KEARNEY, NEBRASKA.
At that beautiful city of Kearney we were accorded a fine camping place
in the center of the town under the spreading boughs of the shade
trees that line the streets, and a nice green, fresh-cut sward upon
which to pitch our tents. The people came in great numbers to visit
the camp and express their approval as to the object of the trip. I
said, "Here we will surely get a splendid monument," but when I came
to consult with the business men not one could be found to give up any
time to the work, though many seemed interested. The president of the
commercial club even refused to call a meeting of the club to consider
the subject, because he said he had no time to attend the meeting and
thought most of the members would be the same. I did not take it this
man was opposed to the proposed work, but honestly felt there were more
important matters pressing upon the time of business men, and said the
subject could be taken up at their regular meeting in the near future.
As I left this man's office, who, I doubted not, had spoken the truth,
I wondered to myself if these busy men would ever find time to die. How
did they find time to eat? or to sleep? and I queried, Is a business
man's life worth the living, if all his wakeful moments are absorbed
in grasping for gains? But I am admonished that this query must be
answered each for himself, and I reluctantly came away from Kearney
without accomplishing the object of my visit, and wondering whether my
mission was ended and results finished.
The reader will readily see that I would be the more willing listener
to such an inner suggestion, in view of my crippled condition to carry
on the work. And might not that condition have a bearing to bring
about such results? No. For the people seemed to be greatly interested
and sympathetic. The press was particularly kind in their notices,
commending the work, but it takes time to arouse the business men to
action, as one remarked to me, "You can't hurry us to do anything; we
are not that kind of a set." This was said in a tone bordering on the
offensive, though perhaps expressing only a truth.
GRAND ISLAND.
I did not, however, feel willing to give up the work after having
accomplished so much on the 1,700 miles traveled, and with less than
200 miles ahead of me, and so I said, "I will try again at Grand
Island," the next place where there was a center of population, that
an effort would probably succeed. Here I found there was a decided
public sentiment in favor of taking action, but at a later date—next
year—jointly to honor the local pioneers upon the occasion of the
fiftieth anniversary of the settlement around and about the city; and
so, this dividing the attention of the people, it was not thought
best to undertake the work now, and again I bordered on the slough of
despondency.
I could not repeat the famous words, I would "fight it out on this
line if it takes all summer," for here it is the 30th of August, and in
one day more summer will be gone. Neither could I see how to accomplish
more than prepare the way, and that now the press is doing, and sowing
seed upon kindly ground that will in the future bring forth abundant
harvest.
Gradually the fact became uppermost in my mind that I was powerless
to move; that my team was gone. No response came to the extensive
advertisements for an ox or a yoke of oxen, showing clearly there were
none in the country, and that the only way to repair the damage was to
get unbroken steers or cows and break them in. This could not be done
in hot weather, or at least cattle unused to work could not go under
the yoke and render effective service while seasoning, and so, for the
time being, the work on the Trail was suspended.
As I write in this beautiful grove of the old court house grounds, in
the heart of this embryo city of Grand Island, with its stately rows
of shade trees, its modest, elegant homes, the bustle and stir on
its business streets, with the constant passing of trains, shrieking
of whistles, ringing of bells, the reminder of a great change in
conditions, my mind reverts back to that June day in 1852 when I passed
over the ground near where the city stands. Vast herds of buffalo
then grazed on the hills or leisurely crossed our track and at times
obstructed our way. Flocks of antelope frisked on the outskirts or
watched from vantage points. The prairie dogs reared their heads in
comical attitude, burrowing, it was said, with the rattlesnake and the
badger.
But now these dog colonies are gone; the buffalo has gone; the antelope
has disappeared; as likewise the Indian. Now all is changed. Instead
of the parched plain we saw in 1852, with its fierce clouds of dust
rolling up the valley and engulfing whole trains until not a vestige of
them could be seen, we see the landscape of smiling, fruitful fields,
of contented homes, of inviting clumps of trees dotting the landscape.
The hand of man has changed what we looked upon as a barren plain
to that of a fruitful land. Where then there were only stretches of
buffalo grass, now waving fields of grain and great fields of corn send
forth abundant harvests. Yes, we may again exclaim, "What wondrous
changes time has wrought."
At Grand Island I shipped to Fremont, Neb., to head the procession
celebrating the semi-centennial of founding that city, working the ox
and cow together; thence to Lincoln, where the first edition of "The
Ox Team" was printed, all the while searching for an ox or a steer
large enough to mate the Dave ox, but without avail. Finally, after
looking over a thousand head of cattle in the stock yards of Omaha, a
five-year-old steer was found and broken in on the way to Indianapolis,
where I arrived January 5, 1907, eleven months and seven days from date
of departure from my home at Puyallup, 2,600 miles distant.