Visitors felt more than a passing interest in us two little ones, for accounts of the sufferings of the Donner Party had been carried to all the settlements on the Pacific coast and had been sent in print or writings to all parts of the United States as a warning against further emigration to California by way of Hastings Cut-Off.  Thus the name we bore awakened sympathy for us, and in the huts of the lowly natives as well as in the homes of the rulers of the province, we found welcome and were greeted with words of tenderness, which were often followed by prayers for the repose of the souls of our precious dead.

Marked attentions were also shown us by officers and soldiers from the post.  The latter gathered in the evenings at the Brunner home for social intercourse.  Some played cards, checkers, and dominoes, or talked and sang about “des Deutschen Vaterland.”  Others reviewed happenings in our own country, recalled battles fought and victories won.  And we, sitting between our foster grandparents, or beside Jakie, listening to their thrilling tales, were, unwittingly, crammed with crumbs of truth and fiction that made lasting impressions upon our minds.

Nor were these odd bits of knowledge all we gained from those soldier friends.  They taught us the alphabet, how to spell easy words, and then to form letters with pencil.  They explained the meaning of fife and drum calls which we heard during the day, and in mischievous earnestness, declared that they, the best fighters of Colonel Stephenson’s famous regiment of New York Volunteers, had pledged their arms and legs to our defence, and had only come to see if we were worth the price they might have to, pay.  Yet they made grim faces when, all too soon, the retreat call from the barracks sounded, and away they would have to go on the double quick, to be at post by the time of roll call, and in bed at sound of taps.

On those evenings when grandma visited the sick, or went from home on errands, we children were tucked away early in our trundle bed.  There, and by ourselves, we spoke of mother and the mountains.  Not infrequently, however, our thoughts would be recalled to the present by loud, wailing squeak-squawk, squeak-squawks.  As the sound drew nearer and became shriller, we would put our fingers in our ears to muffle the dismal tones, which we knew were only the creakings of the two wooden wheels of some Mexican carreta, laboriously bringing passengers to town, or perhaps a cruder one carrying hides to the embarcadero, or possibly supplies to adjacent ranchos.  We wondered how old people and mothers with sick children could travel in such uncomfortable vehicles and not become distracted by their nerve-piercing noises.  Then, like a bird-song, pleasanter scenes would steal in upon our musings, of gay horseback parties on their way to church feasts, or fandangos, preceded or followed by servants in charge of pack animals laden with luggage.