THE STORY OF LESTER BURT FARNSWORTH AND HIS WIFE, ROSINE NIELSEN FARNSWORTH

 

The circumstances surrounding my birth being of a somewhat unusual nature, I believe a full account of that occurence and the events leading up to it is the best way to begin my story. You see, my father, Alonzo Lafayette Farnsworth, a native of South Bend, Indiana, who joined the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and emigrated with his parents to Utah in 1851, was a Mormon polygamist, who, having no children by his first wife, Mary Staker, (whom he married in 1866), entered into plural marriage with my real mother, Christiana Dorthea Bertelsen, in 1874. The next year he wed a third wife, Ida Tietjen. These additions to my father's household, which took place in Richfield,Utah, where he and many of his family had moved in the year of 1871, account for the extraordinary turn of events not only in his life, but also in my own.

It was not destined that the Lon Farnsworth family should stay long in Richfield, however, even though they had come to love the red and white hills, and the beautiful greening valley, for in 1875 Father was called to act as bishop of Joseph City, a small village about 12 miles to the southwest. Here, he presided over the little settlement, as well as the United Order which Brigham Young had instigated in 1874 in an effort to do away with poverty for some of the Saints and wealth for others. It was in Joseph that my older brother--and Father's first child-was born. His birth had been eagerly awaited by everyone in the family, for my mother, seeing how Father's first wife pined because she could not give him his first son, promised Mary that if her child turned out to be a boy, she should have him to raise. When Raymond finally arrived, however, he was quite sickly, and Mother felt it would be wrong to burden Mary, who was not strong herself, with a sickly child. So she promised to give her her second son, instead.

Mary knew by now that Anna, my real mother, would do exactly as she promised, for in the short time they had lived together as wives of Lon Farnsworth, they had come to love each other in a splendid way. Perhaps Mary didn't quite feel this wonderful affection when Lon first brought Anna as his second wife to the little home in Richfield, but she welcomed her just the same. Here is a little poem she placed by her plate at the wedding supper:

Thrice welcome to our little cottage Humble though it be. May it prove the dearest spot In all the world to thee.

It was not long before this feeling developed between Mary and Anna and Ida, too, when she joined the family. But the promise that lingered between Mary and my mother seemed to bind them together more closely than was ordinary. It was as if they were two people working together for a single, wonderful purpose. They both taught school in Joseph until, of course, it was time for Raymold to be born, then Anna stayed home and took care of him. Aunt Mary, as she was called, took care of him too and as time went on she become rather the arbiter of the group, championing the wives (or the children, as they came along) if they seemed to be getting the short end of things. Anna and Ida assumed the more rigorous roles of attending to the daily chores. When they were under the United Order in Joseph each of the women took turns doing the communal cooking, washing, etc. Anna sometimes took her own turn and Mary's too when Mary felt ill.

In 1877, when Raymond was about six months old, Father was called to go to Arizona to make peace with the Navajo Indians, who had been crossing the Colorado River and raiding Mormon settlements, causing much distress among the colonizers. Father felt badly about bringing upheavel, once again, to his family especially when it meant taking them into a very lonely, isolated section of country where only Indians, some of them hostile, would be the neighbors. But a call from Brigham Young was not to be taken lightly. Then as now, it was considered a sacred trust when the father was too good a Mormon to even consider refusal. The family packed their belongings for the long, hot journey.

They settled in Moenkopi, an Indian village in the heart of Navajo and Hopi country. A stream ran close by, which provided abundant water for culinary use and irrigation. Father's was one of 12 families who had received the "call" to settle in northern Arizona, and he as bishop was responsible for the success of the venture. Fortunately, all had received training in the art of settling a new area, having previously taken part in colonizing some of the barren Utah country. They were not the first Mormons to make the acquaintance of the Arizona Indians, however. A fine man by the name of Jacob Hamblin had long been seeking to settle the differences between his people and what he believed was the Lamanite race spoken of in the Book of Mormon. Jacob Hamblin was greatly respected by all the Indians, as well as by his white brothers.

About two years after their arrival, my father superintended a move from Moencopi to higher ground. The Saints decided to name their new settlement Tuba City in honor of the Hopi chief who was very friendly to the Mormons. Shortly after this move, on August 23, 1879, my mother gave birth to her second son, which was me. I had the distinction of being the first white child born in Tuba City.

Of course, my mother remembered the promise she had made to Aunt Mary, and prepared immediately to keep it. But my mother had a very great sense of humor, a legacy, no doubt, from her Danish father who was a great joker. Two Hopi squaws heard of my birth and walked the 2 miles from Moenkopi carrying as a gift to my mother a big watermelon. She put it in the bed on one side of her and me on the other side, then she called Aunt Mary to come and and see what was the matter with the baby. Aunt Mary came running and was so excited she could hardly talk. When she turned down the covers and saw that big watermelon lying there, she had a wonderful laugh; she thought a wonderful joke had been played on her.

I GO TO MEXICO

The first thing I remember very distinctly happened when I was nearly six years old. My father, being a polygamist, was very badly persecuted in the United States and had to keep under cover to prevent being arrested and put in prison. The Church, seeing this condition, sent two men down to Mexico in 1884 to secure land to which some of these people could move, and in 1885 Apostle George Teasdale was chosen to take a group down there. My father and Aunt Mary, who had raised me from the time I was born, and who I shall now refer to as my mother, hitched up a team and wagon and got things ready to go along. They took me, but left the rest of the family in Tuba City.

I don't remember just how many families went, but there was quite a party. I do remember that among them was a Brother Lot Smith, an old-timer who did not have any of his family along. Being alone, he asked me to ride with him, and one day he suggested that we play a game to take up the time. He had a silk handkerchief, and he would hold it up in front of his face and ask me to guess where his nose was. Well, I kept guessing, but I finally got tired, and when he held up the handkerchief again I drew back my fist and hit him on the nose. It sure made him angry; he was almost ready to throw me out of his wagon. We didn't play that game anymore.

Another thing I remember is that I called Apostle Teasdale, "Uncle George." He was kicked by a mule on this trip, and I guess he was quite seriously hurt, because I was very scared and kept asking my mother how Uncle George was coming along and what was the matter with him. Fortunately, he recovered in a day or two.

We entered Mexico and traveled until we got just below Casas Grandes. We made a summer camp on the river bank, and of course it was vacant land. After getting permission from the Casas Grandes authorities, the settlers dug a ditch from the river and planted crops. Our camp was right across the river from where Dublan is now situated. I remember playing with some of the other boys in camp. One in particular was Wood Judd. Fifty years later, when we were living down there, Bishop Call, who resided in Dublan, wanted to celebrate the anniversary of the arrival of the Saints in Mexico, so he hunted through the Colonies to find people who had been on that first trip, but only found two: Pete Skousen and me. I had been such a little boy I couldn't remember just where the camp was located, but Pete Skousen did, so Bishop Call held the celebration and Pete went across the river and pointed out the very spot where we camped. The bishop erected a small cement monument and marked on it the date when the first party arrived. Pete and I related all we could remember of those first days in Old Mexico.

After we had been there all summer, we decided to return to Tuba City to await the time when we could purchase some land in Mexico. A year or so later, when I was eight, my mother and I went to Annabella, Utah to visit her brother Joe and family. Here I was baptized and I well remember that. I also remember a lesson I received. Uncle Joe didn't have any fences and although he had a barn on his place, he didn't have any chickens. But his neighbor did, and when I went out to the barn one day and found a nest with a lot of eggs in it, I gathered them up and brought them in, whereupon my mother told me, "Those aren't our eggs; we don't have any chickens." I said, "Well, they were in our barn." to which she answered, "They are not ours, they belong to the neighbors across the way. They are their chickens." So she made me carry the eggs over and tell those folks that I had gathered their eggs out of our barn, which showed me that I couldn't take eggs if they hadn't been laid by our own hens. That was one of the lessons in honesty taught to me by my mother, and shows how she tried to bring me up.

When I was ten years old, we again went to Mexico, or started toward Mexico, with me driving a four-horse team all the way from Tuba City to Deming, New Mexico. The wagon I drove was just a trap wagon on which were thrown all the extras and grain for the horses. The men called it the "Chicken Roose." I well remember driving down the steep dugway into Gila Valley after dark one night, and all I could do was sit on the front endgate and kick the dash with my heels, while fhe horses went where they wanted to go, but they kept on the road. My uncle, Austin Farnsworth, was in charge of the company, and he wanted to get down by the river so we would have water for camp that night, so we drove until very late. The men later reported that the wagons had run along the edge of a steep cliff; it no doubt would have been the end of anyone had he accidentally slipped over.

We stayed in Deming about two years, during which time my mother washed clothes for the townspeople, and I delivered them in a little express wagon. When I was 12, my father came down from Tuba and he made all the necessary arrangements so we could move into Mexico and locate a place to live. By that time there were Latter-day Saints in Dublan, Juarez, and a few in Colonia Pacheco. Uncle Al Farnsworth lived in this latter place, so we went there to stay. While here, my father worked very hard building a house and I worked in a sawmill, wheeling sawdust and carrying water for the boiler. I was paid in lumber which Father, in turn, used to build the house.

Before Dad built his own house in Pacheco, Mother and I went down and stayed on the Williams ranch, about four or five miles away. It was close to the ranch owned by the Thompson family, most of whom were killed by Apache Indians. Before this happened, I often played with the Thompson Boys. Elmer, who was older than I, was one of the bigger boys, and he was shot and left for dead at the time of the tragedy. But he crawled up by the chicken coop, and when the Indians went into the house to gather up whatever they could carry away on their pack horses, he saw a chance to crawl inside the coop and hide. The Indians killed all the rest of the family with the exception of one little girl, whom they had decided to take as a prisoner. She was a bright little girl, though, and while the looters were searching the house, she ran down by the chicken coop where Elmer was hiding, and he told her to go as fast as she could up to Cave Valley for help. When the Apaches found that the little girl had disappeared, they became frightened and ran off.

Just before Dad returned to Mexico, my brother Frank was sent to live with us. He was just a little fellow, but he provided us with a humorous incident that has stayed in my mind. It was frequently hard for us to get enough to eat. Of course, we had no refrigerator or any other way of keeping anything for any length of time, so whenever we were lucky enough to get any meat, we had to eat it right up before it spoiled. One day, the Naegle boys gave us a piece of venison. My mother cooked it for breakfast and came out where I was doing the chores to call me. When she went back in to serve my venison it was gone. She turned to little Frank and said, "What happened to that meat?" He answered, almost too quickly, "I guess the bears come in and got it!" My mother could hardly look at him, she was laughing so hard. I laughed too, but it was kind of half-heartedly, for I kept thinking how good that piece of venison would have tasted.

GARCIA

Father built quite a big house in Pacheco so that he would have plenty of room for his family. But he wasn't able to get any land, as it had all been taken up. He wanted to stay in Mexico so he could raise his family without being hounded by U.S. marshals, but it looked like he couldn't do it in Pacheco. We had enjoyed the new nouse only a short time when he got a chance to purchase Garcia Valley. Dad, A. F- MacDonald and Joseph Jackson were the three people interested in the purchase. At the time, MacDonald lived in Colonia Juarez and Jackson ran a grist mil I between Dublan and Juarez. The three of them formed a partnership and made the purchase of a 3 by 3 square mile area of Garcia that took in the valley and quite a bit of timber land around it, so we finally had a place of our own to go to.

By now, Dad had brought the rest of his family from Tubo City, and he thought he could start a farm there and have all his boys help him. Dad and my real mother, Anna, with her children, were the first settlers in Garcia. They lived in a big camp wagon under a pine tree, where Anna cooked for her family and any settlers that arrived. It wasn't long before my adopted mother and I moved there, too- But Father finally realized that the property was too big for one family to farm, so he began thinking about some way to get other families to join us. His plan was to sell them the farms, but a problem developed. No one could come, cut the trees, plant a garden, harvest the crop and build a home all in one season, so my Uncle Al brought a lot of boys up to help us, and we decided to chop down the little pine trees that abounded in the area and build a log fence around the entire valley. I don't remember the exact measurement of our project, but we made 5 or 6 miles of fence that year, and another to keep our cattle from getting into the crops. The people who moved up after that could plant and harvest their crops without having to fence individually. And as an added incentive to settlers, we helped to build a log cabin for any who moved into the valley. I specifically remember helping to build the Schaffer, Allred, and Arson Cluff homes. We boys were not very big, but we could help lift the logs while the men did the chopping and knocking and felling of them, and the fitting of them together. The cracks were filled with "chinken" and mud, and plastered up so people could keep warm during the winters.

It was quite a thing to be able to work for the good of someone else. My father was very broadminded, and was willing to put in his time and knowledge to help people. He practically built the entire town. He also established a sawmill, in which I worked a big part of the time, finally obtaining it for myself, when I reached manhood. Father showed me how to handle it, and taught me how to saw lumber and shingles. We found it much easier to build a lumber home than a log one.

I recall one trip we boys made back to Pacheco while some of the family were still residing there. Garcia is very high, and in the wintertime there is heavy snowfall. On this particular occasion, the snow was about two feet deep. We were barefooted, as we could not afford to buy shoes, but we all piled in the wagon and started for Pacheco. There was no road, and although the driver knew about where the wagon trail was, he started slipping and sliding sideways until the wagon got stuck on a tree. All the boys in the wagon had to climb out in that cold snow and lift the wagon back on the trail. I shall never forget that very cold journey.

Garcia continued to grow unti I we had quite a colony. We built a meetinghouse, and the stake presidency came up and organized a ward, putting Brother John T. Whetten in as bishop, with my father and Brother Bingham as his counselors. I was very fond of Bishop Whetten. He was one of the finest men I ever met. On August 8, 1905, I was married by him to a wonderful girl, Rosine Nielsen.

OUR MARRIAGE

Rose, as we called her, was born in Kaysville, Utah on August 28, 1887. Her parents, Karl Emil and Sine Olene Nielsen, were converts to the Church who migrated from Denmark. Karl was a carpenter, and a very good one, but he also entered into plural marriage, and so it was that in 1893, when Rosine was six years of age, they too moved to Mexico where they could keep their family together and live in peace. It was here that the Farnsworths and Nielsens became fast and true friends.

Our wedding was a grand event--one that the little town of Colonia Garcia did not soon forget. Everyone in town was invited to the ceremony, which took place at 4:00 p.m. in my mother's living-room. After Brother Whetten had pronounced us man and wife, we went to the home of my brother Raymond for a fine wedding dinner. Then followed the wonderful dance in the church. All the girls in town had gathered wild flowers--purple and white--and had decorated the building until it looked like a flower garden. The beautiful music that we danced to was provided by my brother Elmer and his violin.

But I wasn't satisfied with a civil ceremony, as I had been taught that marriage in the temple was the only marriage that counted. So, I began to save my money in order to take my bride to Salt Lake City and be married in the temple. By fall, we had enough, so on November 11, 1905 we were sealed by John R. Winder, first counselor to President Heber J. Grant. I was very pleased that I had accomplished my sacred purpose, even though it left me in debt. But not for long- when we got home I went back to my everyday work, and we lived a good life and raised a wonderful family. Whenever I think of Rose, I realize that not every man is blessed with a wife as good as mine was. She helped me in every way. I'd accept sawmill jobs which took me away from home, and she would cook for the borders, clerk in the store, and help with the pay for the hands. She did all kinds of things that were really more than a woman with a growing family should do. Sometimes as I reminisce on our early life, I wonder if her hard work was responsible for some of the deaths in our family. In 1911 we had a contract out at the Cumbre tunnel, and it was there that our fourth baby was born. We named him Carl, but he lived only a few hours.

REVOLUTION

In Garcia I became a Sunday School superintendent, first assistant to Eddie L. Webb, and acted in this capacity for two years. I was also president of the Y-M-M.I.A- While in this latter position, I was asked by our bishop to see if I could arrange some way to obtain an organ for the church. An elderly member of the ward, Brother Tilman Hilnish,owned a two-acre lot in Garcia and had built a home on it- He sold organs, and I went to see what we could do to get him to sell one to us- He answered that he would give us one if the M.I.A. boys would build a fence around his lot. So we did just that ' we dug post holes, set the posts, brought lumber from the mill and built a four-board fence around his entire property. In this way we got Garcia Ward's first organ. It was a great thrill to me, and I appreciated the chance to be actively working in the church.

I owned and operated the sawmill with Bishop Whetten, whose counselor I was for some time. We contracted to furnish lumber for the Cumbre tunnel, and also the bridges that were being built for the railroad. This was a wonderful opportunity, although we sawed the timber for only 15 pesos per thousand, which wasn't very much. But we didn't have to buy the timber, only saw it and put it in the yard, and according to the distance we had to haul it, we were paid extra if we delivered it to the tunnel or bridge. We had one advantage in that most of the timbers were to be 12 by 12, so we just had to square up a log, throw it off on the blocks and run it down to the tunnel. We made good money without trying to make a great profit, and we had good contracts. This is the type of work I was engaged in in 1911 and 1912, when the revolution erupted.

I guess it isn't hard to understand why this revolt of the Mexican people came about. When some are starving and others have more than they need, things often build up to a crisis and a fight takes place, For many years a few wealthy Mexicans had owned most of the land, and the lowly peons did most of the work for very little pay.. The rebels even came to resent us Latter-day Saints, for although we were far from wealthy, we had, by great efforts, built up our holdings until we had warm homes and plenty to eat.

The trouble didn't start all at once. At first it was just petty acts in defiance of the law, but finally this changed to out-and-out thievery. And as band after band of revolutionaries formed to carry out the orders of Francisco Madero, who had vowed to unseat Mexico's president, Porfirio Diaz, the attitude of the peon became more and more insolent. One of the first incidents to give us an inkling that real trouble was brewing occurred early in 1911 while I was running the sawmill. The first band of revolutionaries came to visit us when my brother Elmer and I were in the store, which we operated in connection with the mill, About 20 of them rode up, got off their horses, and came in. They ordered some supplies, which we gave them, and then they ordered us to give up our guns, This was a different matter! I told them we couldn't do that because we had to have our guns to protect ourselves and our families. The leader of the company said they needed all the guns they could get their hands on to fight in the revolution, and he must have ours. Well, as Elmer spoke better Spanish than I did, I told him to tell the men we wouldn't give up our guns, and I added quietly that if they demanded we give them up, we were each to draw our six-shooters from under the counter, duck down, and start shooting hot lead through the counter in an effort to scatter the rebels out over the flats. Just as I had made up my mind as to the course to take, the leader came up and hit the counter hard with his fist, shouting, "Do we get the guns or not?" Elmer turned to me and said, "What do I tell him?" I gravely answered, "Just tell him 'No' in plain terms!"

I fully expected we would have to start shooting, but to my surprise the leader said, "Well, we'll shake hands with you and part as friends." I was greatly relieved. In thinking about it afterward, I realized that if we had started shooting, someone might have been killed, and this would probably have brought calamity upon the Mormon colonists who were trying to maintain a neutral position between government officials and the rebels. I reported the episode to President Romney, who told me it had been the right thing to do, but he was sure there would come a time when we would have to part with our guns. His prophesy later proved to be painfully true.

We moved our sawmill back to Colonia Garcia, as we thought we could live there without being run out; the idea of leaving Mexico never occured to us. Bishop Whetten and I went to work and sawed until we had 200,000 feet of lumber piled up in our yard, and we had some money we had made before returning to town, so we bought a lot of supplies and put them in our store to get ready for the hard times we were sure would come. We had been told that train traffic would be cut off, shutting off our source of supplies, so we stocked up fully, spending all our money doing so.

It wasn't long until the situation worsened. An unavoidable circumstance between the Mexicans and Mormons almost ended up in a local war in Juarez. A Mormon effort to capture and bring to justice a thief resulted in the killing of Juan Sosa. The four Mormon men involved were on trial when the courtroom was entered by rebels who took our men to Casas Grandes. At the last moment, they were rescued from an angry mob by Pascual Orozco and Raoul Madero--the latter a brother of the rebel leader. But we felt by now that we had become the "hated gringo" and as if we didn't have trouble enough, when Francisco Madero took his soldiers on toward Mexico City, he left Orozco behind. Orozco was insulted and soon decided to start a rebellion of his own. We then had to contend with two bands of rebels, one under Pancho Villa, called the Villista, and the other under Orozco called Red Flaggers because of the red bands they wore on their arms. Both groups expected us Colonists to furnish them food, horses, saddles, money, and anything else they needed to carry on their revolution.

President Romney kept appealing to Inez Salazar, who had become the rebel commander in Casas Grandes, but he was either unable or unwilling to help us, so it was decided that a stock of high-powered weapons must be brought in for our protection. Unfortunately, General Salazar suspected our intentions and was soon demanding a count of guns. President Romney refused, and was taken prisoner, but when Salazar threatened to send in a group of rebels to search our homes, President Romney, fearing our safety, told the rebel leader that if he would guarantee safe passage on the train to El Paso for our women and children our weapons would be delivered to a stipulated location.

In our isolated situation, we residents of Garcia did not learn all of these particulars until later. The only word that came to us from President Romney was that he had trouble with the rebels in the valley and so had decided to send all the women and children out of Mexico into the United States. A rider entered Garcia on the morning of July 27, 1912, with word that we were to prepare our wives and children for evacuation to El Paso; that we were to pack a hundred pounds of luggage for each woman and fifty pounds for each child, and deliver all to the railroad station at Pearson. The men were to stay in Mexico. Bishop Whetten was not well, so I told him I would like to have him go with our families and see that they were taken care of, and I would stay and help to preserve things as best I could. We fully expected the trouble to clear up so they could come right back. But in ten days, things were worse. The rebels came back time after time asking for our guns and taking our food supplies. It looked like we men couldn't stay any longer either, unless we were willing to fight our way through.

At this time, rebel captain Cavada warned the Mormons in Juarez that he would not put up with any more killing of his men. He was probably referring to the execution of a rebel who had robbed the colonists when the women and children were being taken to the train. The execution had been ordered by rebel officers, but the Mormons were being blamed for it. President Romney was afraid that some of us men wouldn't put up much longer with the robbery, and being blamed for things we didn't do. In fact, one of our-number, Dave Brown, reached the point where he said, "If they ask for my gun any more, they'll get the smokey end of it!" Finally, President Romney called a meeting, and it was decided that we men would also leave Mexico for a while rather than face a war in which the United States might become involved. We wanted to live in Mexico- it was our home, now, But if the U.S. entered the battle, we felt sure we would be unable to maintain our neutrality, or ever again live in peace with the Mexicans.

Riders were once more sent out to inform us of President Romney's plan. We were to meet the other colonists at "The Stairs" and march out together. I, as first counselor to Bishop Whetten, who was now in El Paso, took charge of the Garcia group. We had been told to leave everything but our immediate needs for the rebels, but I remembered how hard Bishop Whetten and I had worked to get our lumber sawed and all the provisions stored. I felt sure we would be back within a reasonable time, and knew how badly some of these provisions would be needed, so I conceived a plan which I made known to the Garcia brethren.

A bunch of Red Flaggers had ridden into Garcia and taken over the church as their headquarters. At night, after they had gone to sleep, the other boys and I quietly saddled our horses, and taking our guns we rode slowly to the store. In strictest silence we loaded several socks of flour, sugar, rice and beans, etc., on our horses and led them to the outskirts of town where there was a knoll and a thick grove of trees, which concealed a round smooth rock. We put the socks on top of the rock and covered them with a canvas, securing the whole thing down with other rocks. Leaving two boys on top of the mountain as lookouts, we left for "The Stairs". When the boys caught up with us later, they reported that as soon as it got light, they could see the rebels through their field glasses. They appeared surprised and afraid at the strange disappearance of all the Garcia men, and left without looting the town.

THE MARCH

By the time we all got together, there were about two hundred and fifty men. President Romney said to us, "We're here and well armed. Although we have lost many horses and some of our weapons, we still have a few guns. We must either fight or leave." We knew that over the border we would have no food, no homes or jobs, but our families were there, and we voted unanimously to leave. President Romney then continued,"Well, then, we want to get through without trouble if we can. We know that big bands of rebels are traveling back and forth throughout these mountains, so we will organize our company and march out in military style." He appointed scouts to go before, and a rear guard to follow behind, then he organized us into small bands, with a leader for each band.

Bishop A.D. Thurber was appointed commander over the whole group, and I was chosen his assistant. I mounted my little mule and was ready to leave, but the Whetten boy said to me, "You're a captain now, you can't ride a mule like that. We want you to have a good horse." So they gave me a mare belonging to their father. She was called Roine, and was a beautiful little horse. As we rode alone on the first leg of our journey, I thought of Rose and the children in El Paso, and I was glad that I would soon be there to take care of them. Fortunately, my mother was in Idaho with Father and Anna.

It was quite an undertaking to move this large group 100 miles overland with a restlessness to urge us on, and overloaded pack horses to slow us down. It was kind of funny to see some of the loads as they jogged along. One of the brethren had packed one thing on top of another, wrapping a rope around and around to hold it all together. I helped him to arrange it more securely. Brother Romney had witnessed the little episode, and said to me, "Brother Farnsworth, you know how to pack a horse. Help the others." So I kept watch after that in case any load needed repacking.

Soon after we left "The Stairs" a rumor spread through the group that a band of rebels were trying to cut us off. President Romney then ordered us to go on the double-quick to try and avoid them. We were in a serious position, but even so, we could see a little humor in it, A professor from the Juarez Academy had a quilt for a saddle, and across his horse was rope with loops on each end for stirrups. And little as the situation warranted it, it was pretty hard to keep from laughing when we looked ahead and saw that President Romney's overalls had worked up, leaving his garments flapping in the wind. It was my job to ride back and forth along the line to see that we kept moving.

Somehow or other an armed Mexican got in the line. When he found this out, General Thurber arrested him and asked what outfit he belonged to. The rebel answered that there were only three or four in his group, but General Thurber thought is wasn't wise to turn him loose, as he might tell the others, so after assuring him that we meant him no harm Thurber inquired, "Where are your chums and we'll get them?" The man replied that they were back at the windmill, whereupon Brother Thurber turned to John Whetten, "You'll go back and capture the men and we'll keep them in our camp tonight and turn them loose tomorrow." he ordered.

John chose a group of about 12 Garcia scouts, among them my brother Elmer and me. We prepared to carry out the order, but suddenly thought of the little area by the windmill where a small pond was surrounded by a number of trees. It was Elmer's feeling that it might be a trap, but I said to him, "We have orders to get them," and John, who was captain, said, "Yes, we have orders, so let's go!"

I rode by the side of the prisoner. When we neared the mill, he asked if he could get down and give his chums a signal so they would know we did not want to fight them. We thought it would be alright, so he got off his horse, and with his big sombrero he motioned three times down to the ground and back. We then rode in and captured the men without any trouble, taking them back to our outfit. One of them was riding a horse that belonged to Miles Romney. Upon seeing it, Brother Thurber remarked calmly but sternly, "it is not yours, and we'd like you to give it to us and we'll give you a pony," After the exchange, we traveled on. When we got close enough to the border that we felt the rebels could no longer inform on us, we let them go.

BACK IN THE U.S.A.

We reached the border at Dog Springs. A guard of about 20 U.S. soldiers saw us in the distance, and thinking we were a group of rebels, prepared to make a stand. When they discovered we were the Mormon colonists, they helped us all they could. We camped that night in a little wash, but as it was the rainy season, some of us decided to put our beds on higher ground. During the night, a regular deluge hit us. Water almost covered those who stayed in the wash. The next morning, we moved to Hachita and put our outfits in a storehouse. We herded the horses onto the flat until the officers decided where we could go. Leaving a few boys to watch our outfits, most of us got on the train for El Paso so we could see our families. We found them in the lumber yard, where they had been taken upon arrival from the colonies. They were in a big building with a roof over their heads, and the government had issued them canned tomatoes and bread. No one had been lost or killed, but they were in a destitute condition, and they had been worrying about us men.

As I had a little money, I rented a small house in El Paso for my family and my wife's father and mother. I thought this was the thing to do until we decided what our course was to be. President Ivins had come to El Paso to help us, and he called the brethren together for counsel. Although the American Government had offered to give us railroad tickets to any place we desired to go, we hoped that before long we could return to our homes in Mexico. We had to find some means right away to help our homeless members, however, and upon President Ivins question as to what could be done, Bishop Whetten told him about the thousands of cattle we had left below the border, adding "I believe we can send a bunch of our boys down on the train to gather up some of our cattle." He knew it would be a serious task under the very noses of the revolutionaries, and his eyes were very grave when he asked me if I would head such a mission. I told him we would have to depend on the Lord, and that I would do my best.

It was August 21st when I, in company with John C. Beecroft, J. B. Darton, Ernest Nielsen and Charles Whetten, left El Paso on the train for Colonia Juarez. The town had not been abandoned. Bishop Joseph C. Bentley had left his faithful Mexican, Cornelio Reyes, in charge of his home and property when he departed, and other citizens had appointed local Mexicans to look after their places. We spent two days in Juarez, and were pleased that aside from taking all the riding animals, the rebels had disturbed little else. We hoped this was indicative of what had taken place in the other colonies. After obtaining the loan of a small pony the rebels had left because it had a sore back, we started on the 35-mile journey to Garcia, our own town. Each of us had a secret weapon concealed somewhere on our person, mine was a pearl-handled six-shooter. We hoped desperately we wouldn't have to use them.

On the night of the 24th we camped at the top of San Diego Canyon, and the next day we reached the ranch of Vincentio Lopez at Strawberry. Here we picked up a mule belonging to John Beecroft, and a buckboard owned by another colonist. By hitching the pony and mule to the buckboard, we were able to ride. Upon reaching Hop Valley, we saw a wagon loaded with furniture coming from the direction of Pacheco. It was being driven by a Mexican, who drew up in front of a small native house and went in. I decided to speak with him, but although I called to him in a friendly manner, it was quite some time before he come out, whereupon I said to him,"We've been out of town and are just coming back to see if everything is alright. We hope that you people have not been disturbed by rebels around here."

The man answered that they had not been disturbed. I replied that I was glad, and told him,"It would be a shame to have our peaceful way of life interrupted way off here in the mountains." Then I asked him where he got the furniture. He said from Pacheco, adding that he thought the people had all gone away for good and were not coming back. Carefully but emphatically I said to him,"Well, I can see how you might have come to that conclusion. But we are all coming back, and I would like to have you tell all the Mexican neighbors that our intention is to return soon, if you will, please. Then we would like all our things back that have been borrowed." Giving him the Mexican farewell of "Adios, amigos," we drove on, but we had a sinking feeling that we would never again see our possessions if they were once carried off. Yet we felt that if we could in any way prevent further looting, we would be accomplishing something.

It had begun to rain by the time we reached Garcia, and we were getting soaked and cold. With a feeling of caution and anxiety we climbed out of the rig and glanced around the community. At first, we saw no sign of life, but presently Charles Whetten spotted some horses standing around the house of Aunt Lizzie MacDonald. He was pleased and said,"Look, we won't have to go afoot much longer now, boys. There is a bunch of loose horses. A couple of us can gather them in while the rest of you make camp." Ernest Nielsen thought it was a good idea, and jumped down to help him catch them. But I called,"Ern, come back a minute, will you? I have a feeling that it would not be wise to qo in there right now. The horses mean that someone is already in the house. Let's make camp first and look around a bit."

We went on to the Richard Farnsworth home, where we unloaded our supplies with the idea of staying there for the night. After we had made a fire and started to prepare a meal, we noticed that there was now a light in the MacDonald house, and Ern told me I'd had the right hunch about it. I answered, "I just had a feeling. Besides, who wants to stir things up on a mean, wet night like this, even if they are in our own houses? We wouldn't want to turn them out in the rain, but they might get pretty ugly if they got the impression that we did. We can investigate the town tomorrow, and then go over and see who is there.

Next morning we got up early, made a fire and heated some water. As soon as the sun came up we went outside to get warm in the sunshine, and look the town over. A short time later we saw a Mexican come out of Aunt Lizzie's house and stand in the corner with his sarape wrapped around him. "Looks like he's chilly too," said Ernest. I suggested to Ern that we leave the other fellows and go over and try to make friends with the Mexican. The MacDonald house was about two and a half blocks distant, and as we walked toward it, we had a good opportunity to look the man over; he was big and heavy-set. "I hope he doesn't start any ruckus," whispered Ernest. I agreed with him, for having a fight was the last thing I wanted. But I did want to make sure that the fellow realized we wanted to be friendly, so we walked slowly as if we had nothing on our minds but the morning sunshine. When we got near to him, I ventured a cheerful "Good morning" but he only muttered a surly "Buenos dias."

I then said to him, " We were out for a walk and thought we would come over and get acquainted with our neighbors." The Mexican only grunted, but I added, "Senor, I do not have the pleasure of knowing your name, but mine is Farnsworth and this is Mr. Nielsen, my brother-in-law. We live in this town. That is my brother's house which we just left before coming over this way. We stayed there last night. My house is up the road a piece. I operated that store in the lumber building over yonder until about three weeks ago. And this house here is Aunt Elizabeth MacDonald's. Mr. Nielsen here is supposed to be looking after it. He has the keys to it. We have come back to take a look around the town and see how things are going. Our people sent us from El Paso because the homes are ours, and we wanted to find what condition they are in. So we would like your permission to enter this house and look around a little."

I guess my friendly attitude finally impressed the Mexican, for he mumbled "Si," and went over and opened the door for us, then stood back and waited for us to go in. Three or four men and two women were lying on the floor asleep. They were rolled up in their blankets and no one stirred at the intrusion except one man who leaned on his elbow and looked at us, then got out of his blankets and followed us we stepped over sleeping forms or walked around them in our attempt to look in all of the rooms of the house. It was bare of furniture. Nothing was left that had made it livable. The two men followed us everywhere, with nothing of friendship in their eyes, so we did not stay long, but thanked them for showing us around. As we stepped outside, I said, "Now this house belongs to our people, but we are not going to disturb you here. We have just come up to look around and see how things are. We will be in the town for a few days, looking over the houses and fields and doing a little work. And we'll be seeing each other around. So, adios, amigos." As we walked away, Ern shuddered, saying, "B-r-r-r, that didn't feel a bit comfortable to me. Did you see those big butcher knives they were carrying?" I nodded.

During the next two or three days we looked into houses, visited the fields to see what shape they were in, mended fences that had been torn down, and got cattle out of the corn patches. I suffered a terrible shock when I entered my own yard. The front door of the house was swinging open, as had been the doors of almost every house in the village. While walking up the gravel path toward my doorway, I must have made a noise which could be heard inside the house, for suddenly I was met by a herd of pigs that came scrambling out of the front door, grunting and squealing, and looking like nothing I had ever seen before. They were white with feathers, which were sticking out of their ears, clinging to their hoofs, and bristling all over them. When I got inside the house, I discovered that looters had not only taken all of the clothing, blankets, and quilts that had been left in the home, but had also slit open the feather ticks and dumped the feathers on the floor, taking the ticking along to make shirts, trousers, and other articles of clothing. The pigs had evidently enjoyed sleeping in the soft piles of crushed feathers.

I stood and looked about me, feeling a helpless anger and despair. I remembered how hard Rose and I had worked to build our home, and to furnish it. Now the furniture was all gone, with the exception of the new organ which, though it had been too heavy to move, had not escaped the looters' wrath, for someone had taken an ax and chopped out the mirror in the top of the case. I thought of the weeks and months and years we had saved in order to purchase it, and of the many happy hours of singing as a family we had enjoyed. I wondered if we would ever have a chance to sing together again. My despair was not yet complete, however. My mother had been a poetess all her life. Locked away in a small chest had been all the beautiful poems written by her loving, care-worn hands. As my eyes fell on this calamity that had befallen me, I realized that somewhere among the rocks and sagebrush, and bantered about by the willful Garcia breezes, were all the gentle verses that represented a lifetime of her talent. I silently prayed to the Lord to quiet my consuming rage.

Right from the first we visited the cache I had made in the grove outside of town. It was in excellent condition, and had apparently been undisturbed by man or animal. Though the Mexicans had ransacked every building in town, they had failed to make a search of the area outside of town. Thus were we able to supply ourselves with food, and woo the friendship of the Mexicans with flour, beans, rice and sugar. Being very careful to visit the cache after dark, we brought the supplies in a little at a time, so that the Mexicans would think we had brought them in the buckboard from El Paso. Our ruse worked like a charm.

In the meantime, we had been trying to determine how to get the Mormon cattle out to the border. There were so many running in the hills, it was our feeling that a larger expedition should be brought in to drive a large herd out. As the plan developed, we decided to hire the Mexicans, who were becoming quite friendly after our gifts of food, to look after the cattle and perhaps help us round them up when we had succeeded in getting a larger group in from El Paso. On August 30th, after considerable council on the matter, Charles Whetten and my brother-in-law Ernest Nielsen went over to Colonia Pacheco to find out what the Pacheco boys had discovered on their arrival at that town. When they reached Corrales, an old Mexican fellow told them that the Pacheco boys had left in fear of their lives, because a band of rebels passing through had said they were going to search out the colonists who, they claimed, were responsible for the death of a Mexican.

Charles and Ernest went on to Pacheco, anyway, finding it in a much worse condition than Garcia, and they came back with very gloomy reports. After talking the matter through thoroughly, we decided to leave late in the night for El Paso and return with a much larger force of men to collect the cattle. Taking a little food from our cache, we rebound it carefully for the time when we would return, and drove the buckboard quietly out of town while the Mexicans slept. Rain was falling, and when we reached Hop Valley, where it was necessary to ford a creek, we found that the water was much deeper than usual. Ern was driving, and John Beecroft and I were in the front seat with him. Whetten and Dorton were in the back of the rig sitting on top of our few belongings, which included a roll of bedding with a canvas cover, a few personal possessions, and the scanty food rations.

As we approached the steep bank on the for side of the creek, Ern found that the high water had cut deep into the soil and left a bank too high for the horse and mule to climb over. All of us but Dorton scrambled out on the tongue between the two animals and jumped to the bank. Already, the buckboard was awash, and Dorton yelled, "The bed's a-goin'!" The rain had stopped, and through the few remaining clouds the moon was bright. We could pretty well see the meadow and willows and the face of the swift stream, where our bedding was bobbing along on the water. Without a word, three of us started after it.

A short distance below the ford, the creek made a wide bend, and here, where the water was shallow, Ern splashed right through, hoping to get ahead of the bedding and catch it if it came close to the bank. Beecroft and I ran around the bend and in doing so fell behind Ern. The bed missed the bank, and Ern kept on running to stay with it. He was soon somewhat ahead of me, and I was ahead of Beecroft. It was while we were thus situated that Ern all of a sudden saw a man half sitting on the ground, as if he had been sleeping and was trying to turn over. Then he saw many others lying near him. He had run into the middle of a sleeping rebel camp! About this time, I came through the bushes and called to Ern, "Can you see it?" All I got for an answer was a hoarsely whispered "Shut up!" Then I saw what he meant. By this time Beecroft had caught up with us, and he yelled, "Did you get it?"

It was now my turn to whisper "Shut up!" for by this time Mexicans were beginning to sit up all around, and John, too, realized what had happened. Again without a word, all three of us turned and began to walk quietly but rapidly up the trail on which we had just come. Finally, Ernest began to run, and soon after him I started to run, but John pleaded, "Aw, now, let's don't run!" His plea was wafted away on the nearest breeze, for Ern and I were breaknecking it back to the crossing as fast as our legs would carry us,

With true Latter-day Saint know-how, Whetten and Dorton had unhooked the horse and mule and got them out of the water. Then it was not difficult to tie onto the tongue and pull the empty rig out after them. They had just finished hitching up again when we three men come running in, gasping out the report about the rebel camp stationed around the bend below. We all piled into the buckboard and whipped up the little animals for all they were worth. We had lost our bed roll in the fracas, but we didn't have any more trouble with the rebel band. They had probably been as startled at our appearance as we had been at theirs. When we felt we were a safe distance away, we decided to sleep awhile. One drove while the others rested. When everyone but Ernest had finally waked up, we decided to play a trick on him. The driver whipped up the team and the rest of us grabbed the chains on either side of the buckboard, started shaking it as hard as we could, at the same time yelling "Whoa!" Ernest came to with a start and began yelling "Whoa!" too, When he realized it was all a trick, he was mad enough to beat us up.

THE GREAT ROUND-UP

We reached Colonia Juarez without further mishap, and here Ern and Charles stayed to help Joseph Bentley with his canning project, while I and two others went back to El Paso to report our findings to Bishop Whetten. We told him that the mountains were full of Colony cattle and that we thought it quite possible that if a large group of men were sent down, we could bring back a sizable herd to help our hard-pressed families in El Paso. Feeling that this effort would be the best means of sustenance, Bishop Whetten called the Garcia men together and proposed that they go on a "mission" to gather cattle, adding that they could take expenses and a reasonable wage out of the trip.

As his first counselor, I was once again asked to head the mission. Bishop Whetten was a deep-feeling man,- he did not want to ask anyone to go who did not have a mind to accept the call, for he knew that the job of spiriting out a thousand head of cattle from a country seething with revolution would be no easy task. But I had a deep faith that the Lord would help us in this serious and important task, and I accepted the call.

We took the train to Pearson. From here, we went to Colonia Juarez hoping to get an outfit to take us into the mountains, and though one Mexican offered to let us borrow four of his horses if we could find them on the range, we had to start out with the same rig and animals we had used on the previous trip. On September 10th we reached Garcia and found that the Mexicans we had entrusted with looking after our property had kept their word, and had even started rounding up some cattle for the expedition. After dark, I sent a man to our cache to bring in some supplies to pay the Mexicans, and then I hired them to help us gather more cattle, as I was anxious to accomplish the mission as quickly as possible. In three days we had rounded six or seven hundred head, and decided to take them down to Pearson until we could make another round-up to add to the first. On Sept. 13th Charles Whetten was sent to Corrales to enlist the help of any of our men who were there, but he met instead three Mexicans he had never seen before. They questioned him as to what he was doing, and upon being told that he and some of his friends were in Garcia looking after their cattle, one of the natives spoke to him in a belligerent manner, saying, "Well, you better all of you leave things alone around here and get out of this country, or you might get killed."

When Charles got back to Garcia and reported the incident, we pieced it together with a rumor another of our men had heard concerning intervention by the United States, and we felt that our well-laid plans were reaching serious proportions. It was decided that I should go to Pearson to investigate, and Whetten would go to the sawmill and wait to hear from me regarding the rumors. With our people in El Paso in a desperate condition, and having come as far as we had, we did not feel that we could give up. Accordingly, shortly after daylight, after learning from Whetten that the situation was not as bad as they had feared, four of our men and the four Mexicans started to move our cattle toward Pearson. Three others. stayed behind to pack the supplies in the buckboard. I had stayed in Pearson to make arrangements to ship the cattle, and thus did not hear of their escapade until later. They had met up with four armed rebels who demanded their guns. Fortunately, knowing that getting the cattle out was the important mission, my companions relinquished their weapons only after using every delaying tactic they could think of while inching the herd closer.

I was in Pearson to meet them, and as I sighted the herd coming in over the sand and rocks of those hills, I felt a mighty load lift from my shoulders. Rebels had burned a bridge at Arroyo Seco, but it was being repaired, and although I realized that we were still some miles from our destination, still I had deep faith that the Lord would continue to see us through. To this day, the knowledge that I was a part of the valiant mission that succeeded in bringing out of Mexico well over a thousand cattle to aid our stranded colonists arouses a deep sense of thankfulness in my heart.

PART TWO

With our families temporally provided for, we began thinking about the future. We knew we couldn't stay in El Paso so we decided to split up and try to find work with our friends. My brother Ernest and I went up to Blue Water where an uncle, Ernest Titchen, lived and we were glad to be able to rent his farm. My brother stayed there while I went back to get our families. At the office, where I went to get tickets for the two families, I was asked to write the names on the tickets. Of course, my wife's name was Farnsworth as was my sister-in-law's, and when the conductor picked up the passes, he decided we were a polygamist family from Mexico. I guess he informed all the crew of this oddity, for they all began walking back and forth to have a look. It didn't bother me, but it needled Ernest's wife until once or twice she stuck her tongue out at them.

We worked in Blue Water for a time, and when it seemed that Ernest could handle the farming, I took a logging job on Zuni Mountain. From here we went to Benson, where my brother Ray had a farm. Once again I went to logging, this time on Graham Mountain, where I worked with Jim Darton. But soon Ray asked me to manage his farm while he attended to his freighting business. Raymond was a wonderful freighting man, sensible and efficient about moving ore from the mines to the railroad. While we were in Benson, Bishop Whetten moved there and rented an alfalfa farm, on which he and his boys worked. It was here that he and I received a letter from President Ivins asking us to move back to Mexico to help some of our prople reestablish themselves.

THE RETURN VENTURE

The pros and cons of the Exodus have frequently been aired, both in the press and among the participants. Whether by maintaining strict neutrality in the Mexican Revolution the Mormon colonists could have stuck it out in their homes and villages is a question that will never be answered. At least one top-ranking colonist, Joseph C. Bentley, was of the opinion that it might have been possible. Though he was aware that there would be a drain on Mormon supplies, he nevertheless believed it strongly enough that he and about 35 others returned to Colonia Juarez some four weeks after the Exodus. Homes and fields were still in good condition, and the small company went to work to harvest what they could of the crops. Rebel captain Enrique Portillo was aware of their return, and soon entered town with a contingent of soldiers. As always, he was looking for horses, and rode off with all he could find. Though he had been demanding, the captain maintained order among his men, and with the exception of one of them, they left without further looting. The straggler, however, entered the Romney home and victimized the family. A conscientious man, Brother Bentley began to feel that other such incidents might occur as a result of his boldness in returning to Juarez in direct opposition to the priesthood-ordered evacuation, and he advised the men and their families to move back to the United States. Disappointed at this seeming failure, he bided his time, still hoping that by some miracle the Mormons could return to the colonies. Upon receipt of a letter from President Joseph F. Smith, authorizing him to act as bishop of the Juarez Ward if he desired to return, he felt that he now had the proper authority to act.

It was on January 31, 1913, that Bishop Bentley and his party of sixty-four again left El Paso for their homes in Mexico. They traveled by train to Columbus, but from there to Colonia Juarez, accommodations were not much better than they had been on the journey 28 years earlier. Still, their faith was deep and abiding, as was mine when I went "back home" in 1914. Could we have envisioned that for seven more years life would be punctuated by humiliation and harassment at the hands of the rebels, it is possible our spirits would have been less exultant. But then, Latter-day Saints have had to exist on their sublime faith through many crucial periods.

Upon our return, Bishop Whetten and I were unable to get back to our mills, so we stayed in Colonia Juarez. Though even here the signs of desolation and destruction were unmistakable, it was about the only place the rebels had left habitable. I moved my family, which now consisted of my wife and four children--with another on the way--into a house belonging to Guy C. Wilson. We rented a small farm belonging to Lydia Durchee. We were continually being asked for supplies and food, and eventually became quite resigned to it, but one day my wife had a particularly disquieting experience. The house we had rented was the first dwelling travelers reached on coming from the mountains into Juarez. On this occasion, a large troop of soldiers rode in. They had been out in the hills trying to capture some opposing forces, and after a skirmish or two had gotten lost. Having been on short rations for quite a spell, they were famished and made a beeline for our kitchen as soon as they had wrapped their reins around the corral posts. I was across the river at the church headquarters, but when Rosine saw the soldiers coming up the path, she sent two of our little boys to find me. When she answered the banging on the door, the soldiers demanded something to eat.

"I haven't anything for you. All I've got is flour," she said. "That's all right," they replied. "We will build some little fires down by the woodpile and cook some tortillas."

Just the day before, I had brought five hundred pounds of flour and shorts from the mill over at Dublan, and the big flour bin in the kitchen was full, so Rosine gained back a little of her composure. "Wait right here," she said, "and I will bring you some." She began carrying a scoopful to each of the men, who were crowding around the doorway holding out their hats or sarapes. Down at the woodpile, they mixed the flour with water and slapped their tortillas. So anxious were those still in line, they began swarming right into Rosine's kitchen to the-very edge of the flour bin itself.

Now frightened, Rosine said to their captain, "Please tell the men that I do not want them in my kitchen. I will bring the flour to the door." He ordered the men to stay outside, but their requests continued until Rosine felt sure she would soon run out of flour. About then I arrived home and began to carry flour down from the loft, where I had stored it the day before. The soldiers kept coming, Rosine surmised that she served some of them two or three times. My mother had been viewing the whole episode from the porch, where she was rocking our baby. As night approached and the flour had nearly disappeared, Rosine said to me, "What shall we do now?" Somewhat abashed, I said, "Let's bring in my mother, pull down the blinds and lock the door. There is nothing else we can do." And so, though the men were still coming up the path, we shut the door on them. They kept banging on it, however, calling, "I want something to eat!"

"We haven't anything left," I called back. "Well, give us some of what you are going to eat,'' a voice loudly entreated.

One of Rosine's tasks that day had been the preparation of a big batch of pickles, for which she had cut up a large number of cucumbers, onions and green tomatoes into a big kettle on the stove With the arrival of the soldiers, the fire had gone out with the pickles only partially warm. They were still raw and now cold, As the soldier kept demanding food, Rosine said to me, "If he wants all we've got left, give him a dipperful of those pickles." I selected a dipper that held almost a quart, filled it and carried it to the door The Mexican held up his blanket and I dumped the pickles in, No one came back for more!

But Rosine had not seen the last of them, The next morning, I went out to the corral near which the soldiers had camped, and invited the six officers I found there to come in and eat breakfast. Rose sent our little boys out to the hayloft to find stolen nests, and they came back with enough eggs for the officers' breakfast. She also scraped up enough flour for biscuits. After they had eaten, the general gave Grant, our four-year-old, eighteen pesos in Villa money. It was all he had.

There were a number of occasions when the Villistas tried to show us a little friendship, One time, my friend John Whetten went to Taos, New Mexico, to fulfill a logging contract He asked me to go along as his blacksmith, and I was up there for several months. It was during this time that Pancho Villa's army was defeated by Obregon's. My family was still in Juarez and I didn't want to leave them alone, so I quit my job and went home. As I approached town, I thought it had been abandoned by our people, as I didn't see any lights, and soldiers were sleeping on my brother's porch. But as I got closer, my sister-in-law came out of the house- it was still early and my brother was just getting up. Upon his appearance, he told me that he had to milk the cows, so I went with him, but as fast as he milked, the soldiers took the milk for themselves. He told me that things went along quite well as long as the Mormons helped the soldiers out a little, Shortly before the rebels were ready to leave the area, one of them came to my brother and told him that if he had any horses or anything else that could be used to move the army, it had better be hidden, for Villa had given orders that any such property should be confiscated. My brother was thus able to notify our people, and they took their animals into the mountains.

From this experience and others, we conceived the idea of sending our horses back into the Blue Mountains, there to be kept out of the path of invading bands. Two men would make camp out there for a few weeks, herd the horses and hunt deer. The latter would be made into jerky to be taken back to the colonists. Under this plan, when a season arrived that called for a good team, a span would be brought from the mountains and cautiously worked and hidden until they could be returned to the hideout. It was quite successful, but sometimes the soldiers would come in without warning and find horses in a man's corral or hitched to his wagon. This was when "handouts" proved of great benefit.

I had traded a fine pair of light mules, which were good to pack or ride, for a much heavier team of horses that could do the farm work more successfully, though one of them had a game leg. I kept them locked in the barn when I was not using them, because we could never tell when the soldiers would come through looking for fresh mounts. One Saturday, Rosine made a big dishpan full of doughnuts, and baked two or three apple pies. She wanted to have a nice treat for us when we got back from church on Sunday morning. We were just sitting down to dinner when we heard old Tom's high, piercing neigh. I wondered if we had forgotten to latch the barn door, and ran out to check. Sure enough, the horses were outside in the corral, and coming down the dugway above the house was a column of soldiers. I asked my son to run back to the house and bring out the big pan of doughnuts.

He soon returned. The soldiers had started climbing over the fence to catch the horses, As one of them walked with his hand out toward old Tom, I said to him,"Old Tom's no good. Can't you see he's got a stiff front leg? Here, have a doughnut." When another soldier started toward King, I called, "You don't want that old horse, He's too big and heavy, and he trots like riding on a lumber wagon. Here, have a doughnut."

I kept this up until the doughnuts were entirely gone. Then I said to one of the boys, "Run in and tell Mama that you want a pie. Soon, the pies as well as the doughnuts were gone. The soldiers, however, had enjoyed themselves as they rarely had an opportunity to. They looked at the empty dishpan and pieplates, Then they looked at each other and said, "Oh, well, those horses are no good any way. They're too heavy. Come on, let's go." They rode off.

Trouble with the rebels persisted, though it eased off as supplies dwindled and the revolution itself died down. But one day we received word by a runner that Poncho Villa was going through the mountains on his way to the U.S A. In the absence of her husband, the rebel leader had kidnapped the wife of Earl Wright, and when Wright and a friend went in pursuit, Villa had them shot. After raiding Columbus, he came back to the colonies and was very angry because the United States did not recognize him as they did Obreqon. We were afraid he might attack the colonies, so President Bentley called the bishops and their counselors together to discuss the problem, for Villa was supposed to arrive that night. Some of the men were of the opinion that they should take their families and hide in the mountains, but after prayerful consideration, President Bentley and the High Council decided that the best thing to do was to go home, turn out all the lights and go to bed. Two guards were stationed at the roads into town; they were to awaken the village if Villa arrived. I was one of the guards. It was later reported that when Villa got to the stockyards above Dublan, he saw the whole town lit up with fires and thought the other army had beaten him there. Afraid to get closer, he turned around and left. On another occasion, President Bentley and Bishop Whetten proposed that we take a trip to Garcia. It was dangerous because the soldiers were still around, but we went anyway. When we reached our destination, President Bentley said he felt we should kneel down and dedicate the place for the immediate return of the Garcia people. We did as he asked with Bishop Whetten giving the prayer. On our way back to Juarez, we were accosted by rebels, who asked us to give up our guns. I had one hidden in our buckboard under a deer I had shot, but I told him we did not have any, without our rifles to obtain game, we would almost have starved. But the soldiers insisted that I unwrap the bedding in which I had rolled the deer and the gun. I tried to stall as long as possible, telling Bishop Whetten to give the men some of my wife's cookies, which we had brought along. Finally, one of the men told me to hurry up, and as I took the lost layer of bedding off the deer I had a sinking feeling that we were in for trouble. But the men did not investigate; they saw the deer and assumed that Bishop Bentley, who ridden ahead of us, was carrying the gun.

I have always felt that in both these cases the Lord must surely have been protecting us.

After Bishop Bentley became president of the stake, John J. Walser was made bishop of Juarez and I became his counselor. One of my duties in this position was that of a home teacher. One night, I went to Brother Hatch's home in search of his son Hugh, who was my companion teacher. He wasn't there, so I presented the lesson and left. When I had finished my round and nearing home, I thought I saw someone by my chicken coop. I went a little closer and heard a voice exclaim, "Hugh, if you can get the board off we can get the chickens." Right away, I knew it was Hugh Hatch and Lee Wood. Without further ado, I spoke up and said, "Lee, don't tear down the coop; let me go get the key." I didn't hear a sound for a moment, then Lee said, "Damn you, Les!"

I couldn't help but laugh, for they were so humiliated. They tried to refuse the chickens I offered them, but I gave them two nice ones anyway. With an embarrassed "Thank you, " they asked me not to tell on them, and I said I wouldn't, if they wouldn't steal any more. After hastily promising, they hurried away. The next day, I found that they themselves had told everyone in town.

Since sawmilling was the trade in which I had had the most experience, I engaged in it whenever the opportunity arose, and conditions at home were such that I could leave. I worked one winter at Pearson, about six miles below Juarez, for the Pearson Lumber Company, running a small mill for the company before they started up their big mills. An elderly man by the name of Gilbert Webb had been hired as watchman, and he and I stayed in the same lodging house. He was a fine old man who gave nearly all his wages to poor widows whose husbands had been killed in the war, and whose families would have sometimes gone mighty hungry without his help. But something had occurred earlier in his life which resulted in his having been disfellowshipped from the church. I never knew what it was, and I never questioned him about it.

Later, when I was on a trip to El Paso with President Bentley, he read me a letter he had received from President Heber J. Grant, asking him to find Brother Webb and tell him that the Lord had forgiven him his past mistakes. Brother Bentley had learned that Webb was in a hotel in El Paso, and asked me to go with him to take the message. When it was read to Brother Webb, he broke down and cried. "This is what I have been praying and hoping for for a long time, and now I can die in peace," he uttered. We placed our hands on his head and President Bentley gave him a wonderful blessing, conferring on him all his former offices as a member of the church. The happiness that shone in the old man's eyes was a sight I have never forgotten.

GARCIA, ONCE AGAIN

In 1917 President Ivins came to Juarez, and while there, suggested a hunting trip. Before long, two or three truckloads of men were ready to go. Camping on Juniper Flat, we hunted during the day and returned to camp at night, making huge bonfires by which to keep warm in the high mountain air. After preparing and partaking of a friendly meal, President Ivins said to Bishop Whetten, "With your permission, I'd like to have a meeting." After we had sung a hymn and opened the meeting, Brother Ivins talked to us. Among other things, he said, "I'd like to re-organize the Garcia Ward, and if it is your wish to sustain the appointment of Lester B. Farnsworth as the new bishop of Garcia, I will ordain him to that office and allow him to choose his own counselors."

And so it was that on a lone mountain top, in the summer of 1917, I become bishop of Garcia. And although the Red Flaggers were still running about in the hills, my wife and I and our family of six children moved back into the high valley. Our homes and other buildings were in a bad condition, and it was almost like starting over again, but we stayed there for eleven years. About 160 people eventually joined us, many of them my kinfolk who had lived there before the Exodus.

Strange as it may seem, we had no more trouble with the rebels, but coming back stranded and broke, we were frequently hungry. My wife's stove was an old iron one that some Mexican had discarded, and we had no refrigerators; when anyone killed game, we had to divide it with our neighbors before it spoiled. One day, when I was over on Blue Mountain looking for a deer, I spotted a nice one. I shot at him and he fell, but I couldn't find him. I looked and looked with no success. Finally, I knelt down and prayed to the Lord, telling him how badly we needed the meat. Upon arising, I glanced around and saw a leg; the deer had been almost completely covered by grass. The Lord had helped me once again.

I often think of those difficult days. Of the 25 families who joined with Rose and me at the request of President Ivins, not one had any money. We had no cattle, and thus no milk or meat for our children. We arrived in our wagons or buckboards with only a few bare necessities such as beans, rice, flour and maybe a little sugar. But with a rich supply of faith in our Lord we went to work and tilled all the available farm land, and I put our old sawmill back into operation. As bishop, I was responsible for the safekeeping of all the people, and I felt my duties keenly.

When it seemed that I had all but come to my wit's end in securing an adequate living for the community, Erastus Jacobson, an old friend of mine, came to town. After we had greeted each other warmly, he told me that he wanted to sell his herd of cattle, which numbered over - 200 head, and hoped the people of Garcia would buy them. I was overwhelmed at the possibility of obtaining such a prize, but knowing that we had no money with which to buy them I regretfully declined the offer, and told my friend why. Undaunted by my refusal, he suggested that he take his pay in lumber from the sawmill.

The knowledge of what a herd of 200 cattle would mean to my struggling ward awakened all my sensitivities. On one hand I wanted to accept Jacobson's offer immediately, but another part of me said it was my duty to confer with my stake officers before making a decision. I therefore told 'Rastus that I must talk with the stake presidency before giving him my answer. Not long after this, President Bentley and John Whetten, a counselor in the stake presidency, come up to Garcia.

I first talked with John about the matter, and much to my surprise he discouraged me, "Les," he said, "the men in town are not able to undertake such an obligation. They don't have proper feed for their horses, and without it they couldn't possibly haul that much lumber over these rugged mountain passes." I realized he was right, and I decided that if Pres. Bentley was of the some opinion, I would abandon the idea. But much to my relief, Pres. Bentley said to me, "I feel the same inspiration as you do about this, Brother Farnsworth, and I think you should go ahead and accept." The three of us discussed the matter at some length, with Brother Whetten still arguing against it. Pres. Bentley still approved, however, saying that he felt sure the Lord would see us through,and John concurred.

So I went ahead and made the deal. We took the cattle to the Gavilan Ranch corral where each man selected three or four milk cows so that he could provide his family with milk and butter. The men insisted that I have first choice, and I chose a big red cow. They felt I should call her "First Choice," so that was her name as long as I had her. After all the men had made their selections, there were about 35 beef steers still remaining. The bishopric took charge of them, and we finally sold them in Pearson to the Bavicorc Company in exchange for corn. We now had feed for our horses as well as corn for bread. In a year's time every man had paid off his share of the bill. I never once wavered in my belief that the Lord would see us through, and He did .

Inasmuch as there were no hotels in town, it was always the responsibility of the bishop and his wife to entertain visiting church dignitaries, and so we had a great deal of company. With no phones or postal service by which we could be advised as to when visitors were coming, it would seem that the bishop's wife would be in a constant state of frustration. But not Rose! In those days, we termed it a "premonition" she had as to just the day she needed to have things spruced up and a nice dinner prepared. Nowadays, I think it is called "extrasensory perception," but whatever the term, Rose always seemed to know when I had better go out and kill a couple of chickens, for company was coming!"

She retained this talent throughout her life, and many times apprised us of happenings before they happened. I recall the time our son Laurence was ill in the hospital. I had gone to visit my brother Elmer in Cochise, and went from there to the hospital. But LaFay, another son, took Rose to see Laurence. On the way over, she questioned LaFay as to his burial place, and other information one talks of when there is a death in the family. LaFay said to her, "Why Mother, why are you saying these things? Laurence is not dead ... .. But he soon will be," she replied. We buried him not long afterward.

Several times, she alerted me or others of the family to something harmful that was occurring or would occur to a loved one, resulting in our being able to avert tragedy. Angel that she was, perhaps the Lord endowed her with this special talent, knowing that she would always use it for good rather than selfish purposes.

In trying to re-build Garcia, we worked very hard and had many disappointments. But we also shared many joys and pleasures. As bishop, I had the honor of joining several young couples in marriage, two at which I officiated were especially pleasing: those of my sisters-in-law Josephine Nielsen to P.D. Spilsbury, and Florence Nielsen to Lee Wood. Some of our greatest joys and sorrows as a family occurred in Garcia, as well. Seven more children were born to us, making fourteen in all, including little Carl, who died in 1911. Grant Emil, born in 1912, died June 24, 1918, while attending Primary. A little dance was being held for the children, and as often happened, a thunderstorm arose, with lightning and the heavy close thunder typical of mountain storms. A lightning bolt hit the chimney on the chapel and traveled down it, striking and killing our little boy before he hardly knew what had happened. It was only a short four years later that our 13-year-old daughter Vera fell from a wagon, and though she didn't seem to be badly hurt, she became gravely ill, and we took her to El Paso for medical aid. On April 13, 1922, just one month from the day of the accident, she died. Three more of our children--Florence, Julia and Alma Ray--died as babies between 1927 and 1933, For people who love children as did Rose and I, this sorely tormented our hearts. We turned often to the Lord for comfort.

Summers, and the brisk cold winters, came and went, and with each one we fought a losing battle with nature; either drouth or too much rain--or unseasonal frosts--shattered our hopes for crops that would sustain us. In 1928, with heavy hearts, we abandoned forever our mountain valley. It was especially painful for the Farnsworth family, for it had been our creation; my father and his family had hewed it out of the very rocks and soil. I was deeply sorry that we had been unable to make a go of it, but knowing it was inevitable, Rose and I and our children moved back to Colonia Juarez. Others of the colony went either to Juarez or elsewhere.

REJUVENATION

It took a long time for the Mormons to get back on their feet in Mexico. The long drain of the revolution--and the constant demand for supplies and the out-and-out stealing had brought things to such a point it looked, sometimes, like we were never going to re-establish a stable economy. The stores and industries were forced to close their doors, and after the rebels attacked Pearson and took over the lumber mills, it seemed that even sawmilling was doomed. Fortunately, the Juarez inhabitants began to revive the apple culture and after many problems, rebuilt it into a paying enterprise. And not being able to operate the sawmills themselves, the Mexicans leased them to individual colonists. I leased one and operated it for some time, then I turned it over to Bishop Pierce and worked for him as foreman.

One of my main problems was paying our Mexican workmen, for they demanded their wages of two pesos every night. It was almost impossible to keep enough money on hand to pay them. Finally, I went to El Paso and had printed a stock of boletos (bills) which the men could use as money in our store, and if and when they collected enough to spend outside our area, I wrote them out a check in exchange. The bills did not resemble government currency in the least, and were used somewhat like Mormon "script" was handled in the early days of Utah. The men seemed perfectly happy with the arrangement. But one day, about a year after I had instituted the "bills", Epiphanio Marcus, the labor inspector from down in the valley, came up and looked around the mill. He ended up in my office with a few of the boletos in his hand, and asked me about them. I explained to him the reason for them, and that I had not forced the men to use them. But ignoring my explanation, he said to me, "Do you know that this is contrary to the law?" - I answered that I did not, but that if such were the case I would handle things differently. He peered at me haughtily and informed me that in any case I would have to pay a thousand pesos for my mistake.

I felt that this was mainly a ruse to extract some money from me, and I said to him, "But what I have been doing had not harmed anyone. No one but you had ever complained to me about it. Why don't we regard this as a warning, which I will acknowledge, and I'll change the practice?" But he told me that I had broken the law and would have to pay the fine. Rather than argue with him, (which I knew would be of no use, anyway) I wrote him a check for the thousand pesos. After that, I made arrangements with the Pierce Company in Ciudad Juarez to ship silver coins to me every week. I was to pick them up at Casas Grandes.

Even this arrangement worked out pretty well, for the men spent most of their money at the company store anyway, and we could use whatever cash we took in one day to pay the wages that night. But I still had to make the weekly trip to Casas Grandes, and this gave my Mexican workmen something to think about. They were quick to realize that on the day I was absent from the mill, I was down at Casas Grandes picking up a lovely bag of silver, and on one occasion some of the unscrupulous ones made plans to relieve me of it. They chose a spot at the bottom of a hill, where the Model T Ford I had acquired would naturally have to slow down, and had decided to throw a log across the road to bring me to a stop. But I had two very good friends in camp--Francisco and Manuel Romero, who had been with me for many years. They gathered some of the other men, and on the day when the robbery was to take place, followed the plotters and ran them out of camp. I did not even know about it until after it happened.

When the timber had been pretty well cleared from the area, we moved the mill over to Cluff's Sinks. This called for a readjustment in our way of freighting. Formerly, we had been using eight- or ten-muleteam wagons driven by Mexicans. Brother Pierce and I now felt that because of the rugged terrain and longer hauling distance in the new area, it would be wiser to use large trucks, and we obtained three. This did not set well with the teamsters, and they filed a complaint against me in Casas Grandes. When I answered the subsequent summons and explained my position to the judge, he understood my predicament and explained to the men that I was not obligated to hire them. I liked the men, and was sorry to see them lose their jobs, but I had told them that the new road was too long and narrow for teams to be used; that trucks would be much cheaper and more efficient. I was relieved when the judge decided in my favor.

I finally got the new operation under way, hiring drivers for the trucks, among them my nephew Charlie. Not far from the sawmill had sprung up the usual camp of Mexican laborers. Some of them were loggers, others worked at the mill, and some of them more or less hung around hoping to pick up a few dollars at any odd job that developed, such as loading the lumber. Every time one of the trucks chugged through the little camp town on its return trip to the mill, the "extras" clambered into it hoping to be chosen as a "loader". I had contracted the loading to Mexican foremen, and so felt no direct responsibility about these truck hoppers, though I had cautioned the drivers to go slow through the town.

One day, as Charlie made his trip back to the mill, the usual group swarmed into the street and climbed on the truck. A tardy one, spying his brother already aboard, made a hasty attempt to join him, but slipped and fell. The trailer struck him and he was instantly killed. The yelling of the men prompted Charlie to stop the truck, though he couldn't imagine what had happened. All of the riders, even the victim's brother, admitted that Charlie had not been at fault; that the dead man's poor judgment was responsible for the accident. The legal authority of the town, after hearing all the facts, dismissed the case,

The ensuing year was a busy one. With the exception of the yearly inspection of old Epiphanio Marcus, things went well at the sawmill, and I decided to purchase a bigger and more substantial home. Rose and the children were delighted to be established in a beautiful rock house overlooking the town. The logging camp was saddened ' however, by the illness and death of Charlie, our driver. Still, life must always go on, and I had almost forgotten the incident of the truck hopper when my old adversary, Epiphanio, came into my office. Without fanfare, he announced:

"I have come up here with a judgment against you from the court." Taken aback, I asked him, "Whatever for?" "For the killing of that man in the camp," he answered. "I took it to court and got a judgment against you for several thousand dollars. And I can't let you out of your office until it is paid."

I explained to him that we had held court at the time, and that Charlie had been exonerated, but Marcus said, "Well, in a case like that you have to go to a higher court. This court was held in El Valle. A notice was published in the paper for you to appear and answer charges, and since you did not appear, the judgment was handed down that you lost the case by default."

I was exasperated, but I told Marcus that I would get in touch with A. L. Pierce, owner of the Juarez Lumber Company, and straighten it out. But he was not satisfied: "Well, I'll put an embargo on your lumber so that you can't ship any more out. I'll shut down your mill until you make good," he said.

I was sick about it. I told Epiphanio that many people depended on the mill for their livelihood, and that it would be unfair to shut it down. "In that case,' he said, "I will embargo enough of your lumber to cover the charge against you." Then ordering that about 100,000 feet of lumber be piled in a separate yard, he marked it so that it could not be moved or touched until the matter was settled.

I got in touch with Pierce, who put his lawyer to work on it. It was found that the mill was running in the name of C. D. Pierce, A. L.'s brother, thus the judgment was against the wrong man and was thrown out of court. I was able to relax for awhile. But Epiphanio was not through yet. One day he knocked on the door of our home in Juarez. Up. on answering it, Rose stared at the haughty face of the caller, who said, "We have a court order to take your house! Your husband was in charge of the sawmill when that Mexican boy was killed up there at the lumber camp, and we filed a complaint in another court and published notification, and now have a court order to take it."

Looking back on it, this last statement was the most disagreeable ramification of the whole miserable episode. Rose was always the gentlest of persons. Her whole being was involved with love--of me, our children and home, her parents and brothers and sisters, the Church and mankind in general, including such people as Epiphanio Marcus. She would never have willfully hurt any being in this world. That this pompous inspector should have thrust his greediness even into the sanctity of Rose's home was the most serious insult he could have inflicted. I again got in touch with Pierce. His lawyer was able to show that since I did not yet have the deeds to the home, having not entirely paid for it, they could not take it away from me.

About the year 1936, while I was a member of the High Council, Juarez Stake, I was called to take a group of Aaronic Priesthood boys to the temple in Mesa, Arizona, to do baptisms for the dead, Three of the brethren of the stake volunteered to go and furnish their trucks for transportation. There were sixty boys and four men, including myself. About 1700 dead relatives had their temple work done for them at this time.

We had a wonderful trip out to Mesa. We spent the first day in the temple, and during the services, heard a choir singing. It sounded beautiful, and the selection was familiar, though I didn't know the title. A lady worker standing near me asked if I could hear the singing. I said I could, and asked her if there were other services going on in another part of the temple. She answered, "No, you are hearing a Heavenly Choir." It was a wonderful experience.

The second day we spent sightseeing in the valley, and early in the morning of the third day we started home. A few miles east of Deming, New Mexico, the driver of the lead truck ran onto a soft shoulder of dirt and the truck tipped over. One of our smaller boys--Lee Rue Wood--was sitting on the down side and got his leg and foot badly crushed. Another boy, Carl Farnsworth, got his arm broken. I, sitting in the cob, got a bad cut on my right arm. We righted the truck, built a fire by the side of the road and did all we could for the wounded.We decided to take the boys back to Deming for help. About that time, a car came by and offered assistance. We accepted their help and the three of us who were injured went back.

I took Lee Rue to the hospital and called his grandmother in Mesa. Carl and I then went to Dr. Stovall's office. I had known the doctor and played with his son many years before. He set Carl's arm and took stitches in mine. We sat in his office not knowing what to do next, for we were without money or a way to get home. I silently offered up a prayer to God asking for help. Almost immediately, a stranger opened the office door and said, "I understand there are a man and a boy here who would like to go to Colonia Juarez. I am going there and would appreciate having someone show me the way." We were very grateful, and I once again thanked the Lord for answering my prayers.

CALIFORNIA

Nowhere in the world does nature paint her trees more vividly than in Colonia Juarez. Perhaps it is the desert background--the red rocks of the mountains blending with those of a creamy hue--that gives to the green of the trees an almost mystic quality. And the thread of a river running through the town adds enchantment. Mexico had been my home almost all my life; its hills and valleys were a part of me. The people of the colonies had long been my neighbors and friends, and though the Mexicans were sometimes difficult, I held a love for them, too. But after the difficulties at the sawmill, a kind of weariness overcame me. This, coupled with Rosine's desire to return to the U.S.A., prompted me, in 1938, to sell all my interests to my brother and leave.

We moved to Oroville, California, where my son Burt bought me a farm of about 10 acres. We raised naval oranges, olives and other things. The market was poor, however, so one year, after raising a splendid crop of oranges, I decided to go to Salt Lake City, where my nephew, Joe Fyans, was manager of Safeway Stores. He said he needed oranges and would take all I had for $2.00 a lug, and would send trucks down to our farm to get them. I was very pleased, for I judged I had about 1,000 boxes, whichwould net me some $2,000. But upon my return to California I learned that I could only send 10-boxes out of the state, and that about the only place I could sell them in California was to the Sunkist Company, who paid only 14 cents a lug. At this price, I could scarcely make a living for my family.

So, once again I turned to sawmilling, co-purchasing a mill at Garbel Gap a few miles above Oroville. We delivered lumber to Sacramento, but only got $19.00 per thousand, which was a losing proposition. Finally, my partner resorted to bankruptcy, but I could not bring myself to do likewise. We owed one man $60.00, but couldn't find him, so he didn't get paid. Then I went to work at another mill. While there, I was once again accosted by officers and arrested. The unpaid workman was pressing charges. I paid him, and once again was out from under legal problems.

On July 10, 1942, we moved to Oakland, where I got a job at the shipyards. After the bombing of Pearl Harbor, business, of course, was painfully brisk. When the need for battleships slackened, I got employment in San Francisco as custodian of the Son Francisco Stakehouse. Here I worked for 10 years.

Of course, Rose and I kept up our church activities, and I tried to further the Lord's work whenever and wherever possible. One particular instance remains in my mind; it occurred while I was working in the shipyards among men of many kinds and creeds. My companion was not a Mormon, but he was a good man, and we chummed around together. At noon, all the men gathered at the same place for lunch, and we two were continually being bombarded with crude language uttered by many of the men. I had always been taught not to take the Lord's name in vain, and the regularity with which these man were doing it, along with other offensive speech, disturbed me greatly. I said as much to my companion, and he agreed with me. One day I told my friend I was go-in' to talk to these man about what they were saying, so when we went to lunch, I asked if I could have the floor lor a few minutes. They were somewhat taken aback, but one of them answered, "Well, you never say much, so go ahead."

I told them I saw no reason for them to talk like they did; that the Lord had said He would find no man guiltless for such talk, and I believed they should stop it. They didn't say much for awhile, but finally one after another agreed with me, and promised to reform. During the days that followed, they usually lived up to their promise. If one occasionally forgot, he would turn to me and say, "I'm sorry."

Another incident I well remember took place when I was a ward teacher in San Francisco. One month our lesson was on tithing, and after giving the message to one fine young couple, the wife said to us, "We can't pay tithing." Upon being asked why not, she said they were in the army and her husband made only $90.00 a month, which sometimes was not enough to feed the four of them; that sometimes they went hungry. I told them that of course it was up to them, but that tithing was a blessing promised by commandment. The young husband asked me what I would do in his place, whereupon I said, "I am going to pay the $9.00 tithing, then explain it to the Lord and ask Him what to do." I left then, coming back the next two or three months without mentioning tithing again. After a time, the wife indicated she had something to tell me: "We prayed about it, and decided to pay the tithing and ask the Lord for help." she said. After that, they had money coming in from sources they had not even thought of.

We had come to love San Francisco, and the many wonderful people with whom we became acquainted. Rosine was especially fond of the beautiful, bustling area, so different from the isolated, sometimes unfriendly country of Mexico--though a part of our hearts would ever remain in the Colonies. On August 8, 1955, with our many friends, we celebrated our Golden Wedding in the Bay City, and were again pleased and privileged to have my brother Elmer play his violin at the celebration, as he had done when we were married. By 1957, however, I was 78 years of age, and both my wife and I felt that we wanted to spend some of our remaining time on earth doing work in the temple. So we made up our minds to return to Mesa.

 

SAND AND SUNSET

The little home we purchased was just a block from the temple, and here I did work for the dead for several years. I guess Rose felt that by now she had had enough of moving, for she said to me one day, "Oh, Lester, if you are ever called to go and help build up Jackson County in Missouri, please let me just stay here in Mesa." I sort of chuckled, for I do believe if I had asked her to go with me to Missouri, she would have smiled her sweet smile and begun to pack. For it had been said by many, including our children, that they never heard us quarrel; that if I got out of patience, I just began to whistle. And somehow I was lucky enough to have a wife who thought I never did anything wrong. How could we quarrel under those conditions?

But the years had taken their toll on my darling. Never robust, she became frailer as the months passed by, and on November 11, 1966, her noble heart gave out. As I sat by her bed during the last days, I kept hoping that by some miracle she would improve. But I think she knew it was not to be, for one day she said to me, "Papa, I am perfectly prepared to go. And I am happy, for I am going up there to look after our ten children while you stay here to take care of the other four." We buried her in Mesa.

Yes, we had fourteen children born to us, and of these only Afton LeRoy, Leona, Alonzo LaFayette and Alene are living today (1970). Our daughter Mae died November 1, 1940, at the age of 26, and is buried in Oroville. Ruth died tragically December 14, 1948, at the age of 27 in Guam, and is buried in San Francisco. Laurence Elmer died October 22, 1959, at the age of 32 and is buried in Tucson. Lester Burt died March 31, 1965, and is buried in Mesa. Of the children who died while we were in Mexico, Carl, Florence and Grant are buried in Colonia Garcia; Alma Ray in Pacheco. Little Vera was laid to rest in El Paso, and Julia in Tucson.

I often reminisce about each of those who has gone, and quite naturally the words of a poem, very loved by Rose, come to my mind:

I think ofttimes as the night draws nigh, of an old house on the hill,

Of a yard all wide and blossomed and starred where the children played at will.

And when the night at lost come down hushing the merry din,

Mother would look all around and ask "Are all the children in?"

'Tis many and many a year since then, and the old house on the hill

No longer echoes to childish feet, and the yard is still, oh so still.

But I see it all as the shadows creep, as though many years have been,

And still I can hear my mother ask "Are all the children in?"

I wonder, when the shadows fall on the last short earthly day,

When we say goodbye to the world outside all tired with our childish play,

When we meet the lover of boys and girls who died to save them from sin,

Will we hear Him ask as Mother did, "Are all the children in?"

I have been very lonely since Rose's death, but my four wonderful children have been extremely good to me, and they and their children and grandchildren, of whom there are now 28, are all very dear to me. I am also proud to be able to say that Burt, Leona, Alene and Laurence served missions for the Church. Burt was the first missionary to take Lamanites to the Mesa Temple.

Rose and I tried to live the gospel as taught to us by our church and our good Latter-day Saint parents. We have been sorely tried many times, and many times have turned to our Lord for help and sustenance. I believe I can truly say that He never failed us, and that from our testimonies of His gospel came the strength to carry us on.

I will be 91 years old on the 23rd of August 1970. 1 hope he will continue to help me so that I won't be a burden to my children. I love each and every one of them, and ask the Lord to bless them, and I do this in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

This story of my life, written for my children and my children's children, has been prepared from material dictated by me. Those sections dealing with the Exodus, and the after years while I was still in Mexico, are taken, in part from Mr. Karl Young's book Long, Hot Summer, later expanded and re-named Ordeal in Mexico. Mr. Young's work was compiled mainly from tapes made at his request by L.D.S. participants, including myself and my wife, Rosine.

 

Lester B. Farnsworth