Our teachers were Unionists without exception and we were taught many such things; “Rally Round the Flag” was a favorite and up went every right hand and stamped hard every little foot as we sang “Down With the Traitor and Up With the Stars” with perhaps more energy than music.

The children of my family, with those of A. A. Denny’s, sometimes held “Union Meetings;” at these were speeches made that were very intense, as we thought, from the top of a stump or barrel, each mounting in turn to declaim against slavery and the Confederacy, to pronounce sentence of execution upon Jeff. Davis, Captain Semmes, et al. in a way to have made those worthies uneasy in their sleep. Every book, picture, story, indeed, every printed page concerning the war was eagerly scanned and I remember sitting by, through long talks of Grandfather John Denny with my father, to which I listened intently.

We finally burned Semmes in effigy to express our opinion of him and named the only poor, sour apple in our orchard for the Confederate president.

For a time there were two war vessels in the harbor, the “Saranac” and “Suwanee,” afterwards wrecked in Seymour Narrows. The Suwanee was overturned and sunk by the shifting of her heavy guns, but was finally raised. Both had fine bands that discoursed sweet music every evening. We stood on the bank to listen, delighted to recognize our favorites, national airs and war songs, from “Just Before the Battle, Mother” to “Star Spangled Banner.”

Other beautiful music, from operas, perhaps, we enjoyed without comprehending, although we did understand the stirring strains with which we were so familiar.

In those days the itinerant M. E. ministers were often the guests of my parents and many were the good natured jokes concerning the fatalities among the yellow-legged chickens.

On one occasion a small daughter of the family, whose discretion had not developed with her hospitality, rushed excitedly into the sitting room where the minister was being entertained and said, “Mother, which chicken shall I catch?” to the great amusement of all.

One of the reverend gentlemen declared that whenever he put in an appearance, the finest and fattest of the flock immediately lay down upon their backs with their feet in the air, as they knew some of them would have to appear on the festal board.

Like children everywhere we lavished our young affections on pets of many kinds. Among these were a family of kittens, one at least of which was considered superfluous. An Indian woman, who came to trade clams for potatoes, was given the little “pish-pish,” as she called it, with which she seemed much pleased, carrying it away wrapped in her shawl.

Her camp was a mile away on the shore of Elliott Bay, from whence it returned through the thick woods, on the following day. Soon after she came to our door to exhibit numerous scratches on her hands and arms made by the “mesachie pish-pish” (bad cat), as she now considered it. My mother healed her wounds by giving her some “supalel” (bread) esteemed a luxury by the Indians, they seldom having it unless they bought a little flour and made ash-cake.

Now this same ash-cake deserves to rank with the southern cornpone or the western Johnny cake. Its flavor is sweet and nut-like, quite unlike that of bread baked in an ordinary oven.

The first Christmas tree was set up in our own house. It was not then a common American custom; we usually called out “Christmas Gift,” affecting to claim a present after the Southern “Christmas Gif” of the darkies. One early Christmas, father brought in a young Douglas fir tree and mother hung various little gifts on its branches, among them, bright red Lady apples and sticks of candy; that was our very first Christmas tree. A few years afterward the whole village joined in loading a large tree with beautiful and costly articles, as times were good, fully one thousand dollars’ worth was hung upon and heaped around it.

When the fourth time our family returned to the donation claim, now a part of the city of Seattle, we found a veritable paradise of flowers, field and forest.

The claim reached from Lake Union to Elliott Bay, about a mile and a half; a portion of it was rich meadow land covered with luxuriant grass and bordered with flowering shrubs, the fringe on the hem of the mighty evergreen forest covering the remainder.

Hundreds of birds of many kinds built their nests here and daily throughout the summer chanted their hymns of praise. Robins and wrens, song-sparrows and snow birds, thrushes and larks vied with each other in joyful song.

The western meadow larks wandered into this great valley, adding their rich flute-like voices to the feathered chorus.

Woodpeckers, yellow hammers and sap-suckers, beat their brave tattoo on the dead tree trunks and owls uttered their cries from the thick branches at night. Riding to church one Sunday morning we beheld seven little owls sitting in a row on the dead limb of a tall fir tree, about fourteen feet from the ground. Winking and blinking they sat, silently staring as we passed by.

Rare birds peculiar to the western coast, the rufous-backed hummingbird, like a living coal of fire, and the bush-titmouse which builds a curious hanging nest, also visited this natural park.

The road we children traveled from this place led through heavy forest and the year of the drouth (1868) a great fire raged; we lost but little time on this account; it had not ceased before we ran past the tall firs and cedars flaming far above our heads.

Returning from church one day, when about half way home, a huge fir tree fell just behind us, and a half mile farther on we turned down a branch road at the very moment that a tree fell across the main road usually traveled.

The game was not then all destroyed; water fowl were numerous on the lakes and bays and the boys of the family often went shooting.

Rather late in the afternoon of a November day, the two smaller boys, taking a shot gun with them, repaired to Lake Union, borrowed a little fishing canoe of old Tsetseguis, the Indian who lived at the landing, and went to look at some muskrat traps they had set.

It was growing quite dark when they thought of returning. For some reason they decided to change places in the canoe, a very “ticklish” thing to do. When one attempted to pass the other, over went the little cockle-shell and both were struggling in the water. The elder managed to thrust one arm through the strap of the hunting bag worn by the younger and grasped him by the hair, said hair being a luxuriant mass of long, golden brown curls. Able to swim a little he kept them afloat although he could not keep the younger one’s head above water. His cries for help reached the ears of a young man, Charles Nollop, who was preparing to cook a beefsteak for his supper—he threw the frying pan one way while the steak went the other, and rushed, coatless and hatless, to the rescue with another man, Joe Raber, in a boat.

An older brother of the two lads, John B. Denny, was just emerging from the north door of the big barn with two pails of milk; hearing, as he thought, the words “I’m drowning,” rather faintly from the lake, he dropped the pails unceremoniously and ran down to the shore swiftly, found only an old shovel-nosed canoe and no paddle, seized a picket and paddled across the little bay to where the water appeared agitated; there he found the boys struggling in the water, or rather one of them, the other was already unconscious. Arriving at the same time in their boat Charley Nollop and Joe Raber helped to pull them out of the water. The long golden curls of the younger were entangled in the crossed cords of the shot pouch and powder flask worn by the older one, who was about to sink for the last time, as he was exhausted and had let go of the younger, who was submerged.

Their mother reached the shore as the unconscious one was stretched upon the ground and raised his arms and felt for the heart which was beating feebly.

The swimmer walked up the hill to the house; the younger, still unconscious, was carried, face downward, into a room where a large fire was burning in an open fireplace, and laid down before it on a rug. Restoratives were quickly applied and upon partial recovery he was warmly tucked in bed. A few feverish days followed, yet both escaped without serious injury.

Mrs. Tsetseguis was much grieved and repeated over and over, “I told the Oleman not to lend that little canoe to the boys, and he said, ‘O it’s all right, they know how to manage a canoe.’”

Tsetseguis was also much distressed and showed genuine sympathy, following the rescued into the house to see if they were really safe.

The games we played in early days were often the time-honored ones taught us by our parents, and again were inventions of our own. During the Rebellion we drilled as soldiers or played “black man;” by the latter we wrought excitement to the highest pitch, whether we chased the black man, or returning the favor, he chased us.

The teeter-board was available when the neighbor’s children came; the wonder is that no bones were broken by our method.

The longest, strongest, Douglas fir board that could be found, was placed across a large log, a huge stone rested in the middle and the children, boys and girls, little and big, crowded on the board almost filling it; then we carefully “waggled” it up and down, watching the stone in breathless and ecstatic silence until weary of it.

Our bravado consisted in climbing up the steepest banks on the bay, or walking long logs across ravines or on steep inclines.

The surroundings were so peculiar that old games took on new charms when played on Puget Sound. Hide-and-seek in a dense jungle of young Douglas firs was most delightful; the great fir and cedar trees, logs and stumps, afforded ample cover for any number of players, from the sharp eyes of the one who had been counted “out” with one of the old rhymes.

The shadow of danger always lurked about the undetermined boundary of our play-grounds, wild animals and wild men might be not far beyond.

We feared the drunken white man more than the sober Indian, with much greater reason. Even the drunken Indian never molested us, but usually ran “amuck” among the inhabitants of the beach.

Neither superstitious nor timid we seldom experienced a panic.

The nearest Indian graveyard was on a hill at the foot of Spring Street, Seattle. It sloped directly down to the beach; the bodies were placed in shallow graves to the very brow and down over the face of the sandy bluff. All this hill was dug down when the town advanced.

The childrens’ graves were especially pathetic, with their rude shelters, to keep off the rain of the long winter months, and upright poles bearing bits of bright colored cloth, tin pails and baskets.

Over these poor graves no costly monuments stood, only the winds sang wild songs there, the sea-gulls flitted over, the fair, wild flowers bloomed and the dark-eyed Indian mothers tarried sometimes, human as others in their sorrow.

But the light-hearted Indian girls wandered past, hand in hand, singing as they went, pausing to turn bright friendly eyes upon me as they answered the white child’s question, “Ka mika klatawa?” (Where are you going?)

“O, kopa yawa” (O, over yonder), nodding toward the winding road that stretched along the green bank before them. Without a care or sorrow, living a healthy, free, untrammeled life, they looked the impersonation of native contentment.

The social instinct of the pioneers found expression in various ways.

A merry party of pioneer young people, invited to spend the evening at a neighbor’s, were promised the luxury of a candy-pull. The first batch was put on to boil and the assembled youngsters engaged in old fashioned games to while away the time. Unfortunately for their hopes the molasses burned and they were obliged to throw it away. There was a reserve in the jug, however, and the precious remainder was set over the fire and the games went on again. Determined to succeed, the hostess stirred, while an equally anxious and careful guest held the light, a small fish-oil lamp. The lamp had a leak and was set on a tin plate; in her eagerness to light the bubbling saccharine substance and to watch the stirring-down, she leaned over a little too far and over went the lamp directly into the molasses.

What consternation fell upon them! The very thought of the fish-oil was nauseating, and that was all the molasses. There was no candy-pulling, there being no grocery just around the corner where a fresh supply might be obtained, indeed molasses and syrup were very scarce articles, brought from a great distance.

The guests departed, doubtless realizing that the “best laid plans ... gang aft agley.”

The climate of Puget Sound is one so mild that snow seldom falls and ice rarely forms as thick as windowglass, consequently travel, traffic and amusement are scarcely modified during the winter, or more correctly, the rainy season. Unless it rained more energetically than usual, the children went on with their games as in summer.

The long northern twilight of the summertime and equally long evenings in winter had each their special charm.

The pictures of winter scenes in eastern magazines and books looked strange and unfamiliar to us, but as one saucy girl said to a tenderfoot from a blizzard-swept state, “We see more and deeper snow everyday than you ever saw in your life.”

“How is that?” said he.

“On Mount Rainier,” she answered, laughing.

Even so, this magnificent mountain, together with many lesser peaks, wears perpetual robes of snow in sight of green and blooming shores.

When it came to decorating for Christmas, well, we had a decided advantage as the evergreens stood thick about us, millions of them. Busy fingers made lavish use of rich garlands of cedar to festoon whole buildings; handsome Douglas firs, reaching from floor to ceiling, loaded with gay presents and blazing with tapers, made the little “clam-diggers’” eyes glisten and their mouths water. In the garden the flowers bloomed often in December and January, as many as twenty-six varieties at once.

One New Year’s day I walked down the garden path and plucked a fine, red rosebud to decorate the New Year’s cake.

The pussy-willows began the floral procession of wildlings in January and the trilliums and currants were not far behind unless a “cold snap” came on in February and the flowers dozed on, for they never seem to sleep very profoundly here. By the middle of February there was, occasionally, a general display of bloom, but more frequently it began about the first of March, the seasons varying considerably.

The following poem tells of favorite flowers gathered in the olden time “i’ the spring o’ the year!”

In the summertime we had work as well as play, out of doors. The garden surrounding our cottage in 1863, overflowed with fruits, vegetables and flowers. Nimble young fingers were made useful in helping to tend them. Weeding beds of spring onions and lettuce, sticking peas and beans, or hoeing potatoes, were considered excellent exercise for young muscles; no need of physical “culchuah” in the school had dawned upon us, as periods of work and rest, study and play, followed each other in healthful succession.

Having a surplus of good things, the children often went about the village with fresh vegetables and flowers, more often the latter, generous bouquets of fragrant and spicy roses and carnations, sweet peas and nasturtiums, to sell. Two little daughters in pretty, light print dresses and white hats were flower girls who were treated like little queens.

There was no disdain of work to earn a living in those days; every respectable person did something useful.

For recreation, we went with father in the wagon over the “bumpy” road when he went to haul wood, or perhaps a long way on the county road to the meadow, begging to get off to gather flowers whenever we saw them peeping from their green bowers.

Driving along through the great forest which stood an almost solid green wall on either hand, we called “O father, stop! stop; here is the lady-slipper place.”

“Well, be quick, I can’t wait long.”

Dropping down to the ground, we ran as fast as our feet could carry us to gather the lovely, fragrant orchid, Calypso Borealis, from its mossy bed.

When the ferns were fully grown, eight or ten feet high, the little girls broke down as many as they could drag, and ran along the road, great ladies, with long green trains!

CHAPTER VIII.
MARCHING EXPERIENCES OF ESTHER CHAMBERS.

The following thrilling account, written by herself and first published in the “Weekly Ledger” of Tacoma, Washington, of June 3, 1892, is to be highly commended for its clear and forcible style:

“My father, William Packwood, left Missouri in the spring of 1844 with my mother and four children in an ox team to cross the plains to Oregon.

“My mother’s health was very poor when we started. She had to be helped in and out of the wagon, but the change by traveling improved her health so much that she gained a little every day, and in the course of a month or six weeks she was able to get up in the morning and cook breakfast, while my father attended his team and did other chores. I had one sister older than myself, and I was only six years old. My little sister and baby brother, who learned to walk by rolling the water keg as we camped nights and mornings, were of no help to my sick mother.

“The company in which we started was Captain Gilliam’s and we traveled quite a way when we joined Captain Ford’s company, making upward of sixty wagons in all.

“Our company was so large that the Indians did not molest us, although we, after letting our stock feed until late in the evening, had formed a large corral of the wagons, in which we drove the cattle and horses, and stood guard at night, as the Indians had troubled small companies by driving off their stock, but they were not at all hostile to us.

“We came to a river and camped. The next morning we were visited by Indians, who seemed to want to see us children, so we were terribly afraid of the Indians, and, as father drove in the river to cross, the oxen got frightened at the Indians and tipped the wagon over, and father jumped and held the wagon until help came. We thought the Indians would catch us, so we jumped to the lower part of the box, where there was about six inches of water. The swim and fright I will never forget—the Indian fright, of course.

“I was quite small but I do remember the beautiful scenery. We could see antelope, deer, rabbits, sage hens and coyotes, etc., and in the camp we children had a general good time. All joined at night in the plays. One night Mr. Jenkins’ boys told me to ask their father for his sheath knife to cut some sticks with. When using it on the first stick, I cut my lefthand forefinger nail and all off, except a small portion of the top of my finger, and the scar is still visible.

“On another evening we children were having a nice time, when a boy by the name of Stephen, who had been in the habit of hugging around the children’s shoulders and biting them, hugged me and bit a piece almost out of my shoulder. This was the first time I remember seeing my father’s wrath rise on the plains, as he was a very even-tempered man. He said to the offending boy, ‘If you do that again, I shall surely whip you.’

“A few days later we came to a stream that was deep but narrow. Mr. Stephens, this boy’s father, was leading a cow by a rope tied around his waist and around the cow’s head for the purpose of teaching the rest of the cattle to swim. The current being very swift, washed the cow down the stream, dragging the man. The women and children were all crying at a great rate, when one of the party went to Mrs. Stephens, saying, ‘Mr. Stephens is drowning.’ ‘Well,’ she replied, ‘there is plenty of more men where he came from.’ Mr. Stephens, his cow and all lodged safely on a drift. They got him out safely, but he did not try to swim a stream with a cow tied to his waist again.

“We could see the plains covered with buffalo as we traveled along, just like the cattle of our plains are here.

“One day a band of buffalo came running toward us, and one jumped between the wheel cattle and the wheels of the wagon, and we came very near having a general stampede of the cattle; so when the teamsters got their teams quieted down, the men, gathering their guns, ran and killed three of the buffalo, and all of the company were furnished with dried beef, which was fine for camping.

“We came to a place where there was a boiling spring that would cook eggs, and a short distance from this was a cold, clear spring, and a short distance from this was a heap of what looked like ashes, and when we crossed it the cattles’ feet burned until they bawled. Another great sight I remember of seeing was an oil spring.

“Then we reached the Blue Mountains. Snow fell as we traveled through them.

“We then came down in the Grande Ronde valley, and it seemed as if we had reached a paradise. It was a beautiful valley. Here Indians came to trade us dried salmon, la camas cakes and dried crickette cakes. We traded for some salmon and the la camas cakes, but the crickette cakes we did not hanker after.

“A man in one train thought he would fool an Indian chief, so he told the Indian he would swap his girl sixteen years old, for a couple of horses. The bargain was made and he took the horses, and the Indian hung around until near night. When the captain of the company found out that the Indian was waiting for his girl to go with him, the captain told the man that we might all be killed through him, and made him give up the horses to the chief. The Indian chief was real mad as he took the horses away.

“We went on down to The Dalles, where we stopped a few days. There was a mission at The Dalles where two missionaries lived, Brewer and Waller. We emigrants traded some of our poor, tired cattle off to them for some of their fat beef, and some coarse flour chopped on a hand mill, like what we call chop-feed nowadays.

“Then we had to make a portage around the falls, and the women and children walked. I don’t remember the distance, but we walked until late at night, and waded in the mud knee-deep, and my mother stumped her toe and fell against a log or she might have gone down into the river. We little tots fell down in the mud until you’d have thought we were pigs.

“The men drove around the falls another way, and got out of provisions.

“My father, seeing a boat from the high bluffs, going down to the river hailed it, and when he came down to the boat he found us. He said he had gotten so hungry that he killed a crow and ate it, and thought it tasted splendid. He took provisions to the cattle drivers and we came on down the river to Fort Vancouver. It rained on us for a week and our bedclothes were drenched through and through, so at night we would open our bed of wet clothes and cuddle in them as though we were in a palace car, and all kept well and were not sick a day in all of our six months’ journey crossing the plains. My mother gained and grew fleshy and strong.

“Next we arrived in what is now the city of Portland, which then consisted of a log cabin and a few shanties. We stayed there a few days to dry our bedding.

“Then we moved out to the Tualatin Plains, where we wintered in a barn, with three other families, each family having a corner of the barn, with fire in the center and a hole in the roof for the smoke to go out. My father went to work for a man by the name of Baxton, as all my father was worth in money, I think, was twenty-five cents, or something like that. He arrived with a cow, calf and three oxen, and had to support his family by mauling rails in the rain, to earn the wheat, peas and potatoes we ate, as that was all we could get, as bread was out of the question. Shortly after father had gone to work my little brother had a rising on his cheek. It made him so sick that mother wanted us little tots to go to the place where my father was working. It being dark, we got out of our way and went to a man, who had an Indian woman, by the name of Williams. In the plains there are swales that fill up with water when the heavy rains come, and they are knee deep. I fell in one of these, but we got to Mr. Williams all right. But when we found our neighbor we began crying, so Mr. Williams persuaded us to come in and he would go and get father, which he did, and father came home with us to our barn house. My little brother got better, and my father returned to his work again.

“Among the settlers on the Tualatin Plains were Mr. Lackriss, Mr. Burton, Mr. Williams and General McCarver, who had settled on farms before we came, and many a time did we go to their farms for greens and turnips, which were something new and a great treat to us.

“Often the Indians used to frighten us with their war dances, as we called them, as we did not know the nature of Indians, so, as General McCarver was used to them, we often asked him if the Indians were having a war dance for the purpose of hostility. He told us, that was the way they doctored their sick.

“General McCarver settled in Tacoma when the townsite was first laid out and is well known. He died in Tacoma, leaving a family.

“After we moved out to the Tualatin Plains, many a night when father was away we lay awake listening to the dogs barking, thinking the Indians were coming to kill us, and when father came home I felt safe and slept happily.

“In the spring of 1845 my father took a nice place in West Yamhill, about two miles from the Willamette River and we had some settlers around, but our advantage for a school was poor, as we were too far from settlers to have a school, so my education, what little I have, was gotten by punching the cedar fire and studying at night, but, however, we were a happy family, hoping to accumulate a competency in our new home.

“One dog, myself and elder sister and brother were carrying water from our spring, which was a hundred yards or more from our house, when a number of Indians came along. We were afraid of them and all hid. I hid by the trail, when an old Indian, seeing me, yelled out, ‘Adeda!’ and I began to laugh, but my sister was terribly frightened and yelled at me to hide, so they found all of us, but they were friendly to us, only a wretched lot to steal, as they stole the only cow we had brought through, leaving the calf with us without milk.

“My father was quite a hunter, and deer were plenty, and once in a while he would get one, so we did get along without milk. During the first year we could not get bread, as there were no mills or places to buy flour. A Canadian put up a small chop mill and chopped wheat something like feed is chopped now.

“My father being a jack-of-all-trades, set to work and put up a turning lathe and went to making chairs, and my mother and her little tots took the straw from the sheaves and braided and made hats. We sold the chairs and hats and helped ourselves along in every way we could and did pretty well.

“One day, while my father’s lathe was running, some one yelled ‘Stop!’ A large black bear was walking through the yard. The men gave him a grand chase, but bruin got away from them.

“My father remained on this place until the spring of 1847, when he and a number of other families decided to move to Puget Sound. During that winter they dug two large canoes, lashed them together as a raft or flatboat to move on, and sold out their places, bought enough provisions to last that summer, and loading up with their wagons, families and provisions, started for Puget Sound.

“Coming up the Cowlitz River was a hard trip, as the men had to tow the raft over rapids and wade. The weather was very bad. Arriving at what was called the Cowlitz Landing we stayed a few days and moved out to the Catholic priest’s place (Mr. Langlay’s) where the women and children remained while the men went back to Oregon for our stock. They had to drive up the Cowlitz River by a trail, and swim the rivers. My father said it was a hard trip.

“On arriving at Puget Sound we found a good many settlers. Among them, now living that I know of, was Jesse Ferguson, on Bush Prairie. We stayed near Mr. Ferguson’s place until my father, McAllister and Shager, who lives in Olympia, took them to places in the Nisqually bottoms. My father’s place then, is now owned by Isaac Hawk.

“Mr. McAllister was killed in the Indian war of 1855-6, leaving a family of a number of children, of whom one is Mrs. Grace Hawk. The three families living in the bottom were often frightened by the saucy Indians telling us to leave, as the King George men told them to make us go, so on one occasion there came about 300 Indians in canoes. They were painted and had knives, and said they wanted to kill a chief that lived by us by the name of Quinasapam. When he saw the warriors coming he came into our house for protection, and all of the Indians who could do so came in after him. Mr. Shager and father gave them tobacco to smoke. So they smoked and let the chief go and took their departure. If there were ever glad faces on this earth and free hearts, ours were at that time.

“My father and Mr. McAllister took a job of bursting up old steamboat boilers for Dr. Tolmie for groceries and clothing, and between their improving their farms they worked at this. While they were away the Indians’ dogs were plenty, and, like wolves, they ran after everything, including our only milch cow, and she died, so there was another great loss to us, but after father got through with the old boilers, he took another job of making butter firkins for Dr. Tolmie and shingles also. This was a great help to the new settlers. The Hudson Bay Company was very kind to settlers.

“In 1849 the gold fever began to rage and my father took the fever. I was standing before the fire, listening to my mother tell about it, when my dress caught fire, and my mother and Mrs. Shager got the fire extinguished, when I found my hair was off on one side of my head and my dress missing. I felt in luck to save my life.

“In the spring of 1850 all arrangements were made for the California gold mines and we started by land in an ox team. We went back through Oregon and met our company in Yamhill, where we had lived. They joined our company of about thirty wagons. Portions of our journey were real pleasant, but the rest was terribly rough. In one canyon we crossed a stream seventy-five times in one day, and it was the most unpleasant part of our journey.

“After two months’ travel we arrived in Sacramento City, Cal., and found it tolerably warm for us, not being used to a warm climate.

“Father stayed in California nearly two years. Our fortune was not a large one. We returned by sea to Washington and made our home in the Nisqually Bottom.

“On April 30, 1854, I was married to a man named G. W. T. Allen and lived with him on Whidby Island seven years, during which time four children were born. We finally agreed to disagree. Only one of our children by my first husband is living. She is Mrs. L. L. Andrews of Tacoma, Washington. He is in the banking business. On July 7, 1863, I was married to my present husband, McLain Chambers. We have lived in Washington ever since. We have had nine children. Our oldest, a son, I. M. Chambers, lives on a farm near Roy, Wash. Others are married and live at Roy, Yelm and Stampede. We have two little boys at home. Have lost three within the last three years. We live a mile and a half southeast of Roy, Wash.

“I have lived here through all the hostilities of the war. Dr. Tolmie sent wagons to haul us to the fort for safety. My present husband was a volunteer and came through with a company of scouts, very hungry. They were so hungry that when they saw my mother take a pan of biscuits from the stove, one of them saying, ‘Excuse me, but we are almost starved,’ grabbed the biscuits from the pan, eating like a hungry dog.

“I suppose you have heard of the murder of Col. I. N. Ebey of Whidby Island? He was beheaded by the Northern or Fort Simpson Indians and his family and George Corliss and his wife made their escape from the house by climbing out of the windows, leaving even their clothes and bushwhacking it until morning. I was on Whidby Island about seven miles from where he was killed, that same night, alone with my little girl, now Mrs. Andrews. When one of our neighbors called at the gate and said, ‘Colonel Ebey was beheaded last night,’ I said ‘Captain Barrington, it cannot be, as I have been staying here so close by alone without being disturbed.’ Shortly after the Indians came armed, and one of them came up to me, shaking a large knife in his hand saying, ‘Iskum mika tenas and klatawa copa stick or we will kill you.’ I said to him, ‘I don’t understand; come and go to the field where my husband and an Indian boy are,’ but they refused to go and left me soon. I started for the field with my child, and the further I went the more scared I got until when I reached my husband, I cried like a child. He ran to the house and sent a message to the agent on the reservation, but they skipped out of his reach, and never bothered me again, but I truly suffered as though I were sick, although I stayed alone with a boy eight or nine years old.”

“A BOY OF SEVEN WHO CAME TO SHOW HIS FATHER THE WAY.”

In the same columns with the preceding sketch appeared R. A. Bundy’s story of his juvenile adventures:

“I will try to give an account of my trip crossing the plains in the pioneer days. You need not expect a flowery story, as you will observe before I get through. The chances for an education in those days were quite different from what they are today. Here goes with my story, anyway:

“My father left his old home in the State of Illinois in the month of April in the year 1865. As I was a lad not seven years of age until the 27th of the month, of course I was obliged to go along to show the old man the way.

“We were all ready to start, and a large number of others that were going in the same train had gathered at our place. There were also numerous relatives present to bid us good-bye, and warn us of the big undertaking we were about to embark in, and tell of the dangers we would encounter. But a lad of my age always thinks it is a great thing to go along with a covered wagon, especially if ‘pap’ is driving. I crawled right in and did not apprehend anything dangerous or wearisome about a short trip like that. I will have to omit dates and camping places, as I was too young to pay any attention to such things; and you may swear that I was always around close. Everything went along smoothly with me for a short time. Riding in a covered wagon was a picnic, but my father’s team was composed of both horses and cattle, and the oxen soon became tenderfooted and had to be turned loose and driven behind the wagons.

“About this time A. L. McCauley, whose account of the trip has appeared in the ‘Ledger,’ fell in with the train. He thought himself a brave man and as he had had a ‘right smart’ experience in traveling, especially since the war broke out, and was used to going in the lead and had selected a great many safe camping places for himself during that time, the men thought he would be a good man to hide from the Indians, so he was elected captain. He went ahead and showed my old man the way. I being now relieved of this responsibility, stayed behind the train and drove the tenderfooted oxen. When McCauley found a camping place I always brought up the rear.

“That was not quite so much of a picnic as some of us old-timers have nowadays at Shilo. I found out after driving oxen a few days, that I was going ‘with’ the old man.

“For a week or two my job was not as bad as some who have never tried it might imagine. But six months of travel behind the wagons barefooted, over sagebrush, sand toads, hot sand and gravel, rattlesnakes, prickly pears, etc., made me sometimes wish I had gone back home when the old dog did, or that ‘pap’ had sold me at the sale with the other property. In spite of my disagreeable situation, however, I kept trudging alone, bound to stay with the crowd. I thought my lot was a rough one when I saw other boys older than myself riding and occasionally walking just for pleasure. I could not see where the fun came in, and thought that if the opportunity was offered I could stand it to ride all the time. I thought I had the disadvantage until the Indians got all the stock.

“I remember one night that our famous captain said he had found us a good, safe camping place. The next morning the people were all right but the horses and cattle were all gone. For a while it looked like the whole train would have to walk. I did not care so much for myself but I thought it would be hard on those that were not used to it.

“During the day the men got a part of the horses back, and I was feeling pretty good, thinking the rest would get to ride, but along in the afternoon my joyful mood was suddenly changed. All the men, excepting a few on the sick list, were out after the stock, when the captain and some other men came running into camp as fast as their horses could carry them. The captain got off his horse, apparently almost scared to death. He told the women that they would never see their men again; that the Indians were coming from every direction. That was in the Wood River country, and it made me feel pretty bad after walking so far. We were all frightened, and some boys and myself found a hiding place in a wagon. We got under a feather bed and waited, expecting every minute that the Indians would come. They did not come so we came out and found that the captain was feeling rather weak and had laid down to have a rest. Shortly after we came out, one of the men came in leading an Indian pony. It was then learned that the captain and some of the men with him had been running from some of the men belonging to the train, thinking they were Indians. They found all their horses but two and captured two Indian ponies. The next day we journeyed on and I felt more like walking, knowing that the others could ride. We did not meet with any other difficulty that seriously attracted my attention.

“We arrived on the Touchet at Waitsburg in October or November, and don’t you forget it, I had spent many a hot, tiresome day, having walked all the way across the plains.”

CHAPTER IX
AN OLYMPIA WOMAN’S TRIP ACROSS THE PLAINS IN 1851.

Mrs. C. J. Crosby of Olympia, Washington, contributes this narrative of her personal experience, to the literature of the Northwest:

“It was in the early spring of ’51 that my father took the emigrant fever to come West, to what was then termed Oregon Territory, and get some of Uncle Sam’s land which was donated to any one who had the perseverance and courage to travel six long weary months, through a wild, savage country with storms and floods as well as the terrible heat and dust of summer to contend against. Our home was in Covington, Indiana, and my father, Jacob Smith, with his wife and five children, myself being the eldest, started from there the 24th day of March for a town called Council Bluffs on the Missouri River, where all the emigrants bought their supplies for their long journey in the old time prairie schooner. Our train was composed of twenty-four wagons and a good number of people. A captain was selected, whose duty it was to ride ahead of the train and find good camping place for the day or night, where there was plenty of wood, water and grass.

“The first part of our journey we encountered terrible floods, little streams would suddenly become raging torrents and we were obliged to cross them in hasilty-constructed boats; two incidents I distinctly remember.

“We had traveled all day and in the evening came to a stream called the Elk Horn, where we had some trouble and only part of the train crossed that night—we were among the number; well, we got something to eat as best we could, and being very tired all went to bed as early as possible; the river was a half mile from where we camped, but in the night it overflowed and the morning found our wagons up to the hubs in water, our cooking utensils floating off on the water, except those that had gone to the bottom, and all the cattle had gone off to find dry ground, and for a while things in general looked very discouraging. However, the men started out at daylight in search of the stray cattle, soon found them and hitched them to the wagons and started for another camping place, and to wait until we were joined by those who were left behind the night before. We all rejoiced to leave that river as soon as possible, but not many days expired before we came to another river which was worse than the first one—it was exceedingly high and very swift, but by hard work and perseverance they got all the wagons across the river without any accident, with the exception of my father’s, which was the last to cross. They got about half way over when the provision wagon slid off the boat and down the river it went. Well, I can hardly imagine how any one could understand our feelings unless they had experienced such a calamity; to see all the provisions we had in the world floating away before our eyes and not any habitation within many hundred miles of us; for a while we did indeed feel as though the end had come this time sure. We could not retrace our footsteps, or go forward without provisions; each one in the train had only enough for their own consumption and dare not divide with their best friend; however, while they were debating what was best to do, our wagon had landed on a sandbar and the men waded out and pulled it ashore. It is needless for me to say there was great rejoicing in the camp that day; of course, nearly everything in the wagon was wet, but while in camp they were dried out. Fortunately the flour was sealed up in tin cans; the corn meal became sour before it got dry, but it had to be used just the same. In a few days we were in our usual spirits, but wondering what new trials awaited us, and it came all too soon; the poor cattle all got poisoned from drinking alkali water; at first they did not know what to do for them, but finally someone suggested giving them fat bacon, which brought them out all right in a day or two. Then their feet became very sore from constant traveling and thorns from the cactus points, and we would be obliged to remain in camp several days for them to recruit.

“As we proceeded farther on our way we began to fear the Indians, and occasionally met strolling bands of them all decked out with bows and arrows, their faces hideous with paint and long feathers sticking in their top-knots, they looked very fierce and savage; they made us understand we could not travel through their country unless we paid them. So the men gave them some tobacco, beads and other trinkets, but would not give them any ammunition; they went away angry and acted as though they would give us trouble.

“Some of the men stood guard every night to protect the camp as well as the horses and cattle, as they would drive them off in the night and frequently kill them.

“Thus we traveled from day to day, ever anxious and on the lookout for a surprise from some ambush by the wayside, they were so treacherous, but kind Providence protected us and we escaped the fate of the unfortunate emigrants who preceded us.

“Fortunately there was but little sickness in our train and only one death, that of my little brother; he was ill about two weeks and we never knew the cause of his death. At first it seemed an impossibility to go away and leave him alone by the wayside, and what could we do without a coffin and not any boards to make one? A trunk was thought of and the little darling was laid away in that. The grave had to be very deep so the wild animals could not dig up the body, and the Indians would plunder the graves, too, so it was made level with the ground. We felt it a terrible affliction; it seemed indeed the climax of all we had endured. It was with sad hearts we once again resumed our toilsome journey.

“We saw the bones of many people by the wayside, bleaching in the sun, and it was ever a constant reminder of the dear little one that was left in the wilderness. However, I must not dwell too long over this dark side of the picture, as there was much to brighten and cheer us many times; there were many strange, beautiful things which were a great source of delight and wonder, especially the boiling springs, the water so hot it would cook anything, and within a short distance springs of ice water, and others that made a noise every few minutes like the puffing of a steamer. Then there were rocks that resembled unique old castles, as they came into view in the distance. All alone in the prairie was one great rock called Independence Rock; it was a mile around it, half a mile wide and quite high in some places; there were hundreds of emigrants’ names and dates carved on the side of the rock as high as they could reach. It reminded one of a huge monument. I wonder if old Father Time has effaced all the names yet?

“In the distance we saw great herds of buffalo and deer; the graceful, swift-footed antelope was indeed a sight to behold, and we never grew tired of the lovely strange flowers we found along the road.

The young folks, as well as the old, had their fun and jokes, and in the evening all would gather ’round the campfire, telling stories and relating the trials and experiences each one had encountered during the day, or meditating what the next day would bring forth of weal or woe. Thus the months and days passed by, and our long journey came to an end when we reached the Dalles on the Columbia River, where we embarked on the small steamer that traveled down the river and landed passengers and freight at a small place called the Cascades. At this place there was a portage of a half mile; then we traveled on another steamer and landed in Portland the last day of October, the year 1851, remained there during the winter and in the spring of 1852 came to Puget Sound with a number of others who were anxious for some of Uncle Sam’s land.

“Olympia, a very small village, was the only town on the Sound except Fort Steilacoom, where a few soldiers were stationed. We spent a short time in Olympia before going to Whidby Island, where my father settled on his claim, and we lived there five years, when we received a patent from the government, but before our home was completed he had the misfortune to break his arm, and, not being properly set, he was a cripple the remainder of his life.”

In 1852 there were a couple of log houses at Alki Point, occupied by Mr. Denny and others; they called the “town” New York. We went ashore from the schooner and visited them.

To the above properly may be added an account published in a Seattle paper:

“Mrs. C. J. Crosby, of Olympia, gives the following interesting sketch of her early days on Whidby Island:

“As I am an old settler and termed a moss-back by those who have come later, I feel urged to relate a few facts pertaining to my early life on Whidby Island in the days of 1852. My father, Jacob Smith, with his wife and five children, crossed the plains the year of 1851. We started from Covington, Indiana, on the 24th day of March and arrived in Portland, Oregon, the last day of October.

“We remained there during the winter, coming to Olympia the spring of 1852, where we spent a short time before going down to the island. My father settled on a claim near Pen’s Cove, and almost opposite what is now called Coupeville. We lived there five years, when he sold his claim to Capt. Swift for three thousand five hundred dollars and we returned to Olympia.

“The year ’52 we found several families living on the island; also many bachelors who had settled on claims. I have heard my mother say she never saw the face of a white woman for nine months. My third sister was the second white child born on the island. I remember once we did not have any flour or bread for six weeks or more. We lived on potatoes, salmon and clams. Finally a vessel came in the Sound bringing some, but the price per barrel was forty-five dollars and it was musty and sour. Mother mixed potatoes with the flour so that we could eat it at all, and also to make it last a long time.

“There is also another incident impressed on my memory that I never can forget. One morning an Indian came to the house with some fish oil to sell, that and tallow candles being the only kind of light we had in those days. She paid him all he asked for the oil, besides giving him a present, but he wanted more. He got very angry and said he would shoot her. She told him to shoot and took up the fire shovel to him. Meantime she told my brother to go to a neighbor’s house, about half a mile distant, but before the men arrived the Indian cleared out. However, had it not been for the kindness of the Indians we would have suffered more than we did.”

From other published accounts I have culled the following:

“Peter Smith crossed the plains in 1852 and settled near Portland. When it was known the Indians would make trouble, Mr. Smith, being warned by a friendly Indian, took his family to Fort Steilacoom and joined the ‘Home Guard,’ but shortly afterward joined a company of militia and saw real war for three months.

“Just before the hostilities in 1855, two Indians visited his house. One of them was a magnificent specimen of physical manhood and chief of his tribe. They wanted something to eat. Now several settlers had been killed by Indians after gaining access to their houses, but, nothing daunted, Mrs. Smith went to work and prepared a very fine dinner, and Mr. S. made them sandwiches for their game bag, putting on an extra allowance of sugar, and appeared to be as bold as a lion. He also accepted an invitation to visit their camp, which he did in their company, and formed a lasting friendship.

“The mince, fruit and doughnuts did their good work.

“During the war Mr. Smith had his neck merely bruised by a bullet. On his return home he found the Indians had been there before him and stolen his hogs and horses and destroyed his grain, a loss of eleven hundred dollars, for which he has never received any pay.”

CHAPTER X.
CAPT. HENRY ROEDER ON THE TRAIL.

Capt. Roeder came by steamer to Portland and thence made his way to Olympia overland from the mouth of the Cowlitz River. This was in the winter of 1852. The story of this journey is best told in the words of the veteran pioneer himself, who has narrated his first experiences in the then Territory of Oregon as follows:

“In company with R. V. Peabody, I traveled overland from the mouth of the Cowlitz, through the mud to Olympia. We started early in December from Portland. It took us four days to walk from the Cowlitz River to Olympia, and it was as hard traveling as I have ever seen. Old residents will remember what was known as Sanders’ Bottom. It was mud almost to your waist. We stopped one night with an old settler, whose name I cannot now recall, but whom we all called in those days ‘Old Hardbread.’ On the Skookumchuck we found lodging with Judge Ford, and on arriving at Olympia we put up with Mr. Sylvester, whose name is well known to all the old residents on the Sound. I remember that at Olympia we got our first taste of the Puget Sound clam, and mighty glad we were, too, to get a chance to eat some of them.

“From Olympia to Seattle we traveled by Indian canoe. I remember distinctly rounding Alki Point and entering the harbor of Elliott Bay. I saw what was, perhaps, the first house that was built, where now stands the magnificent city of Seattle. This was a cabin that was being erected on a narrow strip of land jutting out into the bay, which is now right in the heart of Seattle. Dr. Maynard was the builder. It was situated adjoining the lot at Commercial and Main Streets, occupied by the old Arlington just before the fire of 1889. The waters of the Sound lapped the shores of the narrow peninsula upon which it was built, but since then the waters have been driven back by the filling of earth, sawdust and rock, which was put on both sides of the little neck of land.

“After a few days’ stay here, Peabody and I journeyed by Indian canoe to Whatcom. We carried our canoe overland to Hood Canal. On the second day out we encountered a terrible storm and put into shelter with a settler on the shore of the canal. His name was O’Haver, and he lived with an Indian wife. We had white turnips and dried salmon for breakfast and dried salmon and white turnips for dinner. This bill of fare was repeated in this fashion for three days, and I want to tell you that we were glad when the weather moderated and we were enabled to proceed.

“We were told that we could procure something in the edible line at Port Townsend, but were disappointed. The best we could obtain at the stores was some hard bread, in which the worms had propagated in luxuriant fashion. This food was not so particularly appetizing, as you may imagine. A settler kindly took pity on us and shared his slender stock of food. Thence we journeyed to Whatcom, where I have resided nearly ever since.”

Capt. Roeder told also before he had finished his recital of an acquaintance he had formed in California with the noted Spanish murderer and bandit, Joaquin, and his tribe of cutthroats and robbers. Joaquin’s raids and his long career in crime among the mining camps of the early days of California are part of the history of that state. Capt. Roeder was traveling horseback on one occasion between Marysville and Rush Creek. This was in 1851. The night before he left Marysville the sheriff and a posse had attempted to capture Joaquin and his band. The authorities had offered a reward of $10,000 for Joaquin and $5,000 for his men, dead or alive. The sheriff went out from Marysville with a cigar in his mouth and his sombrero on the side of his head, as if he were attending a picnic. It was his own funeral, however, instead of a picnic, for his body was picked out of a fence corner, riddled with bullets.

“I was going at a leisurely gait over the mountain road or bridle path that led from Marysville to Rush Creek,” said Capt. Roeder. “Suddenly, after a bend in the road, I found myself in the midst of a band of men mounted on bronchos. They were dark-skinned and of Spanish blood. Immediately I recognized Joaquin and ‘Three-Fingered Jack,’ his first lieutenant. My heart thumped vigorously, and I thought that it was all up with me. I managed somehow to control myself and did not evince any of the excitement I felt or give the outlaws any sign that I knew or suspected who they were.

“One of the riders, after saluting me in Spanish, asked me where I was from and whither I was traveling. I told them freely and frankly, as if the occurrence were an everyday transaction. Learning that I had just come from Marysville, the seat of their last outrage, they inquired the news. I told them the truth—that the camp was in a state of great excitement, due to the late visit of the outlaw, Joaquin, and his band; that the sheriff had been murdered and three or four miners and others in the vicinity had been murdered and robbed. It was Joaquin’s pleasant practice to lariat a man, rob him and cut his throat, leaving the body by the roadside. They asked me which way Joaquin had gone and I told them that he was seen last traveling towards Arizona. As a matter of fact, the outlaw and his band were then traveling in a direction exactly opposite from that which I had given.

“My replies apparently pleased them. ‘Three-Fingered Jack’ proposed a drink, after asking me which way I traveled. I said, ‘I would have proposed the compliment long ago had I any in my canteen,’ whereat Jack drew his own bottle and offered me a drink.

“You may imagine my feelings then. I knew that if they believed I had recognized them they would give me poison or kill me with a knife. I took the canteen and drank from it. You may imagine my joy when I saw Jack lift the bottle to his lips and drain it. Then I knew that I had deceived them. We exchanged adieus in Spanish, and that is the last I saw of Joaquin and his associate murderers.”