a young man approached, driving eight harnessed horses.
He told me that he had harrowed in thirty-five acres of wheat that day,
and that it was just a common day's work to plow seven acres of land.

[Illustration: _Brown Bros._

Where a wheat farm of today has taken the place of the unbroken prairie
in eastern Oregon.]

I recalled my boyhood days when father spoke approvingly if I plowed two
acres a day, and when to harrow ten acres was the biggest kind of a
day's work. I also recalled the time when we cut the wheat with a
sickle, or maybe with a hand cradle, and threshed it out with horses on
the barn floor. Sometimes we had a fanning mill, and how it would make
my arms ache to turn the crank! At other times, if a stiff breeze sprang
up, the wheat and chaff would be shaken loose and the chaff would be
blown away. If all other means failed, two stout arms at either end of a
blanket or a sheet would move the sheet as a fan to clean the wheat. Now
we see the great combination harvester garner thirty acres a day, and
thresh it as well and sack it ready for the mill or warehouse. There
is no shocking, no stacking or housing: all in one operation, the grain
is made ready for market.

[Illustration: _Brown Bros._

In spite of the wide-spreading farms and fruit orchards, there are still
forests in Washington and Oregon, and lumbering is still a great
industry.]

As we journeyed eastward, the Blue Mountains came into distant view.
Half a day's brisk travel brought us well up toward the snow line. The
country became less broken, the soil seemed better, the rainfall had
been greater. We began to see red barns and comfortable farmhouses,
still set wide apart, though, for the farms are large.

In the Walla Walla valley the scene is different. Smaller farms are the
rule and orchards are to be seen everywhere. We now passed the historic
spot where the Whitman massacre occurred in 1847. Soon afterward we were
in camp in the very heart of the thriving city of Walla Walla. It was
near here that I had met my father when I crossed by the Natchess Pass
Trail in 1854.

Another day's travel brought us to Pendleton, Oregon. Here the
Commercial Club took hold with a will and provided funds for a stone
monument. On the last day of March it was dedicated with appropriate
ceremonies.

That evening I drove out to the Indian school in a fierce rainstorm to
talk to the teachers and pupils about the Oregon Trail. A night in the
wagon wit