CHAPTER VIII. Pioneer Days, Chapter VIII

what is now known as Long Tom River - stream running crosswise of the valley, with much swampy land. It now being in December, of course all such sections were saturated with the continuous rains. To undertake this piece of road with exhausted teams proved to be terrible, as frequently each day oxen would mire and become helpless, and many had to be dragged out by main force, after which some were not able to strand, and were left to die. After several days of such helpless experience, Long Tom was reached. Long Tom is a stream about three rods wide. It had to be ferried, and a ferry boat was constructed by procuring two small Indian canoes, a little longer that the wagons, with a pine log made fast between. The contents of the wagons had to be taken out and placed on, not in, this frail boat and taken across; the wagons lifted in and lifted out on the other side, reloaded and taken out of the way for the nest and so on till all were over.

CHAPTER VIII

About this time, 3 o'clock in the afternoon, an event occurred which is painful to describe, and yet it is so full of the pathos of the whole terrible situation that it mist be done. It will be remembered I was a boy, and was driving the team of a widow lady, who had expected, as we all had, that we would reach destination months before. She was taken sick the night before the crossing, and a baby girl was born to her. After receiving what attention it was in their power to give her, they all crossed the river and left the sick woman and child in my charge. As night was approaching I timidly entered the tent where the sick lady lay. I got wood and renewed the fire, and, without speaking a work, I turned and looked at the lonely, distressed woman. She looked at me, and in most pathetic voice said: "What do you suppose will become of meT'At this pathetic expression all my timidity vanished, all the man in me was instantly aroused, and I asked her to tell me what to do, and if it was in my power I would do it. The sleepless night wore slowly away, and morning came at last. Preparations were then commenced to get the sick woman and child across the stream. The wagon and contents had been passed over the stream the night before, so I crossed the stream, built a large fire, got fir boughs and made a bed on the cold, hard ground. I then went back and covered the woman and child up. Then, with the help of three others, returned and took the bed on which they were lying by the four corners, crossed and placed them in the tent I had prepared for them. A woman and child had died the night before under the same circumstances. She was another member of the unfortunate Crowley family. But the woman and child I speak of both lived. She survived the trying ordeal, with our scant preparations and the service that willing hands and kind hearts could render. She lived single a year, and then married a well-to-do farmer, raised a large and respectable family, Mrs. John Simpson, of Corvallis, being one of her daughters. The baby born at that time also lived to raise a large family; but both mother and child are now dead, and this humble narrative is the only record of the unsurpassed hardships of this remarkable experience, and I take pleasure in stating the fact that I did something to save the life of this mother and child. We do little kindnesses while rushing through life, and we often do things that are not kind, but I find that it is only the thoughts of the kind acts that give comfort as I am slowly jogging down the declining years of life.

Snow fell during the night to the depth of four inches. I arranged the best I could for my sick charges, but the best was poor, indeed, and in the morning we were all ready to pursue our toilsome journey. Mary's River was our next objective point. The snow disappeared during the day, to the satisfaction of all concerned. Arriving at Mary's River as near as i can recollect, near where the grist mill now stands, it being at that place about 50 feet across. As it was now in December, of course the stream had to be ferried, but i must confess that i have entirely forgotten the kind of a craft improvised to cross in. Timber being near by, I presume we made a raft. I well remember the stock had to swim, and that one of our oxen became entangled in the brush below the place of landing. I jumped in the cold water, tied a rope around his horns, and all hands pulled him out, more dead than alive. This incident had the tendency to arouse me from my condition of lethargy caused by almost constant watching over the sick charge since leaving Long Tom.

After crossing we camped and spent our first night in what is now the flourishing, beautiful city of Corvaffis, now the county seat of Benton County. The Agricultural College is now located here, and other adornments too numerous to mention. Corvallis mean "heart of the valley". Here was found another pole cabin, more attractive to us than a gorgeous palace would be now. It was the first inhabited dwelling or cabin it had been our pleasure to see in the State of Oregon. What made it more attractive to us, it was inhabited by a lonely civilized white" man, whose name was J. C. Avery. He afterward became conspicuous in assisting to form a provisional government, arranging a county organization for the government of the present county, was United States postal agent for several years, and afterwards a member of the legislature. He raised quite a family, and some of them still live in Corvaffis.

We then left Mary's River, our company from there consisting of only two wagons. One of these belonged to a cousin of mine, the other was the team I was driving. My brother, younger than myself, drove the loose stock all the way across. My cousin, being a man 35 years age, and all his life a pioneer, of course he became manager of our little caravan. At this time we had prospective points in vies, but the first night from Mary's River we camped at the foothills, a sparsely settled country, near the residence of H. C. Lewis. His dwelling was another of those soul-cheering cabins. Next we came to the residence of Thomas Reed, and after camp had been arranged, Mr. Reed visited us. This was the first visit we had received in almost eight months. On learning our condition, and that we had neither bread or flour, he returned to his house and brought some bread and divided it among the five children in camp. I was intimately acquired with him 45 years afterward, and in all those long years I never forgot that noble act of charity. In the interview with Mr. Reed he informed us of one of those lovely, unoccupied cabins a short distance from his place, what he thought we might get into for a time, but the man who had control of it lived two miles beyond. He gave us directions as how to find the cabin, and we struck out, without trail or road, and luckily found it. My cousin mounted a horse and started to ascertain if we could occupy the house, leaving us and the tears standing till his return. It was raining as though a second flood was approaching. I went and looked through a crack, and there I saw the first dry ground I had seen in two months. I had seen gorgeously furnished sitting-rooms, floors carpeted with finest Brussels, but nothing I had ever seen had such a charm for me as