to Oregon. From the day the little company of emigrants turned their faces toward the west, in 1848, Moriah Grain never beheld kith nor kin again on earth. John Crain sent word from his distant home, "Don't take Moriah west of the Rocky Mountains." But her husband's mind was her mind, and her spirit was like that of Ruth of old, "Where thou diest I will die, and there will I be buried."
The wearisome journey over the plains came to an end. It was as if the world she had known and loved had closed its doors forever upon her. Loved ones might be dead weeks, even months, before the news could reach the log cabin in the wilderness on the banks of the Willamette. Wild animals roamed the woods, the Indians came with the freedom of the savage; she fed them, and breathed freer when they went away.
Immigrants came, too, and found the door always open, the table always spread, though simple the fare, served in pioneer style. Many a family bereft of their all were taken in, sheltered and fed during the long rainy months of winter, and in the spring went on their way rejoicing.
In the trying days of '56, when the Indians terrorized the whole Northwest, Mrs. Kelly's house, from garret to cellar, was crowded with refugees. The little cabin had been superseded by an immense log structure in what is now one of the eastern suburbs of Portland. It stood on the spot where now stands the handsome residence of the late Captain J. W. Kern.
In memory's hall hangs a goodly picture. It is a wide room, its walls are of round logs, with the bark peeled off, the floor is of puncheons; a huge fireplace in the back of the room is filled with blazing logs that send columns of flame up the roaring chimney, while the storm howls without. The recess on each side of the fireplace is filled by a high bed; the high windows are hung with ruffled muslin curtains. In a niche between a bed and the chimney is a stack of Kentucky rifles. In one corner of the fireplace sits a mother, her fresh young face framed in a halo of silver. The heavy work of the day is over, her little children are about her, and the ever-present needle plies in and out. The father sits near, and looks musingly into the fire. The wide spaces about the fire are filled by the older boys, the hired men and several belated travelers. Some small boys, whose mother died on the dreary march over the plains, are playing about the room. In all the vicissitudes of frontier life, Moriah Crain bore her part well; there was never a word of complaint, and the song-spirit never died. When She was glad she sang joyfully; if she was sad or lonely, it was not apparent; the song overflowed just the same. The late Rev. William Roberts came in through the wide-open doors once as she sang, and said: "Sister Kelly, you are always singing." When a letter came over the wide reaches of plain bearing a black seal, telling of the death of her father, she brushed away the falling tears and tremulously sang of a meeting beyond.
One day—the thirty-first of January, eighteen hundred and sixty-three—as the sun sank to his rest behind the sea, she sang triumphantly:
"My soul's full of glory,
Inspiring my tongue;
Could I meet with angels,
I'd sing them a song;
I'd sing of my Jesus,
And tell of His charms,
And beg them to bear me
To His loving arms,"
and the music of earth melted into the music of the heavens.
"Mother" was a fitting title for her who entered with hearty co-operation into all the benevolent purposes of her life comrade, known to old and young alike by the endearing name of "Father Kelly."
She was one of many noble women who helped to build the Empire of the West, and of such Spartan matrons was born its broad civilization.
Her sons and daughters are: Mrs. Sarah M. Kern, Penumbra Kelly, Mrs. M. Emily Shaver, and Dr. Richmond Kelly, well-known residents of Portland; Mrs. Laura F. Turner and Mrs. Fredrika B. Judy, of California.
