trees, its modest, tasteful
homes, the bustle and stir on its business streets, with the constant
passing of trains, shrieking of whistles, and ringing of bells,
presented a striking contrast to the scene I saw that June day in 1852
when I passed over the ground near where the city stands. Vast herds of
buffalo then grazed on the hills or leisurely crossed our track and at
times obstructed our way, and herds of antelope watched from vantage
points.

But now the buffalo and antelope have disappeared; the Indian likewise
is gone. Instead of the parched plain of 1852, with its fierce clouds of
dust rolling up the valley and engulfing whole trains, we saw a
landscape of smiling, fruitful fields, inviting groves of trees, and
contented homes.

From Grand Island I went to Fremont, Nebraska, to head the procession in
the semi-centennial celebration in honor of the founding of that city.
In the procession I worked the ox and cow together. From Fremont I went
on to Lincoln.

All the while I was searching for an ox or a steer large enough to mate
the Dave ox, but without avail. Finally, after looking over a thousand
head of cattle in the stockyards of Omaha, I found a five-year-old
steer, Dandy, which I broke in on the way to Indianapolis. This ox
proved to be very satisfactory. He never kicked or hooked, and was
always in good humor. Dave and Dandy made good team-mates.

"As dumb as an ox" is a very common expression, dating back as far as my
memory goes. In fact, the ox is not so "dumb" as a casual observer might
think. Dave and Dandy knew me as far as they could see; sometimes when I
went to them in the morning, Dave would lift his head, bow his neck,
stretch out his body, and perhaps extend a foot, as if to say, "Good
morning to you; glad to see you." Dandy was driven on the streets of a
hundred cities and towns, and I never knew him to be at a loss to find
his way to the stable or watering-trough, once he had been there and was
started on a return trip.

I arrived at Indianapolis on January 5, 1907, eleven months and seven
days from the date of departure from my home at Puyallup, twenty-six
hundred miles away.

[Illustration: _Brown Bros._

Along the Erie Canal, part of the National Highway to the West.]

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

DRIVING ON TO THE CAPITAL

AFTER passing the Missouri, and leaving the trail behind me, I somehow
had a foreboding that I might be mistaken for a faker and looked upon as
an