XII
JEAN BECOMES A WITNESS
OW's your journal getting on, Jean?" asked her father, one evening, after all was still in camp.
Mrs. Ranger had been unusually nervous and timid all day, and Susannah had been in constant attendance upon the wagon-bed full of little ones,—seven in all, — who had been more than usually unruly, fretful, and quarrelsome.
Jean looked ruefully at her father. "The pesky thing isn't getting a16ng at all!" she exclaimed. "There's nothing to inspire one to write. There's no grass for the cattle, no wood for the fires, and no comfort anywhere."
"Then write up the facts. Don't allow yourself to get morbid. Don't be so listless and lackadaisical."
It was now the twentieth of May; and under this date, in restive obedience to her father's command, Jean began her entries again:—
"We came about eighteen miles to-day. And such a day! It has been drizzly, disagreeable, and cold from morning trll night, with no cheery prospects ahead. We hear of an epidemic of measles having broken out on the road, endangering much life among children and such grown folks as didn't have sense enough to get the disgusting disease before they left their mothers' apronstrings. We passed several newly made graves by the roadside to-day,—a melancholy fact which interested mother deeply.
"Indians, for some reason, are keeping out of our sight. As we are right in the midst of the su
