In the mid-1920s, E.W. Marland, founder of the Marland Oil Company, commissioned twelve
sculptures of pioneer women.
Marland selected twelve of America’s best sculptors and paid each of them $10,000 to
produce an original work which depicted the spirit of the pioneer woman.
It was determined that the best of these twelve sculptures would be erected in Ponca City,
Oklahoma, as a testament to the brave women who settled the plains.
The sculptures were exhibited across the country, and Americans were allowed to vote on which
one they believed was the best.
The statues were taken from New York City to Boston, Chicago, Kansas City, Dallas and
Fort Worth, Buffalo, Detroit, Indianapolis, Oklahoma City, and Ponca City.
As the tour commenced, the sculptures aroused considerable interest across the country.
Art critics from major publications such as the New York Times and the Los Angeles Times
even debated the merits of each statue.
Eventually, more than 750,000 people viewed the sculptures, and more than 120,000 votes
were cast.
The following speech was given by E.W. Marland on February 25th, 1927, at the unveiling of
these sculptures.
All ages have honored their heroic dead.
After the last great war, every civilized nation entombed the body of an unknown soldier
in its most hallowed spot: France, beneath the Arc de Triomphe; Britain, in Westminster
Abbey; we at Arlington.
Every city, village, hamlet, in this nation of ours has erected monuments to the memory
of the heroes of our wars.
Occasionally, we see the statue of a statesman, a scientist, a poet, a musician—builders
of national character.
Laterally, have been erected memorials to our pathfinders, scouts, and guides—men
who sought and explored the wilderness and the expansive prairies of this continent.
Brave men, men of vision—Miles Standish, Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, Jim Bridger,
Kit Carson—they found and explored the land which supports this nation we are so justly
proud to call our own.
Plymouth Rock and Jamestown alike furnished their quota of adventurous explorers; hardy
souls who braved the dangers of the trackless forests and trailless plains in their search
for new lands for settlement.
Plymouth Rock mothers and the Virginia brides bore land-hungry, healthy broods.
The ambitious, forward-looking, best of European blood kept pouring in—demanding land for
homes for their children.
From Plymouth Rock or Jamestown, to the Presidio del Monte Rey is a far cry, even in these
days of comfortable Pullman travel; but in the days of the pack horse and the covered
wagon, it meant months of arduous toil and terrible dangers.
Yet, every mile from coast to coast is dotted with homesteads of descendants of these nation
builders.
The blue-eyed Saxon and her dark eyed Latin sister married their men and set out with
them on their conquest of the West.
Many a honeymoon was spent with no shelter, save the boughs of the trees beneath the canopy
of heaven; many a bridal couch was lighted only by the stars.
Many met their God with the blood curdling yell of natives in their souls, or in the
agonizing pain of unattended childbirth.
Pictures have we aplenty of the stern Pilgrim Fathers and the gallant gentlemen of the friendlier
Virginia soils; but we are forced to draw on our imagination somewhat for pictures of
the Mothers.
We see the men with their rifles and knives—their breastplates and swords.
We imagine the Puritan Woman with her blue homespun dress and blue sunbonnet; we visualize
the Mother of the South in her white apron and dainty white bonnet.
But instead of arms in their hands for protection, we always see them with children in their
arms to protect.
When these women started West, all their earthly possessions could be packed on a horse or
in a wagon.
Surely their heavenly inheritance is greater than their earthly one.
Little did they have or know of worldly pleasures or comforts.
Cold and hunger were frequent experiences—danger, their constant companion.
In their most luxurious moments their shelter was meager, their menu limited; iced water,
hot baths, fresh vegetables, milk—were recollections only.
Amusements?
None—unless it struck them as amusing when a darling child escaped unhurt from a fall,
or mistook a deadly serpent for a childish toy.
What sturdy broods they bore—they, their daughters, and their daughters’ daughters—ever
pushing westward, ever making homes on the lands their husbands gained.
Loyalty, courage, fidelity, ambition, was in their mothers’ milk.
Love of home, husband, children, made the wilderness to smile.
Fertile fields and blossoming orchards sprung from hot, eye-aching plains, tended by weary
bodies and trod by bleeding feet.
The conquest of the West was not made with the accompaniment of flaunting banners and
martial music.
Theirs was a lonely victory.
Few eyes witnessed the dangers and hardships they endured—greater by far than those of
a militant army.
They had no supply trains nor base of supply to support their advance.
They had not only to conquer, but hold and live off the land they conquered.
The toll of life resulting from these hardships left millions of unmarked graves across this
continent—graves of women who died that we might live and love this homeland.
Unknown soldiers of the great battle for civilization and the home.
All races, all creeds, all nationalities, gave of their best and bravest women.