no chance to stop-so we must push on to keep out of their way. The others became sick-my brother Timothy Bonney, and his little daughter, aged two years. We did all we could for them, but after a few days of suffering they died, on the 8th of August, and we buried them near our path, as well as many others, who were strangers. There was neither comfort by day, nor rest by night. Two of my little boys were very unwell, and it was not wonderful that my dear wife, worn and fatigued with the long journey, and with weary watching and sorrow, should be the next victim. The situation seemed very hard; everybody was frightened at the cholera and the Indians. We could not stop alone, and none were willing to face death and the Indians with us, so we struggled along, sick and sorrowful, until we had crossed the river the second time, and had a hard drive to reach the next camp after dark, where we could get water. That was a dreary and hopeless night, as I watched my dear wife, the companion of my early years, battling with disease and yielding up that hope that had sustained her through many trials. She lingered till about noon next day, August 14, when she breathed her last, and left us almost

Most of the com

alone to perform the sad rites of burial. pany had hastened on. Mr. Fisk and August Lewis were, with their wives, kind enough to stop with us until it was over. We buried her on a little mound beneath a tree, and smoothed it down as well as we could lest the Indian might disturb the grave.

Mrs. White and her friends found a family in the Grand Ronde Valley, who had fallen behind the train with which they had been traveling, and were in a most desolate condition. The mother was very sick and could go no further. Her son, a young man, and a little girl were with her, two

other little girls of the family having died a few days previous. "The woman said to me in the morning, when we were going to leave the valley, 'You will not leave me, will you?' and I told her I would not, answering without thinking of the consequences. When our company came to talk it over they decided that provisions were too scarce to think of remaining. Mr. Rice, the son of the dying woman, said for them to go on, and he would let those who would remain have horses, so as to catch the train, so Dr. Spinning, Millie Stewart, Dr. Bartlow, Lecretia Redding and myself stayed with Mrs. Rice. She died that day and we buried her, and started on to catch the company, which we did the next day."

Rev. A. J. Joslyn's party found a man with three children in Burnt River Canyon, the oldest aged about ten years, and the youngest a baby. The mother was dead, and they had lost all their animals but one ox. It was impossible for them to go on, in the condition in which they were, and the father was almost desperate. A collection was taken up and another ox bought for him, which enabled him to pursue his journey. his journey. Hundreds of equally pathetic incidents occurred. In one case a little girl, all of whose family were dead, was left to drive the ox team through to the end of the journey. But in every case of this kind the travelers willingly gave such aid as they could, and none were abandoned or left entirely desolate.

As the Joslyn party were floating down the Columbia, near the end of their journey, they were forced to land and make camp on the north bank of the river not far from Fort Vancouver, as a storm was coming up. It grew dark, and began to rain soon after they had got their fire started. Another party, none of whom they knew, but who were

making this last stage of their long journey on a raft which they had themselves constructed, soon came to the shore, and the Joslyn party helped them to land. A woman handed Mrs. Joslyn her baby to hold while she procured some necessary articles from the goods on the raft, and as soon as the latter received it, she said to her daughter who was standing at her side, "The baby is dead, and its poor mother does not know it." This was true; the poor infant had died in its mother's arms, while she was watching the struggles of the rowers to reach the shore and save themselves from the river and the storm. It was necessary to bury it at once. There was nothing at hand from which a coffin could be made. It was difficult, in the thick darkness which prevailed everywhere a few feet from the fire, to find a place suitable for a grave, but by feeling along the rocky bank they found a place where the shale could be scooped out with their hands, and so they made a grave there, and the little one was laid at rest.

For many weary miles, particularly along the Snake River, the road looked smooth and inviting enough ahead of the teams, and yet it was only an interminable series of ruts, which were filled with fine, impalpable dust, in which the oxen sank to the knees and the wagons to their hubs. The sick, who were kept to their beds in the wagons, in this part of the journey suffered terribly. The jolting and rolling of the wagons was torture to them. The thick dust, stirred up by the wheels and the weary feet of the animals and their drivers, nearly suffocated them. The heat was at times intolerable. Often it was impossible to get water to bathe their faces, or cool their parched and fevered lips. The members of the family who were not sick were obliged to walk, so as to relieve the distressed animals as much as

possible, and some thus died within the sound of voices of their own parents or children, and yet alone, and without the clasp of a friendly hand, or a soothing word of solace in the last terrible moment. Colonel E. J. Allen tells of one poor woman who was found dead in her wagon at Fort Boise, and so thickly covered with dust as to show that she had been dead for some hours, and yet her husband and children did not know it until they reached camp. They had been too much exhausted or too negligent to give her attention, even in her dying hour.

And yet in the presence of all this suffering and sorrow, human beings were found who were quite willing to take advantage of the necessities of these sorrowing emigrants in order to make a little money. Colonel Allen tells of one of these who had set up a booth, where he sold bread, flour, bacon, cakes and pies, near the crossing of Snake River at Fort Boise. Colonel Allen and the Meeker brothers, Ezra and Oliver, established a ferry here and maintained it for some time; until Allen bought his partners out. He heard the emigrants complaining of the prices the man was charging for what he had to sell, but neither he nor they felt called upon to interfere with his business, until a poor widow came along with a family of small children, the oldest a girl of thirteen. Her husband had died during the journey. She was compelled to stop for a few days at the fort to recruit her teams, which were nearly exhausted, and as trains were then numerous all along the trail, the people with whom she had traveled thus far went on without her, knowing that she would find other people who would help her as much as they could, among the trains behind them. But she was nearly out of provisions and had but little money. Her thirteen-year-old girl sought employment of this merchant,