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.
[Illustration: Ezra Meeker's Homestead, Puyallup, Washington; Camp No.
1, the Oregon Trail Monument Expedition.]
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.