While still her pupil, I wrote my long-planned letter to Aunt Elizabeth.  Georgia helped to compose it, and when finished, we carried it to our friend, the postmaster.  He banteringly held it in his hand, until we told its contents and begged that it go to Aunt Elizabeth as fast as possible.  He must have seen that it was incorrectly addressed, yet he readily promised that if an answer should come addressed to “Miss Georgia Ann Donner,” or to “Miss Eliza Poor Donner,” he would carefully save it for us.

After many fruitless trips to the post-office, we were one day handed a letter for grandma.  It was not from our aunt, however, but from our sister Elitha, and bore the sad news that her husband, while on the range, had been thrown from his horse, and lived but a few moments after she reached him.  She also stated that her little daughter Elisabeth and her sister Leanna were with her on the ranch, and that she was anxious to learn how Georgia and I were getting on.

By advice of short-sighted friends, grandma sent a very formal reply to the letter, and told us that she did not want Elitha to write again.  Moreover, that we, in gratitude for what she had done for us, should take her name and call her “mother.”

This endeavor to destroy personal identity and family connection, met with pathetic opposition.  Of our own accord, we had called her grandma.  But “mother”—­that name was sacred to her who had taught our infant lips to give it utterance!  We would bestow it on no other.

Under no circumstance was there difficulty in finding some one ready to advise or help to plan our duties.  With the best of intentions?  Yes, but often, oh, how trying to us, poor little waifs of misfortune!

One, like a thorn in the flesh, was apportioned to me at the approach of the Winter of 1849 and 1850.  We needed more help in the dairy, but could get no one except Mr. Marsh, who lived in bachelor quarters half a mile south on the creek bank.  He drove in the bunch of cows found in the mornings grazing on their homeward way, but was too old to follow after those on the range.  Moreover, he did not know how to milk.  Grandma, therefore, was obliged to give up going after the cows herself.  She hesitated about sending us alone, for of late many stragglers had been seen crossing the valley, and also Indians loitering about.  Furthermore, Georgia was again coughing badly.

At a loss what to do, she discussed the situation with a neighbor, who after reflection asked,

“Why not dress Eliza in boy’s clothes and put her on old Charlie?”

Grandma threw up her hands at the bare suggestion.  It was scandalous, improper!  Why, she had even taught me to shun the boys of the village.  However, she felt differently later in the day when she called me to her.  But in vain was coaxing, in vain was scolding, I refused positively to don boy’s clothing.