Some Early Oregon Schools
By MARIANNE HUNSAKER D'ARCY
EARLY in the spring of 1846 our parents, Mr. and Mrs. J. T. Hunsaker, started from Illinois with their family of five children to "cross the plains," my mother driving a light two-horse wagon with her small children in it. They were part of a large "company" from the prairie state.
As soon as they could safely leave the "company" east of the Cascade Mountains, they pushed on alone over the "Barlow road," theirs being the first wagon to come directly over—from the plains across. How well I remember the momentous event, to us children, of getting our wagon down Laurel Hill by means of ropes, one end tied to the wagon and the other around a tree, while father, with the assistance of mother and brother Horton, would slowly lower it to a place where the horses could safely draw it again.
But I must go on to my school. We went directly past Oregon City to the Molalla, where we found shelter in a log cabin of two rooms (more than one was a luxury in those days), and one was generously given "the emigrants." The first thing after a shelter was to get in a fall crop. That accomplished, the men of the neighborhood put up a primitive log schoolhouse with puncheon floor, rock-stick-and-mud fireplace and chimney, benches made of puncheons with holes bored and pegs stuck in for legs; no windows, no desks, no table.
Father came home one evening and told us they had the teacher engaged to begin school, a man by the name of Snyder. "I must go to Oregon City to-morrow," he said, "and get the children some books and leather to make shoes." Each man was his own family shoemaker in those days. Ah! what pleasure at the thought of shoes and books! How anxiously were we looking as the time drew near for his return; but evening came and no father. It grew dark; we waited, we watched, Ave listened. The weird, lone sound of wolves was all that greeted us. It must have been 9 o'clock w^hen we heard his welcome voice calling for Horton to come and get the parcels while he went on to put his horse away.
What queer-looking books they were—long rolls of what seemed to be paper, simply printed newspaper, and that was what kept him so late, waiting for them to be printed. How carefully and, it seemed to me, reverently, mother opened the parcel, and how disappointed we were to see the books.
After mother had given father his supper she went to work folding, sewing and pasting our books, while father busied himself taking the measure of our feet for shoes. We went to bed leaving them thus employed by the light of the open fire and tallow candles, or perhaps a tin cup or plate with grease in it and a twisted rag-string burning.
When I awakened next morning it seemed to me they had been working
