Front Matter At Boonesborough Beginning of the Story Boone on the Yadkin Boone Moves his Family Ready for the Journey What we Wore Driving Cattle and Sheep Camping at Nightfall The Long Halt Jimmy Boone Goes to Clinch Murder of Jimmy Boone A Time of Mourning The Faint-hearted Return A New Home Making Moccasins Tanning Leather Governor Dunmore Our Home on the Clinch Household Duties Attacked by a Wildcat Fighting the Wildcat Boone and Father Return The Wilderness Road Building the Forts Boonesborough Gathering Salt Boonesborough Precautions Our Home in the Fort Ready for Cooking Furnishing the House The Hominy Block The Supply of Water Sports Inside the Fort Wrestling and Running Religion of the Indians Indian Babies Colonel Callaway Arives News from Eastern Colonies Venturing Outside the Fort Dividing the Land Who Owned Kentucky? Ready to Build a Home Billy's Hard Lot Preparing Flax Spinning and Soap Making Broom Making More Indian Murders Indian "Signs" Woodcraft and Hunting Pelts Used as Money Petition of the Settlers Making Sugar Building Fences Capture of the Girls My Willful Thoughts Finding the Trail The Pursuit The Story Told by Jemima Elizabeth's Heroism Rescuing the Girls Alarm Among the Settlers Indians on the Warpath The First Wedding The Wedding Festivities The Brides Home The Housewarming Attacks by the Indians Besieged by the Savages In the Midst of the Fight The Assault by the Indians Failure of the Assault Watchfulness of the Indians The Sortie My Father Wounded Our Wounded

Hannah of Kentucky - James Otis

A Time of Mourning

As mother says, those who have been killed are past all care save that of God, and the living must put away their grief to guard each other. It was my first lesson of the many needed, to make me understand how hard are the lives of the men and women who prepare the way in the wilderness.

Jemima and I sat by the embers of the neglected fire, clasped in each other's arms and weeping bitterly. Mother, thinking, perhaps, to stop us, said that it was our lot to bear these trials without repining, in the belief that a great people coming later in our footsteps would remember with gratitude our names and deeds when this vast, awful wilderness should be filled with happy, peaceful homes.

Not until the next day did Mr. Boone, my father, and the two from the Clinch River go out to bury the dead, and while they were away those of us who were not standing guard sat silently in a group.

There was never a tear on Mr. Boone's face when he came back. He spoke to no one, not even when he laid his hand on his wife's shoulder and kissed in turn each of his children; but he looked from time to time at the priming of his rifle, as if believing an opportunity might speedily come when he would be able to use the weapon against those who had caused the death of his boy.