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OAK HILL FARM.
One who has not lived in the Wil
lamette valley and enjoyed the mild
ness of her climate can not appreci
ate the meaning of a trip in old Yam-
Ml] on a bright June day, when all
nature and every creature seems blend
ed in one grand effort to magnify the
(Jod of thtir existence, and cause man,
the lord of creation, to rejoice that he
lives in the sunlight that exhilarates,
and withal a pervading mellowness
that has an effect both tonic and sooth
ing.
It was on such a day, the 11th of
June, that we, in company with others,
boarded the train in Portland for a trip
to the famous Oak Hill Farm. The
view of the city, the Willamette, the
surrounding farms and the majestic
Cascades with their snow-crowned
peaks in the background, is a pleasing
one. The farms of Washington coun
ty, with their onion beds and hop
yards, their orchards, their fine fields
of waving grain and their luxuriant
meadows, are now presenting their
best appearance. A short run brings
us to the depot at North Yamhill, and
a ride of about four miles behind
Frank Brown's spanking team of trot
ters, over hill and dale, along the
northern boundary of what many are
pleased to style the garden spot of
the valley, is the nicest part of the
trip, and in a few minutes brings us
to the farm, whose fields and meadows
and oak hill pastures are so cozily
nestled away at the foot of the higher
ridges that stretch away into the
Coast Range mountains.
Hill and glen alike are bestudded
with gigantic oaks, whose spreading
branches and leafy foliage invite the
songsters of the air, and protect from
the warm rays of the sun the newly
shorn flock, while their innocent lambs
are scampering over the green sward,
bounding o'er rocky brook and mossy
bog, and far away to the farthest cor
ner of the pasture, till finally, wearied
by a long chase, they return to slake
their thirst at the clear brook that
comes trickling down from the hills
above, and after partaking of a free
lunch at the breast of mother ewe, lie
down to sweet repose amid the rich
clover and blooming daisies; while
just across the way the stately Short
horn that through all the dewey morn
has been regaling himself upon the
sweet, luxuriant grass until it could
hold no more, has lain down to chew
his cud in content, and enjoy the
scent of the new-mown clover that is
to supply his wants during the dark
December days.
Who would not enjoy such a scene!
Who would not enjoy living in such a
place!
But the sun does not always shine.
It rains sometimes. Yes, it rains sev
eral times, but after one week of this
lovely weather you almost forget that
the clouds ever did darken your hori
zon and the mists descend days never
ending.
Were it not for this liberal filling of
nature's sponge, these bountiful con
ditions were not possible. Were it not
for these annual replenishings, these
sparkling springs and babbling brooks
would be but parched places in a des
ert land, and instead of the green grass
and the golden harvest would be the
withered leaf and the weary famine.
So we think again and say it is well.
* • •
In such a place, with a master hand
to guide, with means unstinted with
which to buy the best foundation stock
that Britain and America offers, with
every facility afforded for their great
est comfort, is there any reason why
the herds and flocks of Oak Hill Farm
should not attain the highest possible
physical development? It is strange
they are so popular, and that so many
resort thither for foundation stock and
fresh blood?
Oregon is fast making history in the
improvement of her stock. In the dim
vista of the future, when that history
shall be written, Oak Hill Farm shall
occupy a conspicuous part. Many of
her animals will be honored with an
engraving in that history. The quali
ties they have transmitted, the influ
ence they have exerted on posterity,
will be chronicled. The proprietors
will be lauded as benefactors. "The
man behind the gun," the faithful one,
the boys who have dished out the ra
tions, who early and late, day and
night, have with unswerving hand and
never-ending fidelity looked after every
little detail of their charge, doing the
thousand little things that no one
knows of but himself, will come in for
their share of the credit, and an hon
orable discharge.
In this connection we would not pass
without paying a short tribute to the
memory of one who did more for the
improvement of stock in Oregon than
did any other man. A man magnani
mous in all laudable enterprises, but
especially interested in the betterment
of the condition of the agriculturist. A
man interested in the improvement of
all kinds of stock, and who loved a
good Shorthorn almost as himself.
Who spent large sums of money im
proving his farms, flocks and herds,
for the pleasure he could derive from
it and the benefit it would be to others.
In whose death the city of Portland,
the church, the state and especially
the stock interests of the coast, sus
tained a great loss. We refer to the
lamented W. S. Ladd, upon whose son,
Charles E. Ladd, we are glad to know
his mantle has fallen.
* * •
After the death of W. S. L,add and
the dispersion of part of the herd of
Shorthorns, Charles E. Ladd, second
son of the late W. S. Ladd, taking it
upon himself to perpetuate the work
of his father, bought the remnant of
the herd and transplanted them to Oak
Hill, placing that genial young Scotch
man, Frank Brown, in full charge.
They have been breeding, buying,
importing and showing ever since, till
we find the herd in the prosperous and
popular condition that it was on the
day of our recent visit.
Individual merit, backed up by a
good pedigree, has been Manager
Brown's motto. The head of the herd
has had his attention as the moßt Im
portant factor, closely followed by
mating with the best females obtain
able.
The first sire placed at the head of
their herd was a son of Conqueror,
that in his 2-year-old-form, won the
championship at the Oregon State
Fair, defeating his sire. Next followed
the great show bull, Baron Linwood
10th, bred by that veteran breeder, I.
M. Forbes, of Illinois. He waß of his
Pearlette family and had for sire the
great old bull, Baron Gloster. He
started on his show-yard career by win
ning first in calf class at Illinois State
Fair, and kept It up by never failing
to draw the blue In any ring he enter
ed. He was assisted in the herd by
THE RANCH.
k^f^f/y watches!
"Edison says that no experiment he has tried at night has ever failed."
"Did he ever try to walk a baby asleep?"
the beautiful, massive roan. Command
er, a Canadian-bred son of Moneyfuffel
Lad. While he cannot boast of the
show-yard record of his colleague,
some who know no more than the
writer consider him as good a bull.
He is getting some grand calves.
Not to be overlooked among them is
the junior champion winner the past
two years—Marquis of Lome—and his
full sister, Lovely Lady, that was a
strong candidate for first honors in
calf class last year.
The chief stock bull now in service ual because, perchance, it be a little
is old Topman, bred by J. and W. Rus- heavy horned, or they do not quite set
sell, Richmond, Ont., a Nonpariel, to your fancy, would certainly be a
sired by that great getter, Stanley.
"Old Toppy" is a bull of great consti
tution, substance and quality, carry
ing his great carcass very close to the
ground, and, as might be expected of a
bull with his head and horn, is a very
impressive sire. The gravest criticism
we have heard hurled at him is
against his heavy, high horn, to which
Jim Hendry very aptly retorted: "You
can't oat horns." The style of horn,
like color, is merely a matter of fancy,
and to turn down an excellent individ-
