TOM ALLEN DREAMS A DREAM

Most of the Saints had halted in Provo; here on the banks of that brawling river, called by the Indians, in soft labials, Timpanogos, had grown up a large temporary metropolis; and that half-tented, half-domiciled host, whose human hearts beat with hopes and fears, and whose tongues and thoughts were still very human, in spite of the past, the discomfort of the present, and the grave uncertainty of the future, carried on life's daily details with fitful regularity. Thirty thousand people were encamped in the beautiful Utah Valley, around the borders of Utah Lake.

The swimmer, across the Grecian gulf was far more interested in the exact measure of his stroke than in the record he would make in future history. So, too, on the banks of the Timpanogos, men were more interested in the withering crops in the Salt Lake Valley than they were in the secession of the South or in the possible outcome of their own difficulties. So there sat in Provo, in a small, dingy back room, two girls, just now vitally interested in making a huge pot of cornmeal mush for the supper of two or three associated families. The unwieldy vessel swung from the crane over the huge fire-place. The strenuous excitement of the Move had gradually subsided, leaving the young people at least once more gaily afloat on the seas of their own impulses, their own fears and their own loves.

"Don't stop stirring that cornmeal, Dian, until it is thoroughly cooked," said Rachel Winthrop, as she entered the hut. "You know that your brother hates raw mush; and it is a science to know how to cook it. When it has boiled a good half hour, I will come in and stir in the flour to thicken it."

The girl bent over the fire-place and stirred the bubbling mass in the pot, while her pink cheeks turned to rosy red.

"Oh, Ellie, what a nuisance a fireplace is, anyhow. I didn't half appreciate our good step-stove until I came here and had to work on this."

"Never mind, Dian, I shall have these batter cakes in the skillet baked in a minute, and then I will stir it for a while."

"Standing over a fire like this makes my cheeks just like ugly old purple hollyhocks. It's all I can do to get along with my homely red cheeks under ordinary circumstances, but when I get over a fire it simply makes me hideous."

"Oh, no such thing; why do you care, anyway, Dian, there's no one here to see you?"

"Don't need to be! I am conscious of it and that is enough."

"Say, Dian, do you miss John Stevens? I am just homesick to see him. We have scarcely laid eyes on him this winter or spring."

"No, I can't say that I care. John is good enough, but he is so quiet; I believe he is too tame to really amount to much."

"Tame! John Stevens tame! Well, Dian, I gave you credit for more discernment than that. Why, I don't believe that there is a braver or more passionate man living than John Stevens."

"Oh, I don't say but what he has temper enough; the flash in his eyes tells that; but I mean he is tame around women. He pokes around as if he didn't care whether you were alive or dead. I like some one with eyes and ears. Some one who has a grain of gallantry in him. Not such a stick as John Stevens."

"Why don't you set your cap for Tom Allen? He has eyes and ears for nothing else than women."

"And his dinner! Tom Allen! Oh, my! He has no more romance in him than a dinner plate. Just think of it!"

And the girl laughed and laughed that silvery, teasing, rippling laughter, till her mush sputtered and boiled over with indignation, into the glowing coals of the fire-place.

"Well, you may laugh, but I really think that Tom Allen is as nice as he can be. He may be funny and droll, but he has a great big heart in him, and if he wasn't engaged to Luna Hyde I would set my cap for him myself."

"Oh, Ellie, Ellie; you could flirt with anybody, and could, I verily believe, love anybody that gave you good reason not to, but my heart is of less impressionable material. It isn't so gentle and lovable as your dear little one."

Evidently Ellie wanted to turn the talk away from herself, so she offered to stir the mush, while Diantha watched the cakes. The conversation drifted to their immediate surroundings.

Several families had decided to put their fortunes together during the Move period, and the Winthrops, Tylers, and a family of Prescotts, who had several little children, and Tom Allen and his mother were all living crowded together in one or two little log houses on the Provo River's banks. Ellen's mind was dwelling just now on jolly Tom Allen, who spent no time at work or play which was not well interspersed with fun; fun which was innocent in itself, but which sometimes led to injured feelings.

"Come, girls," said Rachel Winthrop, entering the kitchen, "I know you must be ready and the folks are gathering in for supper. Here, Dian, stir in this flour slowly and carefully, and I will be ready to take it up in just one minute."

The united families were soon gathered at one long table, each person impatient for his frugal meal, and each filled with the primal thoughts and impulses common to all humanity. Had any one of them been conscious of the real pathos of their situation, the scene might have melted such an one to tears. Driven from comfortable, hard-earned homes, through fear of armed violence, these four or five families—like thousands of their friends—unable even to get a home to shelter them from the winds and storms of the late spring weather, were all huddled together in these three small log rooms. They were compelled to make beds on the floors for the children and to use their wagon-boxes for their own sleeping compartments; and the utmost precaution was necessary to maintain order and decency in their crowded condition. The good people of Provo were taxed to the extreme to give shelter and comfort to the fleeing thousands who had suddenly called upon their hospitality. Tents, boweries, shanties, and rude structures of all kinds were pressed into service. And the people who could secure shelter of any sort were deemed fortunate. The work pressed hardest upon the women. Compelled to carry on the common vocations of life under such circumstances, the weekly washings, ironings, cleanings, and cookings taxed even the most patient and strong to the uttermost. Our friends were lucky in having Aunt Clara Tyler included in their number, for she went about in her quiet way, healing wounds made by thoughtless tongues, and holding back the quick anger which pressed so hard upon irritated nerves and worn-out bodies. There was a saying, when Aunt Clara invited someone to take a walk along the river bank with her, "There goes Aunt Clara—not to cleanse the cups, but to mend some broken heart."

Aunt Clara and her friends were not the only ones who took walks by the river banks. It came to be a common thing for Tom Allen and Ellen Tyler to stroll up and down its winding paths, talking sometimes seriously and sometimes in that quizzical way so common to Tom. Sweet little hungry heart! Ellen was a loving soul, whose worst fault was a selfish weakness, a trait often admired in a sheltered woman, but dangerous in one thrown upon her own strength. She must, however, learn her lessons, as we must learn ours.

One day in the late spring, Ellen came home from her walk unusually pensive and thoughtful. She waited till after the evening prayers, and then asked Diantha to go with her down by the big cottonwood tree, for she had something to tell her. Sitting down on a grassy knoll, under the twinkling young stars, Ellen poured out her heart's confidence.

"You know how much Tom thinks of his religion, Dian, in spite of his odd ways. He is as good a Saint as the best, if he does make light of some things. I know his heart, for he has shown it to me, and I know he is one of our best men."

Dian looked as if she would like to introduce some of her own reflections upon the sincerity of Tom's religious professions, but from the serious tone of her friend's voice, she felt constrained to be as charitable as possible. So she contented herself with saying:

"Oh, yes, Tom is good enough. I don't believe he would do anything really dishonorable or bad for the world."

"Oh, Dian, he is really and truly a dear, good soul. I want you to know him better. For if you do, you will surely love him better."

Again Diantha looked her doubt upon this point; but the dim light of the young moon did not betray her opinion, plainly as it was expressed upon her mobile face.

"Dian, I am going to tell you something and ask you for your advice. You know I have great confidence in your judgment."

"Better ask Aunt Clara," said Diantha, afraid to trust her own opinion, where Tom Allen was concerned.

"No, I want to talk to you. Maybe some day I will tell Aunt Clara, too; but, just now, I feel like telling you."

The girl sat with her hand resting on her cheek, gazing into the clear starry sky above them. After a pause she said slowly:

"Dian, do you believe in dreams and visions?"

"Why, yes, of course I do; if they are of the right kind, and not brought on by eating too much."

"Well, I believe that we get many revelations through our dreams, if we only knew how to interpret them." Another pause; then the girl said softly: "Dian, Tom Allen has had a dream or vision about me."

The idea of Tom Allen having anything so serious as a vision almost upset Diantha, but she controlled herself and asked:

"What was the vision?" Diantha was rather curious now to know if she had been really mistaken in her estimate of Tom's character.

"Tom dreamed, or was carried away in a vision, and thought he lay upon his bed, very sick and nigh to death. As he lay there, pondering upon the past and future, he said he saw his door open softly, and, surrounded by a white light, I entered the room, with a banner in my hand, on which was inscribed: 'Marriage or death.' Then the dream ended."

Diantha looked at the serious face of her friend for one moment, and tried to get up and get away, but it was no use. Her keen sense of the ridiculous rendered her so weak with inward laughter, that, at last, she sank back upon the earth, and broke forth into peal after peal of ringing, hearty, uproarious laughter. She fairly screamed at the last, the absurdity of it all so overcame her that she could not control her mirth.

"What is the matter with you girls?" asked Rachel Winthrop, coming out of the house to see the cause of this violent laughter.

"Nothing, only one of Tom Allen's jokes," answered Diantha, for Ellen was too offended to say anything at all.

"Why, Dian, don't you think he dreamed that?" Ellen asked at last, in a hurt, low voice.

"If he did, he dreamed it with his eyes wide open, depend on that. Oh, Ellie, Ellie; anyone who pretends to be good and who is good to you, can pull the wool over your eyes, you dear little confiding thing."

But Ellen felt as if some one through this act, small as it seemed, had torn from her eyes a veil of confidence in things good and true that no one could ever replace. If things could only be different in this life! If she had only told Aunt Clara, she would have so measured her judgment and comment that this event would have strengthened Ellen's faith, while pointing out the absurdity in a sweet, motherly way! But to have Tom tell her such a thing; thus treating a sacred sacrament as a matter of light ridicule—this was most galling; and that she could believe it, too! It cut Ellen to the soul, to have her friend laugh so, as much at her own childish simplicity as at Tom's foolery. Oh, it was cruel!

But Diantha could not help laughing. The ridiculous picture, the banner; the inscription; it was too funny! Ah, foolish youth, so credulous, so incredulous, so tender, and yet so cruel! And only poets and prophets may tell us which is comedy and which is tragedy. For laughter may presage death, while death itself is the door to love and life eternal!