When my two great, stalwart grandsons were little shavers, it was their favorite habit in the early hours of the morning to come creeping into bed with grandmother. Their soft little arms would twine lovingly about my neck and kisses from their dewy lips were pressed upon my cheek and brow. And were I ever so far away in slumber land their sweet voices clamoring for a story would banish all sleep from my drowsy eyelids. Usually they selected their own stories from the numbers I had so often repeated, but invariably wound up, when I had exhausted my fund, by saying, Now, grandmother, tell us about crossing the plains. The true stories appealed more strongly to them than all the illusory conceptions of fancy, from the fact, perhaps, that I could relate what really had occurred better than I could draw from my imagina tion. Be that as it may, they never wearied of hear ing how I crossed the plains, climbed the Rocky mountains and traveled many months on my way to California. To gratify them and their dear mother I have consented to write up for them the history of my overland journey.