I still feel the wondrous thrill, and bid my throbbing heart beat slower, when I recall the joy that tingled through every part of my being on that evening when, unexpectedly, Leanna and Georgia came to the door.  Yet, so short-lived was that joy that the event has always seemed more like a disquieting dream than a reality; for they came at night and were gone in the morning, and left me sorrowing.

A few months ago, I wrote to Georgia (now Mrs. Babcock), who lives in the State of Washington, for her recollections of that brief reunion, and she replied: 

Before we went to Sonoma with Grandma Brunner in the Fall of 1847, Leanna and I paid you a visit.  We reached your home at dusk.  Mr. McCoon and Elitha were not there.  We were so glad to meet, but our visit was too short.  You and I were given a cup of bread and milk and sent to bed.  Leanna ate with the grown folks, who, upon learning that we had only come to say good-bye, told her we must for your sake get away before you awoke next morning.  We arose and got started early, but had only gone a short distance when we heard your pitiful cry, begging us to take you with us.  Leanna hid her face in her apron, while a man caught you and carried you back.  I think she cried all the way home.  It was so hard to part from you.

Mr. Packwood carried me into the house, and both he and his wife felt sorry for me.  My head ached and the tears would come as often as any one looked at me.  Mrs. Packwood wet a piece of brown paper, laid it on my forehead, and bade me lie on my bed until I should feel better.  I could not eat or play, and even Mr. Choreman’s bright stories had lost their charm.

“Come look, see squaw, papoose!  Me go, you go?” exclaimed Billy excitedly one soft gray morning after I had regained my spirits.  I turned in the direction he pointed and saw quite a number of squaws trudging across an open flat with babies in bickooses, and larger children scampering along at various paces, most of them carrying baskets.

With Mrs. Packwood’s permission, Billy and I sped away to join the line.  I had never been granted such a privilege before, and had no idea what it all meant.

As we approached the edge of the marsh, the squaws walked more slowly, with their eyes fixed upon the ground.  Every other moment some of them would be down, digging in the earth with forefinger or a little stick, and I soon learned they were gathering bulbs about a quarter of an inch in thickness and as large around as the smaller end of a woman’s thimble.  I had seen the plants growing near the pond at the fort, but now the bulbs were ripe, and were being gathered for winter use.  In accordance with the tribal custom, not a bulb was eaten during harvest time.  They grew so far apart and were so small that it took a long while to make a fair showing in the baskets.

When no more bulbs could be found, the baskets were put on the ground in groups, and the mothers carefully leaned their bickooses against them in such positions that the wide awake papooses could look out from under their shades and smile and sputter at each other in quaint Indian baby-talk; and the sleeping could sleep on undisturbed.