these were held in a log schoolhouse, with a puncheon floor, three miles distant. When an appointment was made she always attended with my father, the children accompanying, all walking, as the family had no team. Social intercourse was scant, aside from the Indians, which she could not tolerate on account of their uncleanly habits; yet she always treated them kindly and honestly; and that is probably the reason why the family was not cut off, for it certainly was in great danger a number of times. Occasionally she would visit a neighbor, particularly in case of sickness—there was but one physician in the country, and he five miles away, and his lowest fee for a country visit was $10.00—walking five to ten miles', and would knit socks while she was walking. My father died April 22, 1879, and mother managed the farm five years with the aid of two sons in their teens. At length she sold it, and in 1885 returned on a visit to her girlhood home in Pennsylvania, after an absence of thirty-nine years. That was a red-letter experience in her life; but she could not be prevailed upon to stay in the East, and so, after a visit of six months, returned to the Pacific Coast, better satisfied than ever with it, and took up accustomed round of duties, mainly in keeping house for an unmarried son. While thus engaged she sustained a serious accident, the breaking of the right hip, and for three and a half years thereafter she was compelled to remain in bed, as the broken limb never united. During these grievous years her sturdy character shone more brightly than ever. Once fa'he said to me, "I do not know why I am permitted to live; I am of no use to anybody whatever—just a burden." I repeated her express'ion to another old lady, and she said: "I know why your mother is permitted to live. It is for her good example, her cheerfulness under trying circumstances, and the excellent counsel she always has ready for those in trouble. She never complains, but always makes the best of everything. The influence for good and right living emanating from your mother's bedside is not second to any church influence in this community."
This tribute from an intimate friend of my mother who had known her for more than forty years amid almost every trial that can be conceived of, was certainly deeply appreciated by me. But the end came finally on October 28, 1898, and one of the best of mothers passed on to her reward beyond, leaving behind her six children, twenty grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren.
Among the many good lessons she taught her children none stand out more prominently than the precept which was a part of her daily life—"That if one could not speak well of another, it was best not to speak at all." Whatever she might have thought of a neighbor, or any other person, she was never known to speak disparagingly of them.
Reminiscence of Mrs. Julia A. Wilcox (a pioneer of 1845), widow of Ralph Wilcox, who was the first school-teacher in Portland, Oregon: "In crossing the plains on Meek's cut-off we were without water for thirty-six hours. The cattle had disappeared; they were found by a spring where they had found the water. A great many of the company were taken sick and died from eating the cattle that had been driven so far. Food was scarce and the cattle had to be killed and eaten. In some places the mountains were so steep that the wagons nearly stood on ends; the oxen were taken off the wagons and the men had to hold on to the back of the wagons to keep them from tipping. An Indian swam the Deschutes River and carried a rope across. The wagon beds were fastened to the rope, and the people and provisions were carried across this way."
Dr. Robert Newell in 1840 brought the first wagon over the mountains from Fort Hall and left it at Whitman's Mission.
