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Expedition of the Donner Party and its Tragic Fate, The

<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII</h2> <h4>THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS OF SACRAMENTO—A GLIMPSE OF GRANDPA—THE RANCHO DE LOS CAZADORES—MY SWEETEST PRIVILEGE—LETTERS FROM THE BRUNNERS.</h4> It is needless to say that we were grateful for our new home, and tried to express our appreciation in words and by sharing the household duties, and by helping to make the neat clothing provided for us. The first Monday in October was a veritable red-letter day. Aglow with bright anticipations, we hurried off to public school with Frances. Not since our short attendance at the pioneer school in Sonoma had Georgia and I been schoolmates, and never before had we three sisters started out together with books in hand; nor did our expectations overreach the sum of happiness which the day had in store for us. The supposition that grandpa and grandma had passed out of our lives was soon disproved; for as I was crossing our back yard on the Saturday of that first week of school, I happened to look toward Seventeenth Street, and saw a string of wagons bringing exhibits from the fair grounds. Beside the driver of a truck carrying a closed cage marked, "Buffalo," stood grandpa. He had risen from his seat, leaned back against the front of the cage, folded his arms and was looking at me. My long black braids had been cut off, and my style of dress changed, still he had recognized me. I fled into the house, and told Elitha what I had seen. She, too, was somewhat disquieted, and replied musingly, "The old gentleman is lonely, and may have come to take you girls back with him." His presence in Sacramento so soon after our reaching there did seem significant, because he had bought that buffalo in 1851, before she was weaned from the emigrant cow that had suckled and led her in from the great buffalo range, and he had never before thought of exhibiting her. The following afternoon, as we were returning from Sunday school, a hand suddenly reached out of the crowd on J Street and touched Georgia's shoulder, then stopped me. A startled backward glance rested on Castle, our old enemy, who said, "Come. Grandpa is in town, and wants to see you." We shook our heads. Then he looked at Frances, saying, "All of you, come and see the large seal and other things at the fair." But she replied, emphatically, "We have not permission," and grasping a hand of each, hurried us homeward. For days thereafter, we were on the alert guarding against what we feared might happen.  <center> <ANTIMG src="img/045.jpg" height-obs="418" width-obs="300" alt="Photographs by Lynwood Abbott. PINES OF THE SIERRAS"> </center> <h5>Photographs by Lynwood Abbott. PINES OF THE SIERRAS</h5> <hr>  <center> <ANTIMG src="img/046.jpg" height-obs="408" width-obs="300" alt="GENERAL JOHN A. SUTTER"> </center> <h5>GENERAL JOHN A. SUTTER</h5> <hr>  <center> <ANTIMG src="img/047.jpg" height-obs="431" width-obs="300" alt="COL. J.D. STEVENSON"> </center> <h5>COL. J.D. STEVENSON</h5> <hr> Our alarm over, life moved along smoothly. Elitha admonished us to forget the past, and prepare for the future. She forbade Georgia and me to use the German language in speaking with each other, giving as a reason that we should take Frances into our confidence and thoughts as closely as we took one another. I was never a morbid child, and the days that I did not find a sunbeam in life, I was apt to hunt for a rainbow. But there, in sight of the Sierras, the feeling again haunted me that perhaps my mother did not die, but had strayed from the trail and later reached the settlement and could not find us. Each middle-aged woman that I saw ahead of me on the street would thrill me with expectation, and I would quicken my steps in order to get a view of her face. When I gave up this illusion, I still prayed that Keseberg would send for me some day, and let me know her end, and give me a last message. I wanted his call to me to be voluntary, so that I might know that his words were true. These hopes and prayers were sacred, even from Georgia. On the twenty-fourth of March, 1856, brother Ben took us all to pioneer quarters on Rancho de los Cazadores, where their growing interests required the personal attention of the three brothers. There we became familiar with the pleasures, and also the inconveniences and hardships of life on a cattle ranch. We were twenty miles from town, church, and school; ten miles from the post office; and close scrutiny far and wide disclosed but one house in range. Our supply of books was meagre, and for knowledge of current events, we relied on The Sacramento Union, and on the friends who came to enjoy the cattleman's hospitality. My sweetest privilege was an occasional visit to cousin Frances Bond, my mother's niece, who, with her husband and child, had settled on a farm about twelve miles from us. She also had grown up a motherless girl, but had spent a part of her young ladyhood at our home in Illinois. She had helped my mother to prepare for our long journey and would have crossed the plains with us had her father granted her wish. She was particularly fond of us "three little ones" whom she had caressed in babyhood. She related many pleasing incidents connected with those days, and spoke feelingly, yet guardedly, of our experiences in the mountains. Like Elitha, she hoped we would forget them, and as she watched me cheerfully adapting myself to new surroundings, she imagined that time and circumstances were dimming the past from my memory. She did not understand me. I was light-hearted because I was old enough to appreciate the blessings that had come to me; old enough to look ahead and see the pure, intelligent womanhood opening to me; and trustful enough to believe that my expectations in life would be realized. So I gathered counsel and comfort from the lips of that sympathetic cousin, and loved her word pictures of the home where I was born. Nor could change of circumstances wean my grateful thoughts from Grandpa and Grandma Brunner. At times, I seemed to listen for the sound of his voice, and to hear hers so near and clear that in the night, I often started up out of sleep in answer to her dream calls. Finally I determined to disregard her parting words, and write her. Georgia was sure that I would get a severe answer, but Elitha's ready permission made the letter easier to write. Weeks elapsed without a reply, and I had about given up looking for it, when late in August, William, the youngest Wilder brother, saddled his horse, and upon mounting, called out, "I'm off to Sacramento, Eliza, to bring you that long-expected letter. It was misdirected, and is advertised in The Sacramento Union's list of uncalled-for mail." He left me in a speculative mood, wondering if it was from grandma; which of her many friends had written it for her; and if it was severe, as predicted by Georgia. Great was my delight when the letter was handed me, and I opened it and read: <blockquote>SONOMA, July 3, 1856 To Miss ELIZA P. DONNER: CASADOR RANCHO, COSUMNE RIVER NEAR SACRAMENTO CITY.</blockquote> <blockquote>DEAR ELIZA:</blockquote> <blockquote>Your letter of the fifteenth of June came duly to hand, giving me great satisfaction in regard to your health, as well as keeping me and grandfather in good memory.</blockquote> <blockquote>I have perused the contents of your letter with great interest. I am glad to learn that you enjoy a country life. We have sold lately twelve cows, and are milking fifteen at present. You want to know how Flower is coming on: had you not better come and see for yourself? Hard feelings or ill will we have none against you; and why should I not forgive little troubles that are past and gone by?</blockquote> <blockquote>I know that you saw grandfather in Sacramento; he saw you and knew you well too. Why did you not go and speak to him?</blockquote> <blockquote>The roses you planted on Jacob's grave are growing beautifully, and our garden looks well. Grandfather and myself enjoy good health, and we wish you the same for all time to come. We give you our love, and remain,</blockquote> <blockquote>In parental affection,</blockquote> <blockquote>MARY AND CHRISTIAN BRUNNER.</blockquote> <blockquote>(Give our love also to Georgia.)</blockquote> Georgia was as much gratified by the contents of the letter as I, and we each sent an immediate answer, addressed to grandpa and grandma, expressing our appreciation of their forgiving words, regret for trouble and annoyances we had caused them, thanks for their past kindness, and the hope that they would write to us again when convenient. We referred to our contentment in our new home, and avoided any words which they might construe as a wish to return. There was no long waiting for the second letter, nor mistake in address. It was dated just three days prior to the first anniversary of our leaving Sonoma, and here speaks for itself: <blockquote>SONOMA, Sept. 11, 1856</blockquote> <blockquote>GEORGIA AND ELIZA DONNER.</blockquote> <blockquote>MY DEAR CHILDREN:</blockquote> <blockquote>Your two letters dated August thirty-first reached us in due season.</blockquote> <blockquote>We were glad to hear from you, and it is our wish that you do well. Whenever you are disposed to come to us again our doors shall be open to you, and we will rejoice to see you.</blockquote> <blockquote>We are glad to see that you acknowledge your errors, for it shows good hearts, and the right kind of principles; for you should always remember that in showing respect to old age you are doing yourself honor, and those who know you will respect you. All your cows are doing well.</blockquote> <blockquote>I am inclined to think that the last letter we wrote you, you did not get. We mention this to show you that we always write to you.</blockquote> <blockquote>Your mother desires to know if you have forgotten the time when she used to have you sleep with her, each in one arm, showing the great love and care she had for you; she remembers, and can't forget.</blockquote> <blockquote>Your grandfather informs you that he still keeps the butcher shop, and bar-room, and that scarcely a day passes without his thinking of you. He still feels very bad that you did not, before going away, come to him and say "Good-bye grandfather." He forgives you, however, and hopes you will come and see him. When you get this letter you must write.</blockquote> <blockquote>Yours affectionately,</blockquote> <blockquote>CHRISTIAN BRUNNER,</blockquote> <blockquote>MARY BRUNNER.</blockquote> Letters following the foregoing assured us that grandma had become fully satisfied that the stories told her by Mrs. Stein were untrue. She freely acknowledged that she was miserable and forlorn without us, and begged us to return to the love and trust which awaited us at our old home. This, however, we could not do. Before the close of the Winter, Frances and Georgia began preparations for boarding school in Sacramento, and I being promised like opportunities for myself later, wrote all about them to grandma, trusting that this course would convince her that we were permanently separated from her, and that Elitha and her husband had definite plans for our future. I received no response to this, but Georgia's first communication from school contained the following paragraph: <blockquote>I saw Sallie Keiberg last week, who told me that her mother had a letter from the old lady (Grandma Brunner) five weeks ago. A man brought it. And that the old lady had sent us by him some jewellery, gold breast-pins, earrings, and wristlets. He stopped at the William Tell Hotel. And that is all they know about him and the presents.</blockquote> <hr style="width: 65%;"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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