cushioned chairs, delicious foods, fine linens, magazines and
books--every luxury of civilized life.

That night I arrived at The Dalles, and drove nearly three quarters of a
mile to a camping ground near the park. The streets were muddy, and the
cattle were impatient and walked very fast, which made it necessary for
me to tramp through the mud at their heads. We had no supper or even
tea, as we did not build a fire. It was clear that night, but raining in
the morning.

Prior to leaving home I had written to the ladies of the Landmark
Committee at The Dalles. What should they do but provide a monument
already inscribed and in place, and notify me that I had been selected
to deliver the dedicatory address!

The weather of the next day treated us to some hardships that I had
missed on the first overland journey. Ice formed in the camp half an
inch thick, and the high wind joined forces with the damper of our
stove, which had got out of order, to fill the tent with smoke and make
life miserable.

The fierce, cold wind also made it necessary to postpone the dedication
for a day and finally to carry it out with less ceremony than had been
planned. Nevertheless, I felt that the expedition was now fairly
started. We had reached the point where the real journey would begin,
and the interest shown in the plan by the towns along the way had been
most encouraging.

[Illustration: The Dalles, on the Columbia River.]

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

ON THE OVERLAND TRAIL AGAIN

IT was the fourteenth of March when I drove out of The Dalles to make
the long overland journey. By rail, it is 1734 miles from The Dalles to
Omaha, where our work of marking the old trail was to end. By wagon road
the distance is greater, but not much greater--probably 1800 miles.

The load was very heavy, and so were the roads. With a team untrained to
the road and one of the oxen unbroken, with no experienced ox driver to
assist me, and the grades heavy, small wonder if a feeling of depression
crept over me. On some long hills we could move only a few rods at a
time, and on level roads, with the least warm sun, the unbroken ox would
poke out his tongue.

[Illustration: _Brown Bros._

An apple orchard in Washington.]

We were passing now through the great farming district of eastern
Oregon. The desert over which we had dragged ourselves in those long-ago
days has been largely turned into great wheat fields. As we drew into
camp one night