rather go on.”

     “No,” he said, “you must stop here tonight.” With that he took the rope out of my hands and let my horses into his corral. I followed him and when I had unpacked I asked him if he was a bishop. He said he was. I told him I thought so.

     “Why?” he asked.

     “Because you talk so much.”

     He laughed and said that I must not mind that, for they seldom saw a person like me, and they wanted to find out all they could about the Indians.

     After a while he invited me in to supper. I did not want to go, but he would have his way, so I went in with him. I think he said his name was West.

     This Bishop West, if that was his name, asked me a good many questions, but he said he would not weary me by talking too long. I was in bed soon after dark that night. I intended to get off early the next morning, and give them the slip as before; but just as I was packing up, the bishop came out and said, “Hold on there, you are not going before breakfast.”

     I told him that I had plenty to eat with me; but he insisted that I take breakfast with him, and I had to stay. He asked me a great may more questions, but he was very nice about it. I felt glad to talk with him, for he was so kind and good to me.

     He said that I would be a very useful man, if I was treated right. He asked me whether I had been to school much, and he was very much surprised when I told him that I had never attended school a day in my life. He said that I must go to school, and if I lived near him he would see that I did go. As I started away he asked me to go and see Governor Young when I got to Salt Lake; but I thought I did not want to do it. I was a young boy then and did not realize the importance of his request.

     That day I reached a place called Farmington. Just as I was nearing town, I saw some boys driving cows.

     “Where can I camp tonight?” I asked them.

     “Up on the mountain if you want to,” said one of them.

     “You think you are pretty smart,” I said.

     “Just as smart as you, Mr. Injun,” he replied; “if you don’t believe it, just get off that buzzard head of a horse and I’ll show you.”

     I jumped off and he ran. I got on my horse and started after them, but they scrambled through the fence and ran away through the fields. I went on through the town, and after getting permission from the owner, camped in his field, and I was not bothered with any questions that night.

     The next morning I was off pretty early and reached Salt Lake City. I did not stay there, however, but went on through and stopped at the Jordan River Bridge for noon. This was a familiar road to me now, for I had been in the city several times before. That afternoon I journeyed on to what we called Black Rock and camped that night at the southern end of Great Salt Lake. I was now within a short day’s ride of home.  Could hardly stay there till morning, I was so anxious now and to get home.

     Just as I was making camp, a team drove up with three people in the wagon. I knew them. They were John Zundel, his sister Julia, and Jane Branden, our nearest neighbors, but they did not know me at first.

     I had a fire and was broiling a rabbit I had killed, when Julia came up and tried to get a good look at me, but I kept my face turned from her as much as I could. Finally she got a glimpse of my face and went to the wagon. I heard her say to Jane,

     “That is the whitest Indian I ever saw, and he has blue eyes.”

     “I’ll bet a dollar it is Nick Wilson,” said Jane.

     They came over where I was and Jane said, “Look up here, young man, and let us see you.”

     I let them take a look at me.

     “I knew it was you, you little scamp!” she said, taking hold of me and shaking me and patting me on the back.

     “I’ve a good notion to flog you,” she went on. “Your poor mother has worried herself nearly to death about you.”

     Morning came at last, and I packed up in a hurry to get home. I did not stop this time until I reached it.

     As I rode up, two of my little sisters, who were playing by the side of the house, ran in and told mother that an Indian was out there. She came to the door, and she knew me the moment she saw me. I cannot tell you just what passed the next hour, but they were all happy to have me back safe at home again.

     I had forgotten all about my horses in the joy of the meeting. When I finally went out to unpack them, the folks all followed me and mother asked, “Where did you get all of those horses? Did you take them from the Indians and run away?”

     I told her that they were mine, that I had not run away from the Indians as I had from her. After that I put my ponies in the field, and answering their eager questions, I told them all about my two years among the Indians.

Chronicles of Courage, Lesson Committee (Salt Lake City: Talon Printing, 1997), 8: 356-365.