We are in good health in our family except that I have a boil on a finger of my right hand. I have a kind husband, we have now 2 sons and 1 daughter. I have forgotten how many children you have, Write and tell us. I guess you’ve forgotten the people hereabouts — Dean Brusander is dead, he had a stroke in the Sacristy Whitsuntide morning, he asked about you a few years ago when he Baptized our oldest boy.
Mother greets you as she can’t write to you herself. Our Mother is getting old and worn-out — when our strength is gone all joy is over.
It is not easy to write down my thoughts on paper, I am poor in composition, excuse my poor spelling. Don’t forget us in your new Homeland. God Bless you, Brother, and hope your success continues.
Written down by your devoted Sister
Lydia Karlsson
XXIX. THE LETTER TO SWEDEN
New Duvemåla at Taylors Falls Post ofis
North America, October 3 Anno 1857
Beloved Sister Lydia Karlsson,
Your letter received, I could not help but shed a few tears as I held it in my hand and read that our Father had passed through the Valley of Death. I mourn him here, far from His bier.
I had hoped to see Him once More, I had a good Father but was not always an obedient Son at Home. I feel though that Father forgave me my emigration, I did the best for my Own, our Father couldn’t think anything else.
Now my Father is in that Land where I no longer can reach Him. Peace over his Grave and Remains. Yes, Death mowes his sharp scythe and makes no exception among us. When He comes we must go with him, whether we want to or not. I am however, glad that Father had one of his children with him as a comfort on his Deathbed.
My kind parents looked well after me when I grew up but out here in my new land I have been of little Help or comfort to them.
I enclose a paper which assures you that you my beloved Sister Lydia Karlsson shall have my inheritance after my demised Father Nils Jakobsson. You shall have my share for looking after Our Mother as long as She is in Time. I believe it cannot be a large sum of money.
We have lately had some trouble with money matters in America but it is getting better. Many people have moved in from Sweden this last Summer and they are still coming daily. Even from Ljuder Parish people have come to this Valley. I see that the Dean is Gone, how did he like it that his parishioners followed me to North America? But he couldn’t blame me, I like the land here but have never boasted in order to lure people here from Sweden. I urge no man to emigrate; each one must do so at his own risk.
The number of our children is 6 up to date, if I haven’t written this before. Our youngest is a strapping son, we call him Frank, it is an American name. He runs and plays on the floor, He was one year last February, the little American let go his hold and walked by himself 14 Days before he was a full year. Our Children have grown fast in their new Homeland it’s a Joy for us to see.
I enclose my dear Greeting to our Mother. I know you take good care of her. You are my beloved Sister and we must write each other more often. Before each Day reaches its end I have some thought here in America for my old Home,
Your Devoted Brother
Karl Oskar Nilsson
XXX. KARL OSKAR’S FOLLOWERS
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They had seeded and planted and harvested and threshed this year as all other years, but the weather had been unfavorable and contrary at all seasons. In the fall came a flood; it began as a sudden shower, but the shower lasted a week, two weeks. The rain did not fall in drops, it streamed down in sheets. Days on end it hung outside the window like a striped curtain. No settler had ever seen such a persistent rain in Minnesota. The autumn sowing was delayed because of the wet weather, and the rye did not begin to sprout until the winter frost had gone into the ground.
On one of these long days, when the rain prevented all outside work, the Lutheran pastor came to call. A memorable rainy night four years earlier Pastor Erland Törner had come to the settlement at Duvemåla for the first time. This rainy day he came on a last visit — he had come to say goodbye.
There had long been rumors that he wanted to leave the Swedish congregation in the St. Croix Valley, and now they were confirmed by his own words: he had accepted the call as pastor to the new church in Rockford, a new town down in Illinois, where there was a sizable Swedish colony. He was going to get married and this had influenced his decision to leave. He was engaged to a Swedish girl in Rockford and she wanted to remain in her hometown after her marriage.
Before the pastor arrived, Kristina had felt her nose itch and she had sneezed three times in succession, a sure sign that important callers would arrive. But the minister’s visit today was of little joy to her, as he had come to say farewell to them.
He was no longer the pale, spindly young man who had warmed himself before the fire in their old log house, dressed like a scarecrow in Karl Oskar’s roomy clothes. Since then he had put on weight and his body was firmer; his face was weatherbeaten and his looks rugged. The hard life of traveling about in the wilderness had left its mark on him so that now the young pastor could be taken for a settler. And his life was not unlike that of his fellow countrymen.
During the first two years they had gathered for services in the schoolhouse; only last year had the new church been ready for use. Since then Kristina had failed to attend services only four or five times: if a child lay sick or if she herself lay in childbed. Karl Oskar and she had also attended the Sacrament each time the Holy Supper was given. Pastor Törner’s sermons had been a comfort to her soul; they had quieted her anxiety and helped her overcome her worries about eternal damnation. This minister did not enter the pulpit like a stern judge — he was a mild gospel preacher, on equal footing with the sinners. He did not wish to judge anyone, he only wanted to comfort all. He was the only minister she could think of in their pulpit; he was The Minister.
And now he was to move away from them. She couldn’t pray God to leave him for her sake. She mustn’t be ungrateful, but rather, grateful. She only wished she could give him something in return for all the comfort he had brought her.
Yesterday Karl Oskar had shot a wild goose with black neck and brown wings; she had plucked the white-breasted bird, drawn it, and prepared it for the pot. The goose was as fat as a grouse and had so much flesh there would be sufficient for all of them. She had planned to save the delicate bird for their Sunday dinner but it was as if God had designed that she must roast the goose today and invite Pastor Törner, since it would be her last opportunity.
She set the table in the large room, and invited her guest to sit down on the new sofa they had recently bought. Karl Oskar and she sat on either side of him. The children were not allowed to sit at table today, they would eat afterward in the kitchen.
“My first night in the St. Croix Valley I slept in this home,” said Pastor Törner. “In this home I preached my first sermon in this valley, and here I gave the Lord’s Holy Supper for the first time. Memories make your home dear to me, my friends!”
He spoke his native tongue better than any other Swede she had met in America, thought Kristina. It was balm just to listen to his voice. Most of the immigrants had begun to mix up the two languages dreadfully so that she could hardly understand them. Even Karl Oskar’s language had changed; she noticed the mixture sooner than others because she herself never used English.