keeping. With the lot was a very large chest, a
prized heirloom, brought from Ireland in 1798;
Father's valuable medical books, and others; two
*nice* quilts and a world of smaller things. We
never saw any of them again.

One day shortly before we expected to leave,
we had a caller, Old Ozosh, a big Ottowa In-
dian. I learned three Indian words, "Theoga-
mitta" is syrup; "Beesh" is water; "Chinpaw-
quet" is sugar. Perhaps that accounted for my
first marriage proposal. He looked at mother
and said, "You go ☑ Calapawny," pointing to me
he said: "You go ☑ me." I was too unsophisti-
cated to appreciate the honor.

May 27th was the day set for the start. Uncle
Sam was promptly on hand, quite early in the
morning with his outfit—he had made the trip
in 1849 and again in 1852, so he knew much
better how to prepare. He had three wagons,
two with oxen, a spring wagon with horses—for
wife and daughter. One item in their supplies
was 600 lbs. of bacon, not just for his crew, but
to be sure to have grease if an animal got alkali.
He had 100 head of loose animals, mostly cows.
Besides his family he had three young men help-
ers:

SAMUEL MEWHINNEY, (Uncle Sam)
MARIA MEWHINNEY, (Aunt Sis)

TERESA MEWHINNEY

JOHN MEWHINNEY

HUGH MEWHINNEY

GEORGE HAVEN

JOHN NEWCOMB

ENOS ST. JOHN

As their company came to a halt, we hastily
tossed a few more things in the wagon, then the
good-bye's to the relatives left behind and then
we were off. Uncle Sam's wagons first,

MY BROTHER-IN-LAW NEXT,
AURELIUS O. CARPENTER,
HELEN M. CARPENTER,
HENRY WILSON.

Then our wagon and family:

THOMAS McCOWEN,
AMILY McCOWEN,
EMILY McCOWEN,
HALE McCOWEN,
BLANCHE McCOWEN (nick named Kittie)
three months old,
SAM FAWCETT.

The loose stock was driven in the rear. They
soon quieted down, and seemingly accepted their
fate as a matter of course and were anxious to
follow as soon as the wagons would start, as
though imbued with the spirit of the song that
father was singing so often:

"Oh! California,
That's the land for me,
I'm bound for California,
The gold dust for to see."

We made rather short drives for a few days
till the animals would get accustomed to
their work. Our road was over fine undulating
prairie, much the same as from where we started.

Rather hilly when we reached the Little Blue and Big Blue rivers. Toward evening Uncle Sam would ride ahead to select a camping place. Soon after passing Laramie a drove of buffalo was sighted; several of our marksmen went after them, and were fortunate to kill one. They came back for oxen to drag it to camp. Our company soon had all the meat they cared to take; just then another train came along that was glad to take what our company had left. We frequently camped very near the South Platte. One night there was a furious wind that awoke every one. Aunt Sis peeked out from the wagon cover; she had a new silk handkerchief tied on her head but the wind whisked it off and into the river.

We traveled along that river for several weeks, not a tree or bush—buffalo chips for fuel. Once we camped where the water was shallow near the bank, some of us tried wading very cautiously. It was then I learned how quick-sand acted. To stand still in the water one finds himself getting deeper and deeper by the sand steadily shifting from under foot.

We would lay by a day every eight or ten days, where it was favorable, or when oxen must be shod. Then washing and extra cooking done. While camping thus, other trains would pass, we in turn would pass them. Thus we often saw the same people. One little outfit we often saw, a cart made from the hind wheels of a wagon with a bed and the usual kind of cover, occupied by a man and wife, drawn by one yoke of oxen.

Once we saw a small cluster of trees on op-

posite side of the river. One day we passed the grave of a young girl; a board with name and age marked on it. A pile of stones nearly three feet high covered the grave; they must have been hauled quite a distance as no others were near that locality. That was all they could do to protect the dear one left behind. It was well they never were likely to know even that precaution failed. A few inches outside the rocks a hole about the size of a pail was dug, slanting to the grave. A few miles further on was a grave near the road; a lot of the dirt had been dug out; if a body had lain there it had been dragged away. One evidence was plain—an Army button was picked up from the dirt.

Down a ravine at the left, some distance from the road was some tall cottonwood trees, several of them had long bundles attached horizontally to the limbs, up 30 or 40 feet. The puzzle was explained by one that said some Indians disposed of their dead in that way.

All buffalo too far away to ever get any more, so we had to be content with an occasional antelope. Late one afternoon, in the Black Hills, there was a terrific storm—thunder, lightning, rain and wind. The drivers tried in vain to make the oxen face the storm but at last had to let them turn around and stop.

Scott's Bluff was of yellowish clay, our road was at the right, the left was a perpendicular bank that served as the Plains Register; our names were inscribed there with hundreds of others that had passed. The bleached bones of cattle frequently along the way served for bulletin boards, and were eagerly picked up to learn

when other trains had passed—of course our
mite was added. The cattle likewise had their
bulletins; whenever nearing a dead animal, the
loose stock would start on the run for it, circling around, pawing and making a perfect bedlam
with their bellowing, each one striving to get its
nose to the spot.

June 21st we were traveling along near the
river in the usual monotonous manner when
called to halt and prepare to cross the river.
It seemed queer to think of driving into the vast
expanse of water, at least a half mile wide,
although it appeared nearer a mile before we
were across. The loads were re-arranged.
Father had brought thin boards to use as a shelf
to pile much of our goods on to protect, if possible, from the water. Men rode ahead as pilots
to discover a safe passage, two men with every
team, one on each side, or the oxen would have
swayed with the tide, and a few times they were
swimming. All our teams crossed without trouble. As the last ones were nearing the bank,
Sam Fawcett on a mule rode off to one side and
plunged into a hole; all we could see for a few
breaths was legs of mule and man, but they
struggled out, without injury.

Another train started to cross at the same
time, but three hundred yards lower down, and
got in such deep water that they drew out on a
little island for an hour, till help from our train
piloted them safely to shore.

A few other trains were there that had crossed
the day before, but were laying by to dry out,
as every one had to.

The next day was our time. Some of the men

spent part of the day with their guns exploring
around—no game to be found, but they brought
to camp the bleached skull of a white person, all
there was to show that one of our race had
perrished far from home. No doubt death was
caused by savages. There is as much difference
in the color of human bones, as in the skin. The
African and Indian are quite brown.

That day we strolled to some of the other
camps. In Ingram's train was an old grandmother,
sitting in a chair, too feeble to get out
of the wagon, she said it was "too much trouble
to help her out." The daughter and family
were going to California, no one to leave her with,
so brought her along.

The next morning we resumed our journey,
then on and on with no special change for days.
Then one afternoon a few Indians came from the
hills, and rode by us for a time, wanting to sell
moccasins and buffalo robes. Mother bought a
beautiful robe then for a small one exchanged a
bright patchwork quilt.

We had all the milk we wanted, just by milking. Uncle Sam had a great many cows whose calves were left behind. Before leaving Kansas a neighbor who had been to California, told us of something that proved to be a very palatable dish, especially when not convenient to cook. It was to parch corn nicely and have it ground at the mill—we had about a half bushel—it was fine with a little sugar and cream or milk.

At length we reached the North Platte—a
bridge there—and $5.00 charged for each wagon.
Not far from there on the hillside at the right
was something we ran up to investigate, and

found it had been soda, or some other mineral
springs; they had boiled over and the sediment
hardened, one looked like a great well curb, but
all were dry; the outburst had changed into the
river.

The next interesting thing for us was, when
father walking ahead of the train, found where
another train had camped and left some chairs
and a fine sheet iron cook stove; that was hailed
with delight, so much more convenient than the
oven and skillet.

We traveled and traveled, no way of telling
how far, but it was supposed to be fifteen or
twenty miles a day. We left the Ft. Hall road
to the right, that was the road for Oregon. Then
a long stretch of a cheerless alkali district, often
puddles of alkali water that looked much like
weak coffee. But a watchful eye had to be kept
on the cattle to keep them from it.

So much of our road had been such a gradual
uphill that only for our leader we would not have
known when at the summit of the Rocky Moun-
tains. We had been up and down hills, but this
time as we went down, the streams were running
in the opposite direction.

At length we reached the Sweetwater, a stream
flowing from between mountains. We camped
there. The next morning some one strolled just
a short distance up stream around a bend, and
there right in the stream was the bloated body of
a big ox. I tell you, the water kegs and can-
tees were quickly emptied. We thought it every-
thing but *Aqua Dulce*.

When we reached Ash Hollow, there were a
number of graves of soldiers that had been killed

in a war with the Indians. The Government had
placed heavy head boards at the graves. On one
sister Helen wrote:

> "He sleeps his last sleep
> He has fought his last battle,
> No sound can awake him
> To glory again,
> No sound can awake him
> To Glory again."

One afternoon we were much surprised to
meet a train of eight wagons, drawn by horses,
also a few loose ones. Both trains halted and
the men had quite a conference. The newcomers
were fleeing from Salt Lake! they told the great
secrecy with which they had planned their trip.
Some of their belongings had been taken quite a
long distance and secreted until the final move
was made at night, women and children in each
wagon.

We camped near Green River, in the morning
when we reached the bank, found we must be
ferried over; the boat was at the opposite shore;
all hallooing failed to bring a ferry man. Then
some of our men swam their horses over and
took charge of the boat. As soon as possible all
the wagons were over. All loose animals had to
swim. A few miles from there we met the ferry-
man returning to his post, but he was too late to
charge a fee.

We were now nearing the road that branched
toward Salt Lake, so when we came to it we bid
goodbye to the rest of our company who pre-
ferred the Sublette route.

We turned to the left, traveled all day, then

camped near a trading post kept by a Frenchman, as all other posts were, and they always had Indian women. A yoke of oxen were here exchanged; the ones we got had never been yoked before, but they soon were obliged to quiet down, with steady ones back and front. Ours had got some alkali so needed a chance to recuperate. While there father asked the Frenchman about the road to Salt Lake; his answer was, "I call it hillus." And right then, I think it was *Providence* that decided us to go back to the other road. Later events showed the wisdom of that decision.

Another train (of two wagons) was already at the Frenchman's when we reached there. A man by the name of Dobbins was the owner, his wife and child, then four men helpers; he had a small drove of cattle. He said he had been to California, and was willing to join us, so he was dubbed Captain and invited to lead. Our old company had near two days' travel ahead of us, so we were not able to rejoin them, but an occasional dead animal with their brand, showed they had passed that way. And then we soon discovered the new captain had a different method from our former one. There was never any hurry to start in the morning, apt to be eight o'clock, and frequently camp by four o'clock. The result was we never passed a train as formerly, and no train passed us. We must have been the last for that season. For three weeks we never saw even the dust of another train. It began to be a source of great uneasiness, especially to my mother, with the fear of Indians, and the dread of the experience of the Donner

party, that were imprisoned in the snow on the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Eighty-seven persons—thirty-six men, twenty-one women and thirty children. Donner, Breen and Murphy.

The 15th day of August we came to another trading post, like all the others, just a lone cabin. The occupant said the Indians had been molesting the emigrants. Not that they wanted to kill, but to run off their animals. Their plan he said was to appear early in the morning before the camp was astir, and frighten the animals with yelling and run them off.

Late in the afternoon August 16th, we were traveling a valley with a gradual descent, mountains on each side, nearing the vicinity of Raft River, when not far distant we spied a small group of Indians approaching; immediately all firearms were ready for use. One gun in our wagon was propped with the muzzle pointing in front, to give a hint that we were prepared. But the redskins came on without demonstration and when near we felt relief to see some women with them; also that they had some of their belongings on an improvised sled, of long poles fastened to the collar of a horse, and extending back as much as twelve feet, and connected with cross pieces. We kept watch of them long after they had passed. When they had gone about three hundred yards, one man got off his horse and danced in the road. Some thought he acted like a white man. And as we had heard of Mormons joining with Indians to attack whites, the movement was anything but reassuring.

That evening we camped by a little stream quite a distance from the road, to be nearer good

feed; it was quite open where we camped, but further up stream were clumps of willows. The wagons and chains were arranged to make a corral, but the animals were allowed to feed until bed time before they were brought in. The men took turns guarding all night. Father had the last watch of the night, and about four o'clock turned the animals out and went along with them. He was by a clump of willows, out of sight, when all at once there was the most hideous yelling I ever heard, that routed every sleeper at camp. The Indians were racing toward the cattle, till they saw father step from the willows with a gun leveled at them, then they were very friendly and called out, "How, How." Father answered, "How How" but never lowered his gun. As soon as the men could dress they were out with their guns, some caught horses and soon rushed the animals to the wagons. They were so busy feeding that the yelling had not alarmed them, then father being right at hand stopped the fun.

And what of the bravery of our Captain Dobbins. Well! when the other men were driving up the stock, he was in his wagon, cautiously peeking out from behind the cover. While breakfast was being cooked the Indians amused themselves with riding back and forth from one clump of willows to another, but that was too tame, so they began shooting, the bullets whizzing over head. They were so near they could have killed, but I think it was just to frighten. Father and Reel were preparing to return the fire, but Dobbins remonstrated (the wisest thing he did on the trip). He and Scott said it would never do. We were in the Indian country and if one should

he killed they could soon raise a company and kill us all. As soon as they saw the oxen being yoked they left the willows and rode to the crossing of the stream. One of our men had been there the evening before, and said it was a very miry place. The bank was not very high where we were, so it was shoveled down and we had a good crossing. The Indians were again checkmated, but we were a good ways from the road, so we struck across the unbroken country, bumping along for a mile till we reached the road. When the Indians saw we were not going to that bad crossing, they rode back to where we had camped, got off their horses and went round over the ground, as though expecting to find something.

We were traveling West. The Indians struck off southwest, toward a dip in the mountains that looked like there might be a pass, and we feared they might come out ahead and again molest us.

That 17th of August was brother Hale's ninth birthday. Our little baby, nearly six months old, never whimpered, but lay in mother's lap watching her face as though realizing the trouble. Long afterwards mother told me of her agonizing fear, not just the killing of the rest of the train, but in that event she knew that Hale and I would be taken prisoners, as Indians so often had saved boys and girls for that fate.

While the Indians were near us, and riding back and forth, there was one big horse that all felt sure they recognized, that belonged to the "Jinny" train that we had seen so often. As we had fallen so far behind all trains, we never saw it again. When the Indians were off as much

as half a mile, brother Reel said he was going to send one shot after them. He crouched down in a little hollow, rested his Sharps rifle that carried an ounce ball, aimed at one and fired. Almost immediately that one sprang from his horse and walked and led it, gradually falling far behind, a long distance before they were out of sight.

A rough road all that day. In the afternoon it turned directly south, and it made us think we might be traveling to the Indians instead of away. There was a long sloping hill at the right—no trees—but we could see green bushes that we knew were willows, so we knew that there must be a spring, and decided to drive up there to camp as the most favorable spot. The men estimated it over half a mile and it was very nearly dark; no bells on the cattle, no fires made, and all were as quiet as possible. Every man was to share in the guarding. Our tent was set, but no one slept in it that night. Not long after dark we heard a gun fired; it sounded like down at the road. With our experiences of the morning do you wonder we were afraid in that wild, unsettled land in possession of the savages, and no human help! Who fired that gun? It may have been a signal to the hunters that had lost trace of us, in the darkness they did not see where we had left the road and camped. In daylight it could have been plainly seen. In the morning we were early on the move, anxious to get away from that country. I think we had gone about two miles when we came to a blacksmith shop kept by a Mormon. Not more than a hundred yards from the shop when our wagon

went down and up a jerky place, it broke a link in an ox chain, so of course we drove up to the shop for repair. While the Smither was at work he very casually asked, "Where did you stop last night." (Under the circumstances we could not help thinking.) The answer was very simple, without explanation. "O! back here a mile or two." His charge for one link $2.00. He said we would soon pass the road that came from Salt Lake. The one we would have traveled had we gone that way and lived to get through. Right here I think is the place to add a bit of well known history. A number of trains had gone by Salt Lake to get supplies, then traveled on to Mountain Meadows and camped for an indefinite time for their teams to recuperate; while there they were attacked and massacred by Mormons and Indians. One hundred and forty killed. That was in September—just the time we probably would have been in the company had we gone that way. The victors had all the stock and outfits as their reward. At one time we had a book written by an ex-Mormon—one of Brigham's "Avenging Angels," that gave an extended account of the massacre, as well as other murders, and told how they planned depredations to increase their flocks. Any means to rob the "Gen tiles" was considered commendable.

We continued our journey all day with the constant thought of Indians, the long weary way without water for the animals, and the mountains gradually closing around us, till late camping time we were forced to stop in an ideal spot for the Indians—had they followed us. Every few feet was a rocky pinnacle like steeples. An

enemy could have hidden within a few feet and not been seen. A strict guard was kept, but we were not molested. The next morning Captain Dobbins said, "Let's lay by today." Father and Reel said, "We are going on till we come to water before we lay by." As soon as the loose cattle could be separated and the teams ready we moved on. It was only two or three miles until we came to an abundance of water. After the animals had a drink, we drove on some distance, then stopped for the day. This was Thousand Spring Valley, a wide expanse—and as the name implied—with no scarcity of water or feed. What a luxury for the poor faithful animals, to drink and eat and rest as they pleased.

Along about nine o'clock here came Dobbins, but without halting drove on as much as two miles away to the left of the road out of sight. Some of the young men saw our folks and said they intended to go on the next day, and so did we.

We made an early start and soon saw Dobbins rushing his teams to the road, they were on the run. Then father and Reel began urging the oxen till they were on the lope, father whooping and yelling like a boy at a ball game. It was the most fun we had had on the trip. Dobbins wagon came out ahead, next Reels. Dobbins second wagon reached the road just ahead of ours, but one of his ox bows slipped from the yoke, then all stopped with a jerk—except the loose cattle; they had traveled together, and now rejoined, racing, entered into the spirit of the morning, kicking up their heels, and with heads and tails up, willing to continue the frolic. It took

some time to separate them. We drove on ahead. The road was fine, and we kept up an unusual pace till two o'clock, then camped—estimating we had made twenty-two miles. We were near some campers, the first we had seen since joining with Dobbins. From them we learned of friends we had seen in Kansas. They were camped about three miles from there. Father and Reel went on horseback that afternoon to see them. They were much surprised, it had been so long without a sight of us they feared the Indians had ended out trip. They had been resting for a week, but were going to leave the next morning, and we could join them if we wisheo. It was so decided. We started early and were in time to fall in behind their last wagon as it came out to the road. This was the Farmer and Cox train with three hundred head of cattle from Missouri, and a good many families, so many it was like moving into town. No attempt was made to get acquainted with all, for when camped each one had their duties. When our two wagons were added to theirs it was quite a caravan of twenty-two wagons. No unusual occurrence that day. But the next morning the first news was of the arrival of a little boy for Mrs. Wilson, daughter of Mr. Farmer. For five days such a monotonous time in the hot sun and dust along the Humboldt. Oh, such clouds of dust, sometimes we could scarcely see the wheel oxen. One day we saw a lone wagon off as much as a quarter mile with no sign of life about; as it was across the river no one went to investigate.

One evening just as we camped, word came from a train in distress, asking for help. We

could see their wagons. They had been attacked
by Indians, one man wounded in the hip, and
all their animals driven off. They had caught
one Indian and promised him freedom, if he
would take them to the Indian camp. Early next
morning, twelve men on horse-back with the In-
dian on foot with rope tied to him, to serve as
guide, started for the Indian camp. That was
a long anxious day, not knowing what dangers
the expedition might encounter.

Late in the afternoon a group of women stood
watching Mrs. Wilson's little babe as it breathed
its last. That was the only birth and death in
our company. And no one was sick. Near sun-
set we were rejoiced to see our men back. The
Indian had taken them a long way back in the
mountains to his camp. No men were there, just
squaws and children. A number of the cattle had
been killed, the meat cut and on poles drying.
The hides were pegged to the ground to dry.
The remainder of the cattle were soon rounded
up and started back to the owners. The Indian
was brought back too, with moccasins worn out.
The party that had him in charge took him down
to their camp. We never heard what was his
fate. The little baby was buried before dark.
The next morning we were again on the way and
passed that other train. When going up a hill
we could still see it, but there was no sign
that they intended to start. There was very little
of interest in traversing along the Humboldt
river, the most of the three hundred and fifty
miles of its length, the inferior quality of the
water, the sage brush, and oh, the hot sun, and

never ending clouds of dust, daily added their
discomfort.

How did the poor "dumb driven cattle" live
through it? But many scores had perished by
the wayside. In the Farmer and Cox train there
was one colored man. I suppose of course he
had been a slave in Missouri, and now with the
master was working his way to freedom. He
was the proud possessor of a little spotted cow,
a pet. But one night relentles fate robbed him
of his earthly wealth. Poor fellow, he looked like
he had lost his last friend. Right then I would
have been willing to give him at least a half dozen
from his masters' herd.

One family by the name of Taylor had six
children, four boys! their names would always
remind one of some of our Presidents. They
started with George Washington, Thomas Jeffer-
son, and so on. I asked the thirteen year girl the
baby's name. She said it was "named Mary
after mother and Isabel after a Queen, but we
call her Toady."

At last we reached the Sink, face to face with
the desert. The marshy land of which there was
considerable, was beautifully green with a native
sugar cane. The water was brackish and the
grass covered with alkali, making it quite unfit
for stock; cane was cut for them, but they were
not fond of it.

A Mormon was stationed here with supplies to
sell to emigrants. These had been brought across
the desert from Carson City. Quoting from our
diary we have the following prices, by the lb.:

Flour 20c, beef 20c, potatoes 20c, beans 40c, butter $1.00.

Soon after going into camp we were overrun with Piute Indians (Pi Utah). They were not at all welcome, but their presence had to be endured. Our experience with the Arrapahoes three weeks previously was not conducive to a very warm feeling for "Poor Lo." They were eating freshly gathered "soog" (sugar) which some of our party sampled and found that all the sweetness was not sugar. During the late summer, myriads of little green bugs tap the cane stalks and get caught in the oozing sweetness. They continue to get caught until heaped upon the stalks, where they crystalize and are then scraped off and ready for use.

The distance across the desert by the Truckee route was said to be forty-five miles. It was deemed best to start in the after part of the day, so an hour before sundown, everything being in readiness, twenty-two wagons with from three to four yoke of cattle to each and several hundred head of loose stock began the journey that proved fatal to many. Three succumbed to alkali during the preparations for starting.

In the grey of dawn we reached a hot spring which was said to be half way. The spring was six feet wide and ten feet long and the overflow ran for a few yards before being lost in the sand. The water was hotter than the hand could be held in and had no bad taste. This was dipped up in pans and cooled for the stock; none but those in the yoke would drink from a vessel and the supply was meager even after sharing

with them the contents of the water kegs which was for family use, and carried swung to the hind axle.

Daylight revealed the loss of two horses. After a hasty cold breakfast a lone horseman (A. O. Carpenter) started on the back trail.

The spring seemed to be the place of all places where people threw away their belongings, and not content with merely leaving what they could not take, they had succeeded pretty well in putting everything into the spring, which had a considerable depth. There were all manner of irons from dismantled wagons, innumerable wagon wheels, chains, etc. A three-hour rest was taken while eating breakfast and watering the stock. As the day advanced we were in a veritable oven. The entire way had been strewn with the bones of animals, and they became more and more plentiful. We left our full quota. While the heat was at its greatest, a beautiful placid river with green trees along its bank was plainly seen away to the southward. That it was only a mirage was at first unbelievable. The stock saw a similar vision, judging from the difficulty the drivers had in keeping them from stampeding in that direction. To complete the journey there were eight miles of the deepest sand yet found,—here was the heaviest loss.

A crest of sand obscured the distance so we were not aware of the nearness of the Truckee River, when the cattle began bellowing and outdistanced the wagons, running pell mell regardless of trail or road and plunged down a steep embankment into the icy waters. The river was not more than forty feet wide, but quite deep,

and the coldness of the water caused a good deal of anxiety lest the cattle cool too suddenly and drink too much. The drivers had a lively time and succeeded but poorly in controlling them. It was an hour after sundown before camp was made. As darkness came on there was much anxiety felt for the lone horseman. But at nine o'clock the splash of horses in the river was a welcome sound. The two escapes went back to the Sink. Wherever the road made a detour, they were tracked making a bee line for the Sink. When spied they were standing still looking very lonely and seemed glad to be found.

Ever since our experience it has seemed strange to me that men with good judgment should have decided to start across the desert in the evening. For the sake of the poor animals the latter end of the trip should have been in the night and to reach the river in the morning.

We rested a day before resuming our journey. Then started up a canyon along the Truckee River, occasionally rocky ledges almost impassable. We were now well in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, passing little Meadows to Big Meadows. The Truckee River is said to be about one hundred and twenty-five miles in length and empties from Lake Tahoe. Lake Tahoe is about twenty miles long and from eight to twelve miles wide, altitude 6275 feet.

We reached Truckee Lake for an early camp. It was a treat to be near the lake of good water in the midst of a pine forest. After supper the men built a fine bonfire and all that cared circled around it for a social chat. It was so long since

it was possible to have a nice fire that it was very enjoyable, here in the mountains with cold nights.

While standing watching the company, I noticed a stranger on the farther side, dressed differently from any of our company, and supposed he might belong at a Dairy near there, so turned and was looking in another direction, when a voice right near me said: "I guess you don't know me." As soon as I heard the voice I knew it was brother George that I had not seen for three and a half years. He judged it was about time for us to be there, and had walked the near sixty miles from Nevada City to meet us. And the first camp he came to was our train we started with from Kansas, and Aunt Sis was just getting supper, so many were camped there we had not learned of their nearness. We were all rejoiced to see him. He stayed one day, then went back to his work as he had hired a man in his place. He advised us to stay at the lake for a while, which we did for a week. All the other campers remained when we left. Sister Helen went with us. The second day as we were going down a grade we heard a great jangling of bells, with no idea what it could mean. When around a corner came an eight mule team, the first we had ever seen. But we were in California now and soon learned that was a common manner of freighting.

The third morning just as we were ready to leave camp a drizzling rain commenced that lasted the entire day until sunset, just as we reached the South Yuba River at Emery's Crossing,—a toll bridge, big hotel and a number

YALE

of miners' cabins. Mr. Emery gave permission for us to occupy a vacant cabin. That was gratefully accepted. We were pretty well used to dirt by that time and not disposed to criticise the former housekeeper, while we had a stove and a shelter from the dampness.

Soon after moving in, our baby, now near eight months, began screaming; colic and pins were the first thought, but no trouble could be discovered. She was finally carried outdoors, then appeared perfectly comfortable,—when back in the house again screaming. That was tried two or three times with the same result, till we were forced to believe she was afraid of the house. She had had all outdoors so near all her life that she rebelled at a prison.

We were so near our last dollar that we were allowed to cross the bridge without toll. There was a long grade around the mountainside,— father drove around that way. But the rest of us preferred to take the straight trail up the mountain more than a mile; we had been ac- customed to walking so much, always thinking to save the oxen.

Just after we had crossed the bridge, a big freight wagon empty with a "trailer" stopped and the driver offered us a ride, but it was de- clined with thanks, we were afraid of such a big outfit so again we were saved. When father got to the top of the hill he told us the "trailer" had tipped over down the hill. If we had gone with that driver the trailer (or back action as some called it) was the one we would have climbed into, and then been dumped down the ra-

vine, and the least probably would have been broken bones.

Towards evening we reached Selby Flat on Brush Creek, brother George's present home, where he was engaged in placer mining. So this 7th day of October, 1857, brought us across the Plains.

The next day George went with us to Grass Valley to see cousin Mary Swarts and family. And while there George bought their house and large garden plot. They moved back to Brush Creek to their nice home. Then we were settled for the winter, where they had moved out. That winter seemed to us very mild, indeed, in comparison with the snow and blizzard winds of Kansas.

Our residence in Grass Valley was not far from the Leighton and Clark Foundry, and their families were our nearest neighbors and first ac- quaintances in California. So this is my reason for adding a closing reminiscence for the year.

Leightons were very intelligent Scotch people, with three children—Maggie, eight; Jimsy, five, and Willamy, three. In those days liquor was flowing freely for any one with money. Every hotel in town or country had its bar. The common saying was: "You must have a bar or you'll have no patronage." Well, Leighton was very fond of drink and would spend his evenings near some bar. Sometimes he would come home in the night and rout his wife and children up and lock them outdoors. Mrs. Clark was the good neighbor that would take them in for the night. When Leighton wanted his breakfast he was very willing to unlock the doors. One Satur-