et Sound. Here the first American party of
homeseekers to Washington rested and settled in 1845. At this point I
set a post, and afterwards arranged for a stone to be placed to mark the
spot.

On the twentieth of February I went to Tenino, south of Olympia, on the
train. My outfit was drawn to this place by a horse team, the oxen being
taken along under yoke. Dave was still not an ox, but an unruly steer. I
dared not intrust driving him to other hands, yet I had to go ahead to
arrange for the monument and the lecture.

The twenty-first of February was a red-letter day. At Tenino I had the
satisfaction of helping to dedicate the first monument erected to mark
the old trail. The stores were closed, and the school children in a
body came over to the dedication. The monument was donated by the Tenino
Quarry Company; it is inscribed "Old Oregon Trail: 1843-57."

[Illustration: _Brown Bros._

A prosperous fruit farm along the trail.]

In the evening I addressed a good-sized audience, and sixteen dollars
was received to help on the good work. The spirit of the people, more
than the money, was encouraging.

At Chehalis, Washington, the Commercial Club undertook to erect and
dedicate a monument. John R. Jackson was the first American citizen to
settle north of the Columbia River. One of the daughters, Mrs. Ware,
accompanied by her husband, indicated the spot where the monument should
be erected, and a post was planted. A touching incident was that Mrs.
Ware was requested to put the post in place and hold it while her
husband tamped the earth around it.

At Toledo, the place where the pioneers left the Cowlitz River on the
trail to the Sound, another marker was placed by the citizens.

[Illustration: The first boulder marked on the old trail; near The
Dalles of the Columbia.]

From Toledo I shipped the whole outfit by steamer down the Cowlitz
River, and took passage with my assistants to Portland, thus reversing
the order of travel in 1853. We used steam instead of the brawn of
stalwart pioneers and Indians to propel the boat. On the evening of
March the first I pitched my tent in the heart of the city of Portland,
on a grassy vacant lot.

On the morning of the tenth of March I took steamer with my outfit,
bound up the Columbia for The Dalles. How wondrous the change!
Fifty-four years before, I had come floating down this same stream in a
flatboat with a party of poor, heartsick pioneers; now I made the trip
enjoying