else can of the
hopes and dreams of the hardy pathfinders, and of the compensations and
pleasures found in their sacrifices.

It is with this end in view, to preserve the life of the old days in its
many colors, that these recollections are penned. There was more to this
life than has been touched by the parlor romancers or makers of
moving-picture films. Perhaps some day these memories may serve to
illumine the historian delving in the human records of the past. And
perhaps, also, and this is the author's dearest wish, they may inspire
young readers to hold to the hardy traditions of the 'Fifties and to
keep this spirit alive in a country destined soon to be densely peopled
with newcomers from the long-settled parts of the world.

Reminiscences of a Pioneer

Chapter I.

Farewell to the Old Southern Home.

I have often wondered, when viewing a modern passenger coach, with its
palace cars, its sleeping and dining cars, if those who cross the "Great
American Desert," from the Mississippi to the Pacific in four days,
realize the hardships, dangers and privations of the Argonauts of
fifty-eight years ago. The "Plains" were then an unbroken wilderness of
three thousand miles, inhabited by hordes of wild Indians, and not too
friendly to the white man journeying through his country.

The trip then required careful preparation--oxen, wagons, provisions,
arms and ammunition must be first of all provided. These were
essentials, and woe to the hapless immigrant who neglected these
provisions. To be stranded a thousand miles from the "settlements" was a
fate none but the most improvident and reckless cared to hazard.

It is to recount some of the trials, adventures, hardships, privations,
as I remember them, that these lines are written. For truly, the
immigrants of the early 50's were the true "Conquerors of the
Wilderness." Cutting loose from home and civilization, their all,
including their women and children, loaded into wagons, and drawn by
slow-moving ox teams, they fearlessly braved three thousand miles of
almost trackless wilderness.

As a small boy I remember the first mention of California, the land of
gold. My father returned from New Orleans in January. On board the
steamer coming up the Mississippi river, he had fallen in with some
gentlemen "returning to the States." They had given him a glowing
description of the "land of gold," and almost the first words spoken
after the family greetings were over