Land of Enchantment: Memoirs of Marian Russell Along the by Marian Russell, Marc Simmons
By Marian Russell, Marc Simmons
The Santa Fe path used to be one of many nice advertisement routes around the West, frequented extra by means of retailers than by means of emigrants. consequently girls tourists have been few at the Santa Fe path, and Land of attraction is among the few firsthand money owed via a lady of lifestyles at the path. the writer, Marian Russell (1845-1936), dictated her tale to her daughter-in-law within the Thirties. released in a constrained variation in 1954 and hugely praised via students, that version has develop into nearly most unlikely to acquire. This forgotten vintage paints a bright photo of nineteenth-century New Mexico as noticeable through a shiny younger woman from the age of 7 on. Mrs. Russell’s stories of numerous recognized western figures aren't simply pleasant interpreting yet make this publication an invaluable addition to the region’s heritage.
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Extra info for Land of Enchantment: Memoirs of Marian Russell Along the Santa Fe Trail
Most of the wagons were laden with supplies for the fort or for Santa Fé. 00 per hundred pounds. 00 per month plus rations. This first trip we made over what is now known as the Cimarron Cut-off. It left the Arkansas River west of Fort Dodge, Kansas, and bore in a south-westernly direction until it reached the Cimarron River in what is now Oklahoma. Our long caravan, loaded with heavy, valuable merchandise, traveled slowly. Sometimes we were alarmed by the Indians, threatened by storms, and always it seemed we suffered for want of water.
During our enforced wait at Fort Leavenworth, Will and I had become acquainted with Captain Aubry. He was our very good friend. We took our childish woes to him for solace, visiting him in his great covered wagon. He was not pleased because Will was thin and pale looking. It worried him because Will spent so much time reading. Before we reached Santa Fé he said he would make a great hunter and trapper out of Will. He told us that Indians were as thick as hops along the trail, but that we did not need to be afraid of them.
It was a rattle-snake with eleven rattles. I stood with my hand in my mother's and, from a safe distance, looked at the dead snake. Suddenly, the dead snake opened its mouth wide and out jumped a big green toad. For a moment, it stood blinking its eyes at us, then went hopping off amid the cabbages. I think perhaps that the memory of the rattle-snake and the hop-toad has always inclined me to believe a wee bit in ghosts and goblins. The world! What a vast mysterious place it seemed to my childlike eyes!