Dear mother, I reconsidered of recording my journey with a diary. We've left Pittsburgh at 10 o'clock and are moving 13 miles an hour.
June 3rd, 1836
If only there was dry timber and not ones from up river, the dung works fine similar to the coal in Pennsylvania.
Found a house reared and the lean-to enclosed, a good chimney and fireplace, and the floor laid. No windows or door except blankets. My heart truly leaped for joy as I alighted from my horse, entered and seated myself before a pleasant fire (for it was now night). It occurred to me that my dear parents had made a similar beginning, and perhaps a more difficult one than ours. We had neither straw, bedstead or table, nor anything to make them of except green cottonwood.
June 25th, 1839
But it was too late; she was dead. We made every effort possible to bring her to life, but all was in vain. On hearing that the cups were in the river, I resolved in my mind how they could get there, for we had not missed them. By the time I reached the water-side and saw where they were, it came to my recollection that I had a glimpse of her entering the house and saying, with her usual glee, "Ha, he, supper is most ready" (for the table had just been set), "let Alice get some water," at the same time taking two cups from the table and disappearing.
March 1st, 1842
I remember when I took Mary Ann and Helen in, who were in the same condition as this boy.
April 6, 1848
Narcissa Whitman xxxx-1848
It has become my painful duty to apprise you of the death of your beloved daughter, Narcissa, and her worthy and appreciated husband, your honored son-in-law, Dr. Whitman, both my own entirely devoted, ever faithful and eminently useful associates in the work of Christ. They were inhumanly butchered by their own, up to the last moment, beloved Indians, for whom their warm Christian hearts had prayed for eleven years.