A Tribute to Our Pioneer Martyrs

A Tribute to Our Pioneer Martyrs By AUGUSTA WINTERS GRANT OUT on the prairies of Ne- braska, , many years ago, was buried a wife and mother who had trekked her way that far, and then had given her life in the poignant struggle of that long and toilsome journey. A grave hastily dug, with only half a wagon-tire as a headstone, marked the resting place where she lay on the bleak plains until the years brought the surveyed line of the iron horse across the very spot whereon this grave was made. The wagon-tire remained intact, with its crude inscription, and the intel- ligent and sympathetic officials who led the surveying party made a respectful detour around the burial place. Later a monument was placed there. The tragedies of the plains have been many, but individual remem- brances are all too few. In most cases not a trace has been left for identification. But one spot has been almost miraculously pre- served, and it might seem that this one has received undue recognition and attention. However, it is not so much to give honor and atten- tion to this particular case as it is to hold in remembrance those who went through the same experiences but of whom all traces have been lost. The thought is thus expressed by Anne McQueen, a traveler whose sympathies were called forth by seeing the only monument placed where the spot could be identified, at the grave of Rebecca Burdick Winters: "Hers is the shapen and turf -grown mound And the name carved on the stone today, But the thought — 'tis all for the grave unfound — The others who died upon the way." HTHE story of this grave is most remarkable, and numerous pic- tures have been taken, inspired, and column after column written by strangers and friends alike who have thus expressed their sympathy and interest in the tragedies of our Pioneers. The Oregon trail and our Pio- neer trail are identical along most of the way from the Missouri river to the Rocky Mountains, and some of the writers have not distinguish- ed between the two. We insert on the next page the remainder of the poem by Anne M. McQueen. DERHAPS the best way to pre- sent at this time the story of the grave on the plains, which has been told so many times, would be to quote some of the various ap- preciative things that have been said by authors in different publi- cations. The following is from the pen of one who was present at the A .UGUSTA WINTERS GRANT, the second daughter of Oscar and Mary Ann Stearns Winters, was born July 7 , 185 6, at Pleasant Grove, Utah. In 1884 she married Apostle Heber J. Grant, now President of the Church. One of a Pioneer family, Augusta early shared in the hardships of that day, and through the necessity of learning to do various kinds of work, was trained to habits of physical and intellectual activity. She was one of the first graduates of the State University, taking hef degree in 1877, and is also a life member of the Alumni Association of the B. Y. U '., a school to which she has always been loyal. Since she was fourteen years old she has worked in some Church capacity, for many years serving as a member of the General Board of Y. L. M. I. A,, which position she still holds. Traveled, gifted and cultured as she is, the quality which impresses most is the gentle womanliness of her personality , developed in part, perhaps from an early determination to make for her rule the idea, "I will like to do what I have to do, and I will not want anything I cannot have." Some thirty years ago, Mrs. Grant resolved to go into the Temple at least once each week, and do work for the \dead. To this resolution she has adhered for three decades, whenever it was in any way possible, and only those for whom, she has given this service can appreciate the magnitude of it. With love of the Gospel strong in her heart, she has spent her life proving her loyalty and devotion to the brave and faithful Pioneer ancestors whose descendant she has the honor to be. burial, Dr. Ellis R. Shipp, a lady now 83 years of age, who for many years was a practicing physi- cian and medical instructor in Salt Lake City: "The death and burial of Rebecca Win- ters is my most vivid memory of Pioneer days, when I crossed the plains, in the year 1852, with my father walking and driving the oxen; my mother knitting in the front end of the covered wagon. "My grandfather, William John Haw- ley, was the captain of the company; my grandmother, Ellis Smith Hawley, was the ever ready, willing, efficient nurse in all emergencies. In answer to every call her slight, fragile form would deftly slip from under the flapping wagon cover in every hour of day or night, and when her old-time neighbor, Rebecca Winters, was stricken with cholera, she was her constant attendant. Through the usual speedy course of this virulent malady she never left her post. In the lonely wilderness, in the dreary night-time, lighted only by the campfire and a tallow taper, she worked and prayed in fervent faith. And she it was who clothed the silent wasted form for its final rest. _ "In the meantime the captain summoned his forces, and with the sanction of the mourning family located the burial spot and set his sons to digging the impacted soil. When was it ever turned before? "In those days I was never far from my grandfather, and at this time I was very close to him, and the now opening grave. To my unsophisticated sensitive soul it was a momentous event. I listened to his words as he dictated to his workmen, words that still ring in my ears through all these 78 years — 'Dig it deeper, boys. We will have one grave that no wild ani- mal can harm. Deeper, yes deeper, deeper, boys.' "I was feeling sorry for my loved uncle because they were working so hard; but when I looked up to my sire's noble face, I caught the inspiration of his thought; his words still live in my soul — living words through all these many eventful years, and which will still echo through the ages of futurity. "After the grave was rounded over, my own dear father, William Reynolds, who was never idle, came with two wagon tires he had found by the wayside as he walked over the rugged roads. He had picked them up with the remark: 'They will be of some use to us on our journey.' I well remember these tires being tied to the outside of our wagon; I had listened for many days to their rattle and jangle as the oxen plodded along, and the heavy wheels surmounted large rocks and sank in deep gulches of that old uneven trail. "While loving hearts and busy hands were managing other necessary details, my wise father, with vision given to but few, dug into the iron as others had dug the hard baked soil. All through the night