I was born September 30, 1858 at Copenhagen Denmark. In April 1859, my parents in company with other Saints, left their native land and turned to the west, with Utah as their goal. After a trip of nine hard weeks on the water, they arrived at New York and from there continued their journey to Florence, Nebraska where they were assigned to the Hand-Cart Company headed by Captain George Rowley. Our Hand-Cart was loaded with cooking utensils, bedding, and grub for that memorable journey across these countless miles of desert waste called plains. We left Florence June 9, 1859. There were 235 souls, six wagons, and sixty hand-carts, in the company. Father pulled the hand-cart while Mother walked and carried me, a baby, in her arms. At one time the Indians killed a buffalo and divided it among the people. We arrived in Salt Lake City on September 4, 1859. Our first home was at Grantsville, Utah where we lived about six years. One of the outstanding things in my memory while in Grantsville was the death of my sister. The only buggy the town possessed took the tiny casket to the burial ground while Father and Mother walked arm in arm behind, and their sorrowing friends following on foot. Another incident I remember when at about the age of six, was my father standing guard over an Indian prisoner in the little meeting house at Grantsville. When I was about seven years old the family moved by ox-team, using one ox, one cow as a team to Fountain Green, Utah. Here they came into possession of two city lots, on one of which was a two-room house, the other planted with wheat, this little wheat crop was protected from grasshoppers by my sister Amanda and myself, during the summer, our weapons being a cloth tied upon a stick with which we went back and forth all day "shooing" the grasshoppers back into a near-by pasture, enough wheat was saved to make flour for the following winter. I well remember the terrible experience of real fright from Indian troubles. The citizens were often forced, when Indians were threatening, to gather at a small fort in the center of town, built of a series of log rooms placed one against the other to form a wall and enclosing a small area. The signal for gathering here was a few beats on a big drum. At the sound of the drum, terror possessed everyone, especially the children. On one occasion the Indians attacked the three young men who were herding the cows and horses of the townspeople. One, Lewis Lund, was killed, having been shot through the head. Another was injured, being shot through the ankle, but the third one in some miraculous way escaped on his horse and raced to town to give the alarm. Immediately a dozen or more men went to try to repossess the herd which was being driven toward the hills by the Indians. They recovered the cows but the horses could not be overtaken. At the same time the other citizens were carrying they body of their dead friend back to town where everything was in a fearful state of excitement. People were fathering at the fort, many hysterical with fright and grief. As the young man's body was carried into the fort, children crowded around. I being one of them, the sight of the dead man with a bullet hole in his forehead was forever imprinted on my memory. We lived in Fountain Green about three years during which time they took their part in helping the stranded citizens who had been driven out of Richfield, they the Indians. The father and mother of Mary C. Jensen Bean (Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Jensen and another family by the name of Clauson) lived at our meager home of two log rooms until they could provide shelter for their families. When I was about ten years old they family moved to Oak City, Utah where we resided for about one year, trying to carry on ranch life with a few head of cattle. This proved unsatisfactory, so about 1871 we moved to Richfield, where my parents remained until their deaths. Our first home in Richfield was small adobe house belonging to a Mr. Fisher, located on the lot where E.W. Thurber now lives. I worked at different homes for a time. Our cow was kept at the Public Coral, where I went twice a day to milk her. I remember on one occasions the cow got out and ran away. I would run after her until I fell over a sage brush. The cow would stop and look back, but just as soon as I was up again she would run kicking up her heels. This side of Venice I succeeded in getting her turned toward home and the family got her in the corral, and was I tired. Times were very hard for us and too often I remember my father helping to bury the unfortunates who could not resist the hard-ships of those early days. I also remember my mother taking the rings from her finger, and selling them for 3 pounds of flour, in order to keep her family from starving. My sister Amanda and myself were called as Sunday School teachers by Mr. Miller, in the early days. It was at the Public Corral that I noticed a handsome young man always watching me when I went to milk the cow. I inquired and was told it was Amos K. Nielson, a Black Hawk Indian War veteran. Soon our friendship ripened into love and we were married in Salt Lake City by Daniel H. Wells, in the endowment house in 1874. On our return I went as a bride to the home my husband had prepared for me. Here we lived all our lives in the same home. Times were very hard and we had very little to do with, but we were young and full of pep and love reigned supreme in our humble home. I was very young and the cares of home and wife were very new to me. After my Father's death, my Mother lived with us for a time, later moving to a home of her own on third North Street where she lived until her death. It was in the year of 1875 when a baby girl arrived at our house and our cup of happiness seemed full. In due time several other children arrived, six boys and one more girl. In 1884 we moved to Marysvale where we lived practicing farming and stock raising. After a few years, I returned to Richfield, my husband and our boys running the ranch. In the year 1898, a call came for volunteers to the Spanish American War. Our eldest son enlisted and again when the World War 1 made its call our youngest son answered the call for his country. He died after his return home. We tried to hide our grief as best we could and carry on, hoping to meet him in the beyond. In 1919 my husband sold our ranch at Marysvale and retired to a well earned rest. We remodeled our little house where we were married and had lived all our lives and were enjoying our quiet lives. All our children were married but one, and had gone to homes of their own. I joined the Daughters of Utah Pioneers in June 1927. We have nineteen grandchildren and three great grandchildren. Ours was a happy home where love and joy remained. Alvina Nielson died February 5, 1932 at Richfield. Her life was marked by the natural desire for her religion and was faithful in all her duties and fully prepared for the life to come, and ready to go at the time of her passing. She was seventy three years old.