By Mrs. Peter McClung
To write a story of my experience as a child on the land now occupied by the town of Pomeroy will not require extended space. Days were much the same with the three children of the Pomeroy family isolated from neighbors by distance measured in many miles. Being the youngest of the three children my amusements were in large measure directed by my brother, who was my senior by four years, and my sister, the oldest of the trio.
My earliest recollections recall the counting of the election ballots at our home which was the precinct voting place for the half dozen votes then polled here. It was my great privilege and delight to sit beside my father, for many years one of the members of the election board, and listen to the humdrum tones of the men's voices as they uttered the words that made for the success of some doughty pioneer with political ambitions, or the defeat of one who had fallen a victim to the solicitations of over-zealous friends.
For several years my father cast the only republican ballot in the precinct. I soon reached an age that enabled me to comprehend that fact and know its significance. Our voting precinct contained many thousand square miles—bounded on the south by the Blue Mountains, on the north by the Snake River, on the east by Idaho and on the west by the Touchet River. I sometimes wonder if the deep interest I now feel in all elections and campaigns is not in part due to my early experiences wherein the heat of the neighborhood contests centered about me.
My play time was long and often lonesome, the same, I suppose, as that of other pioneer children reared in the interior of this semi-arid region. Great was my pleasure when I was allowed to ride my pony over the hills after cattle, or to follow my brother on a hunt for prairie chickens or ducks. When my father's two greyhounds, "Peggy" and "John," made one of their frequent raids on the then ever-present coyotes, with the rest of the family my cup of happiness was near the point of bubbling over. Old "Rero's" peculiar bark warned us of the near approach of predaceous animal or bird.
The Pataha Creek then teemed with fish and angling occupied much of my time. The great birds' nests in the trees that fringed the streams, the cubby-holes of the animals along its banks, the caverns in the granite-ribbed Pataha hills, in the fancy of a child, contained wonders impenetrable, yet much there was revealed. With the beginning of the town began a new life for me.
We insert at this point a notable speech upon a notable occasion by one of the most distinguished citizens of Walla Walla, who is also one of our Advisory Board, and whose support and suggestions in the preparation of this work have been of utmost value.
This is Governor Miles C. Moore, last Territorial Governor. Upon his retirement on November 11, 1889, he delivered the following address, one eminently worthy of preservation in the literature of the State of Washington.
ADDRESS OF EX-GOVERNOR MOORE
Ladies and Gentlemen: A custom has grown up here at the capital city and crystallized into unwritten law, which requires the retiring governor to deliver his own valedictory, and also to salute the incoming administration. In accordance with that custom I am here as the last of the race of territorial governors to say "Hail and farewell." Hail to the lusty young State of Washington, rising like a giant in its strength; farewell to old territorial days. It is an occasion for reminiscence, for retrospection. To those of us who have watched at the cradle of Washington's political childhood, this transition to statehood has its pathetic side. It stirs within us memories of the "brave days of old." The past rises before us.