The Great Experience

BY JULIA FARR Author of "Venna Hastings"

"I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience."

I. P. HENRY

THE DESERET NEWS SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH 1920

LOVINGLY DEDICATED TO MY EPHRAIM FRIENDS MRS. CATHERINE H. THOMPSON AND FAMILY

PREFACE

Have you been a convert to the "Mormon" faith? Have you left your home-land and started out for the valley in the mountains, leaving friends behind, and looking forward with an awful loneliness to the strange new land where life must begin over again with only the Lord to know and love you? And have you found, on coming to Zion, a real friend—one who opens heart and home to welcome the convert, and give that first cheering hope to the tired one, just come from the world's persecutions? If you have had that experience, readers, you can understand with what tenderness I think of Ephraim, where I experienced my first welcome, my first friends in Zion. In trying to think of a suitable setting for my heroine's home life, Ephraim came instantly to my mind, because it was here that I met the real "Mormon" spirit, which strengthened me to bear the disappointments of the morrow. This little city will always be to me one of the chosen spots in God's Zion. I would not have it thought that any of my characters are supposed to be those of Ephraim people. The story is one of fiction, the pioneer

stories excepting. These stories are true, and belong to two prominent Utah families.

Julia Farr.

CHAPTER I.

"Even a child is known by his doings."—Prov. 20:11.

Dear little Ephraim with its great heart and democratic aspirations, its keen love for its own inhabitants and "The stranger within the gates," its rich and poor living side by side in brotherly sympathy!

This quaint little city seems to cuddle up to the great Rocky Mountains as if for protection from the outer and larger cities of Utah, where the world has crept in and has somewhat changed the spirit of fifty years ago.

"We are simple country-folks," said one of Ephraim's leading citizens, addressing a new-comer as he took her bags, "but you're welcome to our home as long as you care to stay and share it with us."

"O, thank you so much!" exclaimed the Eastern lady, as she patted the light fluffy hair of the ten-year-old girl, clinging to her mother's skirts.

"I love little girls. We'll be good friends, won't we dear?" she asked the child.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Betty Emmit, as she furtively scanned the lady from head to foot. Mentally she was saying, "By heck! a real New-Yorker in Ephraim!"

"The New-Yorker," was amply supplied with bags—so many in fact, that Mrs. Emmit had to relieve her husband of one, big and heavy.

"The New-Yorker" made an attempt to take it from her.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Catt," exclaimed the good wife; "you must be so tired. We haven't far to go. Any trunk to see to?"

"No, I travel so much that I don't bother with trunks."

So, with this easy acquiescence, Mrs. Webster Catt walked beside her heavy-laden companions.

Betty attempted to give her mother a lift, but was shaken off kindly.

"You're too young and skinny to carry loads yet," explained Mrs. Emmit, who was herself not a great deal taller, nor stouter, than Betty.

Betty flushed furiously. She always felt it an accusation to be called "young and skinny."

"Better to be young and skinny than to be old and fat, ain't it, honey?" Mr. Emmit suggested.

Then he turned to his wife.

"You're tired, aren't you?" he asked, eyeing her keenly. "Bag heavy, eh?"

But his straight, slim, little wife ignored his question and began talking to Mrs. Catt as quickly as possible.

"So you're here to preach temperance, are you?" she asked in a pleasant tone. "I'm mighty glad someone's taking it up. But to think it should be an outsider! Here's the Church preaching the 'Word of Wisdom' all these years, and telling the people not to drink and smoke, and you've come to tell them to obey the Church!"

Mr. Emmit laughed and there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"You'll be disappointing yourself, if you try to deprive Ephraim of its home brewed ale. It's the one small sin that gives us a big lot of pleasure here."

"Do you think that any sin is small?" asked the reformer sweetly, with her direct gaze compelling honest Ford Emmit to answer squarely.

"Well, no, if you put it that way, but—"

"There's no 'but' about it," interrupted his good wife; "sin is sin."

Betty's brown eyes gazed with open admiration at Mrs. Catt.

Mentally she said, "by heck," again. "She's some game fighter to tackle Ephraim, but I hope she gets beaten; for Ephraim's all right," she concluded with sudden pride.

Soon they reached the Emmit home, an old-fashioned, white framed house, surrounded with hollyhocks and low shrubbery.

"Home at last!" exclaimed the large, gaunt master of the house.

"How perfectly lovely!" exclaimed Mrs. Catt with enthusiasm. "I've always dreamed that it would be so romantic to live in a place like this!"

"Some romance," returned Ford Emmit, laughing heartily, as he deposited the bags on the porch. "We have no time for dreams here; have we, wife? Nine children, and the farm and livestock to it, keep us pretty busy. That's life here!"

At this the door opened and out ran four real children, two boys and two girls, rosy and bright as the dawn.

The two boys were both bright redheads, like their mother; the girls were fair and blue-eyed, with the exquisite coloring of the Norwegian.

"O, Betty," they all cried at once; "we found your pussy dead in the yard. Someone has drowned her."

"Yes, I drowned her, myself," declared Mrs. Emmit. "She's been ailing around the house too long. It ain't good for you, children, to be mauling sick cats," and with this practical dismissal of the fact, she lead the way into the house, her visitor, husband, and children, following.

But Betty lingered behind, unnoticed. For a moment she stood, pale and defiant, then, swift as a fawn, she ran around the house and started the search for her dead kitten.

"Pussy dead! pussy dead!" she muttered to herself in anguish, and the tears came thick and fast, as she looked for her dead pet.

At last, in some tall grass, she discovered it, lying cold and wet.

"O, my baby! My darling baby!" she moaned piteously; "to think that I was away and couldn't save you!"

But kitty did not purr in answer, as was her custom, when her mistress talked to her.

Piteously, Betty looked down at the dead thing. It was ugly and she shuddered.

"My darling Tinkey! How ugly death has made you!" Then, a sudden thought brought a quick smile to the downcast countenance. "But, Tinkey, this isn't really you! Where are you, Tinkey, where are you? This is only your body. Your body will be res'rected some day, won't it, Tinkey? I'll bury it all nice for you, an' you can look on though I can't see you any more. O, Tinkey, I'll never see you any more!" and again the smile vanished, and the little face puckered up.

Slowly the child made her way to a large tree some distance from the house, behind the barn.

She laid the kitten under shelter and then retraced her steps mournfully, back to the kitchen door.

As she opened it she called, "Edna!" in a subdued, awed voice.

Edna put her fair head through the door leading to the sitting-room.

There the family and the "company" were evidently resting and talking.

"What yer want, Betty?" she asked curiously.

"Come right here, Edna Emmit," returned Betty seriously.

Edna closed the door behind her and approached cautiously.

"What's up?"

"Nothin's up, Edna Emmit, but you're the most religious, and I've chose you for the funeral of Tinkey Emmit. Come right along with a towel and our big candy box and meet me under the big tree behind the barn. Mum's the word, Edna. This is a sad time, an' I don't want the whole family lookin' on. You understand?"

Edna was only two years younger than Betty, but she was born with a bump of reverence for her "next sister" and all her doings.

"All right, Betty, I'll be there," she answered respectfully, at once climbing on a kitchen chair, to get the much prized candy box, that had been treasured since it was emptied of its goodies last Christmas.

Betty retrod her way to the big tree quickly, fearing that she might be called before her duty was done.

She knelt down before the dead form and clasped her little hands in prayer.

"Dear God," she said tearfully, "None but you knows jes' how I feel. Take care of Tinkey, an' make me feel better. Amen."

Edna's soft tread behind her made her turn.

"Give me the towel, Edna, and take the box an' fill it with flowers. Tinkey did so love flowers. When you come back, I'll have her all dried for the funeral."

Edna's sympathy brought tears, too. "All right," she said simply, and wandered across the field for the funeral flowers.

When she returned, Betty had Tinkey dried and combed and looking fairly natural.

Gently they placed the kitten in the box and tastefully arranged the flowers about it.

"Now to dig the grave," said Betty. "It's the hardest part to bury her, ain't it?"

"Do you think that Tinkey knows we're givin' her a funeral?" asked Edna, awed.

"'Course she does!" answered Betty emphatically, "An' she'll feel mighty bad, if we don't do it nice!"

Betty dug the grave and Edna placed the coffin inside of it. They drew lots as to who should cover the coffin with dirt—this being the most heart-breaking,—and the lot fell to Betty.

With the tears streaming down her face, she piled the damp earth in, Edna crying more in sympathy for her sister, than in sorrow for Tinkey's death.

The grave filled and covered with flowers, Betty looked around until she found a flat piece of wood. Taking her pencil, she wrote:

"Here lies Tinkey Emmit, too young to die, too sick to live. Mourned for by Edna and Betty Emmit."

She handed this to Edna with a smile of pride between her tears.

"Guess Tinkey'll like that for a gravestone. She'll know jes' why she had to die, an' won't have any bad feelin's."

"You're awfully smart, Betty," declared Edna soberly, as Betty drove the gravestone into the ground.

"Sometimes, Edna, only sometimes," returned Betty humbly. "Now, Edna, kneel th'other side of the grave and we'll have prayer, next."

"Dear God," began Betty, then there was a prolonged silence.

Edna at last opened her eyes.

"Why don't yer pray, Betty?"

Betty answered tremulously, "My heart's so full I can't. You try, Edna."

"I don't know what ter say," returned Edna, frightened, and her two little arms stretched across the grave and wound themselves about her sister's neck, as she burst into sobs.

Betty now entirely unnerved, hugged her sister close.

"Well of all things!" exclaimed Mrs. Emmit, approaching the grave and its mourners unnoticed. "What are you two crying for now?"

The children started and drew apart.

"It's Tinkey's funeral, mamma, that's wot it is!" exclaimed Betty, choking back the sobs.

"Tinkey's funeral!" exclaimed the mother aghast. "You don't mean that you took the cat's death so to heart? You poor, little lambies, come right here to mamma!"

And into mother's arms they flew to be cuddled back to smiles and sunshine.

Mrs. Emmit was not one of the cuddling kind, so this rare treat had its desired effect!

"There now, girlies, run and wash those tears away, and look clean for the company. We'll have supper right soon now."

As the children ran ahead of her to the house, she shook her head doubtfully.

"Who'd a' thought it? Betty is made of too tender stuff for this world. She'll have a hard time of it, poor kiddie!"

Supper was a bountiful repast, served on the "Emmit best china," which as Mrs. Emmit explained to Mrs. Catt, had been handed down from her grandmother, who had been the first woman in Ephraim to own such ware.

Mrs. Catt examined the substantial china with care and admiration.

"It looks just like the good substantial stock, that you descended from," remarked Mrs. Catt, smiling on her pleased hostess. "How anxious I am to meet some of those old pioneers! Are there any that are still living?"

"Oh yes, indeed. I'll have some of them around one evening, and they will be glad to tell you of their early experiences."

"Nothing that I would like better—how sweet of you to plan such an entertainment for me! What a beautiful home picture!" she added, as she looked at the many happy faces gathered around the big table. "We never see such families in the East. How do you ever manage to get through the work, my dear Mrs. Emmit?"

"It isn't as hard as it looks," returned the good house-wife, beaming with pride on her flock. "You see, one just helps the other, and things just run like clock-work, unless there's a hitch somewhere, but that doesn't happen very often."

"We bring our children up to work from the start," added Mr. Emmit, "Then, when they're big, they're not lazy; they keep a-moving like the rest of us."

"Wonderful! truly wonderful!" exclaimed Mrs. Catt, as she beamed on them all.

Betty ate little, so fascinated was she by the new-comer.

"She knows how to 'preciate!" she thought.

Supper over, Betty sidled up to Mrs. Catt and began to ask questions about the East, all of which were answered kindly by the visitor, while she fondled the child's fluffy hair.

"What an intelligent child Betty is!" she said, turning to Mr. Emmit, still holding the child's hand in hers.

Betty flushed with pleasure.

"It ain't good to flatter them," returned Mr. Emmit, rather shortly. "The child's about the same as the average young 'un. A lot too touchy at times, and cries too easy."

"That shows a sweet disposition," returned Mrs. Catt, completely winning Betty's heart, as she drank in the soft phrases with thirsty delight.

After the guest had pleaded fatigue and been shown to the "spare-room," and the children were all snug in their several beds, Mr. and Mrs. Emmit sat talking over the plans and the prospects of Mrs. Catt's campaign in Ephraim.

"Now, of course, wife, I'll get the town-hall for her to lecture in, and 'cause you're so daffy over the woman, I'll do my best to help her to get through with her temperance talks, but—" here he stopped and puffed his pipe, with an intense scowl on his honest, rough countenance.

"But what?" asked his wife, quickly.

"Well, Eliza, if I must out with it, I don't like the woman!"

"Ford Emmit, if that isn't the limit!" exclaimed his wife. "You do take the most unreasonable likes and dislikes. I think that she is the most wonderful, fascinating character."

"There you have it, Eliza! fascinating—that's the word,—fascinating, but it ain't all gold that glitters. She's slick."

"It isn't real Christian of you, Ford, to talk that way when you know she's come here to help in the Lord's work."

"Mebbe,—we'll see," he answered, quietly.

"Have you anything against her?" asked his wife a trifle anxiously.

"Only feelin's, wife."

"Then remember our good song, Ford,—'School thy feelings.'"

Ford Emmit laughed good-naturedly.

"All right, wife, so long as you don't ask me to give up my pipe, I'll help her through. You don't know the world much. There's not many women like you that come from the East. They're well trained—you never can tell what they're thinking on."

"You mean that there are no good women in the East?"

"Heck, no! But there's no way of sifting them and knowing them. The tares grow with the wheat, and get tangled mightily sometimes. Here, you wives, are mostly same grain, and fairly good at that," he said, taking his wife's hand in his big, brawny one, for an affectionate squeeze.

"We all think that our own is the best, Ford!" his wife answered, with a pleased smile. "But it is not for us to set judgment on the next one."

*****

That night, when all had retired, Betty made her way to her mother's bed-room.

Mrs. Emmit was almost asleep, when she saw the little night-gowned figure with its loose hair and bare little feet, approach.

"Why Betty, what brought you here? You should be asleep in bed."

"But mamma, dear, I can't sleep, until you promise me one thing!"

"And what's your brain taking on now, child?"

She sat on the edge of the bed, and looked at her mother with wide, serious eyes.

"When I get old enough, will you let me go on a mission, mamma?"

"Well, of all things to keep you awake! If the Church calls you, of course you'll go, provided we don't go bankrupt before then."

"You really mean it, mamma?" cried Betty delightedly.

"Yes. Run away now and get to sleep as soon as you can."

Betty stooped, kissed her mother impulsively, and was gone.

When she reached her own bed-room, she knelt down and folded her hands in prayer.

"Dear Lord," she said, "please tell the Church to call me on a mission, and keep mamma's money safe. Amen."

Then she jumped into bed, and was soon asleep.

CHAPTER II.

No great truth was ever born into the world, without the throes of suffering of those who bore it.

Mrs. Emmit's invitations to four of the pioneers of Ephraim were gladly accepted, and all expressed themselves as delighted to meet the Eastern lady, who was going to make every careless "Latter-day Saint" reflect on the "Word of Wisdom."

The large, homey sitting-room was bright with the rays of the setting sun, sinking over the mountains in its golden glory, and casting its stray beams in at the bay-window, with a cheeriness that made the simple room look beautiful. It was eight o'clock.

One by one the guests arrived, each bringing a handful of roses.

"June roses! How perfectly exquisite!" exclaimed Mrs. Catt, graciously accepting the flowers, while Betty ran for vases. Soon they were all prettily arranged on the center table, filling the room with a rich fragrance.

"Surely, life in Ephraim is worth while," declared Mrs. Catt, again smiling on the happy, old faces surrounding her. "All flowers and sunshine!"

When Betty had finished fixing the flowers, she sat on a cushion by her wonderful guest and affectionately leaned her head on Mrs. Catt's knee.

Her little face was flushed with excitement, and her eyes looked larger than ever.

"Ephraim's going ter show off now, and she's just the kind ter 'preciate!" she thought joyfully. How the child did love her own home town!

"Yes, it's all roses and sunshine now ma'am, but times there was when it wasn't jes' like this," remarked one old lady, shaking her head thoughtfully.

"That's true, Sister Anne," spoke up old Brother Jacobson. "We've known the time, when only thorns grew!"

"Now, that is just what I want you to tell me about. I'm just longing to hear about those by-gone days—why you came here, and what you found.—Do, someone, begin, please!" urged Mrs. Catt, sweetly.

One thin, erect, old lady, with a quick, bright eye, turned to Mrs. Catt with a smile.

"Sister Anne and Brother Jacobson may have suffered from the thorns, but I can't say that I did. What did I come for? For the faith, of course, as we all did. I walked eight hundred miles, pushing a cart, and I tell you, ma'am, every mile was too short for the faith! And when I got here? Every burden was too light to bear for the sake of the glorious truth, and the Lord has blessed me with children, and grand-children, and health, but I'd been glad to go on suffering for the glory of the gospel!"

There was a silence after this burst of enthusiasm, and Mrs. Catt eyed the woman as if studying some strange species.

"And your faith carried you through everything, joyously?" she asked, credulously.

"Yes, the Lord upheld me always."

"Did you bring up a large family?" asked the Easterner curiously.

"Yes, thirteen children. My husband has gone ahead of me awhile, but I'm glad to stay as long as God wills. With such a big, happy family, one couldn't be lonesome, you know."

"No, I suppose not," returned Mrs. Catt, sweetly. "You women have led wonderful lives. Now, who's going to begin to tell me how they happened to come to Zion?"

There was a pause, as one looked at the other, smiling.

"You don't mind talking about it, do you?" she asked pleasantly.

Mrs. Emmit answered for them.

"Gracious, no! They just love to talk about it to those who are really interested in the gospel; don't you?"

All smiled assent.

"Suppose you begin, Brother Madson," suggested Mrs. Emmit.