THE OX.

The ox is passing; in fact, has passed. Like the old-time spinning-wheel and the hand loom, that are only to be seen as mementos of the past, or the quaint old cobbler's bench with its hand-made lasts and shoe pegs, or the heavy iron bubbling mush pots on the crane in the chimney corner; like the fast vanishing of the old-time men and women of sixty years or more ago—all are passing, to be laid aside for the new ways, and the new actors on the scenes of life. While these ways and these scenes and these actors have had their day, yet their experiences and the lesson taught are not lost to the world, although at times almost forgotten.

The difference between a civilized and an untutored people lies in the application of these experiences; while the one builds upon the foundations of the past, which engenders hope and ambition for the future, the other has no past, nor aspirations for the future. As reverence for the past dies out in the breasts of a generation, so likewise patriotism wanes. In the measure that the love of the history of the past dies, so likewise do the higher aspirations for the future. To keep the flame of patriotism alive we must keep the memory of the past vividly in mind.

Bearing these thoughts in mind, this expedition to perpetuate the memory of the old Oregon Trail was undertaken. And there was this further thought, that here was this class of heroic men and women who fought a veritable battle—a battle of peace, to be sure, yet as brave a battle as any ever fought by those who faced the cannon's mouth—a battle that was fraught with as momentous results as any of the great battles of grim war—a battle that wrested half a continent from the native race and from a mighty nation contending for mastery in the unknown regions of the West—whose fame was scantily acknowledged, whose name was already almost forgotten, and whose track, the battle-ground of peace, was on the verge of impending oblivion. Shall this become an established fact? The answer to this is this expedition, to perpetuate the memory of the old Oregon Trail, and to honor the intrepid pioneers who made it and saved this great region—the "Old Oregon Country"—for American rule.

The ox team was chosen as a typical reminder of pioneer days, and as an effective instrument to attract attention, arouse enthusiasm, and as a help to secure aid to forward the work of marking the old Trail, and erecting monuments in centers of population.

The team consisted of one seven-year-old ox, Twist, and one unbroken range five-year-old steer, Dave. When we were ready to start, Twist weighed 1,470 and Dave 1,560 pounds, respectively. This order of weight was soon changed. In three months' time Twist gained 130 and Dave lost 10 pounds. All this time I fed with a lavish hand all the rolled barley I dare and all the hay they would eat. During that time thirty-three days lapsed in which we did not travel, being engaged either arranging for the erection or dedication of monuments.

The wagon is new woodwork throughout except one hub, which did service across the plains in 1853. The hub bands, boxes and other irons are from two old-time wagons that crossed the plains in 1853, and differ some in size and shape; hence the fore and hind wheel hubs do not match. The axles are wood, with the old-time linch pins and steel skeins, involving the use of tar and the tar bucket. The bed is of the old style "prairie schooner," so called, fashioned as a boat, like those of "ye olden times." I crossed Snake River in two places in 1852, with all I possessed (except the oxen and cows), including the running gear of the wagon, in a wagon-box not as good as this one shown in the illustration.

In one respect the object was attained, that of attracting attention, with results in part wholly unexpected. I had scarcely driven the outfit away from my own dooryard till the work of defacing the wagon and wagon cover, and even the nice map of the old Trail, began. First, I noticed a name or two written on the wagon-bed, then a dozen or more, all stealthily placed there, until the whole was so closely covered there was no room for more. Finally the vandals began carving initials on the wagon bed, cutting off pieces to carry away. Eventually I put a stop to it by employing a special police, posting notices, and nabbing some in the very act.

Give me Indians on the plain to contend with, give me fleas—ah, yes, the detested sage brush ticks to burrow in your flesh—but deliver me from the degenerates who are cheap notoriety seekers.

Many good people have thought there was some organization behind this work, or that there had been Government aid secured. To all of this class, and to those who may read these lines, I will quote from the cards issued at the outset: "The expense of this expedition to perpetuate the memory of the old Oregon Trail, by erecting stone monuments is borne by myself except such voluntary aid as may be given by those taking an interest in the work, and you are respectfully solicited to contribute such sum as may be convenient." The use of these cards was soon discontinued, however. After leaving Portland no more contributions were solicited or in fact received for the general expense of the expedition, and only donations for local monuments, to be expended by local committees were taken. I found this course necessary to disarm criticism of the inveterate croakers, more interested in searching some form of criticism than in lending a helping hand.

To my appeal a generous response has been made, however, as attested by the line of monuments between Puget Sound and the Missouri River, a brief account of which, with incidents of the trip made by me with an ox team, will follow.