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I found my way to a door and entered a large barnlike room. I glanced about and found that I was alone. I dropped down on a bench wondering what was to happen to me. There were a few windows in the room but they were up high and I could not see out of them. I did not try to open the door which had closed as I entered. It was not a cold day, as the sun shone brightly in a clear October sky, but a chill shook my body and I wrapped the cloak about me. I was sick at heart. It was a long time before I was able to cry. I examined the cloak, wondering how to return it to the owner. It was a man's cloak, made of heavy homespun and it had a velvet collar. I searched the pockets looking for a name, but there was none. In an inner pocket I found a paper with the Statue of Liberty sketched in pencil. This man had probably expected to see the statue which stands majesti- cally in the New York Harbor, but we had landed in Boston. Under the sketch were the famous words found on the base of the statue. They were written in Norwegian, but I was able to read them: "Give me your tired, your poor Your huddled masses yearning to be free The wretched refuse of your teaming shore, Send these, the homeless, tempest tossed, to me I lift my lamp beside the golden door." Emma Lazarus 1849-1887 The golden door! My golden door! Then tears came to my eyes and I must have cried the rest of the day. I sat there alone as the hours dragged on. I tried to visualize what it would be like to return to Denmark. Den-mark at that time would not tolerate the Mormons. Mormons were not acknowledged as Christians. It was all right to join any Protestant church, but not the Mormons. Guards had stood outside the door of the little room where we had attended meetings, as mob violence was not unusual. I had been living in Thisted, a city of 10,000 but there were only twenty converts and seven of these were aboard our ship. -114- |
