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[1]
Interactive Applications Using
Matplotlib

Don't just see your data, experience it!

Benjamin V. Root

BIRMINGHAM - MUMBAI
Interactive Applications Using Matplotlib

Copyright © 2015 Packt Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written
permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in
critical articles or reviews.

Every effort has been made in the preparation of this book to ensure the accuracy
of the information presented. However, the information contained in this book is
sold without warranty, either express or implied. Neither the author, nor Packt
Publishing, and its dealers and distributors will be held liable for any damages
caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by this book.

Packt Publishing has endeavored to provide trademark information about all of the
companies and products mentioned in this book by the appropriate use of capitals.
However, Packt Publishing cannot guarantee the accuracy of this information.

First published: March 2015

Production reference: 1170315

Published by Packt Publishing Ltd.

Livery Place
35 Livery Street
Birmingham B3 2PB, UK.

ISBN 978-1-78398-884-6

www.packtpub.com
 Credits

Author Project Coordinator

Benjamin V. Root Harshal Ved

Reviewers Proofreaders
Kamran Husain Maria Gould
Nathan Jarus Lesley Harrison
Jens Hedegaard Nielsen Bernadette Watkins
Sergi Pons Freixes
Indexer
Acquisition Editors Monica Ajmera Mehta
Richard Gall
Owen Roberts Production Coordinator
Conidon Miranda
Content Development Editor
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Cover Work
Conidon Miranda
Technical Editors
Tanvi Bhatt
Nanda Padmanabhan

Copy Editors
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 About the Author

Benjamin V. Root has been a member of the Matplotlib development team

since 2010. His main areas of development have been the documentation and the
mplot3d toolkit, but now he focuses on code reviews and debugging. Ben is also an
active member of mailing lists, using his expertise to help newcomers understand
Matplotlib. He is a meteorology graduate student, working part-time on his PhD
dissertation. He works full-time for Atmospheric and Environmental Research, Inc.
as a scientific programmer.

I would like to acknowledge the entire Matplotlib development team

for their insightful responses to my questions while I was writing
this book. In particular, I would like to thank Michael Droettboom,
Eric Firing, Thomas Caswell, Phil Elson, and Ryan May. Thanks
also go to the members of the matplotlib users' list without whom I
would have never learned this tool in the first place and for whom I
wrote this book.

This book would not have been possible without the love and
support of my wife, Margaret. She put up with far more than she
should have, and for that, I am in her debt.

Last, but not least, I must acknowledge John Hunter, the creator
of Matplotlib and the man who included me into the development
team. Working with him and the rest of the team allowed me to
mature as a programmer and scientist, and directly resulted in me
attaining my current employment, thus starting my career.
 About the Reviewers

Nathan Jarus is a computer science PhD candidate at Missouri S&T. He regularly

uses Matplotlib to visualize and experiment with results. Prior to his graduate
studies, he spent several years developing data visualization tools for research
professors. Beyond visualization, he studies complex system modeling and control.

Jens Hedegaard Nielsen is a research software developer at University College

London, where he works on a number of different programming projects in relation
to research across the university. He is an active Matplotlib developer. He has a PhD
in experimental laser physics from Aarhus University, Denmark.
Sergi Pons Freixes is a telecommunications engineer and a PhD candidate with
experience on optical sensors and data analysis. For almost 10 years, he has been
working in international environments, performing both hands-on development
and research.

During his master's degree in telecommunications engineering, he engaged in

part-time research in the Department of Signal Theory and Communications at the
Polytechnic University of Catalonia (UPC), with the design and development of a
low-cost hyperspectral in-situ sensor. This experience stimulated him to start a PhD
at the same department. He obtained a grant from the Spanish National Research
Council (CSIC) and performed his predoctoral training at the Marine Technology
Unit in Barcelona, graduating for a master of advanced studies and leading and
supervising the master thesis of other university students, while continuing his
research on low-cost solutions oriented to increase the observational capabilities
for marine/oceanographic biological information systems.

In 2011, he gained a fellowship from the Spanish Ministry of Economy and

Competitiveness to expand his experience in international scientific organisms,
moving to the European Space Agency office in Italy and working on assessing the
viability of remote sensing coral monitoring. During his stay, he gained a contractor
position as performance simulation engineer for the Sentinel 3 satellite project at
the European Space Agency facilities in the Netherlands, being responsible for the
simulators and processors operation and maintenance.

In January 2015, he moved to San Diego, California, where he is currently finishing

his PhD while he pursues new opportunities.
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 Table of Contents
Preface v
Chapter 1: Introducing Interactive Plotting 1
Installing Matplotlib 1
Show() your work 3
Interactive navigation 3
Interactive plotting 4
Scripted plotting 5
Getting help 6
Gallery 6
Mailing lists and forums 6
From front to backend 7
Interactive versus non-interactive 7
Anti-grain geometry 8
Selecting your backend 8
The Matplotlib figure-artist hierarchy 9
Canvassing the figure 10
The menagerie of artists 13
Primitives 14
Collections 17
Summary 19
Chapter 2: Using Events and Callbacks 21
Making the connection 22
The big event 25
Breaking up is the easiest thing to do 31
Keymapping 34
Picking 38

[i]
Table of Contents

Data editing 41
User events 48
Editor events 49
Summary 54
Chapter 3: Animations 55
A short history 55
The fastest draw in the west 56
The animation module 57
Advanced animations 60
Event source 64
Timers 66
Blitting 68
Recipes 69
Tails 69
Fades 72
Saving animations 74
Notes about codecs and file formats 75
Simultaneous animations 77
How animations are saved 78
Session recorder 79
Summary 83
Chapter 4: Widgets 85
Built-in widgets 85
Slider 86
Button 89
Check buttons 92
Radio button 95
Lasso 99
LassoSelector 103
RectangleSelector 104
SpanSelector 108
Cursor 110
format_coord() 110
Third-party tools 113
mpldatacursor 114
Glue 114
Plot.ly, ggplot, prettyplotlib, and Seaborn 114
Summary 115

[ ii ]
 Table of Contents

Chapter 5: Embedding Matplotlib 117

The revelation 119
Through a glass, darkly 119
Tinker tailor soldier pylab_setup() 120
Canvas materials 121
Bars, menus, and sliders – four ways 122
GTK 122
Tkinter 127
wxWidgets 131
Qt 135
Matplotlib in your app 140
GTK 140
Tkinter 143
wxWidgets 144
Qt 146
Summary 147
Index 149

[ iii ]
 Preface
Why Matplotlib? Why Python, for that matter? I picked up Python for scientific
development because I needed a full-fledged programming language that made
sense. Too often, I felt hemmed in by the traditional tools in the meteorology field.
I needed a language that respected my time as a developer and didn't fight me
every step of the way. "Don't you find Python constricting?" asked a colleague who
was fond of bad puns. "No, quite the opposite," I replied, the joke going right over
my head.

Matplotlib is the same in this respect. Switching from traditional graphing tools of
the meteorology field to Matplotlib was a breath of fresh air. Not only were useful
programs being written using the Matplotlib library, but it was also easy to write
my own. Furthermore, I could write out modules and easily use them in both
the hardcopy generating scripts for my publications and for my data exploration
interactive applications. Most importantly, the Matplotlib library let me do what
I needed it to do.

I have been an active developer for Matplotlib since 2010 and I am still discovering
Matplotlib. It isn't that the library is insanely huge and unwieldy—it isn't. Instead,
Matplotlib appeals to all levels of expertise and interests. One can simply care
enough only to get a single plot displayed in three line of code and never think of the
library again. Or, one could assume control over every single minute plotting detail,
ensuring that everything is displayed "just right." And even when one does this and
thinks they have seen every single nook and cranny of the library, they will discover
some other feature that they have never seen before.

[v]
Preface

Matplotlib is 12 years old now. New plotting projects have cropped up—some
supplementing Matplotlib's design, while others trying to replace Matplotlib
entirely. However, there has been no slacking of interest in Matplotlib, not from the
users and definitely not from the developers. The new projects are interesting, and
as with all things open source, we try to learn from these projects. But I keep coming
back to this project. Its design, developers, and community of users are some of the
best and most devoted in the open source world.

The book you are reading right now is actually not the book I originally wanted to
write. The interactive aspect of Matplotlib is not my area of expertise. After some
nudging from fellow developers and users, I relented. I proceeded to rewrite the
only interactive application I had ever finished and published. Working through the
chapters, I tried to find better ways of doing the things I did originally, pointing out
major pitfalls and easy mistakes as I encountered them. It was a significant learning
experience for me, which was wholly unexpected.

I now invite you to discover Matplotlib for yourself. Whether it is the first time or
not, it certainly won't be the last.

What this book covers

Chapter 1, Introducing Interactive Plotting, covers basic figure-axes-artist hierarchy and
other Matplotlib essentials such as displaying the plot. It also introduces you to the
interactive Matplotlib figure.

Chapter 2, Using Events and Callbacks, provides Matplotlib's events and a callback
system to bring your figures to life. It also explains how you can extend it with
custom events, making the application truly interactive.

Chapter 3, Animations, deals with ArtistAnimation, FuncAnimation, and timers

to make animations of all types. It also deals with animations that can be saved
as movies.

Chapter 4, Widgets, covers built-in widgets such as buttons, checkboxes, selectors,

lassos, and sliders, which are all explained and demonstrated. Here, you'll also learn
about other useful third-party widgets and tools.

Chapter 5, Embedding Matplotlib, teaches you how to add GUI elements to an existing
Matplotlib application. Here you'll also see how to add your interactive Matplotlib
figure to an existing GUI application. Identical examples are presented using GTK,
Tkinter, wxWidgets, and Qt.

[ vi ]
 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
 BEAUTIFUL APPLES.
After dinner mother washes the dishes and makes all the
arrangements she can for an early breakfast. She thinks I am another
“Harriet Beecher Stowe,” so she is perfectly willing to do the work in
the evening and let me write. Oh, the unselfishness of mothers. I do
my share, of course, mornings, and at noon, but evenings I only make
the beds in both wagons.
We have white sheets and pillow-cases, with a pair of blankets, and
light comforts on both beds, just the same as at home, and they do not
soil any more or any quicker, as we have them carefully protected from
dust.
I had been writing a little while after dinner, when Frank stepped up
with a basket of beautiful red-cheeked apples in his hand, not a wilted
one among them.
“Where shall I put them?”
“Oh, Frank, how lovely they are. Where did you get them? Thank
you so much; they are not all for me?”—as he emptied the last one into
the pan. “Are all the others supplied? This seems more than my share.”
“Yes; they are for you, we bought the farmer’s entire stock; the
others are supplied, or will be without you giving them yours.”
He had just gone, when Sim Buford came and threw half a dozen
especially beautiful ones into my lap.
“Thank you, Sim, but I am bountifully supplied, don’t you see?”
“So you are, but keep mine, too; I can guess who it was that
forestalled me.” Laughing as he walked off.
So we are feasting on luscious apples this evening, thanks to the
generosity of our young gentlemen.

* * * * *
 Friday, May 5.
We came through Unionville and Moravia to-day. Have traveled
farther and later than any day yet. It was almost dark when we
stopped, and raining, too; to make a bad matter worse, we are
camping in a disagreeable muddy place, and have to use lanterns to
cook by.
We were obliged to come so far to get a lot large enough to hold the
stock. We will be glad to sleep in the house to-night.
Mrs. Kerfoot is homesick, blue and despondent this evening; she has
always had such an easy life that anything disagreeable discourages
her. Perhaps when the sun shines again she will feel all right.

* * * * *

Saturday, May 6.
This morning dawned clear and bright; all nature seemed refreshed
by yesterday’s rain, and we started joyfully on our journey once more.
We came through Iconium early in the day, are camping in Lucas
County, near a beautiful farmhouse. We expect to stay here until
Monday, as we do not intend to travel on Sundays.
It is a beautiful moonlight night, some one proposes a walk. As Cash
is giving Winthrop his first lessons in flirtation, they, of course, go
together; Sim and Neelie, Miss Milburn and Ezra are the next to start,
and Frank is waiting to go with me. Hill stays in camp, in conversation
with Mr. Kerfoot and Mr. Milburn.
He is more like an old man than the boy that he is, not twenty yet.
After we had gone a short distance, Miss Milburn asked to be excused,
and returned to camp; Ezra, of course, going with her.
We walked on for a mile or more, enjoying the beautiful moonlight,
and having lots of fun, as happy young people will have. When we
returned and I had said good-night to the others, I climbed into the
wagon to finish my writing for the day by the light of the lantern.
 The front of Mr. Milburn’s wagon almost touches the back of ours,
forming an angle. I had been writing a few moments when I heard
sobbing. I was out in a jiffy, and had gone to the front of their wagon
without stopping to think whether I was intruding. “May I come in?” I
asked, as I stepped upon the wagon-tongue.
“Oh, yes, come in, Miss Sallie, but I am ashamed to let you see me
crying, somehow I could not help it. I felt so lonely and homesick.”
“I am sorry you feel lonely and homesick. Did any of us say, or do
anything this evening that could have hurt you?”
“Oh, no; not at all, only I always feel that I am one too many, when
I am with you all; you seem so light-hearted and happy, so free from
care, so full of life and fun, that I feel that I am a damper to your
joyousness, for I cannot get over feeling homesick and sad, especially
when night comes.”
“How sweetly Ernest sleeps, and how much he seems to enjoy this
manner of life.”
“Yes; he is a great comfort to me, as well as a great care. He is
dearer to me than to any one else in the world; his father seems to be
weaned from him, since they have been separated so long. He has not
seen him more than half a dozen times since his mother died. I feel
that he is altogether mine. May God help me to train him for Heaven.
He will never know what I have sacrificed for him. I have a mind to tell
you, if you care to hear, why I am here, and why I am not happy.”
“It may perhaps relieve you, and lighten the burden, to share it.”
And then she told me what I will record to-morrow, for it is almost
midnight, and mother has been asleep for two hours, and I must hie
me to bed.

MISS MILBURN’S LOVE STORY.

“Of course you have heard about my engagement to Jim Miller. I
know it has been talked about.”
“Yes; I have heard the matter discussed.”
 “We have been engaged two years, and were to be married next
month. He insisted that I must give up Ernest to mother. I felt that I
would be violating a sacred trust, and that mother is too old to have
the care of such a child, and I told him so. We quarreled, and while I
was feeling hurt and indignant, I told Brother John I would go with him
to Montana. He gladly accepted my offer, and his wife was so glad John
would have some one to take care of him if he got sick. So here I am
and I know I ought not to have come, for Jim Miller is dearer to me
than my own life.”
“I am so sorry for you, yet I believe that in some way it will be for
the best, you know the promise, ‘All things work together for good, to
those who love the Lord.”
“I will try to believe it. You have done me good, Miss Sallie. I am
glad you came. Come again.”

* * * * *

Sunday, May 7.
“Remember the Sabbath Day to keep it holy.” Have we obeyed this
command to-day? I fear not. We are all, or very nearly all, professing
Christians, yet we have had no public worship in our camp to-day, but
we have all, to some extent, desecrated the day by work.
Deeds of mercy and necessity may be done on the Sabbath Day
without sin, and mother says, “It is very necessary that our soiled
clothes, sheets and pillow-cases should be washed, and that cleanliness
is next to godliness.”
The question comes to me, Why is it that Christians are so loath to
talk of the things that pertain to their spiritual life, and eternal welfare?
Why so backward about introducing a service of worship, when so well
aware it would meet with the approval of all?
I felt that Mr. Kerfoot was the one to suggest a service of prayer and
praise, and reading the Scriptures. Perhaps he thought some of the
ladies would mention it, so all were silent, and it is numbered with the
lost opportunities for doing something for our Lord and Master. May he
pardon our sins of omission, and may we be permitted to atone for the
manner in which we spent our first Sabbath on this trip.
We have not traveled, so our teams have rested and done no labor,
if we have violated the commandment ourselves.
The weather is perfect; this is another beautiful moonlight night.
The young ladies and gentlemen have gone for another walk in the
same order as last night, except Frank went with Miss Milburn, and
Ezra is waiting for me.

A LETTER TO BROTHER MAC.

Monday, May 8.
I left camp very early, and walked on alone, that I may write to
Brother Mac before the wagons overtake me. I am seated in a
comfortable fence corner, and here goes for my letter:
Lucas County, Iowa, May 8, 1865.
Dear Brother: We were delayed several days after the time
set for starting, when we wrote you to meet us at Council Bluffs
by the 10th. We thought I would better write, that you may
know we are on the way, and hope to meet you by the 15th or
the 16th. You must possess your soul with patience, if you get
there before we do, and have to wait. I could write a long letter,
I have so much to tell you, but will wait until we meet. Mother
seems in better health and spirits than she has since you went
into the army. We are enjoying the trip very much, and I find
myself feeling sorry for the people that have to stay at home,
and cannot travel and camp out. Good-bye until next week.
With sincerest love,
Your sister,
Sarah.

The wagons are coming in sight, just as my letter is finished and

addressed, and ready to mail at the next post-office. My pony is in
harness to-day, as one of the work horses is a little lame, so I will have
to ride in the wagon or walk. As the morning is so fine I will walk until I
begin to tire.
Evening.
Cash joined me in my walk, and we walked until noon. How wisely
planned are these physical bodies of ours, how easily inured to the
burdens they must bear. Before we started on this trip, such a walk as
we took this morning would have completely prostrated us; now, we
did not feel any inconvenience from the unusual exercise.
Frank invited us, Cash and I, to ride in his wagon this afternoon. We
accepted the invitation, and made an emigrant visit. He had arranged
his wagon for our convenience and comfort, and we spent a very
pleasant afternoon. Frank mailed my letter at Charaton, and on his way
back bought candy and nuts for a treat for his visitors, which we, of
course, enjoyed exceedingly.
I should not care to ride in an ox-wagon all the way across the
plains, but for half a day, once in a while, it is a pleasant change,
especially when so delightfully entertained. The afternoon passed
quickly. We are camping near a large party of emigrants, some of the
men came to our camp. They look tough; they are from Pike County,
Missouri, on their way to Oregon.

* * * * *

Tuesday, May 9.
A beautiful day for horseback riding, until late this afternoon, when
it commenced blowing a perfect gale, too severe to travel, so we drove
into camp early. We came through Ottawa and Osceola, are camping in
Clark County.

* * * * *

Wednesday, May 10.

A very cold day for this time of year, too cold to think of riding
horseback, so we all took passage in the wagons. As we have plenty to
read, and lots of visiting to do, it is no hardship to ride in the wagon for
a day.
The boys have made a splendid camp-fire, and we are getting
thawed out, cheered, and ready for a jolly evening. There was just one
stunted oak left standing, away out here in this great expanse of prairie
—for our especial benefit, it seems. The boys cut it down, and taking
the trunk for a back-log, the top and branches to build the fire, we
have a glorious camp-fire away out here in Union County, Iowa. It is
surprising to find Iowa so sparsely settled, we travel sometimes half a
day and do not see a home. There are always a few farms near the
towns. The settlements are the only breaks in the monotonous
landscape.
Oh, the tedious, tiresome monotony of these vast extended prairies:
To look out and away, over these seemingly endless levels, as far as
the eye can reach, and see only grass, grass everywhere, with beautiful
prairie flowers, of course, but the flowers cannot be seen in the
distance. No earthly consideration would induce me to make a home on
any of these immense prairie levels. How my eyes long for a sight of
beautiful trees, and running streams of water; how delightful to stroll in
the woods once more.

* * * * *

Thursday, May 11.

The wish expressed last evening is realized in a manner. We are
camping in a strip of timber along the banks of a creek—or branch,
rather. But then it is such a slow-going stream, not at all limpid, clear,
or sparkling as a brook ought to be. It can hardly be called a running
stream, for it goes too slowly. I think creeping or crawling would be
more appropriate. We came through Afton to-day.
 THE ICARIAN COMMUNITY.
Friday, May 12.
Brother Hillhouse’s birthday. He is twenty years old. We made a
birthday cake for him last night. We divided it into twenty pieces at
lunch to-day, and there was just enough to go around and leave two
pieces for himself. The girls say we must have some kind of a
jollification to-night. I hope they will leave me out, for I want to write
about the “Icarian Community.” We came through Queen City this
morning, and this afternoon came to a town of French people, called
“The Icarian Community.”
(Call to dinner.)
Later: They have excused me.
But why Icarian? I cannot understand, for certainly they did not
impress me as high flyers, neither as flyers at all. They seemed the
most humdrum, slow-going, even-tenor, all-dressed-alike folks I have
ever seen. Every dwelling is exactly alike, log-cabins of one room, with
one door, one window, a fire-place with stick chimney. I rode close by
the open doors of some of the houses, and tried to talk with the
women, but we could not understand each other at all. The floors,
windows and everything in the houses were scrupulously clean, but not
one bit of brightness or color, not a thread of carpet, or a rug, and all
the women’s and girls’ dresses made of heavy blue denim, with white
kerchiefs around the shoulders and pinned across the front of the
waist, the skirt above the ankles, and very narrow and heavy thick-
soled shoes. The men and boys all looked alike too, but I did not
observe them closely enough to describe them.
There are several large, long buildings, one with a large bell in belfry
on top of building. They are dining-hall, town-hall, school-house and
two others. I did not learn what they are used for. All the buildings are
one story, of the plainest architecture, for the one purpose of shelter
from sun and storm. There is not a thing to ornament or beautify, not a
shade-tree or flower, yet everything—men, women, children, houses,
yards and streets—are as clean as they can be made.
 They are peaceable, law-abiding citizens, live entirely independent of
the people of adjoining neighborhoods. They are supposed to be
wealthy; the town is the center of well-cultivated and well-stocked
farms.
The principle upon which the community is founded is “Brotherly
Love”, a sort of co-operative communism, in which all things are the
common property of all. They live upon what their farms produce, have
vast herds of cattle and sheep, a fine site for their town, and seem the
picture of contentment, which is better than riches.
We stopped within sight of Quincy, and another camping outfit. We
soon learned they are Mr. Harding and Mr. Morrison and family, from
Lewis County. We are acquainted with Mr. Harding and have often
heard of the Morrisons.
Mr. Morrison and Mr. Harding came over, and the men have had a
sociable, gossiping time this evening; the men can surpass the women
gossiping any time, notwithstanding the general belief to the contrary.
The young folks have been playing games to celebrate Hillhouse’s
birthday. They had hard work to get him to join them.

A SWING AMONG THE TREES.

Saturday, May 13.
We drove only until noon, and stopped to stay over Sunday, so that
we can do our washing and baking, without violating the Sabbath. We
do not have collars and cuffs, and fine starched things to do up, but we
have a great many pocket handkerchiefs, aprons, stockings, etc. We
have pretty bead collars made of black and white beads, tied with a
ribbon, that always look nice and do not get soiled. We are in a
beautiful grove of trees. The boys have put up a swing. There is
nothing in the way of play that I enjoy as I do a good high swing.
There are plenty of boys to swing us as high as we want to go. I fear
the Sabbath will be desecrated with play to-morrow, if not with work,
for the temptation to swing will be hard to resist.
 * * * * *

Sunday, May 14.

The horses went off two or three miles last night, the men were all
off bright and early this morning hunting them. Mr. Kerfoot found them,
and came back about nine o’clock. By the time they were all here the
morning’s work was finished and we were ready—for what?
A day to spend in rest and service for the Master? Oh, no. A day
spent in swinging, frivolous conversation, and fun. I am ashamed to tell
it, but it is nevertheless true, and I believe we all thought less about a
service of worship than we did last Sunday. It is so hard to get right, if
we do not start right.
We have visitors in camp to-night, two gentlemen from Clark County,
neighbors of the Kerfoots—Mr. Suitor and Mr. Rain. They started for the
gold mines in Montana two or three weeks ago. After reaching the
Missouri River they heard such frightful stories of Indian depredations
being committed on the plains that they sold their outfit for what they
could get, and are returning home on horseback. Poor fellows, how I
pity any man that has so little grit. I should think they would be
ashamed to show their faces to their neighbors, and say, “We were
afraid, so we came back home.”
I believe Mrs. Kerfoot is the only one of our party who would be
willing to turn back, and perhaps she would not if it were put to the
test. We would not like to be scalped and butchered by the Indians, but
it does seem so cowardly to run away from a possible danger. “The
everlasting arms are underneath.” God can, and will, take care of us as
well on the plains as anywhere. He is leading us through unknown
paths. We can trust Him. Heaven is as near one place as another.
Our second Sunday has not been much of an improvement on our
first. The first we worked, to-day we have played. The boys swung us
all morning, until we were ready to “holler nuff.” We had Sunday dinner
between two and three o’clock, then we wrote letters to friends at
home, read until sleepy, took a nap of an hour, then Mr. Suitor and Mr.
Rain came, and we listened to their frightful stories of what the Indians
are doing to emigrants.
 I left them in disgust, to come and record our misdoings of this, our
second, Sunday on the road. It is almost bedtime, and I must make the
beds, for we are early to bed and early to rise while on this trip.

A FATAL ACCIDENT.
Monday, May 15.
Alas, alas! How can I write the disastrous happenings of this day?
My hand trembles and my pencil refuses to write intelligibly when I
attempt to record the sad, oh, so sad, accident that has befallen us. We
parted from our visitors this morning, and started on our way, feeling
rested and glad to be journeying on again. How little we knew of what
a day would bring forth. We stopped for lunch at noon in a little vale,
or depression, on the prairie, but where there was no water. Just as we
had finished our lunch, Neelie came, she said, to see if we could make
an exchange for the afternoon, her mother riding with mine, and I with
the young folks in the family wagon. Of course it was soon arranged,
and I told her I would come as soon as I helped mother put things
away. (We sometimes visit in this way.) Mrs. Kerfoot soon came around,
and when everything was ready I started to go to their wagon. It was
the last one in the train. As I was passing Mr. Milburn’s wagon he called
to me to “Come and get a drink of water.” He had taken a long walk,
and found clear, pure water, not very cold, but much better than none
at all. I gratefully accepted a cup. He and his sister then invited me to
ride with them. I told them of my engagement with Neelie, and, of
course, they excused me. Oh, that I had accepted their invitation; just
such a little thing as that might have prevented this dreadful accident.
Such great events turn on such little hinges sometimes. About three
o’clock in the afternoon, as we were plodding along after the fashion of
emigrant teams, we young people in the last wagon, having a jolly
sociable time, with song and laughter, fun and merriment, the front
wagons stopped. Ezra, who was driving, turned out of the road and
passed some of the wagons to see what the trouble was. Mr. Kerfoot
came running toward us, calling to Neelie, “Get the camphor, daughter,
Mr. Milburn has shot himself somehow, and has fainted.”
 Ezra got out to go with him and Neelie asked, “Shall we come, too,
papa?”
“No, my daughter, you girls would better stay here, your ma and
Mrs. Raymond are with Gus, and they will know what to do.”
Before he had finished what he was saying they were running to the
place of the accident. We could only wait, hoping and praying, oh, so
earnestly, that it might not prove so serious as Mr. Kerfoot’s manner
and tone caused us to fear. Afterward, Winthrop came to us; he was
pale, with compressed lips, and sad eyes; he came up close, leaned
upon the wagon wheel, and said in a low tone, “He is dead.” Oh, how
dreadful. We all left the wagon and went to the front as fast as we
could.
I have gathered from witnesses the following account of how it
happened. There was a flock of prairie chickens ahead of the wagons
to the left of the road. Mr. Milburn and several of the boys took their
guns and were going to try to thin their number. The wagons had not
halted, but were moving slowly on, the hunters had gone on a little in
advance of the wagons, they tried to fire all together, one of the boys
snapped two caps on his gun, it failed to go off, so he threw the gun
into the front wagon, and took his whip, in disgust. The wagon had
moved on to where Mr. Milburn was standing with his gun raised; there
was a shot, Mr. Milburn dropped to his knees, turned and looked at his
sister, saying, “Gus, I am shot.” And fell forward on his face. She was in
the next wagon.

BEREAVEMENT.
Gus screamed, jumped from the wagon, ran to her brother, and
raised his head in her arms. All who were near enough to hear her
scream ran to them and she said, “John has hurt himself with his gun
and has fainted, bring restoratives quick.”
In a few seconds, there were half a dozen bottles, with brandy,
camphor, ammonia there, and every effort was made to restore him,
but all in vain. He died instantly and without a struggle.
 When Mr. Kerfoot knew he was dead, he looked for the wound and
found a bullet-hole between his shoulders. Just then one of the boys
picked up his gun where he had dropped it and exclaimed, “It was not
this gun that did the mischief, for it is cold, and the load is in it.”
On looking around to find where the deadly shot had come from,
some one took hold of the gun in the front wagon. “Why, this gun is
warm. It must have been this gun went off.”
“Oh, no; it could not have been that gun, for there was no cap on
it,” said the boy who had thrown the gun there.
Circumstances proved that it was the gun without a cap that did the
fatal shooting. I would have supposed, as the boy did, that it was
perfectly harmless without a cap. I have heard it said, “It is the
unloaded gun, or the one that is supposed to be unloaded, that
generally does the mischief.” No doubt the hammer was thrown back
when he threw it in the wagon. On investigating we found a rut in the
wheel-track just where he fell. It is possible that when the front wheel
dropped into the rut with a jolt the hammer fell, igniting the powder,
either by the combustible matter that stuck, or by the flash occasioned
by the metal striking together. Mr. Milburn was not opposite the wagon
when he raised his gun to shoot, but the wagons were moving slowly
and the front one came up with him as he was taking aim, and that
was why Gus thought it was his own gun. She saw the smoke rise, he
stumbled and fell to his knees, she called to him. “Why, John, what
made you fall?”
He looked around at her and said, “Oh, Gus, I am shot.” The last
words he spoke.
How hard to be reconciled to such a dispensation when such a little
thing could have prevented it, only one step in either direction, or the
gun pointed the other way. Why, oh, why, has this awful thing
happened?
The poor boy seems to be as heart-stricken as Gus. In her unselfish
grief she has been trying to comfort him.
I have read of a minister of the Gospel “who dreamed that he died;
after entering the gates of Heaven he was led into a large empty room,
on the walls of which his whole life was spread out as a panorama. He
saw all the events of his life, and many that had been hard to
understand in his lifetime were here made clear, and through it all the
guiding, protecting hand of God had been over him.” Perhaps Mr.
Milburn is saved from a worse fate.
We were about three miles from Frankfort when the accident
happened. We came on here as soon as possible—a sorrowing, and oh,
so sorrowful, procession now. It does not seem that we can ever be the
merry party that we have been. Winthrop had been riding Dick; he
stood there, ready, saddled and bridled when Mr. Milburn fell; Frank
mounted my pony and rode as fast as he could go to Frankfort to get a
doctor. Mr. Milburn was dead before he was out of sight. We met them
as we came. A room has been rented and Mr. Milburn prepared for his
last long sleep. The people of Frankfort are very kind, and sympathetic.

A FUNERAL.
Tuesday, May 16.
The boys sat up with the corpse last night. I stayed with Gus. We
had only just shut ourselves in when a terrific storm came upon us; the
wind blew, and the rain fell in torrents. Before eleven o’clock it had
passed; soon after Gus slept heavily. It seemed hours before I slept.
Very early this morning Gus awakened me praying. How surely do the
sorrows of this life drive us to the mercy-seat for comfort, refuge and
strength.

“Had earth no thorns among its flowers,

And life no fount of tears,
We might forget our better home
Beyond this vale of tears.”

What a precious, what a comforting, satisfying faith the Presbyterian

faith must be, if one can really and conscientiously accept it. According
to their belief one never dies, nothing ever happens without God’s
providence, approval, and foreknowledge that it will happen in just that
way.
I wish I could accept such a faith, and believe it, but I cannot. I do
not believe it was ordained that Mr. Milburn should die in that way and
at that time. I believe it was an accident that might have been
prevented by the most trivial circumstance. The laws of nature are
inexorable. If a bullet is shot into a vital part of the body it kills. Yet
God is able to bring good out of this seemingly great and grievous evil.
I do not know which suffers most—the poor boy whose gun did the
deed or Gus. They seem to take comfort in each other’s society, and
are together the most of the time to-day. I am so sorry for both of
them.
The funeral services of the Presbyterian Church were held at two
o’clock this afternoon, a resident minister officiating. Mr. Milburn was
very nicely laid away, and his grave marked and enclosed with a neat,
strong fence before Gus and I left the cemetery. The people have been
so very kind. The funeral was largely attended for a stranger in a
strange place. There is no telegraph office here, so we have had to
write letters instead of sending telegrams.
I believe Gus’s plans are to go on with us to the Missouri River, sell
her outfit, and return home by steamboat down the Missouri River, up
the Mississippi to Canton, where friends will meet her and go with her
to Etna.

* * * * *

Wednesday, May 17.

Another night with Gus. She wakes in the morning to weep. We
started once more on our now sad journey. I have ridden with Gus all
day. We do not hear the sound of song and laughter as we did last
week; we all seem to be under a pall. We came through Redoak this
morning, are camping in a beautiful place, near a pleasant, homelike
farmhouse. The weather is perfect.

* * * * *
 Thursday, May 18.
The friends that stayed with us Sunday night told us that the
authorities are not allowing emigrants to take the northern route,
because of the Indian depredations that have been committed on that
route. That if we went to Council Bluffs we would have to come down
the river to Platsmouth to get on the southern route. So we changed
our course accordingly.
We came through Whitecloud, Glenwood and Pacific City to-day. At
Whitecloud I made a few purchases, traded with a little German
merchant who crossed the plains a year ago; he says we have a
delightful trip before us. He expects to go again to the Rocky
Mountains, and make his home there, as soon as he can sell out and
settle up his business here.
Just before we came to Glenwood, as the girls passed on their
ponies, Gus said to me, “Sallie, go ride your pony, too; you have not
had a ride for several days. Pardon me if I have been selfish in my
great sorrow.”
“No, Gus, I would rather stay with you than to ride Dick, as long as
you need me.”
“Thank you, dear; your company has been very grateful to me, but
now I would really enjoy seeing you ride through Glenwood.”
To please her, and myself, too, I soon had saddled and mounted
Dick and overtaken the girls. As we were riding through Glenwood a
photographer sent a messenger to request us to “Please stop five
minutes and let him take our picture.” We rode to the position
indicated, doffed our sun-bonnets, and looked as pleasant as we could.
We did not wait to see the proof, and I expect he was disappointed.
Pacific City is on the Missouri bottom, or lowlands. Above the town
are the highest bluffs I have ever seen. We hitched our ponies and
climbed to the top. The view was magnificently grand, the sun sinking
in the west, the river could be seen in the distance, with large trees on
the banks, the lowland between the bluffs and the trees was dotted
with cattle and horses grazing, here and there a pond or small lake
with its waters shining and sparkling in the glimmering sunset, the city
below us in the shadow of the bluffs. Everything was so sweet and
peaceful, we were more than paid for our climb. The wagons had
passed before we came down, so we mounted and hastened to
overtake them before driving into camp.

ON THE BANKS OF THE BIG MUDDY.

Our journey across Iowa at an end, we are on the banks of the Big
Muddy, opposite Platsmouth. We will stay here until Gus’s things are
sold, and we have seen her off on the steamboat. I stay with her
nights, and this afternoon is the first time I have left her since the
15th.

* * * * *

Friday, May 19.

I went over to Platsmouth on the ferryboat this morning with some
friends that are camping near us, to do some shopping for Gus. I
bought a black bonnet, crèpe veil and collar, and material for black suit,
which we will make up in camp, as there is a dress-maker with us. I
was away about five hours and came back tired and hungry. The
weather is perfect. We have a very pleasant place to camp, and
pleasant people camping near us. We are surrounded on all sides by
emigrants’ camps, and still they come. It seems like a young town, only
the houses are built of canvas instead of lumber, brick or stone. The
boys have put up a swing, but I have no time for swinging to-day.

* * * * *

Saturday, May 20.

We have had a very, very busy day. Mr. Kerfoot has sold Gus’s
wagon and team (three yoke of oxen) for $550, a good price every one
says. More than they cost them, I believe. The freight will be sold at
auction. We have all helped with Gus’s suit and it is almost finished.
Hillhouse went up to Council Bluffs this morning, expecting to bring
Brother Mac back with him. Instead of finding him he got a letter—also
the one I wrote a week ago—saying he was not coming. He has
decided to study medicine and will come west when he is an M.D. We
are disappointed, of course, yet perhaps it is for the best—we must try
and believe so anyway. Most perfect weather.
The Morrison and Harding outfit have come, also several other
families from Lewis and Clark counties. The Kerfoots are acquainted
with some of them. They had heard of the sad accident. Some of them
were friends of Mr. Milburn.

OUR LAST DAY WITH MISS MILBURN.

Sunday, May 21.
Mr. Thatcher and his wife came to call upon Gus this afternoon, and
invited her to their home in Platsmouth to stay until she takes the
steamboat for home. Mr. Thatcher and Mr. Milburn have been friends
for years. She accepted their invitation and will go there to-morrow.
As the people from different camps were sitting around an immense
camp-fire, not far from our wagons, someone proposed music. Some of
the men in Mr. Clark’s camp are fine musicians, they brought their violin
and flute, and gave several instrumental pieces, then some familiar
songs were sung and someone started “Just Before the Battle, Mother.”
They had sung two verses when I heard a shriek from Gus’s wagon. I
hastened to see what was the matter. “Oh, Sallie, tell them to please
not sing that, I cannot bear it. Dear Brother John used to sing it so
much. It breaks my heart to hear it now.”
I sent Winthrop, who had followed me, to ask them to stop singing.
Poor Gus, she was more overcome than I have seen her since her
bereavement.

* * * * *
 Monday, May 22.
Mr. Kerfoot, Cash, Neelie, Ezra and I came with Gus to Platsmouth.
She said good-bye to mother, Mrs. Kerfoot and the others this morning.
All were sorry to part with her. She has become very dear to us all.
Gus’s freight was brought over in the wagon and sold at public auction
and brought good figures, thanks to Mr. Thatcher, who, when he saw
anything going below its real value, bid it in himself. He has a grocery
store. He and Mr. Kerfoot have attended to all business transactions for
Gus, so that she has not been bothered at all, and have done better for
her than they could have done for themselves.
We have had a quiet, pleasant day with Gus at Mrs. Thatcher’s
home. She is very kind, and has invited us girls to stay with Gus until
she takes the boat for home, and Gus begged us to stay with her as
long as possible; so Cash and I are staying all night, and will see her on
board the boat to-morrow morning. Neelie has returned to camp with
her father and Ezra.
Ernest is a great care and worries his auntie. He will not stay in the
house, and she cannot bear to have him out of her sight for fear
something will happen to him; she has just now undressed him, heard
his little prayer, and put him to bed in the next room. So I hope we can
have uninterrupted quiet for awhile.

* * * * *

Tuesday, May 23.

Mr. and Mrs. Thatcher, Cash and I came with Gus and Ernest to the
steamboat. We parted with them about nine o’clock on board the
“Sioux City.” Dear friend, I have become greatly attached to her, in the
three weeks we have been so intimately associated. May God grant her
a quick and safe journey home. We cannot hope it will be a happy one.
Note.—Miss Milburn and her lover were married about six
months after her return, and have lived happily, etc.
Cash and I came directly to camp, after saying good-bye to Gus;
found every one busy getting ready for an early start to-morrow. We
have been here almost a week, yet I have not had time to try the fine
swing the boys put up the next day after we came here until this
afternoon. The camps that were here over Sunday are all gone except
those that will travel with us. It is probable there will be half a dozen
more camps here before night. It is surprising to see what a great
number of people are going west this Spring.
We hope to start very early to-morrow morning. I trust our party will
not be so much like a funeral procession as it has been since the 15th.
Vain regrets cannot remedy the past, and I believe it is our duty to be
as cheerful and happy as possible in this life.

WE HAVE OUR PICTURES TAKEN.

Wednesday, May 24.
We were up with the earliest dawn, and our own individual outfit
ready for a very early start, yet it was the middle of the forenoon
before all the wagons were landed on the west bank of the Missouri. It
takes a long while to ferry fifteen wagons across the river. We girls rode
our ponies onto the ferryboat. They behaved as if they had been used
to ferryboats all their lives. As we were waiting near the landing a
A
stranger came, apologized for speaking to us, and asked, “Are you
going to Montana?”

A
This man is mentioned here because of what
happened to him before he reached his journey’s
end.

“No, sir, our destination is California, or Oregon; we are not fully

decided which.”
“Oh, you ought to go to Montana; that is the place to get rich.”
He told of his marvelous success in that country since 1863; the
Indians were mentioned. He spoke of them with such contempt; said
he would rather kill an Indian than a good dog. Says he left a wife and
six children in Iowa, the oldest boy about fourteen who wanted very
much to go with his father, but his mother needed him. Last night he
came into his father’s camp. He had run away from home; says he is
going to Montana, too. His father told it as if he thought it smart, and a
good joke. What sorrow and anxiety his poor mother is no doubt
suffering.
Cash, Neelie, Sim Buford, Ezra, Frank, Winthrop and I while waiting
in Platsmouth went to a photographer’s and had our pictures taken;
tintype, of course, all in one group, then each one alone, then Sim and
Neelie together and Cash and I on our ponies. We only came five miles
after our rush to get an early start. There are nine families and fifteen
wagons in our train now. Miss Mary Gatewood has a pony for her
especial use, so there will be four of us to ride horseback. There are
enough wagons now to make quite a respectable corral. I did suppose,
as we had been resting so long, we would make a long drive. Feed for
the stock is very good here, and as it is fifteen miles to the next good
camping place, where there is plenty of water and feed, it has been
decided that we stay here until to-morrow. The boys have put up the
inevitable swing, and we have concluded “that what cannot be cured
must be endured.” So we will make the best of it, but certainly at this
rate we will not reach our destination before it is cold weather.

* * * * *

Thursday, May 25.

Oh, dear; here we are yet, only five miles from Platsmouth. Morrison
and Harding have lost two fine cows, half a dozen men have been
hunting them all day, but without success. There is not a doubt but
that they have been stolen. Our stock will have to be herded, hereafter,
to guard against thieves. We have spent the day reading, writing,
sleeping, swinging, and getting acquainted with our neighbors. The
Morrison family wagon is just in front of us, and the Kerfoot’s just
behind, so we are to have the most pleasant neighbors possible to
camp next to us. Mrs. Morrison is almost as pretty as Cash, although
the mother of four children; she is so bright and cheerful, so full of life
and fun, she will be great on a trip like this. Mr. Morrison has an
impediment in his speech, and when he is excited—like he is this
evening, because they cannot find their cows—he stutters dreadfully,
and will say, “Or sir, or sir, or sir,” until it is hard to keep from laughing.
In ordinary conversation and when not excited, he talks as straight as
any one. He seems so fond and proud of his wife and children I like
him. Neelie and Sim, and Frank and I took a stroll this afternoon in
search of wild flowers. They are few and far between, yet we enjoyed
the walk through the woods in this lovely springtime weather.

A YANKEE HOMESTEAD.
Friday, May 26.
We came fifteen miles, are camping on a high rolling prairie, not a
tree or shrub within sight; we are near a neat white farmhouse.
Everything seems to be very new, but does not have that “lick and a
promise” appearance that so many farmhouses in Nebraska have.
Things seem to be shipshape, the house completed and nicely painted,
a new picket-fence, and everything on the place—barns, hen-house,
etc., all seem well built, as if the owners are expecting to make a
permanent home. I would prefer a home not quite so isolated and far
away from anywhere. There do not seem to be any women about the
place, perhaps they are coming when everything is ready for their
comfort.

* * * * *

Saturday, May 27.

We came to Ashland, on Salt River, only a fifteen-mile drive, got
here soon after noon and will stay over Sunday. Several of us young
folks went fishing this afternoon. I have often gone fishing but do not
remember ever catching anything of any consequence, or having any
luck, as the boys say, so imagine my excitement and surprise when the
fish began to bite, and I drew them out almost as fast as I could get
my hook baited. Frank baited my hook and strung the fish on a forked
willow switch. After I had caught six or eight they seem so dry and
miserable I thought they would feel better in the water, so stuck the
willow in the bank, so that the fish were in shallow water. I caught
another fish and went to put it with the others, when lo, they were all
gone. I could have cried, and the rest all laughed—well, I shall try
again.
After securing the one I had—and leaving it on dry ground, I threw
in my hook, and almost immediately I had caught something so large
and heavy I could not draw it out and had to call for assistance. I was
fearful it was a mud-turtle or something else than a fish, but it proved
to be a fine, large fish, larger than all the small fish I had lost put
together. When Frank had taken it from the hook, and strung it with
the little one, I said, “Now I am going, before this fish gets away.” All
had fairly good catches, but none that compared with my big fish.
There are about twenty corrals within sight, each of from twelve to
twenty wagons. Ashland is a miserable looking place, the houses log-
cabins with dirt roofs. One store, where dry-goods, groceries, and
whiskey are sold, and a blacksmith shop are all the business houses. I
do not see anything that would pass muster as a hotel.

* * * * *

Sunday, May 28.

All the trains that camped near us last night, except one, have gone
on their way, Sunday though it is. I am glad there are some people
going West who regard the Sabbath day. Some of our young people
went fishing, and some went rowing on the river in a canoe or small
boat the boys hired. It has been a day of sweet rest, a quiet peaceful
Sabbath.

* * * * *

Monday, May 29.

Traveled all day, and made a long drive without meeting anyone or
passing a single habitation. We are camping near—what the people
west of the Missouri River call—a ranch. There is a long, low log-cabin,
with dirt roof, a corral, or inclosure for stock, with very high fence, and
two or three wells of water in the vicinity, and that is all. No vegetable
garden, no fields of grain, nor anything to make it look like farming. I
think it is a stage-station, and the people who occupy do not expect to
stay very long.
There are three other camps near, the people of the other trains are
having an emigrant ball, or dance, in a room they have hired. They
sent a committee with a polite invitation to our camp for us to join
them, which was as politely declined. They are strangers, and the
conduct of some of the women is not ladylike, to say the least.

WE MEET A FRIEND.
Tuesday, May 30.
We girls were riding in advance of the wagons when we saw a long
freight train coming. We stopped to let our ponies graze until they
would pass. I glanced at the driver on the second wagon and
recognized an acquaintance. “Why, girls, that is Kid Short,” I exclaimed.
He looked at me so funny, and began to scramble down from his
high perch.
“Why, Miss Sallie, I could not believe my eyes at first. Where did you
drop from?” shaking hands with each of us.
“Didn’t drop from anywhere; have been thirty days getting here by
the slow pace of an ox-train. Sim Buford and some more boys that you
know are with the train you see coming.”
He soon said good-bye to us, spoke to a man on horseback, who
dismounted, gave him his horse and climbed to the seat Mr. Short had
vacated in the front of the freight wagon, drawn by eight mules, while
Kid hurried off to see the boys. He and Sim have been neighbors,
schoolmates, and intimate friends all their lives. Sim says Kid is
homesick and expects to go home as soon as he can after reaching
Omaha. He has been freighting from Omaha to Kearney, and has been
away from home since last Fall. We are camping near another station,
with the same trains we camped near last night not far off.

* * * * *

Wednesday, May 31.

We are camping in the valley of the Platte. We are obliged to stop at
the stage-stations to get water for ourselves and the stock from the
wells. The water is very good, clear and cold. The same trains that
have been camping near us since we left Ashland are here again to-
night. Two of the women called upon us awhile ago. We were not
favorably impressed. They are loud, boisterous and unladylike; they
speak to strange gentlemen with all the familiarity of old
acquaintances. According to Thackeray, they are “Becky Sharp” kind of
women.

* * * * *

Thursday, June 1.
Our little village on wheels has stopped near a large two-story log-
house that was built in the early fifties for a wayside tavern; there are
fifteen rooms; there are frightful stories told of dark deeds having been
committed under that roof, of unwary travelers homeward bound from
California that never reached home, but whether true or not I cannot
say. The people of the other trains are having a dance in the large
dining-room of the old house.

* * * * *

Friday, June 2.
As Ezra and I were riding in front of the train we came to where a
man was sitting on the ground hugging his knees, two men were
standing near trying to talk to him, seemingly. As we rode up one of
them came toward us, saying, “That is an Indian, over there.” We rode
close to him, and Ezra said, “How;” but he did not even grunt. He was
very disappointing as the “Noble Red Man” we read about. He wore an
old ragged federal suit, cap and all. There were no feathers, beads nor
blankets. He was not black like a negro, more of a brown, and a
different shade from the mulatto. He was ugly as sin.

ON THE BANKS OF THE PLATTE.

Saturday, June 3.
Here we are on the Platte with about two hundred wagons in sight.
We are now on what is known as “The Plains.” My idea of the plains
has been very erroneous, for I thought they were one continuous level
or plain as far as the eye could reach, no hills nor hollows, but it is
nothing else than the Platte River Valley with high bluffs on either side.
There is some timber on the banks, but the timber of any consequence
is on the islands in the middle of the river, out of reach of the axe of
the emigrant. This is the junction of the roads from St. Joe and
Plattsmouth, and that is why there are so many wagons here to-night.
Surely, among all these people there must be a minister of the Gospel,
so perhaps we will have public worship to-morrow. Our trip grows more
interesting, even Mrs. Kerfoot seems interested, as so many people are
going West, it must be the thing to do.

* * * * *

Sunday, June 4.
We are organized into a company of forty-five wagons, a captain and
orderly sergeant have been elected, and hereafter we will travel by
system. Mr. Hardinbrooke is our captain. He has gone on this trip
before; he is taking his wife and little girl with him to Montana. A Mr.
Davis is our orderly sergeant.
We are now coming into a country infested with Indians, so it is
required by Government officials that all emigrants must organize into
companies of from forty to sixty wagons, elect captains and try to camp
near each other for mutual protection. The grass for stock is unlimited.
About twenty of the wagons in our train are freight wagons, belonging
to the Walker Brothers, Joe and Milt. Joe has his wife with him. Milt is a
bachelor; their sister, Miss Lyde, and a younger brother, De, are with
them. They are going to Montana. We have been introduced to Mr. and
Mrs. Hardinbrooke, and to the Walkers and their ladies. They are
pleasant, intelligent people, and will add much to the pleasure of our
party, no doubt. Frank and I went horseback riding this afternoon to
the station to get some good water from the well. I cannot drink the
river water.
No public worship to-day, although there were so many of us here.

* * * * *

Monday, June 5.
We were awakened at an early hour this morning with a bugle call.
Three companies were organized yesterday; there were about twenty
wagons that were not asked to join either party, so they pulled up
stakes and left while Frank and I were away. The strange women were
of the party; they must be some miles ahead by this time, and I hope
they will stay ahead. When our long train of wagons are stretched out
upon the road, we make a formidable looking outfit for the Indians to
attack. As far as the eye can reach, before us and behind us, there are
wagons, wagons, wagons; some drawn by oxen, some by mules, and
some by horses. All fall into the slow, sure gait of the oxen. There are
whole freight trains drawn by oxen; there are more ox teams than all
others.
After our evening meal, a number of us started for a stroll along the
bank of the river. Before we reached the river, we were met by a
perfect cloud of mosquitoes that literally drove us back. I never came
so near being eaten up. There is a strong breeze blowing toward the
river, which keeps them from invading the camps, for which I am
thankful, otherwise there would be little rest or sleep for us to-night.
They are the first mosquitoes we have seen on the road.

* * * * *
 Tuesday, June 6.
It is sweet to be awakened with music, if it is only a bugle. Our
bugle certainly makes sweet music. The road is becoming very dry and
dusty, which makes riding in the wagon rather disagreeable sometimes.
Mother and I take turns driving the horses and riding Dick. Rather the
most of the time I ride Dick. One of our boys goes out with the herders
at night, so one of them is generally sleepy, and sleeps during the day,
while the other drives the ox-team.

THE ORDER OF OUR GOING.

Wednesday, June 7.
There is such a sameness in our surroundings that we seem to be
stopping in the same place every night, with the same neighbors in
front and back of us, and across the corral. When we organized, Mr.
Kerfoot’s wagons were driven just in front of ours and Mr. Morrison’s
just behind ours, so we have the same next-door neighbors, only they
have changed places. We are in the central part of the left-hand side of
the corral. The wagons occupied by the Walkers and Hardinbrookes are
just opposite in the right-hand side of the corral.
We always stop in just this way, if only for an hour at noon—which
we do every day for lunch, and to water the stock.
When we halted to-day, the rain began to pour, the stock scattered
in every direction. When it stopped raining, the cattle could not all be
found in time to start again this afternoon, so we only made half a
day’s drive. It has commenced raining again, and promises a rainy
night. It is not very pleasant camping when it rains, yet it would be
much more unpleasant if it did not rain—to lay the dust, refresh the
atmosphere, and make the grass grow.
When the captain finds a place for the corral, he rides out where all
can see him, and gives the signal, the first and central wagons leave
the road; the first to drive to where the captain stands, the other and
all behind it cross over a sufficient distance to form the corral by the
wagons stopping, so as to form a gateway, for the stock to pass
through, turned so that they will not interfere with each other when
hitching. The next wagon drives to position, with the right-hand side of
cover almost touching the left-hand or back, outer edge of the wagon
in front, with tongues of wagons turned out, so that all can be hitched
to at one time. In this way the entire corral is formed, meeting at the
back an oblong circle, forming a wall or barrier, the cattle cannot break
through. The horses are caught and harnessed outside the corral, but
the cattle have to be driven inside to be yoked.

* * * * *

Thursday, June 8.
It rained all night, seemingly without cessation; the wind did not
blow, so there was no harm, but lots of good done. I am glad when the
rain comes in the night-time, instead of day-time. Where the beds
touched the covers they were quite wet this morning.

* * * * *

Friday, June 9.
We came through a little town—Valley City. There is a very pretty
attractive looking house near the road. Cash and I had come on ahead
of wagons. Our inclination to enter that pretty home was irresistible, so
we dismounted, took off our habits, hitched our ponies, and knocked at
the door. A very pleasant lady opened the door and gave us hearty
welcome. We told her frankly why we came. She laughed, and said, “I
have had callers before, with the same excuse, but you need not
apologize, I am glad my home is attractive to strangers.”
The gentleman of the house is postmaster, and has his office in the
room across the hall from the parlor. While we were there the coach
arrived, and the mail was brought in. He did not know we were there,
and called to his wife to “Come see this mail.” We went with her, and
oh, such a mess. They had emptied the mail-sack on some papers that
had been spread upon the floor, and such a lot of dilapidated letters
and papers I never saw before. I picked up a photograph of an elderly
lady, but we could not find the envelope from which it had escaped.
Perhaps some anxious son, away out in the mines, far from home
and friends and mother, will look in vain for mother’s pictured face, and
be so sadly disappointed. I am so sorry for the boy that will miss
getting his mother’s photograph. She looks like such a sweet, motherly
mother. A great many of the letters were past saving; if the owners had
been there they could not have deciphered either the address or the
written contents, for they were only a mass of pulp; the postmaster
said it was “Because they send such old leaky mail-bags on this route;
those post-office folk seem to think any old thing will do for the West,
when we ought to have the very best and strongest, because of the
long distances they must be carried.” All that could be, were carefully
handled and spread out to dry; still, they would reach their destination
in a very dilapidated condition.
We have made a long drive, are within four miles of Fort Kearney.
There are a great many wagons within sight besides our own long
train, whichever way we look we can see wagons. The road from
Kansas City comes into this road not far from Valley City, and there are
as many, or more, coming that way as the way we came. People
leaving war-stricken Missouri, no doubt. I have never seen a fort. I do
hope Kearney will come up to my expectations.

FORT KEARNEY.
Saturday, June 10.
I was disappointed in Fort Kearney, as I so often am in things I have
formed an idea about. There are very comfortable quarters for the
soldiers; they have set out trees, and made it quite a pretty place,
away out here in the wilderness, but there is no stockade, or place of
defense, with mounted cannon, as I had expected.
Sim and I rode horseback through the fort while the wagons kept
the road half a mile north of the fort. Only a few of us came by the way
of the fort. A soldier gave us a drink of water from a well by the
wayside. He seemed a perfect gentleman, but had such a sad
expression. We were told that these soldiers were in the Confederate
service, were taken prisoners, confined at Rock Island, and enlisted in
the Government service to come out here and fight Indians. They are
from Georgia and Alabama.
Two families have joined our train and come into corral on the
opposite side, just behind the Walkers: Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy—a newly-
married couple—and Mr. and Mrs. Bower, with a daughter fourteen and
a son five. We only came one and a half miles west of the fort near
Kearney City. I do not understand why we have made such a short
drive, for the boys say the feed is not good, it has been eaten off so
close.

* * * * *

Sunday, June 11.

We were obliged to leave camp and travel to-day, the first Sunday
we have hitched up since we started. It was a case of necessity, as
there was not feed for our large herds of cattle and horses. We made
only a short drive, just to get good feed for the stock.
We are camping near a station that must seem like a military post,
there are so many soldiers. Several soldiers came to our camp this
afternoon; they confirmed what we heard yesterday. They are
Confederate soldiers, they were prisoners, and their homes are in far-
away Georgia and Alabama, and they are desperately homesick. It is a
distressing sickness. I have been so homesick that I could not eat or
sleep, and a cure was not effected until I was at home again. Then
how nice it did seem to be home, and how good everything tasted. I
do hope this cruel, homicidal war will soon be over, and these fine-
looking Southern gentlemen will be permitted to go to their homes and
loved ones, who, no doubt, are waiting and longing for their return. My
heart aches for them.
 ELEVEN GRAVES.
Monday, June 12.
We stood by the graves of eleven men that were killed last August
by the Indians. There was a sort of bulletin-board about midway and at
the foot of the graves stating the circumstances of the frightful tragedy.
They were a party of fourteen, twelve men and two women, wives of
two of the men. They were camped on Plum Creek, a short distance
from where the graves are. They were all at breakfast except one man
who had gone to the creek for water, he hid in the brush, or there
would have been none to tell the tale of the massacre.
There had been no depredations committed on this road all Summer,
and emigrants had become careless and traveled in small parties. They
did not suspect that an Indian was near until they were surrounded,
and the slaughter had commenced. All the men were killed and
scalped, and the women taken prisoners. They took what they wanted
of the provisions, burned the wagons and ran off with the horses.
The one man that escaped went with all haste to the nearest station
for help. The soldiers pursued the Indians, had a fight with them and
rescued the women. One of them had seen her husband killed and
scalped and was insane when rescued, and died at the station. The
other woman was the wife of the man that escaped. They were from
St. Joe, Missouri.
Ezra met with quite an accident to-day; he went to sleep while
driving the family wagon—he was on guard last night—the horses
brought the wheel against a telegraph pole with a sudden jerk that
threw him out of his seat and down at the horses’ heels—a sudden
awakening—with a badly-bruised ankle.
We are in the worst place for Indians on all this road. The bluffs
come within half a mile on our left, and hundreds of savages could hide
in the hollows; the underbrush and willows are dense along the river
banks. There is an island, about a mile in length, that comes so near
this side in many places that a man could leap from bank to bank. The
island is a thick wood, a place where any number of the dreaded
savages could hide, and shoot down the unwary traveler with the guns
and ammunition furnished them by the United States Government.
How I would like to climb to the top of those bluffs, and see what is
on the other side, but the captain says, “Stay within sight of camp.”
And I must obey.

A NARROW ESCAPE.
Tuesday, June 13.
Cash, Neelie and I created quite a sensation this morning. We
waited, after the train had started, to mount our ponies as we usually
do. Cash and I had mounted, but Neelie led her pony, and we went
down to the river to water them, Neelie found some beautiful wild
flowers, and she insisted upon gathering them. Of course we waited for
her. The train was winding round a bend in the road, and the last
wagons would soon be out of sight. We insisted that she must come.
“The train will be out of sight in five minutes, and we may be cut off by
savages in ambush.”
She did not scare worth a cent. She led her pony into a little hollow
to mount when we saw two men coming toward us as fast as they
could ride. Cash rode at an easy canter to meet them, while I waited
for Neelie, who was deliberately arranging her flowers so that she
would not crush them.
“Those men are coming after us, perhaps there are Indians around.”
She took her time, just the same.
When the captain saw that the train would soon be out of our sight,
he went to Mr. Morrison, who was on horseback, and said, “Ride quietly
back and warn those girls of their danger, there are Indians around.
They have been seen by the guard, on the island, and by the herders,
in the hollows of the bluffs this morning. They would not be safe one
minute after the train is out of sight.”
They had kept it quiet, as they did not wish to cause unnecessary
alarm, for they knew there was no danger, for the Indians knew they
were being watched, and besides we are too many for them. Mr.
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