Transcript

[Excerpt from this article. Not a full transcription.]

The writer recently had an interview with one of the stalwart Pioneers—one who had been born and reared in Nauvoo days, when that beautiful city was headquarters for exiled Saints; a man who today is one of our most prominent citizens, and who never wavered or flinched from his duty, but has always been true to the faith. My informant was acting as assistant to the emigration agent at the frontier—the little village of Wyoming in the summer of 1866. From him I obtained some of these main parts concerning two stories of Pioneer life on the plains.

A Sad Story

The first is pertaining to one of the emigrants who sailed in the ship Cauora [Cavour] in 1866. This vessel left the shores of Europe with about 200 Saints June 1st of that year, arrived at New York July 31st, and reached the frontier (Wyoming) August 11th. The emigrants were mostly from Scandinavia. On their journey through the states, by the time they reached Hannibal the cholera broke out, and ere they reached the frontier a large number died on the way; a few passed to the great beyond, while coming up the Missouri river. The rest of the company left the frontier August 13, and ere they reached the city of the Saints death again claimed a small number. October 22nd was the date of their arrival in Salt Lake City—the first day of winter, the ground being white with snow.

One of the unfortunate companies of the ship Carvour [Cavour], a Scandinavian, arrived at the frontier with a little boy in a dying condition, but death soon relieved him of his sufferings. The father then had the unpleasant task of taking his deceased child to a little graveyard, located probably a little over half a mile distant. In order to take the corpse to the burial spot, he procured the use of a wheelbarrow without sides attached. He placed the remains crosswise on the barrow, and as he proceeded on the journey, the head and feet came in contact with the thick, long blue grass. Slowly he wended his way, but had not gone far ere the emigration agent, Thomas Taylor, noticed him and had the corpse placed in a wagon and taken the remainder of the way to where the body was to be interred.

With the help of a friend the little grave was dug and the remains placed therein. The child dying from a contagious disease, there were no assembled mourners, no formal ceremony, no floral emblems, no spiritual song, no word of eulogy. But ere the bereaved father departed he uttered a brief dedicatory prayer in his native language (Danish) as follows:

"Himmelske Fader:Du gav mig denne Rigdom, denne kere Dreng, og nu har Du kaldt ham bort. Tilsted o Herre, at hans jordigske Levninger maa hvile uforstyrret til Opstandelsens Morgen. Ske Din Vilje. Amen.

"Farvel min kere lille Hans—min yndige Dreng."

Translated in English:

"Heavenly Father: Thou gavest me this little treasure—this darling boy, and now thou hast called him away. Wilt thou grant that his remains may lie here undisturbed until the resurrection morn. Thy will be done. Amen."

And rising from the ground his parting words were:

"Farewell, my dear little Hans—my beautiful boy." Then with drooping head and aching heart he stoutly bent his way to his camping ground.

"Through deep'ning trials throng your way,
Press on, press on, ye Saints of God! Ere long the resurrection day
Will spread its light and truth abroad."