d, and everyone wondered why all places
could not be as green and beautiful as this one. I cannot half tell how
we felt and acted, nor what we said in our delight over this picture of
plenty. The strong contrasts created strong impressions, and the tongues
so long silent in our dry and dreary trouble were loosened to say
everything the heart inspired. Think as much as you can; you cannot
think it all.

We felt much better after our rest, and the oxen seemed stronger and
better able, as well as more willing to carry their loads, so we soon
prepared to move on down the valley, toward the house we had spoken of
as the goal we were to reach. It was now the 7th day of March 1850, and
this date, as well as the 4th day of November 1849 will always remain an
important one in memory. On the last named day we left the trail to take
the unfortunate cut-off, and for four long months we had wandered and
struggled in terrible hardship. Every point of that terrible journey is
indelibly fixed upon my memory and though seventy-three years of age on
April 6th 1893 I can locate every camp, and if strong enough could
follow that weary trail from Death Valley to Los Angeles with unerring
accuracy. The brushy canon we have just described is now occupied by the
Southern Pacific Railroad, and the steep and narrow ridge pierced by a
tunnel, through which the trains pass. The beautiful meadow we so much
admired has now upon its border a railroad station, Newhall, and at the
proper season some portion of it is covered with thousands of trays of
golden apricots, grown in the luxuriant orchards just beyond the hills
toward the coast, and here drying in the bright summer sun. The cattle
in the parti-colored coats are gone, but one who knows the ground can
see our picture.

Loaded up again we start down the beautiful grassy valley, the women
each with a staff in hand, and everything is new and strange to us.
Rogers and I know that we will soon meet people who are strangers to us;
who speak a strange language of which we know nothing, and how we,
without a dollar, are to proceed to get our food and things we need, are
questions we cannot answer nor devise any easy way to overcome. The
mines are yet five hundred miles away, and we know not of any work for
us to do nearer. Our lives have been given back to us, and now comes the
problem of how to sustain them manfully and independently as soon as
possible. If worse comes to worst we can walk to San Fran