OREGON FOLKLORE - WORK PROGRESS ADMINISTRATION: Surnames: Slauson, Coburn, Coffee, Duniway, Johnson
Title: Early Pioneer Life, etc.

*********************************************************************************
USGENWEB ARCHIVES(tm) NOTICE:
************************************************ 
Copyright. All rights reserved. 
http://www.usgwarchives.net/copyright.htm 
http://www.usgwarchives.net/or/orfiles.htm
*********************************************************************************
Transcribed and formatted for use in USGenWeb Archives by:
W. David Samuelsen - November 2001 - NO COPYRIGHT - PUBLIC DOMAIN
************************************************************************
Title: Early Pioneer Life, etc. 

Name and address of informant: Miss Jean C. Slauson Lower Drive, Lake Grove,
Oswego Oregon. 
Information obtained should supply the following facts: 
1. Scotch-Irish. 
2. Portland, Oregon, August 18, 1884. 
3. Father, Allan B. Slauson. Mother, Agnes E. Coburn. 
4. Portland, Oregon, practically all of her life. 
5. Public schools of Portland; University of Oregon, 1907 graduated. 
6. Teaching in public schools of Oregon. 
7. No special skills. General interests, in which reading predominates. 
8. General, rather than particular, community interests. Member of Unitarian
Church of Portland. Member also of D. A. R., and Eastern Star order. 
9. Fresh-complexioned woman of medium stature, with the hallmarks of
background and breeding. 
10. Much interest in early family history evidenced by informants, as well as
in the Federal Writers' Project and Oregon's folklore studies. 

Text: 

Our early pioneer ancestors were, as you know, all ardent woman suffragists,
and they were women who could express themselves both verbally and in writing,
those great-aunts of ours. Aunt Harriet Palmer began writing at an early age,
as is shown by the following childish poem, written as they were leaving
Illinois for Oregon in 1852: 

      "The trees look dead and bare 
      At winter's icy hand, 
      The wind howls 'round our cot so rare, 
      We'll have to leave the land. 
      Yes, we must leave dear Illinois 
      And march for Oregon City, 
      And there we must meat with the Iroquois (!) 
      Oh, dear me, what a pity." 

The story of Great-aunt Martha Coffee's first winter in Oregon, is, I imagine,
the same as that of most of the pioneer women of that period. The winter was
spent in a one-room cabin on the river bank, near the old town of Champoeg, in
Marion County. Champoeg was more important then than Portland, but was
practically obliterated by the flood of 1861. The one-room cabin had a wide
earthen fireplace, with a mud and stick chimney. The window consisted of a
square opening in the wall, covered by a piece of an old sheet, both to keep
out the wind and admit the light. Two homemade bedsteads framed into the
opposite walls, a table improvised from rough boards and two benches -- these
were the appointments of the home she and her husband had travelled six months
to reach. The long winter evenings were lighted by the fireplace flames, and
for "fine work", by a lamp contrived from a battered tin platter, filled with
melted lard, in which floated a wick of twisted cotton rags. As there was
danger the lard would give out, it was the habit of the frugal housewife to
blow out the light as soon as possible every evening. On one occasion, the
master of the house placed the lamp on one of the benches while he stepped
out-side for firewood. On economy bent, great-runt blew out the light, and
great-uncle, returning, unknowingly with his wood, seated himself in the lamp,
as he mended the fire. The resulting disaster not only left the household in
darkness for several evenings, but kept the good man in bed most of the next
day, while great-aunt washed and dried his only pair of breeches.

Early in January, 1853, came a heavy fall of snow. The white drifts piled
high, and the two remaining oxen from the long trip across the plains were
without shelter. During two of the worst nights, the shivering animals were
taken into, and shared the cabin with, the rest of the family. Later, a cover
for each of the oxen was improvised from out the tattered wagon cover. With
this protection, and the daily lopping of boughs for browsing, the cattle came
bravely through the winter. There were five months of this isolation, with the
daily bill of fare bread, tea and molasses. One day the husband borrowed a gun
and killed two grouse, and then a real, live woman came trudging through the
damp forest from five miles away, bringing with her as a neighborly offering,
a piece of bacon and a small pail of milk. That was a red letter day.

Great aunt Abigal Duniway never forgot, nor neglected, an opportunity for
proselyting for the "cause", as woman suffrage was called by its devoted
missionaries. 

Those who remember her will appreciate this story. There was a meeting -- a
church meeting of some sort, though not a regular service, at the old Taylor
Street Methodist Church (Portland). Aunt Abigail, hoping to get in a word in
behalf of the "cause", attended. But the minister in charge forestalled her
intention by quoting Paul, the Apostle's admonition about women keeping quiet
in the temple of the Lord. Aunt Abigail sat down, but not for long. In time,
there came a lull in the proceedings and instantly she was on her feet. "Let
us pray", she said, and thereupon exhorted and prayed the Lord with all her
might, beseeching in behalf of women's political equality.

Here is a bit of folk lore perhaps you'd call it, about Woodburn. Originally,
as all old timers know, Woodburn, or Bel Passi, as it was then called, was
located on the main highway or stage road, running south to California. Years
later, the railroad came along, with its right of way some distance west of
the schoolhouse, church, store and post office, and immediately the town, of
course, was compelled to move west too. In 1852 Bel Passi had no cemetery. A
stranger passing through attended church one Sunday of that year, and while at
church dropped dead. The little community was at a loss where to bury the
unknown, until one of the land-owners nearby offered a burial plat, which
later became Bel Passi's cemetery. They were unable to find any identification
of the stranger other than the name of Eaton. No one knew his first name, nor
anything about him. The old schoolhouse was in the cemetery, I believe, and
somewhat recently, I understand, the Eaton grave was marked.

Comment: 

Miss Slauson and her cousins intimated they had further manuscripts and
knowledge of a folklore nature that they would be glad to contribute at a time
more convenient to them. On the Saturday afternoon they were interviewed, the
time was late, prohibiting the securing of material beyond what is here given.
They appear to be what might be termed a veritable treasure trove of early
folklore. 

Following are four items, of a historical and folklore nature, copied from the
personal papers of the informant and her two cousins, Joella T. and Nina B.
Johnson, who are also the nieces of Mrs. Catherine A. Coburn (see Women in
Pioneer Days). 

1. Crossing Over the Great Plains by Ox-Wagons - by Harriet Scott Palmer. 
2. Gist of Women in Pioneer Days - by Catherine A. Coburn 
3. Copy of Ticket Voted in 1862 (with note) - by Rev. Neill Johnson 
4. Multnomah County School Notices (four). 
Handwritten article 
>From the personal papers of 
Miss Jean Slauson 
Lake Grove, Oregon 

GIST OF WOMEN IN PIONEER DAYS 

By Catherine A. Coburn Woman's station in pioneer days was that of the true
woman in all times and conditions .......... Coming down to detail, I find the
storehouse of memory full of incidents that can readily be offered in support
of the assumption that woman's place in pioneer life... -state building -- was
one of specific, as well as of general importance .... I recall the
celebration of the Fourth of July at LaFayette, Yamhill County, in 1854. Some
weeks before, the women of the village, under the leadership of Mrs. A. R.
Burbank...engaged to make a flag, and present it, through the orator of the
day, Hon. Amory Holbrook, to the Masonic Lodge of that places.... The flag was
a handsome one, and as fine a sample of "hand sewing" as our grandmothers
could have desired. My impression is it was lost by fire, with other effects
of the lodge, some years ago.

Following the oration and the presentation of the flag came an invitation to a
public dinner, Rude, improvised tables were set in the grove, cherished linens
from grandmother's looms, that had been brought by ox-team express across the
plains, covered the unsightly boards, sprigs of fir and cedar, boquets of
hollyhocks and pinks, with now and then a bunch of sweet "Mission roses"
garnished them, and over all the new old flag floated. 

The tables were laden with viands prepared by women who were adepts in cookery
as well as in flag-making and table adornment. In pioneer times, as now
(1909), women was a silent element in politics, but then, as now, women were
strong partisans and ready upon occasion, to give a reason for the faith that
was within them -- not publicly, but with an energy in neighborly discussions,
aespecially when stirring to influence the "men folks" of their own families
who did the voting. 

It is recalled that when, in 1853, General Joseph Lane and Hon. Alonza A.
Sumner were, in common parlance, "stumping the Territory for Congress", women
became so imbued with the spirit of partisanism which is often to this day
mistaken for patriotism, that they courageously determined to attend the
speaking of the rival candidates, at the courthouse in LaFayette. 

I speak of this town from personal knowledge... it was a representative
community... The flutter in feminine circles was greater than that
proverbially ascribed to the organization of a sewing society, or the getting
up of a minister's donation party. The town was canvassed to learn "who would
go," with the results in promises quite satisfactory to the leading spirits of
this feverish desire on the part of women to "break into politics." But, alas,
when the momentous occasion arrived but two women found courage to enter the
old courthouse and take seats therein, and it is recalled that, discovering
these two toward the close of a violent political and personal harangue, the
gallant General Lane apologized for any words unsuited to ears polite that
might have escaped his lips while in the presence of "the ladies." 

It may be added that an apology was due, as politicians of this period were
not always as choice of words as decency would dictate. It is claimed by those
who profess to have special knowledge upon the subject that the intrusion, as
some would say -- the introduction as others have it -- of women into
political gatherings, which occurred to a greater or less extent throughout
Oregon Territory... inaugurated a system of political discussion in which
decency has never since been forgotten in the excitement of political
controversy. 

Desire for knowledge. 

Of this your chronicler does not presume in this place to speak, she being
content with recording the first public introduction, so far as she is aware,
of women into politics in Oregon, and with adding that, though there was no
expression of a desire to vote, heard among the pioneer women, the sincerity
of their desire for knowledge of political questions then literally convulsing
the infant territory, already upon the verge of statehood, is unquestioned.

In the educational work of the pioneer era, woman's station was sharply
defined. Leaving the history of the missions, in which the names of Narcissa
Whitman, Mary A. Walker, Maria Pitman, Mrs. Gray, Mrs. Spaulding and half a
score of others stand for good words and works in their special lines, I will
revert to the work as a pioneer in the founding of an educational institution
of Mrs. Tabitha Brown, who, away back in the '40s, opened a boarding school
for children in Forest Grove, which became the stepping stone to Pacific
University .... Dying about 1860, at an advanced age, her memory is still
honored in the community of which, for many years, she was a leading factor,
and by the institution, the corner stone of which she helped to lay. A
co-laborer with Harvey Clark, Horace Lyman and S. H. Marsh, she supplemented
their endeavor in-seaman's ways, after having done yeomans service in
foundation building. 

Later in the field, and working in parallel, but totally dissimilar lines, was
the wife of Professor J. M. Keeler, who was a social leader in the little
academic town of Forest Grove in early days, as wall as preceptress of
Tualatin Academy and supervisor of the home boarding house, in which the young
girls of a primitive era were taught table and society "manners". 

Types of Educators. 

These women are mentioned as types merely, of a class of early educators and
workers in the educational field, members of which came in with the
establishment of missions at Salem, and were increased by each successive
immigration from the "states." 

As actors in the drama of heroism, women in pioneer life make a striking 
presentment. Whether bidding goodbye, and godspeed, to the husband as he
answered the call for volunteers to suppress an Indian outbreak that
threatened frontier homes; going out to meet the slow caravan of returning
comrades who bore her mutilated dead to her door; feeding a band of Indians,
sullen and fierce, from her store-house against her husband's return from the
field... or under the shadow of expected maternity, creeping through bushes
and down to the waiting boat, closely followed by her husband, rifle in hand,
seeking safety in the blockhouse.... 


      I'm sure we've seen no picture 
      In the volumes anywhere 
      Of a tall, athletic woman, 
      With long and streaming hair, 
      Going out against the redskins, 
      To save a fleeing son, 
      And with her strong hand grasping 
      Her husband's trusty gun. 

Thus sang a local pioneer poet, the son of a pioneer mother, some years ago.
Yet a tragic tale of the border might thus be truly illustrated. The husband
and eldest son were set upon and killed by Indians while on the range. A
younger son, the shepherd boy, took alarm and fleeing toward home, pursued by
the savages, was met and escorted in safety to the "inch-board shanty", where
the heroic woman kept the foe at bay with her rifle until succor came, as told
by the narrator in verse: 


      And there of guard we found them, 
      When four long days had fled, 
      Half-crazed with sleepless watching 
      And sorrow for the dead, 
      And still that faithful mother, 
      When we came, a saving band, 
      Stood by the open doorway, 
      With the rifle in her hand. 

Led in Hospitality. 

Women in pioneer times led the van. In this connection, I recall, with a glow
of admiration and tenderness, the life of Jane E., wife of Captain A. F.
Hedges, during the cream of pioneer years, residents of Clackamas County.... 
Married when very young -- 16 or thereabouts -- after the manner of pioneer
girls, the mother of 12 children, energetic in community works, she yet found
time to entertain hospitably and feed royally every one who came to the door
of her rambling, weather-beaten, old farmhouse, which stood, and still stands
for what I know, on the hill a mile east of Oregon City .... Contemporaneous
with Mrs. Hedges and, like her, "given to hospitality", were her sister-in-law
-- Martha A. and Rebecca Barlow. Both still survive (1900), the former being
the gentle, genial mistress of the commodious farmhouse near Barlow's station,
that has been her home for nearly half a century. 

I recall, in connection with the open-handed hospitality of these Barlow
homes, the fact that during a spasm, if it may be so termed, of religious
fervor, lasting perhaps two or three years, and including some half dozen
families, the multitude was veritably and substantially fed on alternate
Sundays, after "service", from tables arranged around three sides of the
capacious farmyard barns. All who attended "meeting" were invited, at the
close of Brother McCarty's impassioned appeal to "repent, believe and be
baptized", to go to the tables (services being also held in the barns) and
"help themselves." 

Four families, so far as my memory serves, joined in this quaint combination
of the religious and the hospitable -- the two already mentioned, a family
named Huffman, whose home was near Aurora, and William Elliott and wife, of
Elliott Prairie. ecalling the scene, the amount of food cooked and dispensed 
by these hospitable people upon these occasions impresses me as having been
enormous, and yet the women who were chief cooks and caterers displayed an
untiring zeal in the welfare of their numerous guests, and a cheerfulness in
serving them that bore the stamp of hospitality of a type that belonged
exclusively to pioneer days and has vanished with the "free dinner", set out
in the grove by patriotic women an the Fourth of July. 

.... (Omitted, a paragraph of eulogy) 

Multnomah County, State of Oregon. 
District No. 6 I. W. Roork clerk you are hereby authorized to pay Effie C.
Morgan twenty dollars out of the school money in your hands for services
rended 

(Signed) Aechon (?) Kelly 

Samuel Welch 

Multnamah County School Notices 

(Slauson) 

Notice is hereby given that there will be a meeting of the legal voters of
schol Dist N 21 held at the of James Brown on Thursday April 23 2 o'clock P M.
for the purpose of selecting a site and locating schoolhouse, also leving a
tax for the purpose of building. 

(Signed) James H. Allyn 

District Clerk 

April 13th, 1857 

We the undersigned agree to pay the following sums annexed to our several
names, within six months; for the purpose of purchasing lumber, windows, nails
[?] for the purpose of completing school House in Dist. No. 21
A. W. Brown $10.00 
James Brown 10.00 
B. M. Cleggit 10.00 
I. W. Roork 10.00 
A. Yarnell 5.00 
L. Williams 5.00 
P. D. Terwilliger 5.00 
Lemuel Williams 5.00 
I. Breyman 10.00 

The committee appointed to select a burying ground beg leave to report: 

The committee having met and proceeded to the place indicated by the meeting,
having found by trial at the depth of five feet there were no indications of
water, no seaps, and the earth at that depth being comparatively dry and
porus, we feel warranted to say to this meeting that there is not the least
danger of [bog] trouble with water for all practical depths. 

The place selected is the two acres adjoing the south side of the lot
belonging to School district ----- 

The place being of beautiful locality and quite easy to clear, we would
recommend that our selection be confirmed and that we be authorized to receive
a deed from the owner C W Brown who proposes to give the two acres for the
above named purpose, and to take charge of the same to improve and lay out as
they think fit.

All of which we most respectfully submit 

(Signed) Isaac Breyman ) 
Leyman Williams ) Committe 
James Brown ) 

>From the personal papers of Miss Jean Slauson, Lake Grove, Oregon 


COPY OF TICKET VOTED IN 1862 
By REV. NEILL JOHNSON 
MARION CO. UNION TICKET 

For Governor, A. C. GIBBS. 
For Secretary of State, S. E. MAY. 
For State Treasurer, E. N. COOKE, 
For State Printer, H. GORDON. 
For Representative to Congress, JOHN R. McBRIDE. 
For Prosecuting Attorney, J. G. WILSON. 

Senators, J. W. GRIM, WM. GREENWOOD. 
For Representatives, C. A. REED, JOHN MINTO, I. R. MOORES, JOSEPH ENGLE. 
County Judge, J. C. PEBBLES. 
Treasurer, J. H. MOORES. 
County Clerk, GEO. A. EDES. 
Sheriff, SAMUEL HEADRICK. 
Commissioners, H. L. TURNER, WILLIAM CASE. 
Assessor, WILLIAM PORTER. 
Surveyor, WM. P. PUGH. 
Coroner, P. A. DAVIS 
School Superintendent, A. C. DANIELS. 
Seat of Government, SALEM. 
Justice of the Peace, LEWIS PONJADE (?) (Written in) 
Constable, JOHN W. SMITH. " " 

(Copy of writing by voter on reverse side of ticket). 

The undersigned voted this ticket in Parkersville, Marion County, Oregon, on
the 2nd day of June, A. D., 1862, in the 60th year of my age. The men whose
names appear on the face of this ticket were pledged to sustain the Union of
the United States undivided to the utmost of their ability, and as such I
voted for them, and as it may be the last vote I shall ever be permitted to
give, I desire it to be kept in the family of some of my offspring as a
memorial of my patriotism.
(Signed) NEILL JOHNSON 

(The foregoing ticket was printed on rough-edged thin paper, the office
printed in lower case italics, the candidates in ordinary type, and the title
of the ballot in heavy upper case letters). 

Privately printed (pamphlet) 
>From the personal papers of Miss Jean Slauson, Lake Grove, Oregon 

CROSSING OVER THE GREAT PLAINS BY OX-WAGONS 

By Harriet Scott Palmer 

Altho I was but a girl of 11 years I distinctly remember many things connected
with that far-off time when all of our western country was a wilderness... We
were six months in crossing the plains in ox-wagons. 

In our home, in Illinois, in the early fifties, there was much talk and
excitement over the news of the great gold discoveries in California -- and
equally there was much talk concerning the wonderful fertile valleys of Oregon
Territory -- an act of Congress giving to actual settlers 640 acres of land. 

My father, John Tucker Scott, with much of the pioneer spirit in his blood,
became so interested that he decided to "Go West"....The spring of 1852
ushered in so many preparations, great work of all kinds. I remember relations
coming to help sew, of tearful partings, little gifts of remembrances
exchanged, the sale of the farm, the buying and breaking in of unruly oxen,
the loud voices of the men, and the general confusion. 

The first of April came -- 1852. The long line of covered wagons, so clean and
white, but oh so battered, torn and dirty afterward: The loud callings and
hilarity: many came to see us off. We took a last look at our dear homestead
as it faded from our view. We crossed the Illinois River on a ferry. We looked
back and saw our old watch dog (his name was Watch) howling on the distant
shore. Father had driven him back, saying, "Go back to Graadfather, Watch!"
But he never ate afterwards, and soon died. We stopped at St, Joseph,
Missouri, to get more provisions. We had never before seen Negroes, and all
along this state we saw many negro huts, and went into one to see some little
negro babies. My remembrance of the state was muddy roads, muddy water and a
sort of general poverty -- of course this was over 70 years ago. 

When we crossed into Nebraska, it seemed such a wide stretch of plain. We got
our first sight of Indians -- a file of Indians were passing along, single
file. They were the Pottowattamies, dressed in buckskins, beads, and leading
their ponies. An open country was now before us. The melting snows had made
the streams high, the roads nearly impassable. The Platte river, swift and
swollen, didn't seem to have any banks. We had heard of the danger of
quicksands. My father had, with the help of his drivers, raised the beds of
his wagons, so as not to dip water ... When everything was in readiness all of
us were tucked inside of the wagons. My father put me, last of all, inside the
back end of the last wagon, told me to keep still and not be afraid. The loud
voices of the drivers as they yelled and whipped up the oxen, the jogging of
the wagons through the surging waters and over the quicksands, the memory is
with me yet. When they got over the river, all were accounted for, but they
couldn't find me. Finally I was pulled out from under the bows, nearly
smothered. There were nine of us children, ranging from four years to my
eldest sister about 19 .......... 

My mother kept the two youngest with her always in "Mother's wagon". Her
health was not very good, and she had dreads and fears, but hoped she would
live to get to Oregon. Fate willed it otherwise, and being frail and weary
with the long journey, she fell a victim to the cholera, so prevalent that
year on the plains, leaving her sorrowing family to grieve for her. When we
reached Wyoming, there in the Black Hills, this side of Ft. Laramie, the
passing of that dear, beloved mother was a rushing blow to all our hopes. We 
had to journey on, and leave her in a lonely grave -- a feather bed as a
coffin, and the grave protected from the wolves by stones heaped upon it. The
rolling hills were ablaze with beautiful wild roses -- it was the 20th of
June, and we heaped and covered mother's grave  with the roses so the cruel
stones were hid from view. Her grave is lost. No one was ever able to find it
again. 

... The old emigrant trail hold many hard experiences. Coming to the Snake
River and for many miles along, it was impossible to reach it to get water for
the oxen. We had to travel all night at times. On one occasion... the camp was
made after dark, and there was such a stench in the air. Early daylight found
us camped close between two dead oxen, on one side, and a dead horse on the
other -- so we had to move before breakfast.

... About 2 miles above the great American Falls we were able to get the
cattle down to drink. It so happened that after the yokes of the oxen were
removed and the oxen driven into the water, an old headstrong bull plunged
into the river and swam across, the rest of the cattle following, except two
cows that our man were able to keep back. Our company was in great peril....
My father, generally equal to any emergency, decided that any one or more of
the men who were good swimmers, should go above our camp, swim over and drive
the cattle back. This was attempted by two young men, one of whom swum over
first, on one of our mares; the other was drowned, and as we with agonized
eyes watched the stream we saw the white face of our old mare "Sukey" bobbing
up and down in the boiling waters. She was such a loved old mare that we could
not bare to leave her at home in Illinois. A third man tried and got safely
over. We could see his naked form over the river among the hot burning rooks.
It was impossible for him alone to drive the cattle back. My father made a
mighty effort to get across. Then he ordered the calking of one of the wagon
beds to make a boat, and in this, three more paddled over and took some
clothing to cover the poor sunburnt men on the rooks -- he was over there in
that awful predicament for three days; his skin all peeled off, and he nearly
lost his mind from his awful experience. They got the cattle safely over the
river again, but the two cows that stayed behind ate of something poisonous
and died during the night. 

On and on we journeyed -- averaging 15 miles a day over cactus, sagebrush, hot
sand. Everybody's shoes gave out and we bartered with Indians for moccasins,
but that didn't help much about the prickly pears. One by one the oxen fell by
the way. We came to Burnt River -- a most desolate country. Here our baby
brother Willie fell sick. It was in the heat of August. The train was halted,
that the darling child of 4 years could be better cared for, but he became
unconscious and passed away. The soil here was thin and full of rocks. My poor
father, broken-hearted, had the men cut a cavity out of the solid rock jutting
out of Burnt River Mountain, and here the little form was sealed beside where
the only living thing was --- a little juniper tree. My brother Harvey found
it, twenty years later, and he peeled some of the bark off of the juniper tree
and brought it back to my father. My father had carved Willie's name on the
tree.

August passed. We were nearing the Cascade Mountains. The oxen were worn out,
and the wagons were in poor condition to cross' the mountains .......... Some
wagons had to be left; some of the oxen were poisoned eating mountain laurel.
Our provisions were exhausted by this time, and for three days we had only
salal berries and some soup made by thickening water, from flour shaken from a
remaining flour sack, My uncle Levi Caffee, who was a great joker, looked at
the poor mess and said to his wife, "Why Ellen, ain't there a little bread or
something." "Oh no," she said, "we are all starving together." It so happened
a man overtook us on horseback, and father bought some of the flour he had in
a sack behind his saddle. He paid $1.00 a pound. It proved to be bitter with
mildew and unfit to eat. My sister, having charge of the two smaller children,
and my aunt, whose youngest was seven, saved and hid in their pockets same
biscuits they from time to time, doled out to the three littlest children. 

We came to the old Barlow Road, and a station called Barlow's Gate, in the
Cascade Mountains, where we found provisions, and actually some fruit   apples
and peaches and plenty of bread. It was not long now till we reached the
valley settlements and found relatives who had came the year before. 

Before we reached Oregon City, my father was fortunate enough to buy two
pounds of butter. The hungry crowd was so great that before we smaller ones
had our turn at the improvised table, the butter had all been eaten up. There
were six of us smaller children who did not get a taste of butter, and the
thought of that rankled in us for years .......... 

It was my duty to keep up the loose stock in crossing the plains, and I was
given charge of an old sorrel mare who had one eye. Her name was "Shuttleback"
on account of the shape of her back. She was a big powerful animal, and when
she'd get a hiff of an Indian she would kick and plunge and many a time would 
throw me of. One day we had travelled long in the heat and both Shuttleback
and I needed water. I was about a mile behind the train, and off at the side
of the road a grove of willows was growing. It looked like water might be
there. There was, a little tributary of the Snake River, so I gladly got off
the saddle that had no horn on it, and first let the mare drink. It was a
steep place. The mare began to plunge and I soon saw she was in quicksand. I
held on tightly to her rein, yelled with all my might, knowing there was a man
behind me also driving stock. He heard me and rushed to my assistance, telling
me to hold on, and not be afraid, he would bring help. He rushed ahead and
brought back my father and three other man, and with ropes and a long pole
pried her out of the quicksand and floated her down the stream where she
finally landed on her feet. I fully expected punishment, but my father just
picked me up, sat me down on the wet, muddy saddle, slapped the mare and said,
"Now, go on!" Poor old Shuttleback got lost in the Cascade mountains one
night. About a year afterwards, a man reported her roaming near Mr. Hood. My
father went after her and brought her back with a fine black colt he named
Black Democrat. Then we reached Laurel Hill, in the Cascade mountains. Oh that
steep road! I know it was fully a mile long. We had to chain the wagon wheels
and slide the wagons down the rutty, rocky road. My aunt Martha lost one of
her remaining shoes, it rolled down the mountainside. I can hear her now as
she called out in her despair, "Oh, me shoe, me shoe!" How can I ever get
along?" So she wore one shoe and one moccasin the rest of the journey. 

As we started down the road my father said: "Jump on the wheel and hang on,
Fanny!" It was an awfully dangerous thing to do and he didn't realize what he
was telling her to do. Poor sister Margaret fell, and rolled down and down.
When she picked herself up, Uncle Levi was there with his humor, "Maggie,
ain't this the damndest place you ever saw?" "Yes, it is." "Well, you swore,
and I'm going to tell your father." 

When we came to Ft. Walla Walla, we saw a crowing rooster on a rail fence. Oh,
how we all cried .... There we stood, a travel-worn, weary, heart and homesick
group, crying over a rooster crowing. 

One day our "Salon Wagon" as we called the wagon that served as a parlor,
overturned. My sister Fanny (Mrs. Mary Cook), as soon as she could extricate
herself, poked her head out of the hooded wagon and cried, "Oh Lord, come here
quick." My uncle came running up and said, "Jenny, hadn't you better call on
some of the company.