HOW "MOTHER" DAVIS PLAYED GOOD SAMARITAN

Memory of Pioneer Woman Physician of
WillametteValley Perpetuated by Fir Trees She Loved

WRITTEN high in the annals of pioneerdom of Lane county is the name of—Davis. Of sturdy stuff is the stock the forties saw transplanted in the south Willamette valley. Useful citizens and ‘good neighbors” --every one--were those of the name. There is one—a pioneer mother—whose name makes bright the chapter of the entry of the Davis family into western Oregon. The cherished recollections of Catherine S. Davis, good Samaritan, are grouped around her lifetime of kind deeds and heroic helpfulness among the scattered families of the early settlers.
For many years she was the only physician in the whole southern Willamette valley section. To a generation of boys and girls Catherine S.Davis was not only godmother but doctor, nurse, guide, counsellor and friend. And when but a glimpse or two at the pages of her inspiring life story are known, small cause for wonder is it that Mother Davis was revered for her nobility of character and her unselfish devotion to duty.
A little way out of the city of Eugene on the river road, is the original Davis homestead. It was located in ‘47 and the fifteenth day of October marked its occupancy. Its claimants, Benjamin Davis and his wife, the first woman doctor, were contemporaneous with Eugene Skinner, for whom the city of Eugene subsequently was named. Skinner had migrated from California and had gotten his log and pole habitation half completed when the caravan from Indiana completed its weary six months’ jaunt, via the southern route of the emigrants, to Oregon. The southern route, incidentally, included a tortuous trip through Cow Creek canyon. The trail followed by the ox wagons mostly was the bed of the creek. Trees and drift had to be chopped out of the way in passing. Of this party of homeseekers, Benjamin Davis and his good wife set conspicuous examples of courage and fortitude throughout the undertaking.
They had their full share of experiences with Indians and other dlfficulties before reaching their new home. Lycurgus Davis, then a boy of eight— now sustaining his burden of years as becomes vigorous pioneer stock of hale constitutions—tells with pride how he drove two yoke of oxen—part of the time three—across the continent from Plymouth, Marshall county, Indiana.

An Old-Fashioned Practitioner.

To those isolated families, scattered for perhaps one hundred miles around where Lane county’s domains are now defined, Mother Davis was a benificent Providence personified. She was one of those rare,old- fashioned practitioners. The merits of her herbs, may not be well disputed. nor need they be defended, for they often constituted the only choice in case of illness.
Whether the call for Mother Davis’ attentions were for whooping cough, a broken limb, or a case for a midwife, she was infallible. Never was she known to fall or to refuse to go on her errands of mercy. Considering the limited supplies to be had, her resources for assuaging suffering and ministering to the afflicted were—in the light of modern times—little less than marvelous. Portland. or rather Vancouver barracks which was the supply point, was a two weeks’ journey. Trips for supplies were not frequent. One very bad winter the family ran out of tee, sugar and coffee and they had no fresh meat— excepting venison.
Fees were not often spoken of and sometimes not thought of in those days when all good neighbors “helped out.” Probably more often than otherwise those who needed the services of Mrs. Davis were not able adequateiy to compensate her. But the good Samaritan never remembered those little things— and she was always prompt in the role of a ministering angel of mercy. No matter how dark or stormy the night, the distance, or from whom the summons came, the doctor's horse was quickly saddled, the saddle bags put on and she was gone. The midnight journeys might be across the paths of wild beasts, along treacherous trails into the foothills of the middle fork, or the McKenzie, or over to Lake Creek; but, never was this fearless, stout hearted woman known.to ask or expect escort.
One of her “boys,” Lycurgus, says he was the hostler for his mother’s mount. Often, late at night, the family would hear the clatter of a hard-pressed horse’s hoofs on the “big road.” They knew it was a messenger after the good Samaritan, and even before the rider had reached the door one of the boys was saddling up the mare that Mrs. Davis rode for many years. This horse was a mixture of Indian cayuse with some high grade breed of animal and she could easily outdistance anything in the country. “Ride on ahead, I’ll catch you,” was one of Mrs. Davis’ sayings to the messenger, “but you’ll not see me again.” And it is vouched for that her pony would pace away from the fastest mount known in early settlers’ times in Oregon.
It was a common thing for her to set off alone at night on a call fifty miles away. And those were the times when the friend that came in time of need was a friend indeed. Perhaps the doctor would return by dawn if her mission was ended. Again, she would remain for days or weeks faithfully nursing the sick, acting as cook, housekeeper, and caretaker. All the secret of the stork were Mother Davis’ and nobody but her would do even until the time when advancing years commenced to warn her of the limitations nature set upon her endurance.

In Time of Need

At one time the valley settlers were scourged by en epidemic of erysipeias or something akin to this disease. It did not seem to be understood just what the affliction was, but in this trying period Mrs. Davis was begged to go everywhere. She scarcely slept or ate. Day end night she made the rounds from one cabin to another, doing all within her power to bring the disease under subjection. Her ministrations were most effective, and finally the epidemic was quelled.
The Davis home was for almost a lifetime an attractive white house of the L type, surmounting the crest of a sightly knoll set back a short quarter of a mile from the main highway. Once a mere Indian trail, this avenue became the “big road;” now it is the “river road". Here, where the Calapolyia Indians made friends with these settlers, and deer swarmed, the Davis family remained and the world with all its wonders xxxx xxome along the "big road" to their yord gates.
As one turns in at the big gate the vista, of the old homestead is framed between two giant fir trees that mark either side of the drive to the house. They are the only reminders of the thick grove of firs that once marked this spot. In her lifetime Mrs. Davis conceived a great natural affection for these splendid specimens of the primeval forest. When the time came the old farm was sold she stipulated that the buyers should not cut down or otherwise destroy or mar those trees as long as she lived. It is pleasant to note that, although Mrs. Davis passed away about fourteen years ago, her wishes have been respected, and in all probability sentiment will decree that the trees shall remain as a memorial to her as long as they survive.
At a resent gathering of Lane county pioneers, the inealculable services of this grand pioneer woman were discussed apprecaiely and it has since been suggested by Col. W. G. D. Mercer that, with the consent of the present owners, the pioneer society might well distinguish its existence and express a well-deserved tribute by erecting a memorial tablet on the big tree nearest the highway in commemoration of this womans faithful service to her countrymen.
She passed away at the age of 87. She was a native of Pennsylvania, her family name being Sluyter. Her father lived to he 107 years old.
The children of Mr. and Mrs. Davis numbered seven. There yet survive her: L. E. Davis, of Yaquina, Mrs. Huddleston, Lycurgus and Dr. M. M. Davis, all of Eugene.
“We made our home right among the Calipooyias,” said Lycurgus Davis, telling of their coming into the Wiliamette valley. “We built our cabin in a settlement of Indians and made friends with them. My father was a fine piecmaker, and if it had not been for him more than once we would have had most serious trouble. One of our closeet calls was among the Rogue River Indians. Two braves were hanging around our camp. Our women folks were cooking supper when the bucks spit in the frying pan just for meanness. Two of our men were hot tempered. They wanted to punish the bucks. The fIrst thing our boys laid their eyes on were two coal or ash shovels, which we used to start the camp fires on. Each man seized a shovel—they were under the coals, and red hot, and spanked each of the braves on their bare skins. They let out a warwhoop of pain and rage. In a few minutes we were surrounded by five hundred warriors. We thought we were done for. But, by dint of much persuasion and talk and offers of presents, my father negotiated peace with the chief and we were allowed to go on our way.”

This article appeared in the Oregon Sunday Journal, Portland, on February 18, 1912. Written by Dan Curtis Freeman.