ID: Emily (Fairfield) Duncan autobiography, page 8

visit." I, too, was a very delicate baby. Grandpa, in his diary, says "Poor little Emily, I fear they will never raise her". When I was not quite two years old, my brother Albert was born [October 20, 1877]. This time it was decided to take the chance of staying on the ranch and although my father rode a horse "Old Whitey", to his death in order to get a doctor, all went well and the baby, strong and healthy and "so homely my father would not own him", arrived safely.

I don’t remember much of our life on the ranch at this time as I was so young when we left it to go to the mines. A toll road was built to the Geysers which ran close by the house and toll was collected at the bridge over our creek, so I have a dim recollection of the stages stopping there and the older children, on rare occasions, being taken to the Geysers. Much as I longed to go, I was considered too young and must have been, for, according to grandpa's diary, I was only two and a half years old when, in May 1878, my father sold the ranch for $2,500 and, loading all his household goods into a heavy wagon, driven by one John McFarlane and his family into a lighter one which he drove himself, started for Heyden Hill, Lassen County, where he had acquired an interest in a gold mine. Once more his hopes were high and fortune beckoned. Although too much of a rolling stone to be a "good provider," being often "broke" and always generous my father was loved by all. A kinder nor more sympathetic heart never beat. It was an axiom in the family that "all were rich when David had money in his pocket." Perhaps it was a natural consequence that my mother, having the care and providing for the family on her mind should be just a little inclined to believe more in looking out for one's own interests and not allowing oneself to be imposed upon. she had a keen mind and a caustic wit and although her increasing deafness barred her from general conversation, none could best her in quickness of retort and aptness of repartee.

My sister Mary, or May as she was always called, was our little mother. Will was a quiet, gentle little boy and gave little trouble to anyone; but Albert and I were mischievous, causing her many an anxious moment. My mother was not sympathetic with the small wants of children and as she could not hear our chatter, we soon learned to go to May with all our demands. In those days it was usually considered best for small children to sleep with an older person, so, as Mama could not hear us, it seemed quite suitable that we should both sleep with our older sister, one on each side, and many nights she rose and changed her gown, wet on both sides. I was her pride and joy always, and she was never so happy as when she dressed me in a fresh white dress, curled my hair and tied it with a pretty ribbon. However love blinded she may have been, to her I was always the prettiest and smartest little sister in the world. And I think something of this feeling was with her as long as she lived.

I have no personal memory of that journey to the north. We camped along the way and progress must have been slow. One evening camp was made beside a newly cut field of hay. Albert and I were fed and put down to sleep beside a large haycock while supper was being prepared and beds made for the rest of the family. Suddenly the whole pile of hay slid over, covering the two sleeping babies completely. With frantic