fifteen or twenty people, were present. Subsequently he hauled logs and assisted in building the first church in Portland. Clothed in homespun garments, his long jeans coat reaching nearly to the ground, a tall white beaver on his head and a Kentucky hickory in his hand, Sunday morning saw him setting out on foot for his appointment, his quaint "farewell" lingering long after he had passed from sight in the dim, silent woods. Portland, Milwaukie, Mount Tabor, Oregon City, Columbia, Slough, Lents, St. Johns, Sandy, Fairview, Fosters—indeed the greater part of Multnomah county derived spiritual food from his teachings. When it was too far to walk,—and ten or fifteen miles was no hardship—"Bob," a favorite horse brought across the plains, accompanied him. After a long life of service the faithful animal was buried in the grove near the house, the children standing around in tearful grief. Under diligent hands the Kelly acres were cleared and produce raised for the market. At first a wheelbarrow sufficed for transportation, while later a handcart was used, but as the town grew and business increased, facilities kept pace with the growing need. The farm literally fed the town. There are still those who will recall the lumbering wagon drawn by oxen, the homely figure, the genial smile that camef rom a heart warm with love for humankind. He never overreached anybody. One of his customers said to him: "Mr. Kelly, you sell too cheap!" He answered: "My motto is—Live and let live." The beautiful Willamette was an obstacle to business. A rude horseferry was in operation but on stormy days it was carried far out of its course and some days it never crossed at all. Often the loaded wagon with its occupant stood in the driving rain all day, only to return at night and try again the next day. Mr. Kelly built a flatboat for his own use, propelled by oars; but that was interfering with the business of others—at least it was so regarded—and the boat was cut loose from its moorings and left to drift along the flats of the east side. The truant craft was found, brought back and fastened by lock and chain to a tree. The next day both boat and tree were far down the river. When he returner after a fruitless trip and told the tale the family were indignant, but his happy laugh is still remembered; he seemed to consider it only one of the "light afflictions."
A stock company of east side residents was formed for the object of putting on a steam ferry. The Stark Street Ferry Company got out an injunction prohibiting any other company landing within certain limits. But the building went on, the steam ferry was finished and made regular trips, landing outside the proscribed hmits. Plympton Kelly was the captain of the new boat and its name was "Independence." But the old company found it was time to wake up and ere long another boat was under way, to be fitted up with boiler and engine. When the "Victory" appeared on the river with flying colors she made the short distance from bank to bank in much less time than was possible for the "Independence," restricted as she was to landing far above and below the city limits, the old company having purchased exclusive rights for a mile up and down the river. The "Independence" was finally withdrawn and put in the cattle-carrying trade, and the "Victory" was one in fact as well as in name. But the end sought had been obtained— an efficient means of crossing the river that could be relied upon with some degree of certainty.
In January, 1864, Clinton Kelly was called upon to bear what was probably the heaviest burden of his life; the Kelly home was again left without a mother. The years were telling upon him and he was less able to bear a load of sorrow that threatened to crush him. He had himself been near death's door, and it was this fact and the consequent watching night and day, which she would yield to no other, that prostrated Mrs. Kelly. Sorrowfully he rose from a sick bed and with a breaking heart bade the companion of his joys and sorrows a final farewell. He gathered the younger children around him—of whom there were five, the youngest a boy of seven— and together they mourned their irreparable loss. It was long ere he regained his wonted cheerfulness. Sometimes, on the spur
