# The Overland Monthly/February 1894

Archives of the February 1894 issue of Overland here and here.
THE COLUMBIA RIVER.
I.
When June's bright blossoms scent the air,
A silver loop she glides;
Calm, peaceful rest is everywhere,
No turmoil in her tides.
The fisher boat rocked on her heart
At anchor gently moves,
The sea-gulls hover o'er her face
As still as brooding doves.
And mists sweep up, the sun gleams bright,
His beams shed dazzling glory,
Then back again reflect the light
To peaks and mountains hoary;
Kind Nature throws a mantle o'er
Her bosom broad and deep; The noble fir trees at her brink
Stand motionless, asleep.
Old Ocean, noiseless, joins her flow
With trembling, calm embrace,
No angry billow breaks to show
Their placid meeting-place;
And, over all, the azure sky
Reflects its image clear;
The angel Peace has spread her wings
And made her dwelling here.
II.
But when December sweeps her breath,
And in these winter days,
When Nature stands all bare and shows
Dead foliage through the haze,
'Tis then the noble river wakes, The god of storms to greet,
And rushing downward, boils below
The dull lead clouds and sleet.
Her angry, yellow-crested flood
That roars two States between,
High-foamed and vengeance-breathing comes,
A noble water queen;
And blinding spray, and hiss, and roar,
And storm-tossed hills of water,
Proclaim her lineage to all,
Old Ocean's royal daughter.
She meets her father at her gates
With grim and fierce delight,
His green, salt kiss her forehead greets,
The wild gulls shriek in fright;
And noble ships strain mast and sail
As outward-bound they fly,
The mighty torrent under keel,
Great cloud-banks in the sky.
And restless ever, free as air,
She races in her play;
God help the fisherman who goes
Upon her breast today.
For home, and child, and waiting wife,
Small recks the mighty river,
Nor death nor life shall stay her course,
She crashes on forever.
John R. Rathom.
Photo by Watkins
MOUNT HOOD.
When God foresaw the littleness of men, And all our need of object-lessons, then
He smote the pulsing, pregnant womb of earth, And bade the plain be cleft to give thee birth.
He caused thy rugged head to rear on high, Where clouds and sun make war within the sky;
And unto thee the mission grand was given To show how lowly earth may reach toward heaven.
Carrie Blake Morgan.
Photo by Dobbs, New Whatcom.
AT THE FALLS.
Soft-sighing breezes, honey-scented air,
Red-breasted robins, humming birds, and peace,
Reign in this paradise. Can aught compare
With such sweet ecstasy, such gifts as these!
Ah, 'neath these leafy trees, this bower rare,
The soul stirs with the tremor of the leaves,
And while the roaring waters lull the glare
Of worldliness, Love's bosom heaves;
A gentle zephyr lifts the load of care
And wafts reflection to some distant clime,
To far-off dales where youth was wont to share
The transient pleasantries of life's springtime.
A playful trout leaps from his shady lair
And glints his jeweled fins above the pool;
Great bumble-bees, low murmuring here and there,
Lead Sleep within the pale of Nature's rule.
Deep, dreamy music, throbbing everywhere,
Each languid spirit of a dream enthralls,
And Nature smiling on a scene so fair,
Day dreamers slumber at the Whatcom Falls.
Frank C. Took.
MOUNT BAKER.
Thou sphinx that sittest at the Opal Gate, That lets the ocean in to Puget Sea, Keeping thy silent watch o'er time and fate Thro' clouds that veil thy grandeur mistily, Or with the sun's fierce halo on thy brow; Furrowed by lava, rugged, stern, and white, Thou wert a marvel to me once, but now, Majestic sphinx! I read thy secret right.
God, let me be a mountain when I die,
Stung by the hail, lashed by the terrible rains! Let lava fires surge, turbulent and high, And fierce with torment, thro' my bursting veins; Let lightnings flame around my lonely brow,
And mighty storm-clouds race, and break, and roar About me; let the melted lava plow Raw furrows in my breast; torment me sore, O God! Let me curse loneliness, yet see My very forests felled beneath my eyes. Give me all Time's distilled agony,— Yet let me still stand, mute, beneath the skies; Thro' storms that beat and inward fires that burn, Tortured, yet silent; suffering, yet pure,— That torn and tempted hearts may lift and learn The noble meaning of the word endure.
Ella Higginson
COPALIS.
Herbert Bashford.
AUTUMN ON THE COLUMBIA.
S. A. Clarke.
PORT TOWNSEND.
Above the waters of the inland sea, Whose tides, like rushing troops of cavalry, Omnipotent, bear down from ocean's breast;
And surge, and roar, and leap from crest to crest, Until exhausted on Olympia's sands, This city of the Sound resplendent stands.
Above the swelling and the ebbing tide, She shines refulgent, like a jeweled bride. The sailor, in his lumber-laden bark, As down the Sound he sails, in light or dark, Keeps well to larboard, that his eye may rest, Upon the shining city in the west; And when, in sunlight, she salutes his eye, She seems a radiant city of the sky;
But if his prow approaches in the night, He sees, in fancy, heaven's celestial light.
Adown the gulf, a score of miles and more, Port Gamble nestles on the western shore;
The Indian, in his light canoe, may ride
The distance in one ebb or flow of tide. These forests, dark and dense, of fir and pine, Through which no ray of sun may ever shine,
Give up their tall, symmetric masts and spars,
To bear the sails of Commerce and of Mars Through every sea, to dominate the wave, Defy the tempest, and the wind enslave.
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There, night and day, are heard the buzzing saws, And day and night, without a rest or pause The engine toils, and flames of furnace glow, And workmen, in their shifting, come and go. No Sabbath bell is heard along the shore; But echoing song: "Ye—Ho," of stevedore.
In autumn days of eighteen, sixty-two, When balmy breathed the winds, and skies were blue At noon; at morn in haze; at even, red; And strewed the ground with fallen foliage, dead; Through dark and trackless woods, from Madison, A stranger hailed the camp, with guide and gun. A youth was he, scarce from his mother's "strings"; Without that caution which experience brings; But fearless, energetic, rash, and bold, Inured by summer's toil and winter's cold. Across the wild peninsula he came; No idler he, nor in pursuit of game; Nor pilgrim poet, woodland muse to court; But pressing on to Townsend's shining port.
A bark lay moored, and waiting for her load; Upon the quiet bay she lightly rode; Her painted skiff beside her lay afloat; Its painter slightly held the little boat. No rest nor food the traveler bespoke; But from his drowsy mood the skipper woke, And questioned him when next would ebb the tide,
And what the craft that he could safely ride. "At midnight, tide is on the ebb," said he, "But naught to take you safely o'er the sea." Up spoke the bos'n: "'T will be clear tonight, The tide's a boomin' and the skiff is tight; So if the youngster 'll meet me at the dock, We'll drop off down the Sound at twelve o'clock; And morning's sun will sure be first to see, Port Townsend on the cliffs, the skiff, and we."
At midnight, on the dark and silent shore The sturdy boatman rested on his oar; His skiff, with every speeding wave and swell, Responsive to their motions, rose and fell. The youth adroitly leaped into his place, And keel and tide commenced their midnight race.
Oh silent night, in soft, September air! Oh grand and lovely Sound, beyond compare! The crescent moon has vanished in the west, And all the stars are mirrored in thy breast. Oe'r the horizon's rim, the Pleiades
Reflect their brilliance in the glassy seas; Orion holds his gleaming saber high; His jeweled belt with splendor lights the sky; While Aldebaran shines with ruddy glow, And Sirius flashes diamonds from below.
As down the smooth but rapid tide they steer, The shadows of the forest disappear, And pulse of engine, sound of busy mill, No more are heard; but all is hushed and still. The skiff is held with firm and careful hand; And rides the fleeting waters far from land; Till naught attracts the youth's admiring eye, But visions in the dark, ethereal sky.
He sees, in serried ranks of bright array, The myriad army of the Milky Way, And longs for rank, for honor and renown, The victor's trophy and the laurel crown. His youthful ardor sweetest hopes impart, And wakes the dearest mem'ries of his heart. "Oh darling one! may sweet thy dreaming be; And whilst thou 'rt slumbering, dearest, dream of me."
And now, remote from land, the fresh'ning breeze Grows chill, and higher swell the rushing seas, And every wave the following wave o'ertakes,
And every crest of bounding billow breaks;
The porpoise, sporting in the hurrying tide,
Exultant springs, and shows his glist'ning side;
No ship displays its welcome signal light;
But lonely is the sea, and long the night.
Then in the darkness just before the dawn,
From wave to wave the boat is speeding on.
And all the stars from heaven are lost and gone.
Oh horror! What dread anguish fills the soul?
What doom impends? What demon has control?
A fog, more dark than night, with sudden fall,
Enveloped boat and sea with sable pall; And all the waves and all the waters free,
Went hurrying onward to the open sea.
The youth, though oft in common danger tried,
Now sank appalled; within him, courage died.
"O Heaven!" he cried, "O send some fav'ring wind,
For, in this dungeon darkness, I am blind."
Then daylight dawned, but denser seemed the wall,
That hung about them like a funeral pall;
And all the waves, and all the waters free,
Went hurrying onward to the open sea.
At last the youth in frenzied accents cried,
"Reverse your oars and row against the tide."
Then turned the little boat, and stemmed the stream,
But gliding with the current still they seem;
They drift along, but whence the course, or where
The port, no human wisdom could declare.
The day is drawing on apace, but dark
And dense the fog that shrouds the little bark;
And still they drift in labyrinths obscure, Each moment seems to make destruction sure.
Then thoughts of home assail his anxious mind,
Of all that young ambition left behind,
A mother's admonition, and a sweetheart's sigh,
A pledge to conquer destiny or die,
To win success, whate'er the effort cost;
And now, in this Sahara, he is lost.
He sees in fancy, 'neath the waters pure,
His image, floating without sepulture,
And down among the shells and mossy stones,
Lie, all unburied, his unquiet bones.
In wild dismay he sinks, in dumb despair
His lips invoke the Deity in prayer.
What welcome sound salutes his list'ning ears? It is the loon's lone cry the wanderer hears; That piercing larum note, so near and shrill, Revives his courage; all his senses thrill. Then struggling rays of sunlight catch his eye, And in the heavens a glimpse of azure sky; Then fair the wind, and bright the beam of day, Dispersed the misty shadows far away; And all the world and all the waters bright, In beauty stand revealed in living light.
O wretched prisoner of the sea, behold! The battlements of heaven shall now unfold, And on the heights not raised by human hands, See where yon fair celestial city stands, Port Townsend, where the shining water flows, Invites to rest, refreshment, and repose.
O night of nights! so fraught with peril dread, When effort seemed in vain and hope was dead! Oh, day of days! when rescued from the wave, A Paradise seemed opening from the grave. O sweet the day! Thrice ten the years have sped Since there the stranger laid his weary head; But never can the picture of that spot, Engraved in grateful memory, be forgot.
Leonard S. Clark.
TO BEATRICE.
Right royally her womanhood she wears
In golden and unyielding purpose bent
To grow to her soul's stature. She was meant For great conclusions, and her earlier years
Were moulded with long silence and with tears,
So lofty that her look of scorn is sent
Through each mean impulse in small hearts, content With lesser comfort such as never bears
The forging iron of a master hand.
She stands alone. No spirit doth command
With life's one talisman her longing heart;
And comfortless, she cannot understand
The royal state, nor why her path doth start
From lesser heights and lowlier souls apart.
Bertha Monroe Rickoff.
A CASE OF HEREDITY.
"YE don't go much on hered'ty, eh? Be ye married? No? I thought likely. Now, young man, let me tell ye there 's whar ye 'll git left bad some day. Jest take my 'dvice, an' ef ye ever do make up yer min' to pull in double harness, jest you prospect roun' an' fin' out's much 's ye kin about the gal 's parients. Size 'em up an' down 'n fore an' aft, anef ye kin git back a gen'ration or two antake in a few gran'parients, ye 're jest thet much ahead."
Old Teeters drew the cob pipe from his mouth and, knocking out the ashes on the clay hearth, laid the pipe beside the little cotton tobacco pouch on the mantel. From one pocket of his overalls he then drew a jack-knife, and from another a plug of tobacco, from which he whittled a generous mouthful, saying, as he did so:
"You, Jake, you go tell the old 'oman as I 'low the harth 'd 'pear a heap more hospitable ef 't was dec'rated up 'ith a pitcher of cider and a basket of glorymundys, flanked by a pan of them there fried cakes I seen 'er cookin' arter dinner. We don't nowways wanter leave 'n impression on the gintlemen 't we're famine-struck on this 'ere ranch."
Jake grinned, and raised himself from his wooden stool, one side at a time, gave an automatic hitch to his suspenders, and shambled away to deliver his father's message. The "cruiser "of our party nudged me, whispering:—
"The old man 's getting ready for business. I see it in his eye. 'T won't be bears this time, neither, nor the size of California grape vines. "It '11 be his heredity story, sure pop, the primest one in his whole stock. I say, you fellers are in luck."
We were a jolly party of four young men, on our way to take up a timber claim in the Cascade Mountains. The "cruiser," for whose knowledge of stakes and corners, as well as his services as guide, we were obliged to pay a snug little sum of money, had brought us to this log house at the foot of the mountain, where we were to spend the night, and from whence, in the morning, leaving our horses behind, we were to struggle on foot up the steep mountain-side, cutting our way, as best we might, through dense bracken, bramble, and fallen logs, to our prospective "claims."
Old Teeters, the owner of this mountain ranch, was quite a character in his way, and noted for his yarns. Born and reared in the Maine forests, he had lived at different periods in his life in Kentucky, Arkansas, Texas, Missouri, and California, bringing up at last in Oregon, where he had sojourned fifteen years. Here, he informed us, he intended to stay until he "pre-empted" a "two-by-six claim down in under the ground."
The varied character of his shifting abodes was evidenced by his dialect, in which the "cracker "and Missouri vernacular mingled with his native Yankee, and these were still further enriched by Pacific Coast mining camp slang.
His wife, although also a native of Maine, had, through her long residence among the "Webfeet," acquired in such perfection the clear complexion, generous avoirdupois, and leisurely movements, of this take-it-easy land, that she might easily have been mistaken for a native Oregonian. She appeared presently, with a smile of hospitality upon her face, bearing in one hand a big earth-en pitcher, filled to the brim with sparkling cider, and in the other a tin platter, heaped with the golden-brown circlets which her husband, in the language of ​his boyhood, had designated as "fried cakes."
Jake followed with the basket of apples. These he plumped upon the hearth-stone with such clumsy decision that a big "glory-mundy," leaping from its place, knocked out a ruddy wine-sap, and both went roqueting into the gleaming ashes under the andirons, from whence they were rescued by the cruiser's alpenstock.
Ya'as, [resumed Old Teeters, when the cider had been freely circulated in earthen mugs, and each guest had been duly urged to "make himself at home" with "glory-mundys" and wine-saps and fried cakes,] I never bothered much 'bout hered'ty myself when I was your age. Fact is, I didn't rightly know 's thar was sech a thing leastways not by that name. "Tuk arter," we used ter name it in them days. I knowed what folks was aimin' at when they 'lowed one kid tuk arter 'is paw, an' 'nother arter 'is maw, or further back yit arter a gran'paw 'r uncle 'r some sech ancestor; an' I knowed same thing was true of animals, but I never once dreamt its bein' a science, an' havin' a high-falutin' name. But when we lived in Cal'forny, my woman she jined a female temp'rance s'ciety, 'ith a long string o' cap'tal letters fer its name, an' they hed supyrintendents fer everything under the light of the shinin' sun, an' they 'pinted her Supyrintendent of Hered'ty.
She come home clean dumb-founded,—fer she hed n't no more idee what hered'ty wuz than the man in the moon. But my woman 's clear grit, I tell you, ef she ain't 's flashy as some, an' she did n't perpose to flunk, nor let no one know she was ign'rant. So she ast me ef I knowed it, an' I had to own up as 't was new to my v'cab'ly likewise, an' she sez, kind o' down in the mouth,—
"Well, I 'm in a purty fix, but I 've done 'xcepted the awfice, 'n I 'm bound to hang on to 't some way."
She 'n I went ter skule together down in Maine, an' I used ter help 'er thru all the hard sums, an' I jest 'lowed 's I was too old to go back on 'er now, so I borrered a dicksonary o' the schoolmarster an' set out on a hunt fer thet thar name. She had her 'pintment writ out on paper, so we could get the spellin' of it all solid, an' I jest opened the gret book an' went in. I 'll be derned ef I would n't ruther hunt deer with a brass band a playin' in the woods, than try to run down a word in that mixed-up mess in the dicksonary! But I hung on tell I bagged my game; but lawzee, when I got it 't was like pickin' up a fightin' haige-hawg barehanded, fer the def'nition bristled out with a heap more big words, and not a one of 'em did I un'erstan' more'n hered'ty itself.
Then my woman, she says, "Wa'al, we 've got to look them up, too, an' the sooner we set about it the quicker we 'll be thru."
So I put in all my noon-spells, an' she throwed in her spar minnits, an' I wore my socks 'ithout darnin' an' the kids ran ragged an' dirty a spell, but at las' we run' it down, an' sensed what it wuz.
I was plumb mad, you bet, to fine out arter all thet hard work, that every earthly thing it meant was jest "takin' arter."
Some way, though, it had got so kind o' set in my head 't I kep' on studyin' 'bout it in spite of myself, an' when a colt showed some uncommon kink in its dispersition, or the calf of a plumb gentle cow tuk to kickin' over 'ts milk when 't was bein' broke, fust I knowed I'd be a studyin' what critter on the ranch it tuk back arter. Then the old woman, she sent off an' got some trac's on Hered'ty,—leaflets I b'lieve she named 'em,—but I did n't take much stock in them things. They was too all-fired one-sided,—too down on beer 'n cider 'n sich,—even wanted to make out a case agin terbacker.
​"You weren't going to have your cider 'n tobacco cut off, even in the interests of Heredity—eh, Teeters?"
"You bet not. 'S no use bein' a fanatic on no subjec',—but I'm afar-minded feller an' becaze I didn't 'gree with 'em 'bout cider 'n so on I did n't go back on hered'ty, not by no manner o' means."
"Did you ever meet up with any striking case of it,—anything to back up your theory, so to speak?" queried the cruiser, with a side look at us.
"Plenty of 'em,—the woods is full of 'em, but the clearest case of hered'ty I ever see was Old Sanctuary's dä'ter,—ever hear me tell about her?"
"Seems to me I've heard you mention her,—but these gentlemen,—perhaps they would like to hear the story?"
With one voice we expressed our desire to hear it, and Old Teeters proceeded.
Old Sanctuary lived neighbor to us when we fust staked out our claim here, an' 'e lived by us tell he passed in 'is checks. He was by all odds the orneriest cuss the sun ever shone down on. I used frequent to study about his meanness, an' fin'ly I figured out thet the Creator jest lumped up all the low-down meanness 't He 'd trimmed off of ever' other critter He'd made, 'n made 'em up into one man, an' sent 'im down to earth 'n order to be ready fer duty in case anythink happened to Satan,—an thet that ar man was Cephas Sanctuary. Ef you could single out two from the pile of meanness 't he hed a corner on, as bein' a leetle wuss 'n all the balance, them two was his cruelty an' his good 'pinion of 'isself. Ef he'd been a Texan or an old-time Cal'fornian, an' hed n't ben the blamed coward 't he wuz, he 'd a made an A-Number i foot-pad or desp'rado of some sort; but bein' a mossback from way back, he contented hisself with abusin' all them as came nat'rally in 'is way sech as 'is woman an 'is kids, an' the animals on 'is ranch. Folks used ter say 't they 'd 's soon die an' go to torment direct's to be one o' Ceph Sanctuary's dumb critters. How he ever come to get 'er 's more'n I was ever able to figger out, but his woman was one of the nicest-mannered, soft-spoken women I ever see, and she was purty as a picter. She hed soft goldeny hair 't looked like sea-waves with the sun shinin' on 'em, an' her skin fer all the world like the inside o' them big shells, pink an' white all runnin' into each other like, an' 'er eyes was blue 's the sky, an' whenever she'd look at ye, you felt jest like she loved you better'n anybody ; an' 'er voice sounded like water runnin' over moss-covered stuns. She was good as she looked, too, an' not a sick or sufferin' critter fer miles aroun' but what loved the very groun' she walked on.
A purty life she led with old Sanctuary—you bet—an' she growed so thin an' pale 't ever'body said 't she'd lay in 'er grave fust notwithstan'in' thet Sanctuary was old enough to be 'er father. But fer oncet Prov'dunce swung roun' to the side of the good an' the downtrodden.
[" Is not Providence always on that side ? "]
Not much 't ain't. It 's giner'ly the weak an' pious as goes to the wall, an' the ornery as thrives best in this world. I don't say how 't is in the next thet's a kentry I aint ben prospectin' in yit. But 's I was sayin' Prov'dunce tuk the right side in this case, 'n let Sanctuary git 'is brains knocked out by means of a kickin' mule 't he was abusin' at th' time.
Arter thet the pore woman might 'ave hed some peace 'f 't hadn't ben fer her da'ter Betty. Betty was as like her maw in looks as two pea-blossoms on one stalk, but purtier ef anythink. Seemed like she did n't worry none over nobody but 'erself, an' so all her stren'th went to help on 'er good looks. ​But the curious part was thet in spite of her purty face an' innercent coaxin' lookin' eyes, she hed her paw's dispersition 's perfect 's ef it had ben made to order. She did n't pear from the very fust to hev no idees beyond makin' of 'erself comf'able an' lookin' purty; an' the pesky part was thet she could n't seem to be comf'able 'ithout pesterin' of somebody else. She kep' all the other kids in a constant stew, an' 'erself lookin' all the time as innercent 's a spring lamb. Ef 'er maw 'd give 'er the baby to tend a spell 't was sure to yell bloody murder afore she hed it five minutes, an' her maw 'd hev to leave 'er work to quiet it down. They do say she used ter pinch it er somethin' jest a purpose to get shet o' tendin' of it.
She made life a burden to 'er schoolmates with 'er sly underhand meanness, fur ye see with 'er han'some face an' the lady ways she could act out when it suited 'er, she could git to be a fav'rite with ever' new teacher, an' 't would take 'em nigh the term out to find 'er out.
Ef Prov'dunce hed kep' on in the right way an' let her foller 'er paw right soon, pore Miss Sanctuary might 'a' ben livin' now, an' takin' comfort with the balance of her childern. Speakin' o' them—thar's whar hered'ty tuk another tack. The cur'ous thing 'bout hered'ty is, you can't never know whar it 'll break out next. Ever' one of them other kids was humbly 's all git out, but ther dispersitions was A Number 1, jest like their maw, Prov'dunce havin' backslid into its old track. Betty lived, an' at last worried 'er maw plum into 'er grave.
Ther wa'n't much of any prop'ty lef' when Miss Sanctuary died, fer what with the keep of a big fam'ly an' doctor's bills, an' buyin' finery fer Betty, the little 't old Sanctuary lef was nigh run through. Fine clothes Betty would have 'f the balance o' the fam'ly hed to go hungry to git 'em fer 'er. Ther wa'n't no use of her maw's refusin' 'em to 'er. She'd find some way to pester 'er tell she give in. An' when 'er maw was lyin' sick on 'er bed an' the neighbors takin' keer of 'er, an' 'lowin' ever' hour would be 'er last, Betty 'd just rig up an' go off to a dance as cool 's a cucumber.
The fust thing she did w'en 'er maw died was to go in debt fer a suit o' mournin'. She told Lize Green she got it because crepe looked awful sweet on anybody 'ith her hair an' complexion. Then she got a place to wait on table at the hotel in town, an' let the other kids scatter roun' the neighborhood wharever they could find anybody to take 'em in. She might 'a' got married right off 's soon 's er maw died, fer thar was half a dozen young fellers so moonstruck over her purty face 't they was jest dyin' to have 'er, but she tole Lize 't she wa'n't goin' to marry none but a rale gintleman with some style about 'im, an' money enough to buy 'er rale silks an' di'monds. She did n't make no bones o' telling Lize right out thet she went to the hotel to work so's't she'd hev a chance to meet up with some sich gentleman.
Well 't wa'n't long tell a consumptive fellar from Portland come up thar to spend the summer, an' boarded at the hotel; an soon it got noised about 't he was wuth a hunerd thousan' dollars ef he was a cent. An' when Betty foun' thet out she set her cap fer 'im direct. He wuz old 'nough to be 'er paw an' one foot 'n the grave, 's anybody could see; but thet just suited Betty, fer she 'lowed to ketch 'im an' git 'im to will all 'is prop'ty to her, and then the sooner he died the better. So she managed to git his table to wait on, an' she 'd take pertick'ler pains to see thet he allus hed all the chicest cuts o' meat an' all the nice tid-bits ther was to eat, an' she'd look so sweet an' sad-like in her black mournin' gownd, an' 'pear so modest an' shy an' skeered o' all the rough men, thet Goldrain—thet was the feller's ​name 'lowed she must be a rale born lady what had met up with some gret misfortune, an' was 'bleeged to face the world fur the fust time. So his symp'thy got roused up middlin' soon. It 's a heap easier fer a man's symp'thy to git to workin' over a purty gal n 'tis over a humly one, ye know. So when she 'lowed he 'd noticed 'er a good bit, she spied out his fav'rite balc'ny whar he used ter set an' smoke arter supper, an' she made it in 'er way to let 'im find 'er thar accidental one evenin' in the moonlight, with her hankercher to 'er eyes, an' playin' the lone orphan to a dot.
So he made bold to speak to 'er an' ask 'er what was the matter, 'n ef he couldn't do nothin' fer 'er. An' so she tole 'im a pit'ful story—made up out of hull cloth—an' looked at 'im bashful an' pleadin' like out o' them big soft eyes, an' the job was done.
When the folks at the hotel suspicioned how the land lay, knowin' old Sanctuary, an' how like 'im Betty was, they 'lowed 'twas a plumb shame fer a rale gintleman like Goldrain to be tuk in that a-way. So they tried to put a flea in 'is ear an' let 'im know what 'er paw was like. But lawzee! 't was lockin' the stable arter the horse 's stolen. He was jest ravin' mad at 'em fer darin' to name 'er to him, an' told 'em flat-footed thet he did n't care a rap who 'er what 'er paw was; thet she was a lady as was too good to clean 'er feet on sech 's they was, an' he give 'em to un'erstan' thet ef he was a sick man he could han'le a shootin' iron yit, an' so 't would be plumb safe fer them to keep their jaws shet 'bout Miss Sanctuary.
They was married right soon, an' boarded at the hotel long 'nough fer Betty to queen it over them as had ben down on 'er, an show off 'er new silks an' jewelry, an' then they went back to Portland an' we did n't hear no more of Mrs. Bettina Goldrain fer quite a spell. (She'd named 'erself Bettina to him, thinkin' as Betty was too common, an' he nicknamed of 'er Tina.)
So 's I was sayin' we did n't hear no more of 'er either good er bad, tell one spring nigh a year 'n a half arter they was married, who should come ridin' up to our door in a shiny livery rig but Goldrain hisself. It seems the doctor hed tole 'im that his only chance fer livin' a spell longer was to summer up in the mountings some'ers, an' he 'lowed to s'prise Betty by buyin' back her paw's old place. He said she allus spoke with so much feelin' of her "old mounting home." My woman she hed all she could do to keep f'om crackin' a smile when he said thet, but he looked so pale an' sick like that she would n't hurt 'is feelin's fer nothin', so she jest kep' still an' let 'im go on.
Ye see its jinin' me, an' bem' a right good stawk ranch I 'd bought in the old man's place 'n I did n't care pertickler 'bout sellin', but knowin' he hed plenty o' money I named a whoppin' big price, 'lowin' to hev a margin to come down on, but I 'll be derned ef 'e did n't snap the offer right up an' come down with the spot cash, an' nigh smother me with 'is thanks into the bargain.
He felt plumb dis'pinted when he foun' I 'd tore down the old house, for he said he 'd 'lowed 'to "restore" it fer Miss Goldrain, an' he axed me to describe it to him so's't he could rebuild it near like it wuz. Waal I 'lowed I was in a fix, fer I could n't noways have the face to tell him what an ornery tumbledown old flea-roost it was,—but I pulled myself together an' tole Mm I wa'n't no hand to describe nothin' but I 'lowed 't was jest a plain five-room cottage finished in nat'ral wood. At thet my woman she couldn't stan' it no longer, 'n she jest stuffed 'er hankercher in 'er mouth an' coughed an' ran out the room. But Goldrain did n't suspicion nothin', an' he went right on an' wanted to know what the "style of architecture" was,— ​was it " Queen Anne " or " Old C'lonial", or what. An I tole 'im 't I 'lowed 'ef 'twas either one o' them 'twas "Old C'lonial." Ye see I was mighty sure 'bout the "old," an' I knowed as no Queen would everhev tuk up a res'dence in a old shanty like thet.
So the very next week a hull lot of workmen came down from Portland, an' sech a house 's they built made the ken try stare. I reckon thar wa'n't an- other such nearer 'n Salem, an' tnebbe not short o' Portland. It hed seven rooms and he ruffed it all over, sides an' all.
["Roofed the sides?"]
Thet 's what, kivered the hull biz with shingles clean down to the ground an', Jimminy Crickets ! the number o' little balc'nys, an' gables, an' dormant winders, an' porches thet stuck all over it, was a caution to see. An' he hed a fire-place in nigh every room, with harths made o' little squar shinin' bricks all colors o' the rainbow, an' bigger ones up the sides, with flowers an' things stamped on 'em, an' shelves an' lookin' glasses an' all manner o' gimcracks to top 'em out. My woman an' me, we used to go over nights arter the work- men was gone an' set on the balc'nys an' 'low we was 'stocracy f rom way-back.
AT THIS juncture the old clock on the mantel with leisurely strokes as became a fifteen years' resident of Ore- gon tolled out the hour of nine. Old Teeters started.
"Jupiter Crickets!" he exclaimed, taking a fresh pull at the cider, and wip- ing the straggling gray hairs about his mouth with a red cotton bandana, " I must be gettin' on, I must so. I 'd no idee 't was so late, the gintlemen '11 be plumb tired out listenin'."
We assured him to the contrary, and he proceeded.
WA'AL, I 'll skip all thet 'bout ther movin' in, an' my woman goin' to see Betty an' comin' home plumb beat with the sight o' so much fine furniture an' style, and pass on to 'is las' sickness, fer thar was whar Betty's hered'ty come out strong. Thar 's one little sarcum- stance though I ought to tell, fer the cool gall of it. I did n't know nothin' 'bout it at the time. My woman kep' it to 'erself fer fear I 'd bust out an' make a rumpus ef I knowed it, but she 's boun' to keep peace with 'er neighbors ef she hez to lie down an' let 'em walk over 'er.
They hadn't ben moved in ther new house more'n a few days, when Betty come over one mornin' when I was gone to town, an' my woman was alone in the house, an' she says, smilin' sweet, " Miss Teeters, I 've got a little word o' busi- ness with ye, an' the sooner said the better."
An' my woman, 'lowin' 't was about milk an' eggs 'n sech, says kind o' laffin', " Well, I reckon our business won t amount to nogret thing, but, however, say on."
An' then Betty she says cool's a cucumber an' still a smilin':—
"I ain't got Goldrain to make 'is will yet, an' so I hed to come here to keep on the right side of 'im tell he does. 'T was mighty hard to keep in an' not let 'im see how mad I was at his foolin' away money an' draggin' me back to, this old rock-roost in the back-woods, but I hed to do it tell I git the will. Goldrain don't have no manner of sense 'bout spendin' money on his ' Tina ' 's he calls me, why the price o' thet house 'd pay all the expenses of as fine a fun'ral 's I 'd be called on to give 'im, an' buy me an elegant mourning outfit into the bar- gain. Besides all that, now that he 's come out here to the mountains he's like to get strong enough to hang on all winter, an' I '11 hev to nurse 'im agin, an' put up with 'is. disgustin' coughin' an' raisin' fer months yit. Ef I 'd hed any idee of 'is hangin' on this way an' bein' so stubborn about the will, I 'd never 'a' ​married 'im. I 'd a waited 'a' bit longer feranother, an' mebbe bigger fish yit, to bite. Now what I want to say to you, Miss Teeters, is this : You know 's well 's I do thet thar 's things 'bout my paw 't I wouldn't want Goldrain to know, thet is tell I git the will, an' he don't know 't I 've got a relation in the world. I told 'im I hed n't when I was playin' the friendless orphan (thet was prime fun, Miss Teeters : when Goldrain dies and I git his money I 'm goin' on the stage, sure). Thet 's what I hated to come back here so fur, fur fear he 'd git to hear about the kids. I kin man- age 'bout all the outside talk purty well, fer I 'm sech a devoted wife 't I would- n't noways let a invalid like him stir out 'thout my bein' along o' him ; but you livin' neighbor so might git a chance at 'im when I was n't by. So I come to say thet ef Goldrain ever gits so much as a hent 'bout my fam'ly from you'uns you '11 be plumb likely to fin' all yer critters pizened off, an' like 's not yer buildin's burned down into the bargain, not to mention powder in yer cook stove or somethin' that-a-way. You knew my paw, an' ever' one says I take arter him 'cept in looks, an' so you know me ! "
An' with thet, my woman says she smiled jest as sweet's ef she'd been savin', "A pleasant mornin' to ye," an' says, "Goodby, Miss Teeters, I hope you '11 be real neighborly," an' sailed out o' the house 'thout givin' her sg much 's a chance to answer her.
But someway Betty could n't git Gold- rain to make 'is will, an' one day she got so riled thet she could n't hold herself no longer, an' she jest up an told 'im to 'is face thet ever'thing in the world she married 'im fur was 'is money, and she says,
" What d'ye 'low I wanted of a old, worn-out, coughin' rack-o'-bones like you be, ef it wa'n't fur the money ? "
My woman she heerd 'er say it, an' she 'lows she won't forgit right soon the way Goldrain looked. She says he
fell back jest like somebody 'd shot im| an' says, kind o.' gaspin' like, "Tins you 're crazy you don't mean what| you say."
An' Tina jest stood an' laffed, fer alii the world like 'er paw used to when he see some helpless critter gittin' worsted in a fight, an' she sez, " Yes, I do mean it, ever' single word."
An' he, still lookin' dazed-like, says, " But you 've been so kind an' lovin' to! me allus, it cayn't be."
An' she, still laffin' says, " W'y, you ole fool, how was I to git any money if I I was n't lovin' ? "
An' at that my woman says he jest straightened hisself up, an' looked like a ghost, with two balls of fire a burnin' in its head, an' he says, all hoarse-like, " Well, you won't spend no more, I kin tell you thet."
An' then the blood bust out of 'is mouth in a stream, an' my woman 'lowed | he 'd die right thar, but he did n't.
Waal, she went over ever' day to help nurse 'im, fer she 'lowed she never felt so plumb sorry fer any livin' thing's she did fer him ; an' arter hearin' Betty talk thet-a-way she was skeered lest she might try to make away with 'im. But I tole 'er she need n't be the least mite afraid o' thet, fer thar agin her hered- 'ty come in, fer she wuz a coward, same's 'er paw, an' she wa'n't goin' to let the law git a holt of 'er. She seen, too, that she hed overreached herself, lettin' her temper git the best of 'er, an' so she tried to make up fer it by bein' sweet 's ever ; and she 'lowed thet when he got 'round agin', ef he ever did, he'd forgit all about his threat of not givin' her money.
But he did n't. Ye see he had some hered'ty, too, an' it was the very stout- es' kir.d made ; fer it was Scotch. Ef you know any think 'bout thet blood, you know 't when the Scotch " worm once does " turn " nothink in the heav- ens above, or the earth beneath, or the waters under the earth, '11 turn it back ​agin' tell it gits ready. Wa'al, thet was Goldrain's kind, an' I never see nothin' finer in the way of hered'ty than the fight thet went on between Betty's kind an' the Scotch kind of it.
He was good's 'is word, an' drew in the purse strings so tight thet Betty did n't get another new gownd or bit of finery tell he died, an' he went so fur as to make the housekeeper buy all the family supplies, so's't Betty could n't git no chance that-a-way.
Wa'al, he got up from thet sick spell, an' soon 's the fall rains set in they went back to Portland agin', an' we 'lowed we 'd seed the last o' Goldrain this time fer sure. But it beats all nater how a consumptive kin hang on, 'speshly ef he 's got 'is Scotch up, like he hed. Ye see, he could n't will away his wife's thirds, nohow, an' so he went to work to see how long he could live, an' how much money he could spen' afore he died, so 's t' make them thirds as scant as possible.
Lize Green worked fer 'im up in Portland thet winter an' she tole my woman about it. She says he tuk to drinkin' an' gamblin', an' Betty she 'd foller him to the s'loon, club, though, I b'lieve they called it thar, (an all-fired tony place. Goldrain would n't go to no other kind I reckon). Wa'al, she 'd go arter him an' fetch 'im home nigh ever' night. Lize asked 'er oncet why she follered 'im so, ef she did n't care nothin' 'bout 'im. An' she said she did n't want no old drunken hulk comin'in at midnight and trackin' mud over 'er carpets, an wakin' 'er up out of a soun' sleep with 'is coughin'. Besides thet, ef she got him home arly he 'd spend less money gamblin' an' a third of all she saved that-a-way was hers. Ya'as, Betty had a long head, you bet, 'speshly in lookin' out fer number one. Then she got a heap o' comfort showin' herself off before all them dudes at the club, an' posin' fer an injured down-trod wife. She did n't like nothin' better 'n to go thar 'n drop 'er eyes shy 'n sad like, with now an' then a side glance at some of 'em, like she was jest hungerin' an' thirstin' fer a bit o' symp'thy.
You might 'a' thought it strange thet Goldrain would 'a' come home with 'er ever' time, but he was thet proud thet he would n't hev no public row with 'is wife, an' he did n't dare resk what she might do ef he refused to go with 'er. So whenever she come he'd jest put on 'is hat an' offer her 'is arm, an' go out 's peaceable 's a spring lamb. Then he 'd forbid 'er ever to come agin, but course she didn't care a rap fer that, an' so it went on.
Well, he hung on tell Spring agin, an' they come back here; but the journey petered him clean out so 's 't he never lef 'is bed agin' arter he got here. Of course, bein' the nearest neighbor, my woman was over thar a good bit helpin' to nurse 'im an' takin jellies an' things. He would n't hev no hired nurse. My woman 'lows 't was bekase he could n't bar to hev no outsiders sense how 'is wife treated 'im; fer 't was plain to see thet spite of 'er meanness an' his stickin' it out 'bout the money thet he hed n't got all over lovin' of 'er by no means. I used ter 'low thet ef somethin' would happen to spite 'er purty face, he 'd git cured; fer 't was 'er face he loved so'n not the soul inside. But lawzee! it seemed the older she growed an' the meaner she got the purtier she was.
One day when the fever was high on 'im, an' he 'd ben a tossin' on the bed an' could n't seem to git no no rest, my woman says Betty come near 'im fer somethin' an' he put out 'is han' pleadin'-like, an' says: "Tina, won't you please kiss me jess once? It 's such a long spell since you kissed me, an' I sha'n't bother ye much longer."
An' Betty laffed, an' tuk a holt of 'is hand an' she says, "Ef you '11 pay me fer it, I will."
An' at thet he growed pale in spite o' the fever, but I reckon the touch of 'er ​han' made 'im hungrier 'n ever, an' so he says, "How much do you want?"
An' she says, cool an' business-like, "I'll kiss you fer a thousan' dollars!"
An' he hesitated a minute, an' Betty she ran 'er han' soft like thru 'is hair, an' at thet he looked up an' smiled an' says "Tina, you was jest a foolin' me, I know," — an' tried to draw 'er face down to 'im.
But she jerked away and says " No, I mean jest what I said."
"Well, then," he says, des'prate like, —fer the fever was burnin' of 'im up an' he hed n't no more stren'th than a baby, —"kiss me, an' I'll give ye the money."
An' she says, "A bird in the han 's wuth two in the bush ; you 'll hev' to write the check fust."
An' ef you 'll b'lieve it, she went an' got 'is check book an' a pen, an' put 'er arms roun' 'im and held 'im up in bed so 's 't he could write ! An' he looked at 'er a minnit strange-like, an' then he wrote 'er out a check, his han' tremblin' so 's 't he could n't hardly hold the pen, an' gave it to 'er; an' she jest jumped up an' waved it in the air, an' says triumphant like, " Now I kin git my mournin' made up in time! "
An' then she says, "O, I forgot," an' put her head down to kiss 'im.
But he put up 'is han' sudden, an' growed pale's death, an' says, "No, I don't want it now, I can't take it that-a-way, Tina."
An' he turned 'is face to the wall, and begun cryin' softly like a little grievin' child.
My woman says ef 't would 'a' done 'im any good she could 'a' gone up an' taken 'im in 'er arms an' kissed 'im 'erself ; but of course she knowed it would n't. My woman 's thet tender-hearted thet she can't kill a chicken, but she 'lows 't would 'a' done 'er proud to 'ave ketched Betty jest then, an' twisted 'er purty white neck plumb in two. An' I don't blame 'er fer feelin' that-a-way neither.
Next mornin', when she went over he was still livin', but lyin' too weak to speak. An' thar set thet heartless critter by 'er husban's bed, workin' on mournin' bunnet ! An fer all my worm knowed Betty so well, she 'lowed si never see anything quite to ekal thet fe Simon pure gall, an' she motioned he;J to come in the other room, an' then sh< let out on 'er at las'. She Mows she 'cj 'a' hed to spoke 'er mind then, ef she '(I knowed ever' critter on the place 'd ber pizened next day, an' the house burnec down an' her with it. She axed 'er w')j she did n't git the coffin and let 'im Ikl in it a spell to see 'f 't was a good fit, an w'at more she said I don't rec'lect but w'en my woman does fine 'er tongm she kin make 's good use of it 's anyone
But do you think she could faz( Betty? Not much ! She jest laffed ir 'er face, an' said he 'd knowed all along'* he 'd got to die purty soon, an' what 'j the use o' makin' any bones of it ? Sht said she hed to set there so 's to giv 'im 'is med'cine, an' what 's the us wastin' time ? fer the doctor said couldn't possibly live over night, she hed to hev 'er things ready !
Fer a mercy, he did die thet ver arternoon. An' Betty hired a speshii car, an' invited all 'er fren's to go do\ to Portlan' in it to the f un'ral. From 'counts they hed a high time on tl way, but they say soon 's Betty gc among her tony Portlan' fren's she jes looked and acted like a heart-broke widder. Lize Green says she hopes die ef Betty did n't rub up her face wit mullein leaves to let on like she 'd bet cryin' hard. The hull thing was thel ovvdaciousest piece o' business I ever hearn tell on. Ef I wasn't knowin' to the fac's I wouldn't darst believe 'em.
Here Old Teeters paused to fill his pipe for his bed-time smoke.
"What became of Betty after that? And the house he built up here, is it still standing?" I asked.
​"No; it burned down 'bout a year ago,—folks says Betty set it on fire to git the insurance, an' I 'low 't is true; fer ever' one knowed the house an' ranch was worth more sep'rate than together. Betty she married agin 'fore three months was over."
"Did she get a good husband?" asked the cruiser, with a side wink at us.
'Waal, speakin' o' thet, I 'low I 'll hev to own up thet I ruther slandered Prov'dence at the fust, fer it did take another turn to the side o' justice in this case. The feller she married turned out a reg'lar blackleg, mean, an' ugly an' jealous into the bargain. They say he would n't so much as let 'er speak to any other man, or hardly let 'em look at 'er; an' ef Betty can't have men-folks to admire 'er she might 's well be dead an' buried, fer all the (pleasure she gits out o' life. They say she 's 'fraid as death of 'im, an' thet he 's spent all 'er money, an' led 'er sich a life thet her beauty 's all faded out, plumb gone. No, I did n't give Prov'dence no fair show, fer a fact. But don't you forgit what I said in startin' out, young feller. Ef yer goin' to marry, don't yer no-ways go back on hered'ty."
Ella Beecher Gittings.
NIGHT WIND.
THE wind came and cried out unto the night,
Beneath the moon and clouds, the cries of earth;
The sweep of all the prairies in its voice,
The depth and heavings of the wide, wide seas,
The gloom of mountain valleys, low and dark,
The brave desire of trees on barren heights,
The longings dim that live in soft, gray mists,
Farewells that white sails fling to setting suns,
And tales of ages that the desert sand
Gives forth in silence to the listening palms
That lean their scattered ranks along its edge;
The marshes' lowly peace, the strength of rocks
That stand against the passion of the waves,
Controlling by endurance, loneliness
Of shorn fields lying in the autnmn dusk;
Earth's pathos and earth's patience and earth's power,
These spake the wind unto the listening night,
And hearts that waked and hearkened heard and knew.
Aurilla Furber.
NORTHERN SEASIDE RESORTS.
OOKED at from the Western ocean, the shore of our continent presents a generally mountainous outline, the Coast Range, as it is called, being thrown up at no great distance from the sea, while in many places it laves its feet in the surf. The altitude of these mountains is not great,—about two thousand feet, with here and there a peak of sufficient elevation to merit and receive a particular appellation. The coasting steamers in good weather run so close in shore as to afford a view of these hills, which on the coast of northern California, of Oregon, and of Washington, approach very near the ocean, having long green ridges stretching down from their summits, separated by rugged ravines crowded with trees of many species. In some higher altitudes are seen large bodies of timber of the different pine families, redwood, fir, cedar, and spruce*; the more open hillsides being dotted with oaks, invariably contorted by the prevailing winds. Near the beaches may be found the Pinas contorta, which, when it has secured a sheltered place takes the liberty of growing straight.
From a vessel's deck are frequently seen herds of cattle grazing on the grass and herbage kept succulent throughout the year by the mists which the trade winds daily drive over them. This condition, united to the cool mildness of the climate, makes the western side.of the Coast mountains a region favorable for dairying, as it is for cattle-raising and lumbering. The soil, which is excellent, produces vegetables and fruit in perfection. But owing to the rough and broken character of the mountains, communication between the coast and the interior is difficult. Good harbors affording sea approaches are rare, and owing to these joint obstacles to settlement, an otherwise delightful portion of the Northwest is but slowly coming into favor. This reserve made by Nature of some of her choicest demesnes is really a matter on which we may congratulate ourselves. Time enough when the fatness of the valleys has jostled their own rightful denizens out of place, to explore these magnificent sea frontages for homes, where the absence of fatness is more than compensated by the presence of grandeur united to beauty, and where intrusiveness is discountenanced by the impossibilities of the place itself.
A summer spent in visiting the seaside resorts between the forty-fourth and forty-seventh degrees of north latitude will give a good knowledge of the peculiarities of the northern coast, and of the pleasures to be enjoyed at this distance from the tropics. It is true the attractions do not cease or diminish still farther north, but may be found all about the Straits of Fuca, the Fucan Sea, and the Gulf of Georgia; but for the purposes of this article I prefer to keep within certain limits.
To begin with Astoria is unavoidable if you have entered Oregon by any of the overland routes, or by the mouth of the Columbia. In either of these cases you have the opportunity of adorning the chambers of your memory with more noble and beautiful views than it will often fall to your lot to find in one hundred miles of travel, as you steam from the mouth of the Wallamet to the city by the sea named after the New York fur trader.
Astoria is not in a strict sense a ​seaside place. It is, on the contrary, ten or twelve miles inside the bar of the Columbia, and fronts the Washington shore of the river, which is here half a dozen miles in breadth, with a volume that makes it resemble an inland sea. The town is built upon the side of a steep point formed by a deep inlet where the waters of Young’s River unite with the Columbia, except that part of it which is supported upon piles, and consists of wharves and fishing establishments, a by no means small portion of this municipality. The residences fringe streets that pursue wavering lines over greater and lesser hills to the summit of the point, or which run parallel with the river. But while the unpracticed pedestrian is compelled to stop to get his wind quite often in exploring Astoria, he is rewarded for his exhausted oxygen by the grandeur of the view he takes in while he recovers his breath. It is not my intention to attempt a description of the scenery about the mouth of the Columbia, the object of this article being to suggest to the readers of the Overland the pleasures awaiting them when they come to spy out this part of the Pacific frontage for themselves.
As I have said, Astoria is not strictly a seaside resort, yet it has some of the features of one. It is a sort of capital for all the several resorts in the vicinity; and many persons prefer the partly inland climate to that of the coast. Perched on the covered balcony of a west-end house, one may pass the whole day in idle enjoyment of the scene before him, which, as a river view, is unsurpassed anywhere in the world. To be at its best, however, the day should be in July, after the rainy season is past, and when the summer flood of the Columbia has gone out over the bar, leaving the blue beauty of this majestic stream unclouded by dissolving mud-banks, and undisfigured by drift. On such a day you may swing in your hammock, or recline at ease in your extension chair, and mock at weariness, while your eyes wander dreamily from Tongue Point to the Capes, finding ever something new and ideally charming in the panorama. Perhaps the prettiest scene of the day is when the fishing boats start down the river, a hundred or more at one time, their white sails flashing like birds' wings against the blue of the river, or momentarily catching a ruddy tint as the sunset light flares up behind Cape Disappointment, tinging the ripples that dance about their bows. Into the midst of this white-winged fleet every now and then forges the long black steamship just in over the bar from coastwise or foreign ports, trailing after it its longer black streamer of coal-smoke, and saluting the custom-house with a harmless shot as it passes our balcony. Our dreaminess turns to curiosity then, and our handkerchiefs flutter as the passengers, glad to be in from the sea, regard us with friendly gaze. Perhaps we take a stroll down along the wharves and search among the arrivals for a familiar face.
As everyone has read Irving's Astoria, it is quite the thing to seek to know the location of Astor’s old fort; but it is now built over, and the little cove where the Dolly was put together and launched, in front of it, is also so disguised by piling and plank roadways as to be unrecognizable. For reference you turn to your latest edition, and smile as you read of Duncan McDougal's espousal of the daughter of King Comcomly of the Clatsops, trying to fancy the scenes enacted here over eighty years ago.
One feature of the great river is that it seldom releases him who falls into its embrace; and so it happened that one of the partners of the Northwestern Company, to which Astor's interests were sold out, was drowned in crossing it not long after the transfer. A visit to the cemetery on the hill above the town will reward us with a look at the oldest tomb of civilized man in all this Northwest. ​The stone is somewhat crumbled and moss-grown, but the inscription is still legible, and reads:
IN MEMORY OF D. McTAVISH ESQr. AGED 42 YEARS DROWNED CROSSING THIS RIVER MAY 22d, 1814.
From this hill you obtain a very satisfactory view of that part of the Coast Range which lies to the south and east of Astoria, and which throws up a group of peaks that, seen from the Columbia, seem to constitute a single massive mountain, and is known to most persons as Saddle Mountain. Its true name is Necahnie; and it forms one of the most picturesque elevations in the mountainous regions of the Northwest, its blended outlines making a sharp peak at one extremity, a domed peak at the other, with a lower but greater bulk connecting them. In the foreground are the foothills covered with timber, descending gradually to the level of the sandy plains that abut upon the sea.
Astoria has no beach or speed tracks, no means, in fact, of touring for pleasure, except such as depend upon boating of some sort. Besides, except the passenger steamers which run on the river above this point, and during the summer "season" venture below as far as Fort Stevens on the Oregon side, or Fort Canby on the Washington side, there are only the sort of steamers called tugs available for passenger service. These inelegant but more seaworthy craft are made necessary by the heavy waves encountered about the mouth of the Columbia when the wind is fresh and the tide coming in against the current.
If we wish to get to the seaside from Astoria we embark in one of these tugs, either for Tansy Point where there is a railroad wharf, and where we take passage for different points on Clatsop Plains and Clatsop Beach; or we steam over to Baker's Bay on the north side of the river, and take a train there for points along Ilwaco Beach.
The Seaside, on Clatsop Beach, is the oldest fashionable summer resort on the Oregon coast. To the visitor who is curious about the history of a country, the Clatsop Plains are full of interest. Neither will the student who is not indifferent to how the world was made, is unmade, and made over again continually, fail to find this corner of Oregon interesting. The plains have been formed by the action of the sea and river, being a deposit of sand divided by lagoons and small lakes, a portion of the peninsula being still tide land. They extend from the Point Adams Lighthouse south about fifteen miles, and have a breadth of from one to seven miles. To the south the land rises gradually towards the Coast Mountains which are covered with timber, and which send down numerous streams into Young's Bay and the Pacific Ocean. One of these small rivers has a historic interest, as being the stream on which the United States explorers Lewis and Clarke wintered in 1805–06. To stand upon this spot inspires one to re-read the story of that winter, and strengthens the imagination to behold the discomforts of the party, detained not only by the weather in so cheerless a spot, but in spite of the weather having to hunt and dry the provisions which were to supply them on their homeward journey, to wade the lagoons, and carry home the carcasses of elk, deer, and bear, on their backs, or to make salt from sea-water to preserve the meat. What time they were not doing this, they were endeavoring to acquire enough of the Chinook language to enable them to obtain some information about the country from the squalid Clatsops that crowded their very limited quarters. It is a fact which surprises ​one that the chiefs who visited Lewis and Clarke could give them the name of every trading vessel which had up to that time been on the Northwest coast, with the name of its master.
One never fails to find in any Indian habitat legends to fit the topography of the country, and the most interesting one I have ever heard of in this region is, that away back in that remote past which forms the proper atmosphere of such talcs, a vessel which carried a large amount of treasure was driven ashore below the mouth of the Columbia, whose crew saved not only themselves but a box supposed to contain much riches. This box was taken to Mount Necahnie anti buried with great ceremony, one of the crew being slain and his bones placed on the casket to keep away the natives, whose superstition would not allow them to violate the burial-place of the white man. Like the story of Captain Kidd's buried treasure, this legend has induced several parties to search for the casket hidden on Mount Nechanie. So far, nothing has been discovered. Had any treasure been deposited, as related by the Indians, it would be interesting to know what became of the men who placed it in hiding. No record of their adventures has ever come to light, the nearest approach to an explanation being another story told by the Indians farther in the interior, who relate that a party of shipwrecked men many years ago had come up the Columbia and attempted to go overland to California, but had all been killed except one man named Soto, who was held a captive by the Cascade Indians until he was an old man, when he died.
ON THE OREGON COAST.
There is nothing improbable in either of these tales, but indeed the evidences of an ancient wreck have frequently been found on Clatsop beach, in greater or lesser quantities of beeswax which had become imbedded in the sand. Some persons have mistaken this wax for a rare mineral. It is, however, often found in the manufactured forms, as, for instance, altar candles. The wick has rotted out, leaving the orifice filled with ​sand which is easily removed. This was, undoubtedly, part of a cargo intended for the early Spanish missions, and it may have been the crew of this wrecked galleon to which Soto and his shipmates belonged. The proverbial obliterating power ascribed to sand fails to apply at Clatsop, where a good deal of history of one sort and another is indelibly inscribed in this fugitive substance, and where may be seen the foundations of a village which was the home of a very primitive people who subsisted upon raw mollusks.
POINT ADAMS LIGHTHOUSE.
TILLAMOOK ROCK AND LIGHT.
Three or four miles down the coast from Seaside is Tillamook Head, a high promontory which overhangs the sea; and about one mile out from this headland Tillamook Lighthouse, erected only a few years ago on a rock which seems designed by nature for such a purpose. The height of Tillamook Rock is eighty- eight feet,and of the tower forty-eight; yet in some winter storms bowlders of the size of cannon balls have been thrown quite over the top, such is the force of the waves which beat about its base. The party of nine men placed on the rock in October, 1879, to prepare the foundations of the lighthouse, first made a shelter for themselves by drilling holes in the rock, to which they fastened ringbolts with canvas tied to them as a temporary protection from winds and waves. The next step was to quarry out a sufficient space in a nook on one side for the erection of a shanty, which was bolted to the face of the cliff. They had then to cut stairs in the rock to reach the top, which, when leveled off, was about the size of a city lot. While excavating the stairs they were sometimes compelled to work on staging suspended from the top of the rock, with the brine dashing over them; and at other times the weather was such that on work could be done. But worse was to come, for in January huge waves dashed to the very top of the rock, and fell in masses of water on their canvas house, threatening to carry it away. By this storm their supplies were swept away, while for more than ​
two weeks there was no connection with the shore, no boat being able to come to their relief. They were at last rescued by a ship which passed near enough to be signaled, and which picked up a line cast from the summit of the rock. This line being fastened to the mast of the vessel, conveyed provisions to the prisoners of the sea. The corner stone of the lighthouse was laid in June, 1880, and in February, 1881, the light was kindled,—a month too late to save twenty lives that went out when the Lupata went ashore within a mile of Tillamook Head, and so close to the rock that the creaking of her blocks could be heard, with the voices of her officers. A bonfire was hastily built to ​warn off the vessel, but too late, and she went on the rocks. Such are the tragedies of the great deep.
To the ordinary pleasure-seeker the attractions of seaside are hunting on Tillamook mountains, fishing in the pretty rivers Neahcanicum, Elk, and Lewis and Clarke, with boating and bathing. Horses can be used to a considerable extent, but driving on the sandy or marshy plains is not much of a pastime, although there are some really fine farms in favorable situations, which make roads necessary, of rather primitive fashion.
LIGHTHOUSE AT CAPE DISAPPOINTMENT.
The beach at Seaside is not extensive, and is roughened by bowlders and driftwood, but is comparatively safe from the strong wind that sucks into the opening made by the Columbia, eighteen miles farther north. The climate here has the usual morning fog, or rain of mist, which redeems it from drought nearly all through the season, although the months of July, August, and September, are agreeably clear and mild all along the coast. Gearhart Park, a few miles north of Seaside, is a resort which has come into existence within a few years, and also into high favor. It is modeled after the plan of Pacific Grove in California, having a large hotel in modern style in connection with an extensive tract of woodland, which is sold in lots to those who prefer cottage homes of their own, or who annually encamp for a few weeks at this place. The approach to the beach at Gearhart Park is over shifting sand-dunes; but this difficulty is obviated by plank walks leading to the bathing places. The beach here seemed to me the least desirable of any on Clatsop Point, being too boldly exposed to the wind. But the grove, a fine piece of woodland, compensates for this defect. It has been cleared of underwood, and has walks laid out with a good taste which has not destroyed the effect of the natural forestry, but, on the contrary, reveals its beauties. As at Pacific Grove, the Chautauqua Association has an auditorium in this delightful retreat, on the steps of which I sat during an hour, enjoying the flickering sunshine falling between the branches of the noble old trees, and discussing with a friend, not literature, but ghosts! not of the uncanny kind, but those that, like the sunshine between the branches over ​our heads, flicker in and out of our consciousness at unexpected times, leaving a not unpleasant impression behind. A friend or two, some books, and the dolce far niente of this place, are sufficient means to a satisfactory summer holiday at Gearhart Park, although at the height of the season the latter feature is broken in upon by restless crowds in search of gayety rather than repose. Other places there are on Clatsop Plains, where one may find rest and contentment in close neighborhood to the sea, and where every summer may be found the inland population seeking it.
BAKER'S BAY AND FORT CANBY.
On the north side of the Columbia are a number of resorts, to reach which from Astoria the tourist steams, as I have said, about a dozen miles to Baker's Bay, stopping at Fort Stevens en route. The jetty thrown out by the south channel of the Columbia has caused the north channel, close under Cape Disappointment, to be filled with the sand thrown over by the current of the river to the north side. This was formerly the entrance used by sailing vessels, which, in the early part of this century, came in under the shelter of the Cape and anchored in Baker's Bay, where they lay in safety. Now to get into the bay at all, with a steamer, requires care not to run down or run into a forest of piles placed in the shallow water about Sand Island for the convenience of the fishermen, who hang their enormous nets here to dry. As the seines are cast at night, and the fish taken to the canneries in the morning, one may sec during the afternoon many boats dancing on the tide, whose oarsmen are fast asleep in them, apparently oblivious of the danger of being carried out to sea, as very many are every year, and lost despite the faithfulness of the life-saving station at the Cape which has saved not a few.
Passing Fort Canby, our steamer lands us at Ilwaco, where a train awaits our arrival and carries us to our destination, whether it be Seaview, Ocean Park, Long Beach, Sealand, or Oysterville on Shoal water Bay. Ilwaco Beach is about twenty miles long, and unobstructed by ​rocks or drift for the greater part of that distance, so that driving is one of its chief pleasures. I studied its features for two weeks last summer, and found it, aside from the good driving, the least interesting sea-beach I had ever visited. Day after day when the tide was out there was the brown level stretch of sand extending northward out of sight; the sea, bluish green and foam-lined, lazily rolling against it on one side, and on the other a bank of sand, with here and there a log protruding from it which invited the pedestrian to be seated and yield to the spell of inanition which the scene flings over the beholder. What a naked, spiritless coast scene! To the south of my position (at Long Beach,) the green headland of the Cape stands with its feet in the sea. Some large rocks and bowlders are scattered for a little distance above that, and then, nothing! Not a shell, or wading bird, not even a rope of kelp on the sands, or a bit of colored seaweed to catch the eye; only the ever-restless, but at this season unimpassioned, sea. Even the wind has ceased to buffet us, and only the free motion of our clean-limbed roadster makes a breeze to quicken the blood in our cheeks.
Still it is a picture full of quiet power and suggestiveness. Great possibilities are lying dormant here: tempest and terror only await for the spirit that broods over the face of the waters to utter its command, and lo, the shore trembles with its assault. So dull, so apathetic, is the soul at times, to be roused by the breath of emotion to ungovernable discords. Today nothing more moving is in sight than a few straggling clam-diggers, and even they are spiritless, for the fresh-water floods of last winter have destroyed the young mollusks near the Columbia.
The sea to me is not an object of love. It is an emblem of remorseless strength used without love or pity. It is cruel, cold, often beautiful, but never to be thought of with a tender longing. So we turn away from the beach and plunge into a forest pathway overhung by shrubby cliffs on one side and a wealth of arborescent beauty on the other. A cool green light sifts softly through the interlacing branches, a delicate fragrance of ferns and woodsy plants and flowers pervades the air that breathes over us as we bowl along. Ah, to linger in these sylvan woods with the friends of our choosing, to dream, to utter our soul secrets, and bare our hearts as we never can in the glare of a work-a-day world! What is the charm of Nature that so wins our confidence when Humanity fails?— our loving mother Nature, to whom we refuse no secret, on whose bosom we yearn to lay our heads when weary of the strain and stress of living.
On we go, pausing a moment by a cool and shaded spring, following roads little traversed by visitors to the beach, over marshes bridged or crossed by sandy highways, through thickets of spruce, hemlock, alder, eider, willow, crab-apple, wild rose, and spirea, emerging now and then on little plains, grass-covered and sheltered round by dense groves of spruce, where the air is sunny, yet soft and cool. And so home.
It is this amplitude of choice in a day’s pleasures which constitutes the popularity of Ilwaco Beach. A trip to Sealand or Shoal water Bay, by rail, or a drive along the shore of that beautiful sheet of inland water, to reach which you must take a delightful route through a forest rank with the growth of centuries, and which leads you, if you choose, to that novelty,—a cranberry farm. And speaking of edibles, the oyster of Shoalwater Bay, fresh from its native bed, is the most delicious morsel to be found anywhere,— small, delicate, dainty, delectable.
Boarding houses and private cottages, with some quite capacious mansions owned by Portland people that come ​here to summer, make this beach populous from the Cape to Sealand several months of the year. I n addition to those features of the peninsula which make it a comfortable residence at any time, it offers, as does Clatsop, the attractions of good fishing and hunting in the vicinity. Porgies and rock-cod are taken in salt water,and brook and salmon trout in the small rivers debouching into Shoalwater Bay, while elk and bear furnish good sport for huntsmen on the head-waters of these streams. In the late autumn months ducks, geese, and snipe, resort in great numbers to the marshes about t he bay. Deer are no longer numerous, but are occasionally taken away from the vicinity of the settlements, while pigeons and other game birds are plentiful in their seasons.
CAMP ON THE NESTUCCA.
These are some of the most prominent characteristics of the coast country and seaside resorts near the mouth of the Columbia. South of these, on the Oregon coast, are several points where the inhabitants of the Wallamet Valley repair for an outing during the warm weather, namely, Tillamook Bay, Nestucca and Salmon Rivers, Yaquina Bay, and Siletz River. Of these, Nestucca and Yaquina are the principal resorts. The latter, a seaport of some consequence since the advent of a transcontinental railroad and steamship lines, takes the lead. The initial point of the railroad is at Yaquina City, four miles inside the bay, but Newport is the watering place. It is a pleasant little town, on a plateau elevated some distance above the beach. A comfortable steamer plies between the two towns, and a roomy hotel crowns the cliff at Newport. The name Yaquina is said to signify "smoky water," and was given to the bay several generations ago by the Indians who were witnesses of a great forest fire, which denuded the ​
coast mountains for miles, and which for weeks darkened the sky with smoke and embers. The country is covered with a second growth of shrubby timber, that in contrast with the original forest, gives it an appearance of baldness.
The general direction of the bay is east and west, Newport being on the north shore. There is a hotel also on the south shore, and visitors are divided between North Beach and South Beach. The jetty which the government has constructed at Yaquina is on the south side, and on it lies the wreck of the steamer Yaquina, carried there by the force of the wind in the winter of 1889. There is a good deal of picturesque coast scenery in the neighborhood of Newport. At Brasfield's, ten miles below, we see seal rocks, natural bridges, and towering cliffs. There is a lighthouse at the entrance to Yaquina Bay, and another with a first-class light on Cape Foul weather which is visible from here. Fishing is good at this point, and the central valley towns arc supplied from Yaquina. But the beach is not interesting, the "sea agate "alone is an object of search on the sands. This rare "agate" is a small clam petrified into a pellucid stone that holds a little water in its center, visible to the eye and audible to the ear. As curios they are much sought after, and command a good price. The rock oyster, a soft-shelled variety of the genus Ostrea, is found in the rocks of this part of the coast, and always exercises the intellect of visitors with presenting the problem of how it got there. Let the naturalist come forward and explain that "hard sum,"—also how it enlarges its stony cell as it grows.
North of Yaquina is the Siletz. Indian Reservation, extending about thirty miles along the coast, and eastward to the summit of the Coast Range, with a small reserve known as the Grand Rond, just over the mountains. These reservations hold the remaining representatives of these warlike tribes, whose hostility to white men made Southern Oregon a battlefield from 1851 to 1856. Their characteristics may be studied in a modified form by summer visitors at Yaquina, who desire a lesson in evolution and heredity.
Camping parties find the coast of Nestucca more attractive than at Ya- quina. The bay at this place is only a small inlet at the mouth of the Nestucca and Nestachee rivers; but there is a grand forest here and many fine coast views. The most prominent local object is an immense rock standing in the ​edge of the ocean, and only connected with the shore by other submerged rocks, which at times are bare and afford a pathway to the promontory,— known as Proposal Rock an appellation slightly more novel and cheerful than the oft- repeated and tragic Lover's Leap.
The interest attached to this rock lies in the fact that it has apparently been moved from its original situation. It is a problem for the study of cataclysms. Extending out into the sea for some distance beyond Proposal Rock, is a submerged forest, the trees still standing erect. But it is on shore that the story of a gigantic land-slide is most easily and plainly written and recorded. Extending back from the sea for a mile is a tract of land worthy to be made a show place by the government. Large trees are standing on naked roots which must have once clasped fallen timber of enormous diameter, pieces of which are still remaining in their embrace. A horse-man could ride under them, or a party could make a camp beneath them. They began to grow generations past on the rotting trunks of trees which must have rivaled the sequoias of California, and which had been thrown down at one time. As the giants decayed and soil formed upon them, these later trees sprung up in that soil, sending their roots down the sides of the prostrate trunks and finally into the earth, growing stronger from year to year until that on which they had first fed had turned to dust, leaving them supported as upon many curiously curved legs. The present effect is one of great beauty, wild vines garlanding these roots with a grace no art could imitate, and mosses wrapping them in sheaths of velvety softness and many hues, which the moist atmosphere of the coast constantly feeds.
Salmon River, Alseya Bay, Siuslaw River, Umpqua River, Coos Bay, Coquille River, Port Orford, and several smaller inlets, have attractive features, which in time will make them better known to tourists and pleasure-seekers. Meanwhile there is room for all who come, and sport as well as space.
Frances Fuller Victor.
AFTER THE FIRE.
III.
She did not seem to remember it, however. The next Saturday, though he did not bring the Indian boys' ears, as she half hoped, and wholly feared, he would, he did bring a large cage, in which was an aggressive green parrot in a furious temper over its long horseback ride from Crescent City, where he had purchased it from a sailor.
Peter, for such was his name, soon found a warm place in Bessie's affections, but she could never induce him to leave off a bad habit of swearing. He connected that manner of expression with Mason's presence alone, and evidently had an unforgiving heart under his brilliant feathers.
Life and time slipped quickly by in the uneventful monotony of the little village, interested only in its own small affairs, and cut off from the whirl of the outside world. The next two years came and went by Humphrey Mason, with nothing consciously to mark them in his memory except the changes in the weather. These materially affected his comfort and safety during the long rides through beating winter rain and wind, which at times forced him to pause until their fury was spent.
Several times during the second winter the southwest wind grew to a hurricane, against which no man could stand upright, but must crawl on hands and knees to shelter. It snatched the combing tops of great breakers, and dashed them over the town until the cisterns were filled with salty water unfit for use. The whole harbor was one roaring mass of surge, that broke against the cliffs until they trembled, and slid into the devouring element with a noise like the clashing together of runaway worlds. The sea birds were driven ashore in multitudes, exhausted and bruised, their terrified cries adding much to the horror of the war of sound. The timber and roofs of the vacant buildings were tossed about like toothpicks, to the terror and danger of the dwellers in the others, who barricaded their doors and put out their fires, expecting with every fresh blast to hear their own roofs part and leave them shelterless.
The beautiful forest back of the town was almost destroyed, the centuries-old trees being torn down as a scythe cut off the weeds by the roadside. One standing a little exposed would first yield to the mighty force, and lose its foothold in the rain-soaked earth, striking as it fell another,—that one another and so on, until several could be seen going down at once. The appearance of their tattered and broken ranks standing amid the ruin of their fallen comrades was a desolate thing to see; and a terrible labor it was for a horse and rider to fight a way through that tangled mass of fallen trunks.
It was late in the second winter, just after the last and worst wind-storms that our hero was obliged to leave his horse some miles distant in the timber and carry saddle and mailbag on his shoulders through the tempest, which was spending its forces in occasional fierce blasts, that obliged him to lie flat and hold to the bushes or dodge flying fragments from the writhing branches overhead. It was late at night when at last, tired and muddy, indeed, he reached the fort-house, after delivering the scanty mail to Uncle Sam's sleep! agent.
He opened the door of a long, low room at the end of the house, where he entered boldly to remove his heavy ​⟨mud⟩-stained oilskins before going to ⟨his⟩ room. He shut the door behind ⟨him⟩, and taking off the top-coat, tossed ⟨it⟩ into a corner in the darkness. To ⟨his⟩ surprise a startled rustling came ⟨from⟩ that corner, and a hissing sound ⟨that⟩ seemed to repeat itself all about ⟨him⟩.
He hastily felt in his inner pockets, ⟨with⟩ his fingers numb with wet and (illegible text), for matches. Striking one, he ⟨looked⟩ about with eyes half blinded by ⟨the⟩ sudden glare that flickered only an ⟨instant⟩ and went out, but he dimly saw ⟨a⟩ tall, pale shape, with wide, waving ⟨arms⟩ outstretched. It repeated the ⟨hissing⟩, and a sharp sound like the ⟨snapping⟩ of a pistol made him start. ⟨Dropping⟩ the matches he called out quickly, ⟨Who's⟩ there? What in the dickens ⟨are⟩ you up to?"
No answer.
He felt about on the floor for the lost ⟨matches⟩, and came in contact with some (illegible text) thing that moved away; and again (illegible text) that sharp snap, so close to his ear ⟨this⟩ time that he recoiled promptly and ⟨tumbled⟩ over a heavy body that struck ⟨him⟩ sharply behind the knees.
"Hello!" he shouted, and then the ⟨connecting⟩ door opened, and the light ⟨from⟩ the lamp Bessie held revealed ⟨Humphrey⟩ seated helplessly upon the ⟨floor⟩, and all about him were standing ⟨solemn⟩ gray pelicans, who, as the light ⟨flashed⟩ upon them, lifted their wide ⟨wings⟩ and snapped their heavy ⟨mandibles⟩ together in a threatening manner.
He looked at them in silence a ⟨moment⟩ after he got on his feet, and under ⟨his⟩ breath mentioned the name of a ⟨place⟩ that modern theology has decided ⟨does⟩ not exist. Bessie leaned against ⟨the⟩ door in helpless laughter, in which ⟨he⟩ could not but join.
"Here," he said, "I am after all sorts ⟨of⟩ hard times and narrow escapes, to be ⟨scared⟩ to death and nearly eaten up by ⟨these⟩ blamed things. Where in the ⟨name⟩ of Davy Jones did you find so many of them? That old rooster there on the bench is the most uncanny beast I ever saw."
Bessie told him, between her spasms of laughter, that they had been driven inland by the wind, and had taken refuge on the sheltered side of the house, where they sat helpless and exhausted. She had felt so sorry for their forlorn state that she had driven them through the door into the unused room, where they had stood in grotesque dignity for the past two days.
"I suppose you will fatten them with the hens."
"No, indeed, they will be glad to go back to fishing when the wind goes down."
"They must be nearly as hungry as I am now," said Humphrey, as he divested himself of the rest of his superfluous clothing, while Bessie held the light. "I could eat one of them easily."
"Well, go wash your face, and you shall have something to eat."
He performed a hasty toilet, and brushed his hair before the little glass in the living-room that answered for the entire family.
"There, do I look better?" said he, turning his weather-reddened face, which was shadowed by the dark promise of a beard, toward her.
Bessie's appearance and manner baffled him sometimes, and he found it difficult to be perfectly at ease with her alone. She had rounded out into such a tiny and complete womanhood so soon, her red lips curved into such subtle and teasing smiles, that his own efforts in that kind of amusement were apt to seem profitless and stale. Now she regarded him critically.
"You are yet pale from your fright at the pelicans, the poor dears, but you will feel better when you have some coffee, and can tell me about your trip. It must have been very hard this week."
"Don't you think I am a 'poor dear,' too?"
152
After the Fire.
[Fe
" Yes, I think you would make a very poor dear, even if you were a pelican."
While Humphrey ate his supper, he related the incidents of his journey to Bessie, who interrupted him with occa- sional soft bursts of laughter that net- tled him a little. He was tired, and he was not intending to be funny ; he could not see why she should laugh. The truth of the matter was that Bessie had been getting nervous as she read alone by the fire, waiting for him to come, the Riordans parental had gone to bed some hours before, and her laughter was in a great measure only the expres- sion of her relieved feeling.
When he grew red and silent, she said, apparently to the dishes in the lit- tle cupboard, " O, he was so ridiculous on the floor among the pelicans ! It was worth sitting up to see." Then turning to him, she continued, " Truly, I am sorry you have had such a bad time. And poor Billy there in the tim- ber without any supper ! Will you take some one and get him out the first thing in the morning ? "
"Yes, Joe Austin and Jim Barker will go with me : we will take axes and cut a way for him to get out. He can climb, I tell you, that horse ; he walked fifty feet after me on a fallen log today."
" If that Joe Austin is going, I hope you will make him carry Billy's break- fast and all the axes, and make him do all the disagreeable work too ? "
" Why ? "
"Because he is a pig."
" You don't seem to like Joe ? "
" No, he is the hatefullest "
She paused, and a bright color flamed under the pale skin.
" Why, what has he been doing ? "
" I he came up here to dig those post holes, and would come in for water every few minutes. I just hate him ! That is all."
This was given with a young girl's emphasis, but no questioning brought any further reason for her expression ;
and as her listener turned over in h mind the character of the man in que tion, he thought that she might hav reason for disliking him in the natur; instincts of her womanliness. All won en would dislike Joe, he fancied, simp] because they could n't help it. Bi speculations of all kinds were soon lo: in slumber for tired Humphrey, wh must waken early in the morning.
After a hasty breakfast he starte with the others to rescue his faithfi horse, who was impatiently waiting fc his coming in the still falling rain, was not until their labors were cor pleted and they were returning that Jc began on the favorite topic of his ow irresistible charm for all womankind, b remarking to Humphrey that he didn know how to make the most of his 0] portunities.
"There you are," said he, "a love blonde young beauty, and the only or in sight of that plump little girl i Riordan's, and you don't know how I make yourself agreeable to the ferr nine heart. Now, if you would tal some lessons from me, I warrant si would be in love with you in a week."
"When I want to make an infern ass of myself, I will take lessons of yo Why don't you try your own charn there ? The curves of your legs wou take her fancy, and her eye would dwe in joy on your fine, large ears, thoug they are yet too small for your re character."
But the unwarned boaster continuec " I did n't need to try my charms ; thf are evident enough : and it was a swe< word she whispered in that same larj ear that 's next to you, my boy. red mouth is as sweet as it looks,"- with a leer intended to look knowing.
A swift recollection of Bessie's won of the night before came to Humphre and with them a knowledge of how th man could and did annoy her. A va: boaster, from whom he had heard cour less lies about every woman he kne 1 ​
94.]
After the Fire.
153
Lit they had not stayed in his mind an kstant. He had had a gentle mother, d possessed more natural refinement om her inherited than most men of fis class are capable of, and at all times his man's manner of speaking of women ad disgusted him. Just now he saw lessie in his mind, with her innocent lear eyes, her tender heart, her pale, rild-flower face, and the smile on her ps. The idea that this coarse brute hould say that he had touched them lied Humphrey with a swift and over- whelming anger, to which he was seldom noved by anything ; but when roused t was apt to be sudden and fierce, rui- ng the strong young frame, and strik- ng terror into the hearts of those who lad offended.
He flung himself off his horse, and matched Joe's ax away, flinging it into pe brush, and squaring the man about p suddenly that his habitual exagger- ted erectness was but limp surprise.
"Now," said he, "you are going to ake back that lie, and take a whipping Besides for annoying that little girl. Bay you lied, you miserable forked liz- [rd ! I '11 punch you if you don't," and te shook the protesting little gallant intil he was breathless.
" O, I say!" he gasped, "can't you
    ake a joke? I just wanted to see how
rou felt about it."
" You '11 find out. What did you say o her last week while you were there ? ^oii wriggling little reptile ! "
"None of your business. I said what [ pleased."
" I have no doubt you did. But it did n't please her, and it does n't please me."
Joe struggled, and swore an assorted volley of oaths, while his angry assail- ant slapped him about.
" Do you take back everything you said ? " inquired Humphrey, holding him up by the collar. " I said it was a joke." " Say it was a lie"
" Yes," gasped the shaken one.
"Well said. Now if I ever hear you mention her name again in any of your fool talk, I '11 give you some more of this." And he dropped Joe in the mud- dy road, and strode ahead after Billy, with his anger still seething within him.
The fact that he had beaten the too talkative Joe was nearly as much of a surprise to him as it was to that un- worthy himself, as he limped along be- hind, and poured his profane lamenta- tions into the unsympathetic ears of Jim Barker, who felt that such a course of treatment had long been needed by Joe, but had prudently refrained from taking the responsibility of administer- ing it upon himself.
Mason could hardly tell why he had been so angry ; he had heard Joe say worse things about other girls, and they had passed out of his mind as quickly as they entered. But now his temper had gotten so far ahead of him that he felt ugly all day, saying very little to any one, and even answering some question of Bessie's in as few words as possible, though he was thinking of her most of the time, and comparing her with other young girls all more or less flirta- tiously inclined whom he met every week on his regular route.
He was a handsome young fellow, and those other girls did not hesitate to let him know that they thought so. He won- dered what Bessie thought of him. She always made shy fun at his expense, and that little ready smile of hers did not say anything he could understand. Just then she spoke to him, and the puzzling smile appeared when his answer was so inapt and brief. He felt as if she had detected his mental question. He hoped she would not hear why he had whipped Joe.
IV.
The habit of comparison he then formed continued, and the results, it ​
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seemed to him, were all in Bessie's fa- vor. Her manner to him was so child- like and open that he was never even tempted to waken her coquetry by any of the compliments with which he was ready enough to other girls.
Things remained in this quiescent state until Peter, the parrot, had been a member of the Riordan family for two years, during which they had moved out into the timber clearing at the end of the mill road. There the making of but- ter and the tending of fowls occupied much of Bessie's time. Mason had taken up his abode with another household in Port Orford, but spent part of his Sun- days out on the little farm, where they were always glad to see him. Bessie said so, with the same clear, unconscious look. He was picturing just how that look would be one afternoon in the late summer, while he was allowing his horse to choose his deliberate footsteps in that direction. He had not said to himself that he wished to woo Bessie, but the feeling was potential, and liable to sudden development by an unexpect- ed impulse, as his anger was. Just now he was feeling an emotion not as yet deep, and so new to his experience that he did not recognize it as jealousy. It had been roused by a chance remark that would not be forgotten, as he moved slowly through the heat that quivered over the dry brown needles of the hun- dreds of fallen tree-trunks, which stored it in their resinous depths, to emerge heavy with pungent, slumberous odor. Tall tiger lilies bloomed in the dusky shade, or flared into and blended with the curious light from the great red sphere that hung in the sky. Only an occasional echoing rattle from a wood- pecker's bill broke the silence brooded over by that great copper-colored light in which all inanimate things seemed to feel and obey an improper command to hush, to listen for an unknown some- thing .that was coming. So intense and real was this feeling that Humphrey
started when a bluejay that had been ing the clear red berries from a delicat plant in the shadow of a bridge flew 01 from under Billy's hoofs and screame discordantly on a branch above. He ol served that it looked bright purple i the unearthly light.
The thick smoke that had hung ove the sky for the past two weeks seeme closer and more oppressive as he ac vanced. Many miles of timber wer burning in the interior, and as he neare the clearing he saw fine ashes deposite on the leaves everywhere : he could se them falling through the motionless ai by looking up. Each tiny surface caugh the red glare of the sunlight, and pre sented the appearance of a shower o fire.
A sudden idea of what a terrible thin a fire would be among all those dea trees came to him, but was forgotte when he saw Bessie seated on the litti piazza, and near her a figure who wa waving a wide straw hat before her fac and his own at intervals. This perso rose as Humphrey approached, an greeted him cordially, but seated him self by Bessie's side again, much as he had a right there.
Charley Lorillard was well enoug in his way, but it irritated the othe man to see his little gallantries. H acted toward Bessie as if he were a old and trusted friend of hers, quit confidential, in fact. How long had h been coming there and fanning he with his hat ? the other reflected, as h led Billy to the brook for the drink h begged for.
When he returned, Charley was pre paring to take his departure. It seeme that he had taken dinner there and en joyed himself immensely, to judge from his manner. He was going home toj drive his stock out of the woods pasture ; he was afraid of the fire ; with the wind! in the direction it was, there was no telling how soon it might reach them.
" There is no wind," said Mason. ​
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" You better think there is wind where that fire is ! Look at your hat." It was powdered thick with ashes like fine salt.
When Charley had disappeared, Bes- Bie turned to Humphrey, who stood above her on the piazza, his hat still in nis hand, and his face flushed with the leaf.
"The air feels cooked, doesn't it? Let us sit here ; I can breathe better i than in the house."
He obeyed silently ; then turned to tier and said abruptly :
" What is Charley Lorillard coming pere for, I should like to know ?"
"That is just what he asked about you when you went to water Billy," was the unexpected reply. I " He did, did he ? We must be here Ion the same errand then. What did jy r ou tell him I came here for ? "
Now if Mason had failed in awaken- fing Bessie's coquetry, Charley had succeeded in doing so by a continued fusillade of small compliments and meaningless gallantries, as foreign to [Humphrey's straightforwardness as a (linnet's song would be to an eagle.
" You said - " began Bessie. " I told him that I thought you came to talk to Peter, and reason with him about his unreasonable dislike for you. Do you know that he will yet swear if I talk to him about you ? " " Who, Charley ? " " No, Peter."
" So you talk to Peter about me ; and whatdoyou say to him on that subject ?" " Peter is over there in the corner ; you might ask him about it. But warn you that he is in a bad temper."
" So am I. If he told me anything unpleasant that you said of me I might wring his neck."
" If you are in a bad temper, perhaps I had better keep quiet too."
" Bessie " and his voice took a dif- terent tone. She turned toward him- and in the pause that followed the in-
scrutable smile curved up the red lips again.
" Do you remember the night after the swallows were killed, when you hid in the cave ? "
" I remember the day the swallows were killed indeed, and I also remember that you promised to bring me the ears of the little wretches who did it. You did n't, though."
" I am going to bring you Charley Lorillard's ears the next time I come, I promise you."
" I think very likely he will bring them himself, so you need not take the trouble. I don't want his ears, anyway. I did want the others. However, I for- gave you because you brought Peter." Peter, hearing his name, muttered to himself sleepily. Bessie brought him out, and opened the cage door. " There, my cherub all in green, come out if you like, but beware of this man ; he is bloodthirsty and dangerous."
They watched Peter's deliberate exit and his slow climb to the top of his cage in silence. During the time Bessie sly- ly noted the outlines of Mason's face, the curly hair, the strong brows, and thick eyelashes. She seemed to see him in a new light today, she thought, and then the bright eyes suddenly lifted, and she turned her confusion quickly, woman-like, by speaking to the bird. " Peter, say something to me. You have not spoken all day. Say some- thing pleasant ; it will be a change for me."
"Was n't Charley pleasant ? " " Do you think you are ? " she re- torted.
What was the matter with her, he thought ; she had never talked so, nor looked so before. He, too, found refuge in Peter. " What does Bessie tell you about me, Peter, old boy ? "
Thus addressed, the bird turned one yellow eye on Bessie, and then the other, as if in an effort to remember. " Sweetheart ! " he murmured doubtful​
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[Feb
ly, then more fondly, in a curious imi- tation of her voice.
Mason turned around with a look of triumph. " Oh, you need n't think he means you ; it was my question he an- swered," she said quickly.
" I wish I could ask you a question that you would answer that way, you dear little girl ! "
" Sweetheart ! " exclaimed Peter with emphasis.
The four young eyes met over Peter's cage, and as the color went down from Mason's brown cheek it seemed to rise in hers, as if the same heart had sent it. She could not avoid his look, nor speak, though her lips moved in the effort.
Humphrey suddenly seemed to realize some unspeakably precious thing whose existence was before unknown. " Bessie, Bessie, I love you," came the words, before he had thought them even.
Still she did not speak, and Mr. Rior- dan came around the house, and seeing Humphrey came to greet him, and be- gin a talk that promised to last indefi- nitely.
Bessie slipped away, but came back after a time with her mother, who as- sisted actively in the conversation, while Bessie sat on the low step, where Hum- phrey could see only the curve of her cheek. She did not look at him until, after getting all the small gossip that Mason had to give, the elder woman said suddenly.
" Well, I hear that you are going to housekeeping before long ? "
" Yes ? " he answered in surprise. "Well, I hope to some day. I don't know how soon, though."
He met Bessie's eyes, and they were full of scorn and anger. What did it mean ?
"I haven't seen Annie Drew for some years, but she was a very pretty little girl then," continued Mrs. Riordan. " I suppose we won't see much more of you, when you arrange to spend your Sundays in Ellensb'urg."
" What has Annie Drew and Ellens! burg to do with "the matter ? "
" Why, we have heard from several people lately that you were to marrjl Annie Drew and live with the Drew;[ in Ellensburg."
"Nonsense. I am going to do nothl ing of the kind ! I am looking forward; to something quite different. I will tell you about it the first thing, if it goes) as I hope it will."
Bessie got up and went away with a| cold, hard look on her face, and he did! not see her again until he was ready tc go. Then he found her at the back ol| the house, and would have taken hands, but she drew back.
" Bessie, do you care for me ? Yc certainly did not believe that story about Annie Drew."
" I don't know why I should not be-| lieve it. I suppose it amuses you to| make love to different girls."
" I don't do it. I never made lovej to but one, and not much of that yet."|
" You are mistaken, Mr. Mason, if you think I will accept your love-mak- ing after you have been saying the same things and far more to others."
" Bessie, who told you all this stuff ? "
" I have heard it from different ones as coming from Annie Drew herself."
"No!"
" She did not deny that she was en- gaged, when Auntie Brown asked her about it after she saw you kiss her one night while in Ellensburg. Joe Austin said that she told him that she was go- ing to marry you."
" O, he lied," cried Humphrey, in a great rage. " I will make him swallow it tomorrow ! "
" I know Auntie did n't, for she saw you," retorted Bessie, ominously quiet.
" Bessie, I swear I am not going to marry Annie. I never dreamed of fall- ing in love with her."
" What did you mean, then, by what Auntie saw in the hotel hall in Ellens- burg?"
​Humphrey was in a corner. Mrs. Brown had seen him kiss the noisy hoyden, who was always attracting his attention when he was within hearing. He remembered the incident as a perfectly harmless one in itself. But how he was to make Bessie see it so was a difficult thing to undertake, coupled with Annie's evidently deliberate misrepresentation of his very free compliments to her florid good looks.
So he made a fatal pause, and then said helplessly: "How can I make you understand? There was really nothing at all in that."
"Well, you can tell Annie Drew that there is really nothing at all in this, either,—and tell her the truth. Goodnight."
And she was gone into the house so quickly that he had no further time for any appeal.
V.
He found his way to Billy through the early darkness, and started home without a farewell word to the others, so furious that he galloped through the murky night at apace that soon covered his horse with foam, and made his own head throb with the exercise, and the heavy heat that grew more oppressive in the timber. It was absolutely dark there, to human eyes. No ray from a star, no reflection from a cloud, only the thick blackness, and the pungent scent of smoke.
Billy shied violently soon after they reached the sawdust road, and Humphrey thought of a panther as he heard the crisp dry rustle of the leaves behind. Billy grew almost unmanageable, snorting, looking back, and plunging. His rider turned him for a moment and fired his revolver into the darkness. By its flash he saw a dark shape in the yellow road, which sprang aside with a thud of soft feet, as he caught a gleam of shining eyes. Then he knew it was a panther, driven in by the fire from the mountains, and his interest in getting home equaled Billy's, neither knowing but that those stealthy feet would bury their sharp claws in their backs before they could get out of the woods. But nothing further was heard of the great cat in the short time they were scampering home.
After the horse had been cared for, Humphrey walked home, and the storm of his mingled emotions came up within him again. The strength of his love for Bessie was a surprise to him, just as his occasional fits of anger were; but this emotion had stirred up depths that his anger had never reached. He felt that it had been with him from the beginning, and only just now a door had been opened, and he had been shown himself.
With the trivial thing that had come between them he was filled with anger and a sense of impotence. He believed he could have explained it if Bessie had not been so angry. He would prove it was not true, if he had to make Annie write and say so. That however would be the last resource, for he had been a fool, and said many things to her that he felt slightly ashamed of when he tried to remember them.
When he turned on the door-step and looked again into the night, a sudden stab of fear went through him, as he saw the dull glow low in the northern sky. What if the fire should unexpectedly reach them out there in the narrow clearing? Surrounded as they were by fallen timber, they would surely be suffocated. He felt that he must go back with an urgent warning, but being assured by people who lived far up the coast where they could note its progress that the fire was confined to the mountains and yet at a safe distance, he was less anxious, though he rose and watched that angry light several times before morning.
Then Humphrey did a thing which ​was wise in itself, but which an older man would have hesitated over, and any man with anything in his motives to conceal would not have done. He went to "Auntie" Brown, and while that matron was getting an early breakfast, and her gossip-loving husband in the barn, he walked into the kitchen and in a few bold words explained the whole of his trouble and its complications, concluding:—
"Mrs. Brown, I have done nothing nor made any misrepresentations. I was a fool to be sure when I was kissing Nan Drew, and was by no means the first fool who did it, as you must know. Nan 's a good enough girl in her way, but a silly thing. I never thought of marrying her, nor said so to any one. I cannot explain the affair to Bessie; she won't hear me, and I don't see how I could, anyway. Girls are queer; still, I don't know that I can blame her so much; I suppose I shouldn't have liked it if the story had been from the other side. But I would have believed her, if she had told me anything I might have heard of her was not true."
"I don't know whether you would or not," said worldly-wise Mrs. Brown. "You would be different from most men if you did. I believe you are honest in what you say," she continued, " and my advice is for you to be as frank with Bessie as you have been with me. I can't say that you won't have any trouble, but I will say a good word for you when I can."
She gave him a merry smile and a cheery goodby when he rode away. That somewhat lightened his heart, but it was with many a backward glance that he watched the vast sea of hoary smoke where from the mountain beyond he could see its great extent.
Every day of the next six was full of the thought of Bessie, and he burned with impatience to get back. Annie Drew he ignored entirely, and even refused to go to a dance at Ellensburg the night he stayed there, which was a most unprecedented action on his part. His impatience grew greater during the last two days, and if he had known what was going on at the Riordans' and at Port Orford, his anxiety would have been greatly enhanced.
The air had grown hotter and the smoke more dense rapidly after that eventful Sunday; but still on Tuesday afternoon the most of the Port Orford people were sure there would be no danger for them. A great political meeting was to be held at Ellensburg the next day, and a large number of the men were going down to attend. The timid women of the household did not like to be left alone with the possibility of danger, but the men made fun of their fears and went anyhow.
Those left soon began to feel the need of some precaution, for that night the sky was lit with a broad glare until morning, and occasional bits of burning twigs would sail over our heads and out to sea. Daylight showed ashes covering everything like a fall of snow, mingled with myriads of blackened leaves and bits of wood. Lights in the houses had been necessary for several days, for the sun was but a dull red stain creeping across the copper sky, and giving an indescribable feeling of depression and menace. No cry of sea-birds on the sands, nor murmur of insect life in the air. The swallows and all other land-birds were silent, gone.
VI.
From the heads above the town flames could be seen, and early in the afternoon a strong wind from inland sprang suddenly out of the vast silence, whirling bits of fire with a deluge of cinders and ashes high overhead. They grew thicker fast, and soon were falling everywhere, as the wind grew stronger, whirling about in sweeping gusts, carrying dust, loose trash, and burning fragments ​
1894.]
A/ter the Fire.
159
in a wild dance over the doomed town. The wind would sometimes part the great curtain of smoke, and the fire could be seen coming close now, leap- ing like some living thing, licking up the dry leaves and dead trees, springing up the resinous trunks of those yet standing. In the great heat they seemed to catch fire all over at once, and flare up into the thick air like great torches.
Grass and dry weeds in the fence corners caught and burned quickly. The wreckage from the houses blown down the previous winter soon caught, and added to the great heat that now seemed almost intolerable. Foxes, coons, and rabbits, ran about distractedly among the hurrying people as if seeking from them some relief.
A small party of Chinamen were camped a mile or two below town, where they were black sand mining. They quit their camp, which was, from its location with the direction of the wind, entirely out of danger, and came to help those who needed it. With their aid some bedding and such valuables as could be hastily gotten together from the burning houses were carried to the wet sand of the shore, where the most of the women followed, and with their household stuff were covered with wet blankets from the rain of falling fire. Their shelter was soon shared by timid wild things. One woman found a litter of wild rabbits nestled close to the pet cat she was holding in her lap. Though the wind was shut off by the bluff, the heat there was increased by the burning piles of bleached driftwood, reflecting the heat and color from the yellow cliffs above until the breaking seas looked crimson as blood.
When the empty hotel caught, the wind carried the broad sheet of the flame across the street, and flicked it over the edge of the bluff in derision at the crouching and nearly suffocated people below. That center of heat seemed to form a great whirlpool of
fire in which ashes, burning timbers and torrents of flame, went whirling around with unimaginable velocity and uproar. The few men left in town were strug- gling as best they could to save some- thing more, but at this point they were obliged to hold on to a fence post or throw themselves flat on the ground, while everything combustible in reach of the mad whirl was soon reduced to ashes.
When at last it died down for lack of further fuel, it was found there was but one house left. It stood by itself, and the owner had nailed wet blankets to the roof as soon as the sparks began to fall, and had managed to wet them a time or two after. With strength and courage born of the danger, he and his wife had saved the house of five rooms that contained the postoffice and village store, and in them that night were shel- tered all the homeless ones.
The last to arrive, late at night, was a little old lady who lived on the heads. That day she had been entirely alone, and no one could get to her while the danger was greatest, because of the burning trees that tell between. But she had carried buckets of water up a shaky ladder, and climbed about over the roof, extinguishing the burning shingles, and squeezing out with her hands the flames that would start from her fluttering skirts. Fortunately for her the struggle had not lasted long, and she had saved her house. But her clothes were burned through to the skin, and she was speech- less when at last some one came to look for her. It was many days before she could speak, and tell of her struggles during those few hours. All who fought the fire that terrible day, and breathed the flaming, smoke-thickened air, lost for a time the power to speak above a whisper.
Into this fire-blackened scene of deso- lation the astonished politicians re- turned the next day. Tents were put up, and lumber sent for to Coos Bay im​
160
After the Fire.
[Feb.
mediately, so the people were beginning to recover themselves a little when Humphrey returned on Saturday even- ing. His first breathless inquiry was for the Riordans.
No one had been able yet to reach them. The sawdust road was still afire, and could not be gone over, even on foot. Jim Barker had tried it that day, and found the long bridge canon still impas- sable, on account of the great tree trunks still burning in it. Humphrey was half wild with anxiety, which was shared by Mrs. Brown. He walked out for a little distance, but was obliged to return after suddenly sinking into a cavity of hot ashes and fire, which was caused by the burning of the tree-roots.
He determined to get there the next day, if such a thing were possible, and started early with thick boots on his feet, and carrying a long, stout stick or pole, with which he cautiously felt his treach- erous path. It was a trip full of danger, fatigue, and anxiety. Little gusts of hot wind would whirl the dry ashes and smoke into his face, until he would be blinded for a time. Great tree trunks lay smouldering across the path, to be gone around cautiously, where every step held a possibility of sinking into a subterranean furnace, where the resin- ous roots were burning with fierce though stifled heat.
He found all the bridges burned, of course, and with no little trouble made his way over the streams. The long bridge had spanned the deepest and steepest ravine ; the only place it could be crossed within two miles was where the stream formed a deep pool. How he was to get across this place was puz- zling him from the beginning of his task ; but when he came in sight of it he saw that one of the great girders still stood, blackened and roughened by the protruding spikes with which the floor- ing planks had been secured, but not divided. He tried it cautiously, and then crossed on the narrow way, his
sailor practice doing him good service.
Beyond this, and near the little clear- ing he so longed to reach, another great tree lay across the path, one end over the ravine and the other in a thicket of upturned roots. Everywhere a crossing seemed impossible, and after several thwarted efforts he decided to use the pole he carried, and vault over at the nar- rowest point, taking his chances about landing in a comfortable place on the other side. He got over easily, but dropped in a pile of ashes that flew up and blinded him. In his efforts to get quickly away from the fire he could sharply feel through his boots, he stum- bled and fell a little beyond, bruising himself and burning his hands, arms, and face, painfully before he could see to reach a safer place. At last he saw the brook that ran about the little clear- ing ; he dashed the water over his burn- ing face and smarting eyes before hur- rying up the bank to see nothing.
Not a sign of life nor human habita- tion anywhere, only the little plain, brown and bare, except for the few blackened timbers where the house and stable had been, and the cooking stove that stood out by itself. Beyond was the gray and black fringe of the burned timber, desolate, silent. It seemed to- him for a moment that the whole world was in mourning. Near the ashes of. the stable was the carcass of a cow. The sight of it made him suddenly sick. What would he find next ?
He tried to shout, but no sound came from his parched throat. His eyes yet smarted, and he was seeing everything blurred ; he rubbed them, and again tried to shout, this time with better suc- cess. He listened with bated breath for some answer. There was a long" pause, and then a high, sharp voice close by, said with disinterested precision :
" Go to the devil devil devil ! "
He looked around, and saw Peter's- green plumage on a stump, and greeted him with intense relief, knowing that ​the others must be there somewhere.
"Hello, Peter! where are the rest of your family?"
"Peter dear? Sweetheart? Go to the devil!" was the unsatisfactory reply. But Humphrey soon found a path leading down to the brookside, on the other side of the clearing, where he almost stumbled into the arms of Mr. Riordan, who had heard his voice and started to see who was there. His hearty grasp of the blistered hands made their owner wince, though the answer to his hasty question was that they were all safe.
On some bedding in a sheltered hollow in the bank lay Mrs. Riordan, and Bessie was fanning her. She had been prostrated with the heat and the fright, but was greatly cheered by Humphrey's coming. Bessie, too, came forward and greeted him gladly, not seeming to remember that she had parted from him in anger a week before.
She noticed immediately that something was the matter, and he had to admit with reluctance that he had ashes in his eyes, and was burned some. Mr. Riordan's eyes were also greatly inflamed by his recent experiences, and he had noticed nothing. But Bessie was all sympathy when, after she had brought a basin and towel to remove the black, she could see the great blisters on his hands and arms where the shirt sleeve had been burned through. She helped him wrap them up in oiled cloths, with a pity that was almost tenderness. He could only say earnest words of commonplace thanks in return, for both the elder Riordans were talking to him at once.
With rapid question and answer he was soon told how, when they had known some time before the fire reached them that it must inevitably come, they had removed all their small belongings to this shelter by the stream, and covered them with wet blankets. The horse was tied to a snag in the stream when the fire reached them, and he was saved; but the cow, poor bewildered thing, suffocated in the midst of her wild struggles and fright. The heat had been terrible for a long time, for there had been but little wind to hurry the fire on. Bessie and Mr. Riordan would emerge from under their blankets at intervals, and throw water over them again, not forgetting to treat the trembling and wild-eyed horse in the same way, as he stood to his knees in the brook. Sometimes burning cinders would fall upon him, and for a moment stick and burn; then he would give the fearful cry of agony and terror that once heard is not forgotten.
"Yes," said Mrs. Riordan, "we are all saved but the cow; even Peter and the cat. Peter has done nothing but sit on a stump and swear since, but the cat has been catching all the confiding little squirrels and wood creatures that shared our shelter. I am provoked with him."
VII.
Bessie and Mr. Riordan prepared a meal over a campfire presently, the former spreading a cloth over a table and setting the plates, "quite as if they had not been burned out at all," Humphrey said. He took an early opportunity of asking her—very close at hand indeed—if she did not think his eyes looked better. She glanced critically at them, and said she thought they did, but impartially added, as she moved to put something straight at the other side of the table, that "they lacked a good deal of looking handsome yet."
"They can yet reflect something handsome, you would see if you would look closer."
"You must have had a good deal of experience in making pretty speeches lately."
"I have come a hard journey to see you today, Bessie, and I think you might give me a kind word."
"I will give you some hot coffee, and ​that will do you much more good," said the practical Bessie; and he did find it comforting in a degree, though she allowed no further opportunity for tenderness that evening. Yet tired Humphrey soon forgot his burns, and even his love in the deep sleep of youth and exhaustion.
The next day the burns were better, and the love had wakened full-armed, and confident that before another sunset a more satisfactory understanding would be reached. A short time after breakfast, when Bessie announced that she was going to feed the fowls, Humphrey followed her down the stream a short distance where they were moving about in a querulous, high-stepping manner, as if they had not forgiven their little mistress for tying their legs together and putting them in a place of hot, wet darkness for a long and tiresome period. They acted as if they believed her to be responsible for the generally unpleasant state of things, standing aloof with heads held very high, indeed, ready to be off at the slightest aggressive movement on her part.
Mason watched them, and listened to Bessie's even tones, as she told of their various interesting characteristics. He was turning over in his mind how he would make a certain statement in the most effective manner to bring the understanding between them upon a more comfortable and secure basis than it seemed to be. His love had given him more insight, and he felt the subtle remoteness in her manner that had not been there before. He believed Annie Drew or Charley Lorillard were to blame for it,—which the most, he did not know,—and was about to begin his investigation by a blunt question to that effect when they heard the voices of men across the brook.
In a few moments two blackened and dingy travelers waded across a shallow ford and joined them on the trail to the Riordan's camp. One was a man who lived on a stream in the heart of the burned timber district, with a native wife and her several children. The other was a young man whom Mason knew very slightly, as a hunter, trapper, and keen horse-trader, who was sure to get the best of every bargain he made. Just now Mason determined that he should do him a favor without being conscious of it. He would make him tell the news he wished Bessie to find convincing, and she could not question the truth of this man's statements, he was so personally interested.
They listened with interest to an account of the adventures of these new comers, who had been hemmed in by the fire and obliged to take refuge in the stream, standing in the water up to their necks, and occasionally dipping their heads under to keep from being overpowered by the heat. The children sitting in the shallow water were joined by coons, foxes, and squirrels, that waded about them, all fear of humanity and each other lost in the great danger that threatened all alike. Herds of elk came dashing madly across, only to be turned by the fire on the other side, and go aimlessly down stream, and frightened deer swam about them, seemingly unaware of their presence. When they could at last make their way through the track of fire, they found in several places piles of dead elk that had probably run until exhausted, and been suffocated and burned together.
"And a great loss, too," said the younger man. "If I could have their horns in San Francisco, I could sell them for ten dollars apiece. A chap from there told me he would give a twenty for two fine ones. That is how I came to be caught by the fire at Somers's,—I was hunting for them. I could pick them up by the dozen now, but when in calamity could I get them out of the timber? Besides, I can't wait. I have got to be in Ellensburg the last of this week."
1894.J
After the Fire-
163
" Yes," said Humphrey, " I hear you are wanted at the Drews, next week."
"I intend to be there, too, if I don't get lost."
" What 's going to happen anyhow ? horse trade ? "
" No ; the old man is going to take me for a son-in-law. He thinks Annie will get even with me for that lame horse I sold him two years ago, and maybe she will. I am willing to try it."
This was what Humphrey wanted him to say, and he directed a meaning look at Bessie ; but her indifferent glance rested upon the speaker, and he could not see that she was in any way impressed. But Mrs. Riordan was, and congratulated the young man, saying in continuation that as Miss Drew was a great favorite, he must have made a good deal of heartache among his rivals when he won her hand.
Then Bessie looked at Humphrey with an elaborate expression of compas- sion which he found very irritating.
" I don't know about that," said the prospective groom, in answer to Mrs. Riordan. " We have been engaged two years, and I haven't had the heartache any myself."
The latter part of this statement set Humphrey to wondering if the organ in question would have been disturbed had the owner known of some things said by and to the object of his affections, and he decided that it would not be shaken out of its self-sufficiency by any such trifles as that.
The elder man said he must push on to town, and get a few necessities for the " old woman" and the children ; they had been living on meat without salt for more than a week.
" How does it come that you are not on the road, Mason ? " he asked.
"I told Jim Barker to take the mail down if I did n't get back. It was pretty rough getting out here yesterday, and I got burned some."
" You will not go back with us, then ? "
"No, I'll wait a while yet."
"Well, I don't know but it is well worth while." The younger man slapped him on the shoulder, and grinned in a manner intended to be knowing, as they made their adieux.
VIII.
BESSIE did not seem inclined to give Humphrey any chance for explanations, but he was a, young person of prompt- ness and determination, and after a time said boldly that he wanted to talk to her, suiting the action to his words by guiding her up the path and over to the other side of the clearing, where they sat on the bank and watched the water fall coolly over a big flat stone into an eddying pool.
" This is an excellent place to fish. See them in the pool there ! " Bessie exclaimed with enthusiasm.
" The fish I want is not very far away, but I don't seem to be a lucky fisher- man," said Humphrey clumsily. He knew it was clumsy, and hated himself accordingly.
" Perhaps you don't have good bait," was Bessie's instant and apparently in- nocent reply.
" Perhaps not. Perhaps it does n't dance around enough, nor sing pretty ditties, nor fan them with its hat, nor make a fool of itself generally enough !" answered he with scorn so earnest that his metaphor which was a form of elo- quence with which he was very little familiar got quite mixed.
" Perhaps it is not may be it is a lit- tle stale, some fish are particular." She suggested this with a most impartial manner, tossing a pebble into the pool, scaring the trout into the shadow, and bringing Humphrey's native directness to the front in self-defense.
" Bessie, is it possible that you still believe that I made love to Nan Drew, or thought of marrying her ? "
" I knew last Tuesday that this man ​
164
After the Fire.
[Feb.
who was here today had gotten ahead of you."
" Who told you that ? "
"Nobody told me that, but Charley Lorillard told me that Jimmy Watson who is a cousin of his is going to mar- ry her next week."
" Did he say Watson had gotten ahead of me ? "
" No : I said that, putting two and two together, you know."
"O, the dickens! And Lorillard was here again Tuesday ? "
" Yes ; he wanted us to go up to his place away from the fire ; but father thought we had better stay, and save what things we could. It was very kind of Mr. Lorillard, but I am glad we did not go now, though I was frightened when I knew we could n't get away."
" O, he is a cherub ! I too am glad you did not go with him. I think if I had found no traces of you when I got here, I should have gone crazy. Bessie, I want you to tell me if you are going to marry Lorillard or me. I can't stand this sort of thing."
"What sort of thing? I have not been thinking of marrying either of you. Why should I ? " she answered, in great apparent surprise.
" Because I love you. You know it. I love you more and better in one hour than that shallow Lorillard would or could in his whole life. I can't tell you how much. I have n't practiced pretty speech making as much as he has."
" Oh, have n't you ? "
Bessie's face was hidden in her hands that were supported by her knee-propped elbows. He paid no attention to the tone of her short remark, but continued, "I have loved you ever since that night you released me from the beaks of the pelicans."
She laughed. " Do you remember I told you that night that I thought you would make a very poor dear ? "
"You have never been very good to me," despondently.
"Not as good as Annie Drew, I sup- pose."
He reached over and pulled the prop- ping hands from under her chin, and surprised a laugh on the hidden face that disappeared quickly. He remem- bered Mrs. Brown's advice, to be as frank with Bessie as he had been to her.
"Dearest, Annie hid my hat for a joke, and when I found it I chased her up the hall and kissed her. Half a dozen people saw us, as we rnade a good deal of noise. There was no intention on either side to make it a sentimental occasion. When she let Mrs. Brown believe she was promised to me, it was another one of her ideas of a joke. Won't you forgive me ? I will promise never to kiss but one other girl while I live."
" You should n't make any promises, unless you know you can keep them."
" Won't you forgive me ? "
" I think you had better ask Jimmy Watson to forgive you. He is the only one I know who cares about it."
"Bessie, I love you. Why do you treat me so ? Either tell me that I have no show or that I have."
There was a long pause, during which the red curve of her cheek was all he could see of her averted face. Finally he reached one bandaged hand and gent- ly turned her chin toward him, until his eyes met and held hers. They were beautiful always, and now all his honest, warm young heart was in them, pleading better than his tongue could ever do.
" How long have you loved me ? " she said.
" Always, I think." He answered with a lover's certainty.
" No. You only began to care for me the day after the pelican scare, and you never really cared very much until you were a little bit jealous of Charley Lor- illard. Isn't that so? Now confess."
He promptly settled this exact truth by flatly contradicting the whole thing.*
" No, it was when I kissed you the ​night you cried over the dead swallows. Don't you think it is time you should begin to return a little of my feeling?"
She took the fingers from her chin and held them under her hands.
"I was very angry at you last week, Humphrey, because I thought you were trifling. I have not been so angry since old Sal's boys killed the swallows; and when I found you had been telling me the truth after all,—I—well I was sorry about it,—and then when you came out through the fire and were burned and nearly blinded, I began then to—to know-" Here a sob came and choked off the rest.
Humphrey gathered the little figure close to him in speechless joy, kissing the half hidden face, the tiny ear, and soft rings of hair about it.
"You dear stupid! You did not know how near I came to crying over you while I was helping to bind up your burns. Did you?"
"You darling! If I am dear, I am content to be stupid. Was that why you wanted to cry over me?"
"No."
"Is that the reason you cried now?"
"No! Humphrey, if you grow stupider you will not be more dear,"—drawing back with dignity,—"and I never, never would have forgiven you about Annie Drew if you had denied it, and had not told me about it yourself. Now we will never mention her again."
The clear, innocent eyes and red lips came very close, as soft arms crept slowly around his neck, and all further explanation was unnecessary.
All things else about them but the murmuring brook seemed but types of desolation and despair,—a vast Doré landscape of black and gray, hopeless, still, mystic, awful.
In their hearts and happy eyes was the love that achieves all things worthy, and in the voice of the brook was the hope and steadfastness of the world that makes love possible.
Quien.
IS IT PRACTICABLE TO REGULATE IMMIGRATION?
In other words, are not the "expellant influences of Europe "coupled with "the attractive influences of America" too strong for us to resist? A recent examination of certain Congressional records and official documents suggested the disquieting question. In answer, the appended extracts from that record may or may not appear conclusive; but they certainly warrant the question, which in the light of more than fifty years of experiment and failure cannot well be deemed premature! Great as the evils of unrestricted immigration are admitted to be, history has yet to record any real restriction. The various barriers erected at Castle Garden and elsewhere do not seem to have deserved the name. They have had about as great an influence over the rising tide of immigration as that which is commonly ascribed to the familiar domestic utensil of Mrs. Partington, when applied to the waves of the Atlantic.
The materials for a history of our foreign immigration are abundant and accessible, needing only to be compiled and arranged. Indeed the full significance of the subject can hardly be estimated until we realize that it has a history, that the difficulties of today are practically the difficulties of twenty years ago, of thirty, and of fifty years ago, and that these difficulties and the ultimate peril are foreshadowed in the annals of the eighteenth century.
In tracing the record of immigration, it would be convenient to divide the past century into two periods of nearly equal length. The evils of immigration and its perplexities were first recognized about 1838, and since that time there have been frequent attempts to discover a suitable remedy. The half century of national existence prior to 1838 witnessed no efforts to regulate and no practical experience with the problem. It was a period of theory rather than fact, or rather the period when theory preceded fact.
But this period of theory should not on that account be ignored, as it had no small influence on subsequent events. Tradition ascribes to the earlier part of the nineteenth century, or the close of the eighteenth, the origin of several abstract political maxims, which have been thought to indicate our true immigration policy, and enable America to fulfill her responsibilities to "the human race." According to one of these maxims, the country was destined for the "asylum of the oppressed." Another, still more sweeping in scope, made it incumbent upon us to be "the refuge of the nations." In this practical age and period of stern fact it seems odd that these vague generalities should retain much force or vitality, yet they are constantly to be encountered in current literature.
The age responsible for them, however, was one of protest and revolt. The colonies of Great Britain had furnished a "refuge" and "asylum "for the victims of religious intolerance and political proscription, and such victims America was always to welcome. But to apply to present conditions the terms referred to seems almost absurd. And as has been so apparent in recent discussion, it involves a very plain matter in a hopeless confusion of thought. It is a condition which confronts us, not a vague and irrelevant theory. We are now ​affording an asylum to the insane, to criminals and paupers, instead of to the "oppressed "classes of the old world. As for "refuge," the word has become equally inappropriate. A paper read before a prominent workingmen's association some time ago bore the significant title, "The Refuge of the Nations or the Refuse—Which?"
Perhaps one reason for the perennial recurrence, so to speak, of the phrases in question, is the possible association they may have in our minds with the great leaders of 1789,—with Jefferson, for instance, or Washington himself. No association of the kind could be more misleading, however, or less warranted by facts. While the supposed views of these statesmen may have had considerable weight, their real ideas, although they have a direct bearing upon immigration, have been entirely overlooked.
It is most unfortunate, as well as singular, that such is the case. For to our Revolutionary era and its teachings we may turn with especial confidence. The signers of the Declaration and the framers of the Constitution did not confine their attention solely to the need of their own generation. The nature of their task compelled them to anticipate its results, and gave them an almost prophetic insight into the country's future. And so we find the leaders of 1789 debating many questions that have since come to assume great practical importance,—hence the special value of their writings.
Prominent among the questions referred to was that of immigration, and the views of our ancestors on this subject would surprise a generation accustomed to the extreme liberality of the present system. Indeed, it is safe to say that in no respect have we made so wide a departure from the principles and traditions of 1789 as in encouraging or permitting indiscriminate foreign immigration.
Not that the problem had then as sumed its present proportions. The journey from Europe to America a century ago occupied almost as many months as it now requires days, and arrivals were numbered by the hundred instead of by the hundred thousandBut the matter very soon became one of anxiety and apprehension, as the writings of Washington, Hamilton, Madison, and others clearly reveal. These statesmen evidently favored a very gradual immigration as best adapted to a rapid and complete assimilation. Nor was such a feeling confined by any means to the conservative members of the Federalist party. On the contrary, Thomas Jefferson, the oracle of modern Democracy, believed in careful selection and restriction. That great statesman, in fact, clearly foresaw and predicted some of the very evils which unrestricted immigration has brought in its train.
Perhaps the best way to point the contrast already alluded to between 1789 and 1893, is by aid of the imagination, picturing to ourselves the effect of certain features of our civilization upon the minds of Washington or Jefferson, had they the opportunity to behold them. Were these statesmen to return and visit some of our large cities at the present time, they might have reason to think they stood on foreign soil. They could walk for miles through the French quarter, the German quarter, the Italian, Spanish, Bohemian, or Chinese quarters, where a knowledge of foreign languages is actually of more value than their native tongue. Vast "colonies" of these people would appear before their bewildered eyes, inevitably taking the color of their surroundings, retarding the process of assimilation, and complicating in every way the moral, social, and political problems of the surrounding community.
Subsequent to the administrations of Washington and Jefferson, a ​considerable period elapsed before immigration claimed or received much attention. Prior to the discovery and application of steam, it had not assumed much practical importance. Some fifty years ago, however, the interest of the people began to awaken, mindful perhaps of the forebodings and warnings of a preceding generation.
The real history of immigration, as already stated, may be said to date from 1838, a period midway between our own time and the close of the Revolution, and we have no trustworthy record of the condition of affairs at an earlier date. But in 1 838 .Congress began a series of examinations into the abuses of immigration and naturalization, which, renewed from time to time, finally culminated in the labors of the Ford Committee of 1889.
With such a record at our disposal it is easy to ascertain the impressions and experience of those of our predecessors who have attempted to grapple with the problem within the period referred to. It seems to be frequently if not generally assumed, that only of late years has any considerable portion of our immigration been a positive injury, or even a doubtful benefit, to the country. Unfortunately, facts and figures disclose too plainly the fallacy of such an assumption. A few brief extracts from the first report on the subject will serve to disclose the condition that prevailed more than fifty years ago, and this report may be taken as a type of its class. It bears, in fact, a strong resemblance to those of a subsequent date, so that only brief portions of the latter need be quoted.
On July second, 1838, there was submitted to the House the result of the researches of a select committee of that body, prefaced by the following remarks:
   To enable the committee to obtain all the information which was accessible, the following interrogatories (among others) were propounded to the Mayors of the respective cities of New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Charleston, and New Orleans: . . . What proportion of the immigrants bring with them the means of subsisting themselves and families? What proportion are paupers? What proportion of the inmates of poor houses and penitentiaries are natives?"
From the replies to these and similar questions the committee states "it is estimated that more than one half the pauper population, and that the most helpless and dependent, are foreign." The proportion of foreign to native population in the whole country at that time was less than five per cent, but of course this estimate does not apply to the urban population, where, then as now, the foreign element predominated, comprising, however, not more than fifteen per cent of the inhabitants.
   In 1838 there were in the almshouse at Philadelphia 1505 Americans, and 1266 foreigners; in that at Boston, 596 Americans and 673 foreigners. On the twelfth of June, 1837, there were in the almshouse in the city of New York 3074, of which number three fourths were foreigners, and of 1200 admitted at Bellevue 983 were aliens.
While in 1838,
   By the report of the resident physician it appears that of 1209 admitted to his department, only 206 were born in America. In the year ending in August, 1836, there were received into the Boston house of refuge 866 paupers, 516 of which were foreign. ... At a recent date it appears that the number of convicts confined at Sing Sing, New York, was 800, 603 of whom were foreigners.
A prominent official of New York, designated by the Mayor to make a report to the commissioners, stated that of the entire number entering the port of New York for the first part of 1838 two thirds "were without any occupation, or even the pretense of one."
During the first three quarters of 1838 no less than 38,057 aliens that had no occupation (a very large proportion of the whole number) "were cast upon the citizens of New York." To the question, How is the expense of the transportation hither of such as are poor defrayed? the answer is, "It is impossible for us to ascertain what number are actually forced or hired to leave their own country" but,—
   The superintendent states to me that he has seen one of the passenger ships filled with paupers ​alone. When entire cargoes have come out, it has been ascertained that the parishes have paid their expenses. An English gentleman recently stated that he had seen the poor marched down in droves from the poor-houses to the ships. It is stated on authority that the passage of more than 30,000 persons have been paid in England, Ireland, and Scotland, to enable them to leave there for America."
From the foregoing citations one is driven to infer that at the period of the first inquiry a large proportion of the immigration was of a highly undesirable class, and the general prospect far from pleasing. But despite the agitation which followed, and the attempts that were made to improve matters, the lapse of a very few years found similar conditions prevailing. During the session of the twenty-eighth Congress, a resolution was introduced in the Senate, directing the Judiciary Committee to inquire into the expediency of immediately modifying the naturalization laws, to prevent the recurrence of the gross and extensive frauds upon the ballot box that had recently been perpetrated, and to prohibit the further introduction of paupers and convicts into the United States. Some of the speeches made on this occasion indicate the unmistakable need of the proposed action. This took place in 1845. In the following year resolutions of a similar purport, passed by the Massachusetts legislature, were introduced in the House by Hon. Robert C. Winthrop, which led to a protracted and at times a heated debate.
Some ten years later the discussion reopens, and while differences of opinion were manifest as to the proposed methods of securing relief, the existing abuses were freely admitted, and a voluminous report was submitted on evils of foreign immigration, and recommending changes in the naturalization laws. Once more in 1869 and 1870 the question came up, and Senators Davis, Frelinghuysen, Bayard, Thurman, and others, took part in the ensuing debate. Finally, we had the investigation of 1888. Its revelations are too fresh in the public mind to need more than a passing allusion. But any one who may feel disposed to refresh his recollection, or comprehend the serious nature of the present outlook, will find interesting information in the report, furnished by his Representative to Congress, on the importation of contract labor.
As has been already intimated, the most casual acquaintance with the records suffices to disabuse the mind of an impression that only recent immigration has been deleterious in its nature. The statistics to the contrary are too clear and circumstantial. For a long time past very many of the immigrants to this land have been unwholesome, undesirable, unwelcome additions to its population. Serious and disturbing, however, as such a conviction must be, there is another consideration involved of vastly greater consequence and importance. A noticeable monotony pervades the history of immigration. The earliest and latest reports evince a strong, one might say an ominous, similarity. In 1838 we had paupers and " assisted "immigrants. More recently it has been paupers and "contract laborers,"—a choice of evils, truly!
The real significance of a comparison, therefore, and the real gravity of the problem, consists in the fact that the situation has confirmed virtually unchanged, so far, at least, as any efforts on our part are concerned. And whatever changes have occurred in the character and volume of immigration, from time to time, have been for the worse and not for the better. A steady increase in quantity has attended a perceptible deterioration in quality. The committee of 1838 was justified in thinking and in stating that their report "presented a combination of facts that cannot fail to arrest the attention of the American people, and to establish the necessity of immediate legislative action." "Legislative action "was taken repeatedly, then and at subsequent times. But so partial and temporary has been the relief afforded, that the ​committee of 1889 found the condition of affairs to be about the worst in our history.
What has been accomplished since that report? Measures designed to afford some relief were passed by Congress during the session of 1891, although without adequate appropriations to enforce them, and various individuals have been debarred from landing. But by this time we are well aware that the undesirable classes are not numbered by units or tens, but by hundreds and by thousands. Will further legislation reach the latter? No question can have a more direct and immediate bearing on American civilization.
As for the law lately passed, (March, 1893), it is open to very serious objections. Some of its provisions have been tried and found wanting. When the bill in its present form came up for passage in the House, all the remarks made, with but a single exception, indicated the lack of confidence in the proposed remedy. One speaker lamented that the bill went so short a distance in the direction it professed to go. Another member, thoroughly familiar with the subject, said in summing up the defects of the bill that it was not worth passing. But even were adequate laws passed, the question of vital import to the country is, whether such laws will be enforced and made effective. Many stringent regulations appear in the annals of immigration, but no radical or permanent reform. Agitation, legislation, superficial and temporary improvement, recurrence of the evil when public attention is diverted, about describes the situation.
Perhaps the exclusion of the Chinese may be instanced as one exception in the long list of failures to regulate immigration. Chinese exclusion is somewhat of a misnomer, as the constant arrivals from Mexico and British Columbia plainly bear witness. That the entrance of the Chinese has been greatly checked, however, may freely be conceded. Restrictive laws were framed at last that seem to have met the test of constitutionality. But it required (1) a struggle of years on the part of a whole section of the country, that was (2) practically a unit on the Chinese question. And then (3) the Chinaman had no vote.
No treatment of the subject would complete without at least passing reference to the published report of the special Treasury Commissioners who were detailed to investigate abroad the mysterious influences that underlie the present criminal and pauper immigration from Europe. The same papers that] published, some time ago, outlines of this report, contained also accounts of the united efforts of press and pulpit in New York City to reform and purify the social and political atmosphere. Much stress is laid in the commissioners' report upon the organized system and combination to transport beggars, criminals, and imbeciles, to this country, in which foreign officials are largely implicated. This, however, is no new thing. The friendly governments of Europe have engaged for years in this work, and are responsible in no small degree for the social condition of our large cities; although when these same conditions precipitate an outbreak like that at New Orleans, the same governments manifest much surprise as well as horror at the occurrence.
This commissioners' report does not contain any especially novel features, though it indicates the persistence and deep-rooted nature of the evil. It is referred to here, because in the columns of the press it stood in such striking antithesis to the accounts of the union of press and pulpit to promote municipal reform.
In an article published two or three years ago the writer endeavored to show that many of the greatest industrial and social problems of our generation—intemperance, Mormonism, etc.,—are traceable largely, in some cases almost ​entirely, to unrestricted immigration. The past and present character of that immigration revealed in -the official record and in this latest report, shows too plainly why its influence on intemperance, polygamy, the relations of capital and labor, have been so profound and so pernicious, to say nothing of the more obvious effects upon pauperism, insanity, and crime.
And the injury will continue and increase until the character of immigration has radically changed. The municipal reform of our large cities, in particular, recently advocated so earnestly, cannot make much headway while thousands of criminals, paupers, and contract or unskilled laborers, continue to pour in. As was suggested in the former article referred to, the undertaking of various proposed municipal reforms, without reckoning with the chief cause of the trouble, resembles an attempt to cleanse the stables of Augeus, with the difference, it may be added, that the stables were cleaned by turning on the stream,—the cities, when it is turned off.
Is it practicable to regulate immigration? and if so, why have we thus far failed?
John Chetwood, Jr.
LINCOLN'S FEDERAL TOWNSITE.
Port Angeles is a town of vicissitude, story, and romance. It lies upon the most remote harbor of the Northwest, discovered by Juan de Fuca in the year 1592, while cruising up the straits now bearing his name in search of a northeast passage to the Atlantic. He encountered a dangerous gale which threatened destruction to his entire fleet, when a kind fate directed him into the sheltered embrace of this ideal harbor, where the waters are always calm. In gratitude to a higher power De Fuca called this harbor "El Puerto de Los Angeles," The Port of the Angels.
Port Angeles enjoys the distinction of having been laid out by the federal government under Lincoln's administration. The exceptional qualities of this Port of the Angels as a naval harbor, and its desirable location in the Straits of Juan de Fuca, opposite the British fortifications at Victoria and Esquimault, attracted government attention to it; and early in 1862 President Lincoln ordered the reservation of the land bordering on the bay of this harbor for "military, naval, or other purposes." Congress further emphasized this by making it a port of entry for the Puget Sound district, with Victor Smith as collector of the port. A portion <of this reserved land was later caused by government to be surveyed into town lots and sold at public auction, bringing $40,000. Thus ill-starred Port Angeles sprang into being, a child of romance with the fate of an unfortunate lover.
The honest pioneer element that has been to the West what the yeomen are to England, was not here, and Victor Smith's ability was taxed to the uttermost to uphold this little community, and give the town the standing his ​progressive spirit craved for it. The malice of enemies assailed him, and he was called to Washington, D. C., to answer charges preferred against him. While he was there the custom-house records were seized by citizens of the rival town, Port Townsend. On Smith's return in a revenue cutter, he demanded their surrender at the mouth of the cannon, and conveyed them back.
A season of rain followed. Streams fed by the mighty Olympic Mountains, back of the town, overflowed their banks, surged through the village, and washed the frail lumber custom-house out into the harbor, where for several days it sailed around, an ark without a dove. Enterprising Port Townsend landed the coveted prize, and made it securely hers by an order from government.
Meantime Victor Smith had perished in the Brother Jonathan, wrecked off the Californian coast. Its able supporter dead, its subsistence as^a port of customs lured away, pretty little Angeles was a deserted village, her harbor of refuge was unruffled, and only the voice of birds echoed among her forest aisles.
In the year 1886 yet another freak of fate came to her in the founding of a cooperative colony by George Venable Smith, who looked upon this federal townsite as especially adapted to putting his communistic ideas to the test. He worked up a membership of 2,000, raised capital to launch his colony by subscription and a membership fee, then proceeded with a thousand colonists to Port Angeles, where, under the name of "Puget Sound Co-operative Colony," they started eleven industries, and for a season prospered. Labor rather than capital was made the basis of their operaions. In this Port of the Angels money was not plenty; the colonists rose above the money question, however, by making a legal tender of their own, a paper currency valuable in general merchandise at the colony stores.
This associated partnership attracted to the colony malcontents and radicals of every kind. An unhealthy feeling existed, from which sprang up sects of free-thinkers, free-lovers, agnostics, anarchists, the most promiscuous element of outcast society ever banded together in any land. Two years later as a natural result the colony was broken up by internal dissensions. The discontented colonists departed; the property reverted to those who had the hardihood to remain, and passed from co-operation to a corporation. A railroad that never came was her next excitement. Rumor proclaimed that Angeles would be the coast terminus of the Union Pacific. Again a motley crew of that scourge of the West, the town boomer, invaded her port to angle for the biggest fish. Then ensued such a varied career as no town of its size can boast. Only a portion of the original government townsite had been platted into town lots; the remainder, 4,000 acres, extending back from the harbor into the forest and hills, was unsurveyed, and settlement could not be made upon it. The ax of the homeseekers waited the action government could not be brought to take, till desperate with deferred hope, patience exhausted, with one concerted movement they rose in their might, formed a squatters' association, advanced, and in July, 1890, jumped the reserve. The ringing blow of the ax, the crash of falling trees, the buzzing saw, animated the solitude where these people toiled on, till 2,000 rude little cabin homes rose up in a wilderness of pine and cedar. And how they worked! With a faith that government would hear their call as honest settlers and legalize their act,—as it did in accord with their demands.
To hasten the survey and appraisement of the entire townsite, Secretary Noble, while on a visit to the coast over a year ago, was induced to come to this town. A strange scene spread before him: the woods were full of men felling ​
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PORT ANGELES. trees, clearing plats of ground, building rude houses, working with the zeal of men intent on having a home. Secretary Noble was affected to tears at these evidences of sterling industry under manifold misfortune. His kind heart was in sympathy with these sons of toil. He gave the order for immediate survey and appraisement, so that these people could get a title to their homes after paying for their land at its appraised valuation. When the Secretary's ship tailed out of the harbor the men threw flown their axes, and have been resting ever since.
The appraisement was completed last summer. The squatters were able to get title to their homes by paying the nominal appraised value, and the unoccupied lots were advertised and sold at public outcry to the highest bidder. Here was the peculiar spectacle of government departing from its usual form of disposing of land in quarter sections, and using the methods of the townsite boomer.
Again Angeles was agitated, again disappointed; another railroad wave was sweeping over her. It came from the East this time, with the unpractical project of bridging Puget Sea. This visionary scheme infatuated her citizens. They offered half their lands and personal service to the projectors; but like all her prospective good, it came to naught.
After many Western towns pass the inoculation period, and the boom fiend has departed, they gradually assume healthy activity. Let us hope that this will be the case with pretty Port Angeles.
Herbert Heywood.
FAMOUS PAINTINGS OWNED ON THE WEST COAST. XIV.
E. L. WEEKS'S "STREET IN CAIRO." OWNED BY THE SONS AND DAUGHTER OF THE LATE CHARLES CROCKER.
The painting chosen this month for the Overland's series is by an American artist, though this fact might not appear from the inspection of the picture itself. Mr. Weeks, like many of his artist compatriots, sought the artistic Mecca, Paris, and there imbibed the prevailing style of the French art of his time. This means, almost as a matter of course, that he also traveled in the Orient and that Oriental subjects largely engross his brush. French art, from the middle of this century to the present time, has been prevailingly Oriental. The unartistic modern garments of Europe have driven figure painters afield for their subjects, into the nude, or back into the past, or abroad, where flowing robes and bright color have not been banished. Millet, it is true, found subjects for his brush nearer home, but Millet's aim was not for beauty alone; and even Millet could hardly have gone above the peasant into the bourgeoise and upper classes, and found pictures to paint.
This argument must be qualified by the admission that the genius can find beauty anywhere, but surely the man of talent only is limited as has been said. Edwin Lord Weeks was born in 1849, in Boston. His masters in art were Jean L. Gerome and Leon Bonnat, and soon after he went abroad his canvases began to appear regularly in the Salon. In 1876 he sent "An Arab Story Teller" to the Centennial. His "Moorish Camel Driver" appeared in the Salon of 1878, and the "Departure for the Hunt, India," painted in 1884, is now in the Corcoran Gallery at Washington. At the Salon of 1885 he was given honorable mention for his "Prayer in the Desert."
The local example of his work is a good specimen of it, and shows him an apt pupil of his master, Gerome. Its title I suggests a comparison with Gerome's picture by the same name, and may be pardoned, perhaps, for liking Weeks's work better; it has less of the languorous atmosphere of Oriental ease, though that may be accounted for by supposing that the time of day is different, the present picture being evidently of a morning or evening time, when there is movement and life in the streets.
The picture, at any rate, is better adapted to black and white reproduction than the Sword Dance, the example of Gerome's work given in the December Overland, where the beautiful tone of the original, especially the transparent quality of the beam of sunlight, proved difficult to bring out in printers' ink. But, however the picture may be placed as compared with the work of éGròme or any other artist, it is sure to be given favorable attention, even among the fine collection of paintings that adorns the Crocker mansion.
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WEEKS'S STREET IN CAIRO. ​
A STORY OF THE OREGON TRAIL.
In May, 1851, in Sangamon County, Illinois, about one hundred wagons gathered together to cross the plains to far-off Oregon. The train consisted of both horse and ox teams, with about one hundred and fifty loose head of fine American horses. I was then eight years old, and my father's wagon was second in the line, which was led by a Captain Clark, who had crossed before. Captain Clark had with him his mother, his two brothers, and his sister Grace, and a young fellow named John Spray. The Captain, his mother, and Grace, usually rode in a family carriage in the lead, while the two brothers, with Sperry and other boys, in the saddle, were kept busy during the long, tedious trip in driving and herding the horses. Little did this happy caravan know what was in store for them.
As camps were made and left, and time wore on, it became necessary that the loose horses should be started ahead each morning to graze, while the herders looked out for suitable camps for nooning and for the next night's halt. Each party that had loose stock was expected to furnish its share of the herders. It became the task of "little Jim "to accompany Captain Clark, with his brothers and Sperry, and the mother and sister in the carriage, each clay, morning and afternoon, as they drove ahead of the band of horses, to wait at some good grazing and watering place for the slow ox teams.
Everything so far had been prosperous. The train began to think nothing would happen; that it was attended by luck. In the last of July, in the mountains of Idaho, it became very hot; and when the road reached and followed along the banks of the Snake River, in a country where no rain fell in summer, we found the dust very deep. For weeks Indians had at nearly every camp made visits; they seemed peaceable, and only wanted to swap their ponies for some of the fine mares. They would offer as high as five ponies for one of the sleek, well formed horses of the train. No fear was felt of these visitors, for our company was large, and well armed and equipped, and another still larger train was just ahead, only twenty miles away. As many camps passed, without accident or incident outside of the ordinary happenings of camp life, the Captain may have become somewhat careless.
​One day the advance party the Captain, his mother, and Grace, the two Clark boys, Sperry, and little Jim had made their noon stop to wait for the train, just upon the banks of the Snake River. A sharp bluff rose close by, leaving only room around its point for the emigrant road, some five yards wide. In the beautiful grassy prairie, at the foot of this bluff beside the road, the horses, carriage horses and all, had been turned loose to graze. Everything was still, with the deep quiet of a July day in this region. The Captain had taken his gun and gone down the river for a duck hunt. The Clark boys and Sperry were just under the bank asleep. The mother and sister sat in the carriage, knitting. Little Jim, down by the river, was making himself a willow whistle, when he heard Mrs. Clark call, and went up the bank. She said to him, " Go tell the boys to come up and look after the horses," and pointed out a band of Indians coming down the steep mountain -side, and apparently making for the horses, but still a long way off.
While Jim was trying to wake the sleepy boys, she called again, urging them to come quick. The boys started very reluctantly, grumbling that she was always afraid of Indians. As they came up the bank they saw what looked to the frightened little boy like a hundred Indians in war paint, armed with bows and Colt's revolvers. They were riding around and among the horses, swinging their blankets, and every one was giving the blood-curdling war-whoop of the Snakes.
The four boys ran to the carriage, then, scarcely knowing what they did or how, with only the instinctive idea that they must save the horses, threw themselves in front of the now frantic mass of stampeded horses mingled with yelling Indians, with the idea that they might turn them back. The mother and daughter had sprung from the carriage, and were near by.
It was only the work of a few minutes. The Indians had come for this fine band of horses, and have them they would. As the moving mass surged down on the people in front of it, a well-mounted Indian leading the stampede, and all following in the wild, terrific race, Archie fell by a shot, and Grace by another; the mother was shot by a hideous painted Indian, who put the
​revolver up to her breast, while little Jim clung in terror to her dress; then the boy found himself in under the rushing mass of trampling feet, choked with dust. He clutched and caught hold of something above him, and pulled himself partly up, to find that he was clinging to the heel of a mounted Indian, one of the last to pass. The dust was so thick that the Indian did not see the boy,—else this story had never been told. On rushed the wild mass in a perfect cloud of dust and smoke. Jim realized that off to his left was the river, so blindly under the dust he groped his way, till he came to the bank.
Down this and along it he ran, the war-whoop and the awful rush and clatter ringing in his ears. He ran until he gave out, and crawled or fell into a briar clump, where he lay thinking himself the only one saved, and wondering what to do; for he expected the Indians to come after him, and even heard them distinctly. He knew the train must come near this bank, so he lay and waited. Now he did hear, unmistakably this time, some one tramping on his track, close to the clump in which he lay. He peered out and saw John Sperry, perfectly wild with fright, holding in one hand a cocked derringer.
"John! John!" he called.
John stopped short, looking around to see where the voice came from, and the little boy crept out from the briars. Each told the other how he had escaped, and John said that he had seen Grace shot. They now knew that they were all that were left. They climbed up the bank and espied the train, about a mile to the east. Thither they ran as fast as young, frightened legs could carry them.
Their tale caused the wildest excitement. All the young men hastened forward to the scene of the tragedy. The Captain, who had heard the shooting, and hurried back, reached the spot at the same time. They found Mrs. Clark, Grace, and Archie, thrown over the bank on the rocks below. Going down they found Archie dead, but the mother and daughter were still breathing. Mrs. Clark died that night; Grace, after months of suffering, recovered.
An odd incident was that the feather bed, containing $3,000 in twenty-dollar pieces, which had been in the bottom the carriage, was found to have been ripped open, the feathers emptied on on the ground, and the tick carried of while every piece of money was found lying untouched among the feathers.
The train now came up and made camp. Messengers were sent ahead the other train, which stopped and sent men back to join in pursuit of the Indians, and recover, if possible, the valuable horses. A party of about thirty-five took the trail. They crossed a waterless desert, and climbed a mountain, from the top of which they could look down into a beautiful valley, dotted all over with the tepees of Snake Indians. On the banks of the placid stream were grazing the fine American horses,—so near, and yet so far.
As the party showed itself on the summit it was greeted by a volley from the Indian pickets. A straggling running fight followed, and the attacking party was driven off, with one killed and two wounded. After a consultation they decided to take the back trail. They buried their dead comrade, and started back, carrying the wounded men on their horses. After a day on the road, one of the wounded men, Powell, who had been shot through the bowels, gave out completely. He knew that he must die in any case, and begged so piteously to be left that at last they made him comfortable as possible in a clump of trees, with a cup of water at hand, and bade him a long goodby. None of the party ever heard of him again. When they reached camp his brother was frantic with grief, and wanted some one to go with him to show him the place. After talking it over a long time no one ​was found willing to venture back; it was almost certain death to attempt it. So, after the last sad rites for the dead left on the banks of Snake River, the train moved on.
It reached Oregon in the early fall without any other mishap. Some of the members of the company are now living in the Willamette Valley, prosperous farmers and thrifty business men. Little Jim and his brother Henry are the well-known Huffman Brothers, of Eugene, Oregon, known all over that State and Idaho.
J. B. Rhinehart.
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF JUDGE WATSON.
It has seemed to me strange that in the many years that have passed since the following incident, no one but myself has ever referred to it in print. At the time it happened, what now comprises eight counties in the State of Washington was all Stevens County. That included nearly the whole of Eastern Washington. The same Spokane River was there, no doubt, but it was long before the white man had discovered it. It was before James Glover, "The Father of Spokane," had set foot on Washington soil. It was before the whites had located land for farming purposes. There were three or four log huts and stables scattered along the road,—one at Chewelah, one at Walker's Prairie, and one farther down,—to accommodate freighters who hauled supplies from Walla Walla to old Fort Colville. a distance of three hundred miles. The road was a long, lonesome one, and the Indians could do about what they chose along it.
Forty-six miles from the weather-beaten relics of old Fort Colville,—built over one hundred years ago,—on the old road down the Colville valley, is a lonely grave. To the east of it towers a noble mountain scene; to the west lies a still more charming view, the grand waters of the Chamokane and its banks grown with service berry, thorn apple, red, black, and yellow currant bushes, and wild cherry trees; north and south are ranks of stately pines.
Judge William Watson was the first representative sent to the territorial legislature from Stevens County, thirty-- ​four years ago. He had completed his first term, and started to return home on muleback. A grand banquet had been, prepared to celebrate his arrival at the Fort. But the time at which he was due came and passed, and the Judge did not appear. A search party was organized, and went down the valley to the place (now owned by Hon. Guy Haines) where the first mission built in Eastern Washington stood. It was at this time used as a wayside inn. The Judge, it was learned, had passed two days before, going toward the Fort.
The party turned back, and going northward three and one-half miles, found the Judge's body. It had been dragged about one hundred and fifty yards from the road, and deposited in a hole made by the uprooting of a tree. It had been partially covered over, but enough was left exposed to betray the presence of a corpse by the odor, which guided the searchers. The body was buried close by, and a pile of rocks placed above it to mark the resting-place of Stevens County's first legislator. The Indians of the neighborhood painted all the trees about the grave a deep red; but the trees are all gone long ago, and no mark but the pile of rocks is left.
A few days later, a posse in charge of F. Wolf, Sheriff of Stevens County, went out to find the murderer. It proved unexpectedly easy. They had no sooner reached the Spokane reservation than they noticed a young squaw wearing a gold watch and chain. They obtained leave to examine it, and it was found to be Judge Watson's. The girl was then forced to tell how it came into her possession. Her sweetheart had given it to her. The only thing left to do was to find her sweetheart, and it was soon done. He was immediately arrested, and made a full confession. He had waylaid and assassinated the traveler for the sake of plunder, and had taken from the body, besides the watch and chain, about seventy dollars in cash. He told the authorities where the money was buried, but so far it has not been found.
The Indian was taken to Fort Colville, and his trial was begun; but before it was completed he was seized by a mob and hanged.
W. Arthur Jones.
894.]
Early Days in Elliot Bay.
181
EARLY DAYS IN ELLIOT BAY.
ELLIOT BAY is a beautiful expanse of water tributary to Puget Sound, on whose shores, in the State of Washi- ngton, Seattle, a growing city, is fast spreading its precincts, taking in more and more of the wilderness and convert- ing it into a busy, bustling activity.
The fur-traders, pioneers of our West- tern civilization, were the first to dis- cover and recognize the beauty and re- sources of this favored region ; but in 1846, when the treaty with England es- tablished the northwest boundary of the United States, an impetus was given to actual settlement.
In 1852 three land claims were located, and in 1853 the first plat of the town of (Seattle was filed. Today the limits of Jthis city absorb the original claims, and a much larger area beside.
Among these first settlers was a fam- ily by the name of Campbell, with which I made my home. The father, a strong, stalwart six-footer, seemed to fill the cabin when in it ; the wife was a kind, patient-looking woman, with soft, wavy brown hair, and dark blue eyes ; and there were three children, two sturdy boys, and a laughing, crowing baby-girl. I was a girl of thirteen, and had lost my parents on the journey across the plains. We constituted a busy, happy house- hold, despite privations and hardships. The settlers in this community were very friendly and helpful to each other, and the settlement flourished. It was named after a friendly Indian chief, who, with Pat Kanim, Chief of the Snoqual- mies, did much for the early whites.
Mr. Campbell worked early and late, getting out lumber and piles, which were bought by lumber vessels. These ships carried a stock of general merchan- dise, and upon them was the main de- pendence for supplies.
The first winter, that of '52 and '53, was one of great scarcity ; but few ves- sels visited the Sound, and scarcity amounted to distress. In those days pork and butter came around Cape Horn, flour in barrels from Chile, and sugar from China. As the winter wore on, another cause of anxiety and dis- tress touched us. Pat Kanim came to warn the settlers. There was a growing feeling of hostility among the Indians east of the mountains, and numbers of them were on the warpath, nearing the Sound country, and picking off strag- glers and lonely settlers. We were filled with distrust of the Indians from the east. They were moody, sullen, and re- vengeful. Nothing happened, however, in or near our vicinity, and after a few months the old feeling of security again possessed us.
Matters progressed finely for the next tvyo years. Ships laden with provisions visited us often ; timbers and piles were in such demand that though the men worked early and late they could not supply it. Gardens full of green things sprang up, and the cabins began to take on the appearance of cosy homes. The Campbells prospered. They had a large clearing, and their cabin was one of the largest and neatest. They were popular, too, on account of their hospitality and kindness to all who needed help.
In the spring of 1855 a number of men, old acquaintances of the Camp- bells, stopped with them a few days and told of great mineral wealth to be found in the mountains. Such wonderful ac- counts did they give that a party from the settlement determined to penetrate the wilderness and search for gold. Kent, the oldest boy, persuaded his father to let him make one of the party, and as Mrs. Campbell's brother was to ​
182
Early Days in Elliot Boy.
be one of the number, Mr. Campbell gave a reluctant consent.
Pat Kanim came to them the evening before they started and warned them, stating that he knew the Indians east of the mountains were preparing for an outbreak, and begged them to desist from their project. I hoped they would follow his advice, but the morning saw them start out, a merry and hopeful party of five.
They followed^the Cedar River trail, and for a few days all went well. The mild spring weather, the beautiful scen- ery, the plentitude of game, all contrib- uted to their comfort and enjoyment ; during the four days of their travel nothing had been seen or heard of the hostile Indians, and their sense of secur- ity was undisturbed.
On the fifth, day, while two of the men were walking in advance they were shot down by skulking Indians. For- tunately those behind discovered what happened in time to take to the bush ; but in the confusion Kent became sep- arated from his companions. He kept under cover of the brush till night-fall, when he started out. He inferred that his companions were safe, as he had not heard firing since the first fatal shots, but how to find them might prove a seri- ous matter. He cautiously made his way back to the trail, and to the point where the two men had fallen.
They lay there, dead and abandoned. Horror-stricken, he contemplated the situation. He must make his way back, but how? Hunger was already for- cing itself upon him, and there was but little ammunition in his pouch ; besides, the sound of firing might discover him to the enemy. The silence of the deep- ening twilight, and the awful shadow and depth of the forest had their effect on the youth, but he was too brave to succumb, easily, and the thought of the home folks spurred him on.
He retraced his steps, and for the first three hours all went well. With-
out apprehending particular danger, thought fearfully of a narrow stret where a steep bank, nearly bare, a curving so that an advance outlook co be had, would have to be traversed. Th only thing he could do was to go on. reaching the embankment he crouche down and crawled along, partially draj ging himself. Not a sound was hear for the first hundred yards, and th moonlight helped him on, when, as h was cautiously raising himself to vie the position, a frightful yell broke th night stillness ; another and anot followed, and the lad felt himself rou ly seized, and dragged along.
Great excitement prevailed amo the people at Seattle six days after t expedition's departure. There had curred a massacre up the White Ri valley, not many miles from the set ment, and people from the lower vail were coming to Seattle for protecti and safety. Measures were immediat taken for the construction of two bio forts, calculated to hold all the settlers and preparations for defense should atj tack be made.
TheCampbells lived quite at the nortl end of the settlement, and I frequent!] saw the mother moving about amonj the women from the river settlement helping here and there ; now speaking words of assurance to some not so brav< as herself ; now caring for childrei whose parents seemed to have lost al. courage and hope. I knew her hearl was heavy, for nothing had been hearc of Kent, and scouts sent out after th< expedition had returned, reporting th( death of Jamieson and Walker.
The times grew more and more troub lous. The whole White River valle) had been laid waste, and while some rid iculed the idea of an attack on the town deeming themselves too strong a power in their congregate strength, friendly Indians frequently gave warnings, and the wiser of the whites began to give anxious heed. ​
1894.]
Early Days in Elliot Bay.
183
One evening just before sunset Mrs. Campbell met the chief, and her moth- er's heart overflowed. " Oh, Pat Kanim, my Kent is gone ! I am afraid he is dead."
I saw Pat Kanim lean toward her and whisper something in her ear. Then I saw Mrs. Campbell seize his rough hand in both her own, and the tears come to her eyes.
"Not tell. Me bring him home," and the Indian vanished in the brush.
Mrs. Campbell returned to her house, which was shared by two other families. Mr. Campbell was stationed as sentinel at one of the outposts. There were Lindley and two other young boys, be- sides the women and children in our cabin. We made everything secure for the night, but long after the rest had retired, Mrs. Campbell alone and in the dark kept an anxious vigil. Soon after midnight a tap sounded on the window shutter. She sprang to the door.
"Me, Pat Kanim."
Reassured, she drew back the bolts and opened the door part way, but Pat Kanim did not appear ; instead, a rough hand was clapped over her mouth, and she was forced out of the door. She could not give an alarm, but she noted that there was but one Indian about, arid that he gave no sign to anyone.
She was hurried through the brush for nearly a mile, when they penetrated the dense woods. Mrs. Campbell mar- veled at the skill in woodcraft that her captor displayed, for he made no stops, and was certain of his route. At last they stopped, and he made a peculiar guttural sound. It was immediately an- swered by several similar ones, and they were soon surrounded by a party of war- like savages. After much gesticulating and talking, Mrs. Campbell was securely bound, then carried to one side and shoved in among what seemed a party of sleeping savages, while the captor and his companions rolled themselves in their blankets, and laid themselves
away in the brush. Silence prevailed for a while; then Mrs. .Campbell was startled by hearing a whisper in Eng- glish from one of her companions. It was answered by another. Her mother instinct did not belie her.
"Kent!" It was almost aery.
" Yes, mother. O, mother ! "
"Hush. If Kanim is coming he must soon be- here, and any sound now may arouse those devils." It was Mrs. Camp- bell's brother who spoke, and recogniz- ing the wisdom of his words, the cour- ageous little woman restrained herself, and hoped.
A sound as of a bird whirring in the bush was soon heard.
" Now for it," whispered one of the men.
Mrs. Campbell soon felt a knife at the thongs that bound her. They parted, and Pat Kanim's voice whispered, " You cut next."
She took the knife and obeyed. It was the work of a moment to free the other three.
"Now come."
Kent clasped his mother's hand, but not a word was spoken. With a pecu- liar snake-like movement Kanim led them out of the thicket, where they were joined by a dozen of his men.
" Must go fast."
Pat Kanim hurriedly told them that the hostile Indians were in four de- tachments from the main body, which was stationed far to the southwest ; that an attack on the town was to be made the next day, and the prisoners were to be used as decoys. If they could only reach the settlement in time to give the alarm !
Kent Campbell never forgot that walk nor the feverish excitement with which all were filled in their efforts to keep speed with the Indians. They reached the Campbell cabin just as the first streaks of dawn were lighting the east. The door was partly open, and they found the inmates sleeping peacefully. ​Three of the Indians remained to escort them to the fort, while the others with the whites went on to spread the alarm. Kent went to where Lindley and the little sister were sleeping. How calm and peaceful they looked, and how little they dreamed of the danger that threatened!
In a very short time all was bustle and commotion. The sleeping children roused from their slumbers, the frightened women hurrying to and fro, and the stalwart, silent Indians waiting for the rest to start, made the scene a strange one, and one never to be effaced from my memory. As we closed the cabin door after us, we saw a dark form glide into the woods near the clearing.
We reached the fort in safety, but in less than three hours the firing began. Kent, inquiring as to his father's whereabouts, was hushed with, "Take your father's place here."
He did so. Both he and Lindley fought with courage and will, but the close of that sad day found them fatherless. This was one day of many similar ones.
The war continued until the fall of 1856, when the few whites remaining again betook themselves to their homes. Many, however, were discouraged, and in so much dread of another outbreak that they were unwilling to return to their homes in the country, thus adding to the cares at the settlement.
The courage and patience displayed by the pioneers was marvelous. There followed a winter of pinching want, hardly paralleled by that of 1852–53, but it was braved through.
We returned to our desolated cabin, and Kent and Lindley struggled manfully to keep us from suffering. With energy and zeal born of our great need, they accomplished much. With their rifles as their friends, they took long and dangerous hunts to provide game not only for us but others.
Mrs. Campbell never quite rallied from the shock of that terrible year, but she was the same devoted parent, and kind, helpful friend. Her good common sense, her untiring energy and beautiful unselfishness, had their influence on all in the settlement, and "the Campbells" was a synonym for helpfulness and cheer.
Today Kent and Lindley are both prosperous men, on whom fortune has smiled. Both in their fair manhood exemplify that labor ennobles; that duty cheerfully and reverently met is a greater motor of true culture than many a medium through which it is supposed to come.
I close with an extract from a letter written by Kent to an inquiring friend, whose attention had been drawn to the great Northwest.
"If you have strength, courage, and the capital of willing hands and active brains, come to this Western country. The rude pioneer work has been done, but there is yet much to be accomplished, for every field of industry is awaiting development. Rich mineral wealth hardly discovered; commerce spreading its maritime arms invitingly, agriculture and manufactures both their infancy; and the road to every profession waiting with honors to lead competent and useful men to a proud destination. Under sunny skies and genial atmosphere, health, wealth, and honors, await many."
Rose Simmons.
THE RHODODENDRON BELLS.
TO J. B. N., SEATTLE.
Across the warm night's subtle dusk,
Where linger yet the purple light
And perfume of the wild, rich musk,
So softly burning, softly bright
Tremble the rhododendron bells,
The rose-pink rhododendron bells.
Tall, slender trees of evergreen
That know the winds of Puget Sea,
And narrow leaves of satin's sheen,
And clusters of sweet mystery,— Mysterious rhododendron bells,
Rare, crimson rhododendron bells.
O hearken,—hush! And lean thy ear
Tuned for an elfin melody! And tell me now, dost thou not hear
Those voices of soft mystery?
Voices of silver-throated bells,
Of dreaming rhododendron bells.
UP THE COLUMBIA IN 1857.
SAFE over the Bar!" remarked the pilot of the Columbia, as the good vessel rounded Lighthouse Point and headed for Astoria, one fine morning late in the fifties. The tone implied much more than the words to the half-dozen passengers that heard it, for it was midwinter and a "rough bar."
The pilot of the ship is to most people a very attractive person; the position he holds while on duty makes him the superior of the captain, who has heretofore held all the honors, and been a little king. When the pilot takes charge the captain shrinks into quite a common personage, and we feel as though he had dropped down to our level, and could be approached, and even spoken to, without that particular reverence hitherto accorded him; and if he talked back we should feel as though he had lost his power to crush us into utter insignificance as before.
The Columbia River bar had probably the worst reputation of any on the Pacific Coast, but when our pilot "took the ship," our fears vanished, for he appeared a very monarch—as he stood fully six feet six, and well proportioned; beside, his reputation for skill and careful handling of ships was the best;—so he was a man very much looked up to.
COLUMBIA RIVER BAR.
1894]
Up the Columbia in 1857.
187
After touching at Astoria, then only a small village, the steamer was headed or Portland. To the newcomer the icenery of the country bordering the iver was grand and impressive beyond lescription at that time an almost un- )roken wilderness, touched at only a 'ew points by the ax of the settler. To
    hose familiar with Irving's Astoria, and
vith the history of the Hudson Bay Company, there is, beside, an air of ro- nance, which adds greatly to the enjoy- nent of the voyage.
Landings were made at one or two of he most important places, Cathlamet
ter'to the projectors. This was probably the first impulse given to one of the most valuable industries of the Coast. In those days it was customary for sea-going steamers to touch at Swan Island Bar, some twelve miles below Portland, lighter off some of their freight, and cross the bar at high tide. We followed the custom, crossed the bar soon after daylight, and made fast to the two-story dock at Portland about 8 A. M., twenty-four hours from Astoria. Portland-on-the-Wallamet in 1857 was a small city, hewn out of the wilderness ; but for beauty of location it had not its
Photo by VVatkins
ROOSTER ROCK.
ind St. Helens, I think. It was at Cath- amet where the first attempt to catch salmon on a large scale for export was
    nade, in 1858, by McKee & Co., mer-
bhants of Portland. Quite a large sum bf money was invested in nets, boats, ind apparatus. When all was ready, a number of Indians were employed to iiaul the nets. At the first haul such an immense number of salmon were taken (that the Indians became frightened, and leclared the devil was in the net ; so they all let go and ran away, and could not be induced to return, so the first nets were iestroyed. The enterprise was finally abandoned, resulting in financial disas-
superior. Its general form was a half moon, its curved base line fronting on the river. The fringe of forest encir- cling it sloped gently back to the hills, forming the most beautiful setting con- ceivable for that gem of a city, while grand old Mount Hood stood sentinel over it.
Couch's Dock at which we landed and the opposition steamer's dock, near by, were the only wharves on the water front ; a wharf-boat for the acccommo- dation of the river steamers was moored some distance above, opposite the busi- ness center. A horse ferry-boat which crossed the river as occasion demanded, ​
Photo by WAtkins
UPPER CASCADE OF THE COLUMBIA.
was the only connecting link with East Portland, which could not be said to be thickly settled, as it contained but two buildings.
The "city," apparently, had just moved in, for it had but two or three passable streets, and the people were still busy removing the stumps of the trees from the main thoroughfares.
Her merchants were mostly of the thrifty, New England stamp, young, enterprising, and careful, withal ; men who came with a purpose, to build homes and to stay, and to build fortunes as well. In the exercise of good fortune as pio- neers they had selected this as the best location for a city, possessing natural advantages superior to any other in the territory. The city as it stands today testifies to the excellence of their judg- ment. The two dozen principal busi- ness houses were nearly all located on the west side of Front Street. Portland was the great business center to which the valleys of the Columbia and Wal- lamet were tributary. The Valley of Wallamet was called "God's Country." It was settled principally by Missouri- ans, every man, woman, and child, hold- ing down six hundred and forty acres
of land; and with the best land anc as fine a climate as can be found, one might travel from Portland the length of the Wallamet Valley, and the uni versal fare would be bacon, saleratus bread, and dried apples. Even in that early day Portland was awake to the value of her unequaled water faciliies. and had many fine steamers plying to her numerous points of supply. Her exports consisted largely of grain, flour, bacon, and apples.
In the spring of 1859 I made my first visit to The Dalles. Taking the new steamer " Mountain Buck," we left Port- land in the morning. J. C. Ainsworth was captain and Henry L. Hoyt, pilot. By their courtesy I was invited to a seat in the pilot house, where I could have the best view of the river and scenery, and a chance to chat with the man at the wheel, as each took alternate short tricks. Both were classed among the best of the river pilots.
We touched at Fort Vancouver, with its two-story docks, built to accommo date the seasons of high and low water for the spring freshets varied from thirty to forty feet above low water. Quite an interest attached ​to this post ​
190
Up the Columbia in 1857.
[Feb.
from the fact of its having been until recently the main trading post of the Hudson Bay Company. It was now headquarters of the Department of the Columbia, and distributing point for all the United States posts and forts of the Upper Columbia, and for the several Indian reservations. Colonel George Wright commanded the post. This was about three years after the massacre of whites at the Cascades, and two years after the subjection of the confederated
of the rapids. The captain and pilot, both at the wheel, watching every cur- rent and eddy, ran the boat up to the Middle Cascades, the highest point it could reach, into an eddy formed by a jutting mass of rocks, and made fast to the wharf boat on the Washington side. W T e transferred ourselves to a horse cai on Bradford's wooden railroad, buili along the river's edge, which took us the Upper Cascades, the scene of the massacre in March, i856. a
Photo by Watkins
THE DALLES OF THE COLUMBIA
tribes of Indians of the entire region of the Upper Columbia.
Between Fort Vancouver and the Cas- cades there are many views to delight the eye of the traveler, among which may be named Castle Rock, Rooster Rock on the Oregon side, about twenty- five miles below the Cascades, and a number of waterfalls. Horse-tail Fall, (now called "Multnomah") is one of the highest, it being 700 feet high. A portion of it only can be seen from the steamboat as you pass. Two miles more brought us to the village of Lower Cas- cades. We now entered the swift waters
The settlement consisted of Fergu- son's Hotel, the residences of Mr. Put. F. Bradford, Engineer Grenzebach, and three or four others. Bradford's store was on a small island, connected with the main land by a bridge, while higher up on the hill was the block house over- looking all. Bradford's store was a curi- osity ; it was built when the Indians were troublesome, and was a combined store and fort. They had quite an In- dian trade. The interior was so arranged as to admit but two or three persons at
J See " Phil Sheridan's First Fight." OVEKI.ANO for October 1889. ​
Photo by
HOOD RIVER. ​
192
Up tke Columbia in
[Feb.
once to the counter, while back of the salesman were racks filled with arms of various kinds, handy for use at any moment.
In the little cove between the store and mainland lay the steamer Hassaloe, an Indian name signifying " Morning Star." She was new, and Engineer Grenzebach was then fitting the en- gines. She was the first sidewheel steamboat on the middle Columbia, and the largest. Only two small steamboats navigated the waters of the Columbia
Appearances indicate truth in the legend : the break on each side is abrupt ; the width of the river above is notice- able ; and after leaving the Upper Cas- cades you can see the remains of for- ests with standing trees in the clear depths of the river as you pass over' them.
The cascades proper have a length of about four miles, and the deadfall in that distance is twenty-six feet. It seems scarcely possible that a stern- wheel river steamer could pass them
Phuto by Watki
A SALMON WHEEL, LOWER CASCADES.
at that time, the Mary, Captain Dan Baughman, and the Wasco, Captain I. S. McFarland.
The best view of the Cascades is from the block house. The Indian legend of the forming of the cascades is briefly as follows : In time long past the river ran smoothly between narrow banks under a natural bridge of the mountain. One day Mounts Hood and Adams got into a terrible fight ; fire issued from their tops, lava flowed down their sides, and finally heavy earthquakes occurred, causing the bridge over the river to fall.
safely, but in 1857 the steamer Venture, owned by Lawrence W. Coe and R. R. Thompson, performed the feat safely. The boat was new, and her engines had not been thoroughly tested. She was lying above the Upper Cascades and had on board some freight for Captain Jor- dan, then post commander at Fort Dalles, which was needed ; so taking on a few passengers, they started out. The pumps failed to supply the boilers and they returned shortly ; repaired them, filled the boilers, and understanding from the engineer that steam was on, ​
1894.]
U-p the Columbia in 1857.
193
Captain Coe ordered the lines cast off, and started anew. The boat shot out in- to the stream ; but there was not steam enough on to stem the current, and she was carried stern first down over the rapids. Captain Coe stuck to the wheel, with practiced eye watching the boiling waters, and guiding the boat past threat- ening rocks, shot her safely into an eddy at the foot of the rapids. Only one life was lost, that of a passenger who jumped over to swim to shore.
The boat was soon after sold to Cap- tain Wright (" Bully Wright"), and was placed on the Frazer River route : she was the first steamboat that ever went up to Fort Yale.
The second affair of the kind was the deliberate act of Capt. J. C. Ainsworth, taking the large side-wheel steamboat Oneonta over the Cascades in 1870. The undertaking clearly shows the fearless- ness and skill of the man. Captains Stump, Holmes, and Miller, three of the best pilots and navigators of the upper Columbia, were his guests on board. Captain Ainsworth, understanding fully the great peril of the undertaking, went into the pilot-house and locked the door, said grace, ordered the lines cast off, and backed out into the stream. A moment more and she caught the current, and shot down over the great fall. At the big eddy below the main fall she touched a rock, slid off, and made the full pas- sage without damage. On being asked why he took the boat over alone, refus- ing the services of three of the most experienced pilots on the river, Captain Ainsworth said : "One man can lay the course better than two, if he is strong enough to hold the boat up to her work. I was President of the Company, and if any serious accident happened, I alone was to blame. Had either of the others been at the wheel when she struck, it might have injured their prestige with my associate directors. I took all the responsibility, and am always ready to take it."
VOL. xxiii 21.
As we left the Upper Cascades on the little steamer Wasco, with Captain Dan Baughman at the wheel, new scenes ap- peared ; the river widened out, and for a few miles it had the appearance of a lake. It was early in the day, and the chinook wind had not yet ruffled the surface of the water, which was so smooth and bright one could almost fancy the boat gliding over a sea of ice.
A run of twenty miles found us abreast of Hood River, and passing between the great white sentinels, Mount Hood on the right and Adams on the left. Next on the left appeared the small block house that marked the mouth of White Salmon River, flowing from the base of Mount Adams.
Soon Memaluse Island, for ages past the favorite burial place for the Indian dead, was passed, and as we rounded a point of land the city of The Dalles came to view, nestled under the rocky bluff that formed the background, with the fine new buildings of the Fort on the higher land to the right.
The Dalles was a city in miniature only, but as it was at the time the head of steamboat navigation, with an im- mense country to the east being opened for settlement, it was the key to the en- tire upper country, and a city of great expectations. For a time it was an active business place, being the distrib- uting point of the government for all the goods and supplies for the forts and the several Indian reservations. Father Wilbur had charge of the Yakima re- serve at Simcoe, about fifty miles east of The Dalles, in Washington Territory; and Col. A. P. Denison of the Warm Springs Agency, some forty miles southerly. All supplies for Forts Walla Walla and Colville and the settlers in that region were hauled by teams over- land from The Dalles. The city boasted a fine hotel, "The Umatilla," with Col- onel Graves as host, and a half dozen stores, those of Greene, Heath & Al- len and H. P. Isaacs were built of stone. ​
194
Up the Columbia in 185-7.
[Feb.
Quite a valuable part of the trade was with the Indians. All conversa- tion with them was in Chinook jargon, a language containing only about four hundred words, easily learned, and in universal use by all the Indians of Ore- gon and Washington.
The Dalles of the Columbia was, of course, the greatest point of interest to the visitor. The entire volume of water rushing through a rocky channel, so narrow one could throw a pebble to the opposite wall, was a sight well worth the trouble of the walk of only three miles to see. Occasionally, in season, one could watch the Indians catching salmon at the lower end of the rapids. Standing on a jutting point of rock, nearly naked, a bronzed athlete poised in air, he gracefully swings his net, which is attached to a long, slender pole, as far up stream as he can reach ; it strikes the water ; and bracing himself, he sweeps the net down stream with the current, the tension on the pole keeping the mouth of the net open ; he is care- ful to keep the net only just below the surface, and close to, but clearing, the side of the rock beneath him. If he strikes a fish, a deft turn closes the net, and a struggle, which is not all play, takes place to land him ; for it may be a 5o-pounder, requiring all his strength and skill. His cloochman (squaw) stands near by, ready to seize the fish when landed. A rap with a short club on the head stuns him; he is taken from the net, covered with a sack in an instant,
and taken into the wick-i-up, to be dressed ; the greatest care is taken that the sun may not strike the fish. How different this from the automatic wheel- fishing boat later in use is shown by the illustration.
Within the past thirty-four years great changes have occurred, but the pleasure- seeking tourist of today will find no more enjoyable excursion than a trip up the Columbia and Snake rivers from Astoria to Lewiston, at the junction of the Clearwater. It should be made lei- surely by steamer and altogether in day- light. The beauty and variety of the scenery, the romance, novelty, and ex- citement, will afford pleasure during ev- ery hour of the time; and if you can make friends with the captain or pilot your pleasure will be doubled.
The city of Portland serves as an illus- tration of the growth and expansion of towns in the great States of the North- west. In 1851 Portland was incorporat- ed, and its limit was two miles on the river by one mile back, an area of two square miles. It now covers an area of 22^4 square miles. Its population in 1857 was 1,280; it is now estimated in round numbers at 100,000. Its property valuation, real and personal for taxation, was about $ 1,200,000. It is now $48,000,- ooo, and it ranks the second city in size and importance on the Coast.
East Portland now has a population of 12,000, and is connected with Portland by two fine bridges which span the Wallamet River.
Fred M. Stocking. ​
1894.]
Minnie- Wah- Wah.
MINNIE- WAH-WAH.
195
ON THE side of a large rock, in a nook of the Argentian hills, in the State of Washington, is cut the name, " Minnie- Wah-Wah." Perhaps not one of the readers of the OVERLAND knows who Minnie- Wah-Wah was ; yet our people might to remember her kindly, for she gave up home and happiness, and gained the enmity so far as she knew of her tribe, for the sake of the whites. She was a Spokane Indian girl, daughter of an Indian named Coyote Chief : he was not the chief of the tribe, but simply chanced to bear that name. She was one of the converts of the old Whitman Mission at Waitipeii,and an exceedingly devoted one, completely absorbed in trying to carry out the precepts and example of Doctor Whitman. Her borne was on the northern waters of the hamokane Creek, near the old Fort olville road, which has been traveled
    or more than a hundred years, and is
    oday more traveled than all the other
Stevens County roads put together. She is said to have been a very pretty girl, Df unusually amiable and happy dispo- sition, and an especial favorite in her pwn tribe. She was about sixteen years pld, and had been promised in marriage to a wealthy son of the Montana Flat- pead tribe. It was thought that this marriage would effect an exceedingly iesirable alliance between the tribes, md the prospect of it had already Drought them into closer relations. Minnie-Wah-Wah herself was happy in icr approaching marriage, but mainly Because she hoped to be able through it
    o extend the influence of her new re-
igion among the Flatheads. I It was only a few days before the time set for the wedding, and prepara- tions were already under way, when the news reached the Spokanes that the
Mission had been attacked, and the Whitmans brutally murdered by the Flatheads. It affected the girl so in- tensely that no influence on earth could persuade her to go on with the marriage. She said : " No ; I have begged of him as I have begged of all the people of my nation to be good to Father Whitman, who is the son of the Great Spirit ; but instead you have let him be killed as you would kill a coyote. None of you even cry when he and his good wife are mur- dered. No, I cannot marry this man. His heart is bad. The Indian nation is like a band of wolves after one poor lamb. I will not let poor Minnie-Wah- Wah be the wife of the red man whose heart is so cruel ; my skin is red like that of the Siwash, but my heart is white like the white hearts of the good Whitmans."
The tribe was dismayed when it proved that she could not be shaken, for great trouble was sure to follow with the Flatheads ; and finally her father and all the tribe became very angry, and decided that arrangements should proceed, and she should be married by force. The girl in desperation, seeing no way to escape, determined to end her own life. There is a large bluff near the Spokane River, over which the Indians used in the springtime to force large numbers of deer, which they had previously corralled for the purpose. Minnie-Wah-Wah threw herself over this bluff.
The Indians of both tribes mourned this event bitterly : the chiefs are said to have cried like children, and blamed each other for driving the girl to such a deed. They held elaborate funeral ceremonies over her body, and lowered it into a grave on the spot where it fell. ​
196
Minnie- Wah- Wah.
[Fel
Probably the proof of her desperate sin- cerity in her religious faith struck them with some superstitious terror : at all events, whether from grief or supersti- tion, her lover was stricken with illness and died in three days ; and both tribes were afterward very well disposed to the preaching of Christianity which spread rapidly among them. The nu- merous converts looked on the girl as a sort of pioneer and martyr of their re- ligion, and though the circumstances of her death have become vague and tra- ditional, her name is preserved with a sort of religious reverence.
The above is the story as the Chris- tian Indians tell it ; and though it is now apparent that at the time of the oc- currence it was somewhat known among the whites, it seems to have been for- gotten among them. It is only lately that it was told to white men by the In- dians, and might have passed for a mere romance, but for a remarkable confirm- ation of the story that I was fortunate enough to stumble upon. The Indians themselves had long forgotten the place of the grave, but while I was engaged recently, with eight engineers, in run- ning lines on the reservation, in a se- cluded place we came upon a large rock, on which was lettered the name " Min- nie- Wah- Wah," and near by were evi- dences of an Indian grave. This name could scarcely have been cut by Indi- ans : and a further evidence that at the time some whites knew and honored the grave, and were in possession of the cir- cumstances of the girl's death, we found on an embankment of slate just south of the grave. Here was scratched a re- markable series of inscriptions, extend- ing over a dozen years : the first ones sin- cere efforts to leave a tribute to the dead girl's memory ; the others attempts of later prospectors to follow more or less respectfully the suggestion of the earlier ones. I give the curious string of stanzas just as it stands, and has stood for about a half-century.
" Poor little Minnie Wah Wah, There 's nothing we can do, To call you back to earth again, Or it would soon be done."
Djun, Hudson Bay Co., 2838.
"Little brown-eyed Minnie, Your soul was white as snow ; Where you are now I 'd like to be, That's where I want to go."
G. B., Hudson Bay Co., June i, 1838.
" She served good Marcus Whitman, Likewise his faithful wife ; In doing so she served the Lord, But lost her earthly life."
M. IV., H.B. C.,July 4, 1838.
" Life on earth is a short one, 'T is filled with sad dismay, But we who trust in Jesus, Will see a brighter day."
Sister of Mercy, August,
" Who is this Minnie Wah Wah ? A Siwash, I presume ; From all accounts I guess the girl Is sailing round the moon."
Gold Hunter, 2838
"The rainbow's burning splendor, Reflecting in the sky, Is nowise near as beautiful As is Minnie Wah Wah's home on high." Prospector, 1839.
" She 's gone to join the angels, Dear little Minnie girl ; Her soul is in the realms Where all space is in a whirl."
/. P., 1840.
"She '11 visit the apostles And all the heavenly host. Minnie Wah Wah 's in the star land, Why fear her earthly ghost ? "
D. M., 1840.
"She died, they say, broken-hearted, Precious Indian maid ; Her soul 's as pure as heaven, And free from earthly jade."
M. C., 1840
She could n't marry a Siwash, That 's what she claimed and said ; Her people all condemned her, But poor gal, now she's dead."
Jack, 1849* ​
1894.]
An Episode in the Life of Robert the Simple.
197
" The stars that twinkle in the sky, The dew-drop on the flowers, All bring fragrant thoughts to us Of that dead one of ours."
Jack's Partner, 1849.
" I don't understand this country, But this river these mountains hem, I long have looked for gold dust ; But in this grave I find a gem."
Prospector, 1850.
W. Arthur Jones.
AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF ROBERT THE SIMPLE.
NOBODY ever knew just how " Robert the Simple" ever happened to come there. He was undoubtedly very much out of place, and Steve Robinson, who had been an artist back home before he came to Tacoma to sell town lots, and was therefore looked upon as an author- ity on all esthetic questions, declared that he destroyed the perspective of the city, and further, that he was out of drawing there. This would have been sufficient to condemn him, had he not been condemned already. But, as a matter of fact, he was condemned be- fore he had been in town twenty-four hours. Not but that Robert was a pleasant enough fellow socially, young, handsome, and with that inherited man- ner and bearing of the gentleman that come from breeding, arid cannot be ac- quired. But nobody then had time to consider the social qualifications of a man who was of no use in business. And Robert was certainly useless in any field of industrial activity. That was why he was called " Robert the Sim- ple " by the boys, though it is doubtful whether he ever suspected the appella- tion that was applied to him, for he had a quiet dignity of bearing that repelled
any such personal familiarities. When addressed, he was, " Mr. Churchill," or simply, " Churchill," according to the temper of the speaker.
He first appeared there during the latter part of May, 1887, when Tacoma was a far less important place than it has since become, and when the people were wholly engrossed in the excite- ment of the land boom. He looked at the bands of music and crowds of people with pleased surprise ; but when he ac- costed a stranger, and asked if it was usual to celebrate the Queen's birthday with so much pomp in "the States," he was much pained by the abrupt and pro- fane denial. Perhaps Robert's slow, deliberate manner and drawling speech had much to do with provoking the speaker's wrath. After that he wan- dered up Pacific Avenue in a dazed, helpless way until he met Major Kamm. The Major seemed to be as busy as all the rest, but there was a kindly expres- sion of the face and a merry twinkle about the eyes that emboldened Robert to address him and ask some directions as to his way.
" Can I direct you to 1256 Tacoma av- enue ? Well, I guess I can if anybody ​
198
An Episode in the Life of Robert the Simple.
[Feb.
can," said the Major. " Now the easiest way to get there is to go up Ninth Street that 's the next cross street north here for one block, and then take from the trail leading southeast from there. It would be shorter to go up Eleventh Street, but the trees haven't been thinned out much in that direction yet, and you might lose your way. You see, we have n't had time to improve the streets much yet, but this summer we '11 get everything in shape. A stranger here, I suppose ? "
" Yes, I have only just arrived."
" Well, you '11 like our city. You can 't help it, my dear boy. We have the greatest site for a great city on earth, and the population 's increasing so fast that we have n't time to pull up the trees to make room for 'em. We have more life, and energy, and business enterprise, to the square inch than you '11 find in a square mile anywhere else in the universe. Why, sir, we couldn't stop this city going ahead if every man, woman, and child, got in and held back. Now, if you won't give me away, I '11 tell you a secret. I have some of the choicest property in this whole metrop- olis that I '11 let you have, dirt cheap. Some property that was left in my hands this morning under peculiar cir- cumstances, and you wouldn't find an- other such chance in a lifetime."
"I am sincerely glad to hear that your town is doing so well. But I am hardly in a position, financially, to in- vest in landed property. I had hoped, rather, to find employment in some legit- imate enterprise. Do you imagine there would be any opportunity for me ? "
" Opportunity ? Why, there 's noth- ing but opportunity here. Just consid- er the proposition for a moment. Trains and boats are arriving here hourly from the north, south, east, and west, bring- ing people by the thousand from the four corners of God's green footstool. The population is increasing at the rate of a thousand a day. Within a year
from the present time we shall have a population of 100,000 people ; within three years we shall have the metropolis ! of the Pacific Coast ; within five years we shall have passed Chicago and New York, and the City of Destiny will stand as the largest and most prosper- ous aggregation on the American con- tinent. Every man who now holds a town lot will then be a millionaire. Now, all these people are coming here to buy land. That's what they want. And we '11 have to have stores for them to deal in ; while the people who are willing to throw away the chance to make a fortune in land and are willing to go into ordinary business are so few that they are in great demand. Why, you '11 be snapped up within twenty- four hours."
But, in spite of the Major's glowing predictions, Robert found it very diffi- cult to find employment ; and day after day he came home to the frail little woman who shared his misfortunes, with the discouraging news that he had been again unsuccessful.
"Never mind, Robert; things will brighten soon. Everybody is making money here, they all tell me about it, and we cannot remain poor forever. Don't be depressed ; tomorrow you may be successful."
But it was wholly unnecessary to tell Robert not to be depressed. His cheer- ful disposition was proof against any disappointment, and he was as light- hearted after a day passed in being re- fused employment as he had been when he started out in the morning with his heart full of hope. He had been brought up as an English younger son, with no idea of business, or of helping himself under difficulties, and in his heart he felt, even while he was asking for em- ployment, that he could be of no use to anybody. He grieved when he thought that his wife was denied certain pleas- ures and luxuries, but he easily dis- missedjsuch disagreeable thoughts. ​
(1894.]
An Episode in the Life of Robert the Simple.
199
Not so with the little woman who re- tnained at home, looking after the two young children all day, and worrying hbout the future. She had had great hopes for Robert, and had looked for- kvard to his great success in this new fcountry, where everybody was getting rich, apparently without an effort. She could not but see the difference between trim and those by whom they were sur- jrounded, but she attributed that to the nervous, excitable temperament of the JAmericans. Major Kamm had taken kn interest in the helpless young Eng- lishman, and had come to see them joccasionally, enlivening them with his inexhaustible fund of enthusiasm, and 'pad given Robert temporary employ- ment, though, as he said to his wife, rThe man's a perfect baby in business, and it would be economy to pay him a salary to stay away from the office. He 's in the way whenever he- comes there." And then Mrs. Kamm went to tall on Mrs. Churchill, an American custom that rather surprised the latter, and took her and the children out to drive.
After that the two became great friends, and Mrs. Kamm, in her quiet, motherly way, found many opportuni- ties to lighten the burdens of her new friend, though she often found difficulty In avoiding offense. For Mrs. Church- ill was proud, and Mrs. Kamm soon learned that the only way to force favors pn her was through an appeal for the comfort of the children.
Thus matters went on, and the condi- jtion of the Churchills grew worse and kvorse. Mrs. Churchill tried to keep up per husband's courage by appearing cheerful and light-hearted when he came pome. But the pangs of hunger do not go well with an appearance of cheerful- ness, and the thought that her children rvere suffering from lack of food filled her with anguish. Under these circum- stances Robert's imperturbable cheer- fulness irritated her bevond measure.
She saw that it was not assumed, but an easy confidence that something would turn up to help them out of their diffi- culties without any effort on his part, that she could not understand or sym- pathize with.
As matters grew worse with them and meals became scarce, she earned a little money by doing fancy sewing which Mrs. Kamm brought for her. But the work was hard, unaccustomed as she was to such exertions, and she was weak- ened by insufficient nourishment. Mrs. Kamm suspected something of this, but did not know its extent, for on that point Mrs. Churchill was persistently silent, and repelled all inquiries. Loyalty to her husband would not permit her to condemn him before others, and she sought as far as possible to hide the evidences of his weakness.
One evening Robert came home radi- ant with happiness, and carrying several bundles in his arms. "It's come at last, Eleanor," he cried. "I received a letter from home today with a remit- tance, and now our troubles are at an end. See what I have brought you. I have felt that we have not been careful enough about our appearance," he con- tinued, as he opened the packages. "You know our position demands that we should present a good appearance, and we have become absolutely shabby. I have brought home some things that are at least a little more satisfactory. This is a dress for you that I don't think even Mrs. Kamm can equal ; here is some stuff to make dresses for the chil- dren, and this is a suit of clothes for myself. And here is a surprise for you."
He handed her a jewel case which she opened, and found inside an expensive lady's watch. She looked at him in dis- may.
"And the rest of the money?" she said.
" O, I have it here." He looked through his pockets one after the other, but without success. "Why," said he ​
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An Episode in the Life of Robert the Simple.
[Feb.
with a smile, " I 've spent it all. That 's odd, that I should never have thought of that. But never mind, with my improved appearance I shall soon obtain employ- ment. It 's no wonder that nobody wanted so shabby-looking an employee."
" And the children are starving to death," she said, turning away to hide her tears.
" Why, Eleanor," he exclaimed, a little hurt, " I had hoped to give you such a pleasant surprise. And you really do not seem to be pleased at all. This is cruel."
That night he came as near to feeling depressed as he ever had in his life. Eleanor was taken down with a fever, and tossed about in bed moaning inces- santly. Weakened by want and over- work, she was unable to withstand the shock of this last proof of his weakness. He attended her devotedly through the night, and the next morning went out to secure the services of a doctor, as she showed no signs of improvement. Hav- ing sent the doctor to see her, he went down to the business part of the town to continue his accustomed search for employment.
When he returned in the evening his wife was not there, and the children told him she had gone out with Mrs. Kamm. He was disappointed, for a temporary employment had placed him in posses- sion of a few dollars, and he had hoped to surprise her. He busied himself with the preparations for dinner, however, expecting her early return. While he was so occupied there was a knock at the door, and Major Kamm entered.
"Churchill," said he, " I have always been a good friend to you, and have tried to assist you in every way I could. But you are not fit for business in this coun- try. Our methods are too rapid ; you 're too slow for a community of hustlers like this. Your wife is seriously ill from lack of food and overwork. You cannot pro- vide for her here, and I have taken her to my home."
" Really, Major, I don't know how I can "
"You're not fit to have such a wife," continued the Major, ignoring the inter- ruption. " She has had a hard life of it here with you."
" Perhaps you are right. In fact, I can see that you are, now that you mention it, but I had really never realized it be- fore."
" No, sir ; you had not. You entered into a contract you were not able to car- ry out ; you have n't even kept up the interest, let alone paying the princi- pal. Your wife shall remain with us until she has fully recovered, and then I shall have a serious talk with her. I shall advise her not to return to you ; I shall advise her to get a divorce."
" Do you think she will consent ? "
" I think she is a woman of sense, and cannot do anything else."
" And you would come between hus- band and wife ? "
" Yes, sir ; I would. Such a husband and such a wife. What have you to of- fer her, should she come back? More starvation. More hard work. She must support herself and the children in any event ; if she returns to you she must support you also."
"But the expense, Major. I am will- ing to do what is right, but litigation is expensive, and "
" I shall attend to that part of it my- self."
" That is generous of you. It is noble to thus befriend a poor, helpless woman who can make you no return. I can see that what you say is right, and you clear away the obstacles in your usual master- ful manner. You are a true friend, and I wish that I might testify my gratitude in some manner."
" I came here tonight to tell you this, and to take the children home with me, It is better that they should be with their mother."
" Yes, it is better. I shall get them ready to go immediately." And Robert ​
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201
fnistled around putting on the children's
lats and cloaks, and making them look
is smart as they could in their faded
garments. When he had finished he
urned to the Major. " Could I ask you to wait here a few
-ninutes until I return ? " he inquired.
' I shall not delay you long."
The Major nodded, and putting on his pat, Robert hurried out. He soon re- turned, and thrust a package into the hands of the eldest child. " Some candy
or the children. They like it so much,"
e explained to the Major; and then
kdded as he kissed them both, "Give
my love to your mother, and tell her I hope she will soon be well. And believe me, Major, I am deeply grateful."
As the door closed behind them he sat down on a chair, and remained buried in thought for some time. A sense of
oneliness possessed him that he could mot shake off. He shivered slightly, as if the lonely room seemed colder with- out its usual occupants, and rising, got (his pipe, filled it, and sat down to think lit all over again.
" It 's all for the best, and the Major is runusually kind," he mused. " And yet I cannot but wish it had been otherwise. [I wonder if I could have done anything to prevent it. I know I am different from the other people here, and yet I have tried to get something to do. I lack education in ' hustling,' as they call it ; that 's what it is. But it 's so for- eign to my nature that I do not believe I could ever acquire it."
He finally gave up the problem in despair, and retired to rest.
As time passed he became more ac- customed to his position ; he went down to the business houses day after day, finding occasional employment that re- lieved his necessities, and at evening he went home to his lonely, cheerless lodgings and smoked his pipe. He saw nothing of his wife or the children, and felt that he had no right to inquire about them, though he saw Major Kamm
frequently. He accepted it as a penal- ty for his helplessness, which he now realized as fully as anybody, but which he felt that he could not remedy.
Meanwhile Mrs. Churchill improved slowly. She received the best of care, but had been so weakened that recuper- ation was a slow process. At first she worried about Robert, and it required positive orders from the doctor, prompt- ed by Major Kamm, to banish the sub- ject. The Major assured her that her husband was well, and that satisfied her for a time. At length her health was fully restored, and she announced her intention of going home.
" I have been waiting until you were strong enough to talk to you about that," said the Major. "Churchill is a nice fellow, and I like him immensely. But he cannot get along in this country. He has barely made a living for himself since you have been with us, and what assistance he has received has been through sympathy rather than through any demand for his work. Had you been with him you would have suffered as you did before, and that is the only outlook there is for you in the future. Why not stay here with us?"
"But, Major, I am already under ob- ligations to you greater than I can ever repay. I could not consent to in- crease that indebtedness, and remain longer than is absolutely necessary. And my place is by my husband's side."
" But you can find something to do to support yourself and the children, and stay here in the meantime. Until you get yourself established you should al- low Mrs. Kamm and myself to have our way and help you. Should you return to your husband, your health will be shattered again, and you can do nothing. You owe it to yourself to be firm now."
" But Robert needs me more now than ever."
" And you would sacrifice yourself needlessly for him. It is wrong for you to go back and live with him." ​
202
An Episode in the Life of Robert the Simple.
[Fel
" I don't understand you."
" I mean that you ought to get a sep- aration from him. You owe it to your- self ; you owe it to your children."
She looked at him for a moment in surprise. " Major," she said, " you have been extremely kind to me ; you have clone more for me than I can ever re- pay, more than anybody else would have done. I cannot tell you how deeply I feel this. But what you ask is impos- sible. I must return to my husband and share his misfortunes, if misfortune is to be his lot. I beg that you will drop the subject ; it is painful to me to think of such a thing ; painful to think that you could advise such a course."
"Well," said the Major, " we will not talk about it any more at present. But think of what I have said. I shall see Robert tomorrow, and tell him to come here and see you. Don't form any plans until after that."
And so it was settled for the time. The next day the Major met Churchill on the street, bright and early.
" Ah, Churchill," said he, " I have been looking for you."
"And I have been looking for you, Major. I have important news."
"Well, come to my office, and I'll hear your news. Then I can tell you what I have to say."
When they were comfortably seated in Major Kamm's private office, Robert produced a bulky letter from his pocket and handed it to the Major. "I have just received that letter from home," said he. " It informs me of the death of my elder brother, and my succession to the family estates. I must return immediately."
" What do the family estates amount to ? How much money will you get from them to live on ? "
" I really have not the slightest idea. I never took much interest in such things at home. I only know that we have always lived comfortably, and have never known the need of money. I
should not have been out here had I not crossed my father's wishes in regard t< my marriage. He had his own views as to whom I should marry, and I hac mine. I followed my own inclination, and he never forgave me."
"And what do you propose doinj now ? "
" I must see my wife and children, and prepare them to. accompany me. Now that I have a home to offer them, there is no reason why they should not go with me."
" Well, Churchill," said the Major, with a smile, " your news knocks what I had to say into a cocked hat. I spok< to your wife last night about getting a divorce from you, and she refused flat- footed. I intended to make you see her and insist upon it today, because I knew I could handle you better than her. But this is a much better solution of the problem, and I 'm sincerely glad of your good fortune. I '11 take an hour off in honor of the occasion, and we '11 go and tell her about it."
" There was another matter I wanted to speak to you about. You 've placed me in your debt to a considerable amount ; I am now in a position to
" We '11 say nothing at all about that. If I can't spend my money in the way that gives me most pleasure, what's the use of having it ? I could n't tell you how much it amounts to if I wanted to, and I would n't want to if I could. Some time when Mrs. Kamm and I come to England you can entertain us on your family estates. In the meantime we '11 keep the account open on the books."
It was a bright summer morning about a week later, that Churchill and his family stood on the deck of -one of the Sound steamers, bound for home by way of the Canadian Pacific, for Robert had said he would feel nearer home as soon as he got on British soil. The sun glistened brightly upon the waters of the Sound ; the sky was without a cloud,, and the green hills were clearlv outlined ​
1894.]
Those Who Heard.
203
against it. To the east rose Mount Ta- coma, a monument of dazzling bright- ness. Mrs. Churchill looked around upon the scene and sighed gently.
" It is strange, Robert," said she, " that I should feel any sense of regret at leaving Tacoma, yet the thought of it makes me sad. Nature is so beauti- ful here that I almost forget how sor- rowful has been our experience. I have wondered how the people can be so ab- sorbed in the struggle for wealth, when there is so much about them to satisfy the love of beauty."
Whatever his answer might have been, it was cut short by the noise of a carriage dashing down the wharf. It drew up beside the boat, and the Major and Mrs. Kamm jumped out. The steamer was just casting off, so they had only time to shout their farewells. Their friends on the deck waved hand- kerchiefs to them until they were out of sight, and then remained to catch a last view of Tacoma ere the steamer rounded Brown's Point, and the scene of their hardships was shut out from their view forever.
H. Elton Smith.
THOSE WHO HEARD.
PURPOSELESS
She fluttered blithely through the shadowy wood, Like some unheeding bird. Hid there she found A shrinking violet in dewy tears. "Poor violet!" she said, and saying smiled. " Proud in your sorrow, hiding from the world ! Why are you weeping? Is it for some breeze That, loving, died upon your fragrant lips?" And so, while sunshine danced within her heart, She wrote a mourning song about the flower, Those who heard it wept.
Time counted
One bead upon his rosary of years. The sun no longer shone within her heart, With useless tears her own eyes were aweary. In lonely sadness did she seek the wood, . To drown herself in shadow-haunted depths. " Now I know Grief," she said, and saying, sighed. She wrote a song that tripped of its own mirth, Those who heard it laughed.
Sarah Comstock. ​
204
A Forest Songster of Western Washington.
[Feb.
A FOREST SONGSTER OF WESTERN WASHINGTON.
AMONG the birds that inhabit the dense forests of western Washington in the summer season, none is probably so abundant as the russet-backed thrush ( Turdiis nstulatus) ; and certainly none? save the rusty song sparrow, and possi- bly the dwarf hermit thrush, is so fine a songster. Though the artful music of the varied thrush, the tinkling falsetto of the tiny winter wren, the briefer, quaint notes of warblers, or the fresh, accentuated songs of vireos, may often, too, be heard by the listener, the song of the russet-backed thrush stands out distinct from all these.
Possibly a few stragglers of this species remain, here or there, through- out the winter in protected places along the coast, but few individuals are seen till May is well advanced. At Gray's Harbor by the first of May a few have arrived, and by the twentieth of the month the species is common. Soon its song and notes become the charac- teristic music of the woods.
The favorite haunts are along the courses of the streams, in the thick un- dergrowths that mantle their banks: here under the moss-draped boughs of the ponderous spruces and firs, and the tapering hemlocks, is the twilight and cover it so much loves.
On the lower course of the Humptu- lips River, a clear, swift, mountain stream, which rises in the Olympic Mountains and flows into the harbor from the north, this thrush is found in abundance ; but nowhere in all my tramps in the forests of Puget Sound and the coast was it seen in such num- bers as on the banks of the Upper Quin- iault River. On the thirteenth of June, 1891, returning in the late afternoon from a point four or five miles up the river, to our bivouac in a diminutive
clearing by the river-bank, it seemed as if at every turn of the tortuous foot-trail one or more of these thrushes flitted into the thick salmon-berry bushes at either hand, and from every direction came the familiar notes and song.
Often this timid bird ventures far out into the tall, rank fern which covers the occasional small prairies of that region.
The song of this enchanting songster forms, with its notes, a kind of back- ground to all the bird-music of the woods. Well through the summer its rippling, joyous, at times almost rollick- some, song is heard at every hand, morning and evening, and at intervals throughout damp or cloudy days. Nut- tall most aptly describes the caroling of this thrush as like the words, " wit, wit, fvillia, fvillia" Sometimes more than two fvillias go at one outburst. Each following fvillia chases, and seems to partly overtake, the one ahead ; and the notes are so rich and liquid, and the spirit of the song is so impetuous, that the listener's veins fairly tingle :
" Thro' my very heart it thnlleth When Silver-treble laughter trilleth."
This love-song is poured out from a rather low perch, and so great is its volume that the bird's little frame seems too frail and delicate for such effort.
The low, clear whistle, variously, "quoit" "tivoit," or "quit" is to the woodsman a most familiar sound, and in the deep forest shades is really sad and plaintive. The note is slightly held. By carefully imitating it I have brought the male bird to a perch near at hand, when all attempts to stalk one in the dense, noisy underwood and forest "trash " had failed, for the bird is gen- erally timid and seclusive, for all its loud singing. ​
1894.
A Forest Songster of Western Washington.
205
A low call less often heard than this sounds like, " bdk, ye-e-e-e " ; the bah being a clear and rather round note ; the ye-e-e-e, a low, metallic trill, resem- bling, in that way, the last part of the song of the varied thrush. This call is given only, apparently, when the object of affection is supposed to be near by, the whistle, quoit, having already drawn the two birds together.
There is a short, quick alarm-note, "whit, whit" or " wit, wit," generally at once answered by several companions not in sight.
Most of the time the bird spends up- on the ground or near it. Probably its diet of insects and worms is often varied by a few berries, such as the salmon- berry, for in these thickets it appears to be most abundant.
Like many of our best songsters the russet-backed thrush is not clad in strik- ing colors ; above, " being uniformly a russet-olive ; below, white ; the neck, breast, and sides of its head are strong- ly yellowish-tinged," much and delicate- ly spotted with olive-gray. Around the eye is a buff ring.
The nest, comfortably made, mostly of the common gray forest moss, is often built upon a loose framework of coarse straw, and finer dried grass, and in the bottom are a few layers of matted leaves, such as those of the vine-maple.
One found on the Humptulips, July second, was built in the center of a dark green forest fern, whose high-arched ra- diating fronds pretty well hid it till one stood over it. Another there was in the forks of a vine-maple, about seven feet from the ground. Each held fresh eggs. Usually from four or five eggs are laid,
of a greenish blue color, well spotted with several shades of brown.
Through June, showers are apt to be frequent on the upper waters of the Humptulips ; and running down the swollen river at such times, in the risky, shovel-nosed canoe, is a series of excit- ing adventures, even with a skillful Si- wash in bow and stern. After a furious rush down a series of wild cascades, the canoe may float sluggishly along the edge of a quiet pool, where a salmon or sturgeon is spied by one of the big- faced natives, and quickly speared. Along a quiet reach of the river a shot may be chanced at a mallard whirring over, or at a flock of young sheldrakes, wildly spattering on ahead. Awhile one lazily watches the tree-tops drift across the sky, while resting back on the packs, the Indians deftly steering or plying paddle meanwhile, or on a likely bar the canoe is beached, and all eagerly search for freshest signs of elk, or deer or bear.
Spattering showers, which came at first, have ceased. A clear sky greets us, as the harbor opens out beyond the last big trees ; and here a safer canoe is taken, or a skiff or sail-boat, if at hand and the tide in, for a distant harbor town. A. lovely nightfall is recalled, once rowing onward ; the smooth, wide bay almost unruffled, save where stirred here and there into little tripping wave- lets by trifling currents of air or water. Far northward, over the vast green bulk of forests, the pure, snowy crests of the Olympics were visible till day was gone. Then the tender and peaceful evening stole on with topaz sky, reddish even- glow, peacock-tinted, glinting waters, and pure, twinkling stars.
R. H. Laivretice. ​
An Encounter with Chinese Smugglers.
I had done some local work as a "special "on the boats of Puget Sound plying between Port Townsend and the British Columbia ports.
Having had some little success in discovering contraband opium, I at last obtained permission from the "tyees" to serve for a short time on probation, as a "deputy" in another district, and inland, at a point where considerable smuggling of Chinese across the line from the British side was supposed to be going on, much against Uncle Sam's desire and proclamation.
I nosed around among the border settlers and villagers for some days, full of enthusiasm and the novice's desire for a tremendous scoop that was to cover me with glory and fill my capacious but empty pockets with clinking coins of a bright yellow hue. The name Brandreth Jones should become the terror of all smugglers. The pages of American and foreign papers, and particularly the British Columbia ones, should overflow with descriptions of the noted, courageous, cunning, and eagle-eyed Jones, the peerless and unequaled officer of the Northwestern border.
Visions of thrilling encounters bristling with shining knife-blades and pistol barrels, succeeded by clouds of obscuring smoke, cries of the utmost terror, "Oh, Jones! have mercy!" "Let up! Jones!" from the despairing wretches I had caught red-handed in the act of enticing the "Celestial" unto forbidden ground, flitted through my busy brain during the first few days of experience as a deputy.
B. Jones always figured very conspicuously in these sanguinary conflicts, as viewed through the horoscope of the future of aforesaid hero (to be); in fact he appeared to be the only one the least bit "in it "at all. Two or three wild-eyed smugglers at a time make only a weak dessert, the only trouble appearing to be on these occasions that the approach of B. Jones, Esq., is the signal of a general stampede, and most of the malefactors escape so quickly, and in so many directions at once, that but few are caught. Of course "back-loads "of Chinese are left behind, for Jones to mail to headquarters; but the bushwhackers too often get off scot free in the trackless forests.
Where this hero appears to shine the loudest is when there are sufficient numbers of the enemy to warrant their facing the merciless pursuer. Then does this great man sparkle in his full effulgence, and scatter confusion in their ranks. Surrounded, harrassed, and utterly routed, they are only too glad to yield with their lives intact, and with the few broken heads that necessarily follow after such a man as Jones had been in their midst with his war paint on. Very glad, indeed, are they to yield themselves up to the "iron hand of the law," with their prisoners Slim Slam, Ching Chung, Bim Fin, Un Lung, etc., etc., and more of the same kind, without further argument.
And then comes the vision of the proud marching through the busy streets of the city. How proudly B. Jones prances through the gaping crowds with his beetle-browed prisoners the innocent Chins. The cynosure of all eyes, what cares he for the envenomed glances of his jealous colleagues who have grown gray in the service? Why, nothing! Jones gloats in it! Then follow the letters of congratulation, the vigorous hand-shake of a much pleased community, last, but not least, the heavy salary and advancement. ​
1894.J
An Encounter with Chinese Smugglers.
207
Strange as it may seem, it is never- theless a fact that Jones derived as much satisfaction from these reveries as he would from the reality.
These and even brighter visions flit- ted through my head on the third day of my assignment to the service, as I walked through a piece of green timber in the direction of a little village on the boundary line. It was growing dark, and as the gloomy aisles of the forest began to get lonesome and eerie-like, a longing for the comforts of an effem- inate civilization began to gnaw at my vitals. I hurried my steps, and soon had the pleasure of having my ears tin- gle at the voice of a cow ; then I heard the " dunkty, dunkety-dink, dunk, ding" of a bell, carried through the dark and stilly night on her neck, in rapid but lumbering motion toward that spot which my heart began to ache for.
I soon saw a flickering light through the dim vista of blackness ahead. I quickened my steps. Forgetting for a moment that I was not traveling on a wooden pavement, under the white and cold glitter of incandescents, I fell over a protruding root, and hit my nose with the trunk of a hard fir tree, which made it bleed freely (not the tree, but my nose). I also tore a wide and gaping wound in my trousers and another in my coat, through which the cold night wind blew. As I was going down I firmly grasped, with both hands, a full grown "devil's war club." My, but it hurt! I can feel the sharp and slender thorns in my poor hands yet. I got up and brushed off my clothes, rubbed the blood off my face and clothing, folded the flaps of the gaping wounds back over the cold places in my raiment, smoothed my hair nicely down on my fevered head, assumed again the stern and dig- nified expression befitting my office, and turned once more in the direction of the flickering light.
I was soon at the door of the little hotel. A second later a well-spread ta-
ble and a pile of hot stuff thereon re- stored me to my usual high spirits. Sup- per over, I repaired to a corner of the small office for a quiet smoke. Looking about me at the other occupants of the room, composed chiefly of loggers and farmers, I at once set to work to read their characters in their faces, and other- wise size them up. I could not make out much about them from their out- ward appearance. If any of them were smugglers they did not show it ; they appeared to be an ordinary lot of coun- trymen. One of them was a rather tough-looking specimen. I decided to watch him. I thought he acted queerly.
It grew late. The young man who officiated in the capacity of clerk bus- tled briskly up to me, and notified me that he would show me up to my room. I told him that I was not ready to re- tire yet, but intended taking a turn out- side for the fresh air. Barely had I reached the open air, when a step be- hind me arrested my attention. I turned as a voice exclaimed pleasantly, " Hello, old man ! what 's in the wind now ? "
I scrutinized the speaker as closely as I could in the semi-darkness, and being satisfied that I had to do with a gentle- man, replied : " You have the advantage of me ; I fail to recognize you."
He chuckled to himself, held out his hand, and said : " O, that 's all right. You are up here on the same errand as myself. I have been detailed by Col- lector to look up this section for
those rascals of Chinese smugglers. You are also on the same job. Am I not right?"
I hesitated a moment before replying ; but so satisfied was I that he stated the truth, that I soon told him who I was. We were becoming quite confidential, when the door opened and a form brushed by me, which I saw was the hard-looking case I had seen in the office. A voice whispered in my ear, " Look out for that fellow," and the form disappeared in the darkness. ​
208
An Encounter with Chinese Smugglers.
[Feb.
I talked a half hour or more to my new friend, and at last left him, well pleased to have formed the acquaint- ance of so agreeable a companion. He had informed me that a lot of opium was to be brought over the line at a point some twelve miles distant. He intended going there himself early in the morn- ing.
Sunrise of the next day found me eat- ing a lunch. Fifteen minutes later I had left the hotel, and was on my way to the point designated by my friend of the previous evening. I was proceeding along a little trail, and had gone about a mile, when a light step behind me ar- rested my attention. I glanced back, what was my surprise to recognize the hard-looking case I had seen in the little office at the hotel ! He came up, and at once assured me that he was a certain official, whom I knew well by name. I was a little dubious of the honesty of his words at first, as his disguise was very complete. It was hard to believe him anything but a tramp. He proved himself to be what he represented. He informed me that the gentleman I had been so much taken up with, to whom I had unfolded all my plans, was a criminal of dangerous proclivities, and one that was suspected of being at the head of a large gang.
Much discomfited at the alarming dis- covery I had made, I begged Beggs not to give me away. He promised, but cautioned me against future indiscre- tions, and hoped this experience would aid me to make a wiser and better offi- cer. Beggs disclosed to me a plot, or rather an undertaking, which was on foot to evade the American officials, and bring a lot of Chinamen and "dope" across the line. At this time they were supposed to be in the woods, on a cer- tain trail near a mountain pass.
Beggs gave me full instructions how to proceed and where to look for the men, he also advised me to be very care- ful in approaching them as they were a
desperate lot. I was to get as closely as possible to their camp, learn all I could about their numbers and intended movements, and meet Beggs and his- squad at a certain time and place ; then a grand descent on them was to be made as soon as they crossed the line. Great care had to be exercised not to give them any clew to the proceedings of the officers, else an alarm would en- sue that would cause them to cross at some other and unknown point.
Beggs soon left me, and I started out full of enthusiasm for the station des- ignated by Beggs as my particular headquarters.
About noon I reached a point on the boundary line, as directed by Beggs, and found the stone pillar that indicated the division of the two great nations. After lunching on the few cold scraps I had brought along in my pocket, I proceeded over on to British soil, on the lookout for signs of the enemy. Two hours elapsed ; I had reached a point about two miles from the pillar, in very heavy green-timbered country. Gigan- tic firs towered overhead, the roadway I was traversing was a mere trail made by deer, but the imprint of a human boot showed clearly that a man had pre- ceded me only a short time before. I had a great curiosity to know where that man had gone. Every little space on each side of the trail was the mark of a bottom of a pail where it had rested to ease the man's arm a little. After a while the footprints left the deer trail and led off through the woods. I fol- lowed them, and soon emerged on a wagon road. The footprints turned up the road to the left for a few rods. Now to my surprise I saw many other tracks, also a new-made wagon track, the latter appearing to have been heavily loaded. Hay was scattered all along each side of the road.
A light rustle on the road ahead around a curve caused me to jump quietly into the brush, where I could ​see without being seen. A man soon hove in sight. As he passed me I sized him up,—"A smuggler, sure!" I let him pass. I could hear him whistling in the distance; and stepped out and hurried along in the direction the wagon had gone. For about a mile it had kept on, then it had turned off into a burn. I did n't care to follow it across the little clearing; I feared that the gentlemanly fellow who had imposed upon me at the hotel might be with the party and expose me. I had now fully made up my mind that I was on the right track; I would crawl up to their camp as closely as possibly, see what kind of cargo they had aboard, listen to their conversation, find out when and where they intended crossing the line, skip back, notify the boys, have everything in readiness, and the minute they crossed the line we would swoop down on them like an eagle on its prey.
I was rigged out in a suit of corduroy and a complete hunter's outfit, carried a repeating rifle on my shoulder, a heavy revolver and a long-bladed hunting knife in my belt, in addition to a belt full of cartridges. I did not fear discovery except from my friend of the inn. If he proved not to be in the camp of the strangers ahead, I would go boldly among them and get full information as to their future movements. With these laudable intentions in view and my head throbbing with wild schemes for foiling the enemy, and for B. Jones's particular benefit and aggrandizement, I slunk off into the brush to one side, circled around back of the point I could see the smoke of the camp fire issuing from.
Reaching a position opposite that from which I had started, so as to place the fire immediately between the two places, and having crawled through the heavy underbrush so quietly as hardly to have made a single sound, tired and heated, I paused for a breathing spell, and to consider my future plans.
My presence was entirely unsuspected. The camp was not over thirty yards away, and I could hear voices talking quietly. I listened intently,—what was that I heard? Was not that unknown gibberish Chinese? I could not distinguish accurately, so I crawled slowly and as quietly as a snake a little closer still, and as I slowly raised up in the shelter of the salmon-berry bushes, I already saw before me the grand battue on the other side of the line, as the trangressors were being taken into camp; I could also read in the near future the glowing pages of the newspapers. Conspicuously at the head of the first column, on the front page, the name in large letters stared me in the face:—
BRANDRETH JONES! THE GREAT AND ONLY BRANDRETH! THE TERROR OF THE SMUGGLERS! THE KING OF REVENUE OFFICERS! ALONE HE VISITS THE CAMP OF THE CHINAMEN AT PERIL OF HIS LIFE!
I looked through the leaves, what did I see? A party of Indians! harmless Siwashes; nothing more; nothing less. Gnashing my teeth in rage, I sneaked back into the brush; hurried off down the road, and started in afresh to find a more formidable camp. As I rushed along, making great strides in the direction of the deer trail I had left earlier in the day, I heard footsteps approaching, and not wishing to be seen, I again crawled into the woods. It was a young Indian going towards the camp. As soon as he got to where my tracks left the road, he stopped, examined my spoor, muttered something unintelligible to me, and passed on.
Reaching the trail, I hastened to put as many miles as possible between the Siwash camp and myself. As I rushed along, somewhat regardless of distance and time, I noted suddenly that it was growing dark. Nothing had been accomplished yet. I stopped, considered the situation carefully, but could not ​
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arrive at any conclusion satisfactory to myself. Suddenly in the brush to the left of me I heard a slight crackling, then a quick thump, and all was again silent excepting the wild beating of my heart. Dropping slowly to the ground, my hunting instinct fully aroused, duty entirely forgotten for the time be- ing, I waited for another sound from the brush. In vain ; everything was still as death. Knowing full well that a deer was hiding in the brush, and would not stir, I crawled quietly in the direction of the last sounds, on my hands and knees. When I thought the deer was, close enough to be seen through the leaves, I rose up slowly to a standing position. There it stood a large doe.
Not knowing the law in British Co- lumbia which prohibits the killing of does, I pulled the trigger as the front sight rested for a second against a patch of gray fur back of the doe's fore shoul- der. The report of the rifle roared out on the night air, the doe gave a convul- sive leap into the woods, and was soon out of sight. I could hear it smashing down the berry bushes as it madly tore off. I knew it was mortally wounded from the convulsive and catchy leaps it made. Throwing caution to the winds. I rushed after it in hot pursuit.
I found blood on the trail. The sounds of the fleeing deer had ceased, but on I went. The deer, after going straight ahead for some distance, had suddenly swerved to one side, and had rushed down a hillside into low land, following along on the new-made trail for a few rods. I could seethe gleaming of water right ahead through the trees. Conclud- ing that my deer had taken to the water and would soon be under my knife, I increased my speed. A log lay in the way ; I jumped over it. As my feet struck the ground on the other side, something awfully like a man's foot protruded suddenly from the brush. Not being able to pull up in time to avoid falling over it, down I went on my
face all in a heap. Somebody then sa down on me rather heavily, squeezing all the breath out of my poor body.
I lay on my face quite a while befon I could fully realize the position I wa really in. That I was a prisoner wa. evident. It was also evident that th( man on top of me had no intention o getting up until reinforcements came He kept his face turned from me; could not see anything of him excep his broad back.
I revolved the situation in my mine What could be the scheme he was tryin to work ? Was it robbery or maliciou murder ? Was this my old friend of th hotel, and one of the smugglers ? Woul they attempt to hold an officer of th American service ? Very likely the would,till such time as they got throug with their booty !
As closely as I could, I surveyed m opponent's position and my own. Fro: the indifferent and careless way i which he sat astraddle of my back, mentally concluded that he was n< versed in the tricks of athletes, nil imagined for a moment that he could 1 unseated. When the proper time cap I would give him a fall and escape ; f the present I was satisfied to have hi think me scared or stunned too bad to move. r
Taking a dog-whistle from his pocku he blew several loud blasts on it ail restored it to his pocket. Settling hii| self down cosily, he drew a cob-pi[ deliberately filled it with tobacco, stru a match along his trouser leg, lit 1 pipe and dropped the blazing match in my bare neck, causing me exquis: pain. I endured it without moving muscle, but how I did long to cho him ! So greatly did this please h that he laughed loud and long, r pipe, was now burning brightly ; the il hot cinders projected a quarter of inch above its bowl. A happy thou struck him ; he chuckled wildly in glee. Bending over, he pulled my troi ​
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up over my shoe top, pulled my sock own over my shoe, and emptied the urning tobacco on the bare ankle, all ie time shaking with uncontrollable lirth, and for the time being perfectly elpless. My time had come ! I could tand it no longer ! " the worm turned," Drcing myself upward with a violent
k.
He rolled off to the ground, and uick as lightning I was on top of him nd clutching at his throat like a mad- mn. He was a man of great strength nd far stronger than myself. I realized as he forced himself to his feet and t>re my hands from his throat. I was iitisfied I was the more active of the wo and the better wrestler. Although icking in strength, I hadn't the least ear of his downing me. Neither one f us had time to reach a weapon, our ands being actively employed other- ise. Each of us felt sure of overcom- g the other without their use. As he tore my hands from his neck, I irned him over and reversed our posi- ons, but being slightly excited and ild from the effects of his burning bacco on my leg, I did not hold him purely ; exerting his great strength, e again got on top. I was growing eak and losing my strength, and feared iat I should become an easy victim to y burly opponent ; but I noticed now lat he was more badly winded than I, id not capable of much further effort.
grand effort had to be made. I could ?ar a crashing in the woods; some of s companions had heard his whistle id were hurrying up. They would soon revent my escape. My rifle fell when first went to the ground on the foot of y adversary ; I had no idea where it as now, as it was dark. The fresh rivals would certainly be armed, and oulcl readily overpower me, even if un- "mecl, by sheer numbers. During this entire fracas not a word ad passed, excepting a few of a slightly tofane nature, such as men indulge in
when they are at loggerheads with each other. I had long since recognized my would-be captor as the gentleman who had interviewed me at the hotel. He had been in the vicinity when I had fired at the deer ; had heard my shot ; had got close enough to hear the doe run, and hear me crash through the brush after it. Hiding himself, he had recognized me, knew what my business there was, and he proposed to detain me till their business in the neighbor- hood was completed. There was no doubt in my mind whatever that he would kill me willingly, rather than allow me to escape. These facts had gradually forced themselves upon me. I felt sure I had discovered the truth, and I was bound to overcome this man if I had to kill him.
We struggled desperately on the ground, first one had the advantage, then the other. He was gradually grow- ing weaker and more winded. At last I forced him under me ; as he went over I saw a pistol barrel glisten. Wrench- ing it from his hand I placed the muzzle against his temple, but shame over- came me, I could not murder him. Seizing the barrel of the revolver in my hand, I raised the weapon over my head and dashed it down on his temple. It struck with a dull, thudding sound. The fierce clutch on my limbs relaxed ; the senseless form quivered and lay still. My opponent was harmless, not dead, but stunned.
I darted away in the dark woods. I could hear the companions of my late opponent a few yards off. Now they reached the spot where the struggle had occurred, and stumbled over the limp form of their comrade. They spoke to him, no answer, they shook him. I saw the flicker of a light as they bent over him. An exclamation followed. They heard me hastening away and fired two shots in the direction of the sound. I stopped, jumped behind a tree, but instantly dropped on my face and ​crawled as quickly and quietly as possible away from the spot where they last heard me.
A voice called out, " Say, you fellow in the bush,—that hit this chap here,—if you don't come out and give yourself up, we will fill them woods chock full of bullet holes! "
They got no reply, and again the voice rang out, " Come, now, show up quick, or it will be the worse for you! You can't get away from us! "
I dared not move again. They were listening closely, and the least sound would be the signal for a volley from their rifles. Behind a large fir tree I was safe for the moment. A groan from the man on the ground reached my ears, also the spitting which he made from an overdose of liquor which had been poured down his throat. I heard him swear, then followed a whispered consultation. He had soon informed his mates of all that had befallen him. They knew all about me, and would never allow me to get back over the line, if it was in their power to prevent it. I heard them scatter. Their aim was evidently to surround me and cut off all chance of escape. One was coming directly towards me; I should be nabbed if I stayed any longer. My only show was to steal off in the dark. I had proceeded about ten yards without making a sound, when I stepped on a slippery log and fell to the ground, creating quite a racket.
Instantly I heard all the men rush in my direction, and concluding that my time had come, I did not attempt to rise, but drew as close 'under a tree root as possible. A fair-sized hole in the ground where the roots had been torn up provided me with a snug hiding place so long as they were without lanterns; but a light in their hands would soon disclose my whereabouts. Drawing myself under a projecting root, I awaited the result breathlessly, with a revolver ready for instant use. I had determined not to yield without a fight, but I was loth to shed blood, and would do so only to save my own life.
The crashing continued in all directions, as the men plunged through the undergrowth in search of me: I could hear one of them not over a dozen paces distant. Would he discover my hiding place? It looked like it! He was not over ten feet away, and coming closer. He struck a match, and discovered my tracks on the ground leading to the fallen tree. As the match died out his eyes rested on the hole under the roots of the fallen tree. I heard him at the mouth of my place of refuge,—should I spring out and bear him to the ground? No! I would wait and see if he could find me; possibly he would fail to discover whether I was in the hole or not! Vain hope! he nosed around in front of me for a second, then he stepped back to one side and called his comrades.
I was trapped like a bear in its den! It would be madness to attempt to escape now. The entire gang were soon in front of the tree roots and whispered together a second. A voice requested me to lose no time in coming out; they promised not to injure me in any way if I should do so quickly and quietly, but if I did not act promptly in the matter, they swore that they would shoot me full of holes.
While being interviewed I had not been idle. Crawling still farther under and behind the roots and having discovered a piece of a heavy fir limb, I had dragged It in front of my face as I lay on my stomach along the ground, and I had made my position fairly safe from bullets. I began to feel quite impudent. They continued talking, but I did not reply, nor make the least sound. Again the voices clamored.
"Come out of that, or we'll shoot! If you are not out by the time we count ten—away she goes! "
They counted; no movement on my part; then bang! bang! bang! went ​
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their rifles, the bullets striking the log, roots, limb, and dirt, all around me. I escaped any serious injury, but several splinters from the wood about me struck me, and hurt me rather badly.
A short silence followed the shooting ; the men listened for the result of their firing. Everything was silent. The men grew restless. " Boys, if thet blamed sneak wus in thet 'r hole at all, I '11 bet we plugged him ! " said one.
" Who '11 go in and drag out the bleed- ing carcass ? " queried another.
None of them volunteered. A few more shots were fired. Then my doughty opponent, who appeared to be the head of the gang, offered to settle the matter by going into the hole himself, and im- mediately proceeded to put his threat into execution. I could hear him ap- proach rather cautiously. When he was within a few feet of me, and groping around on the ground for my dead body, I prepared for action. He could see nothing in the dark hole ; I had the ad- vantage of him in this respect, his body being dimly outlined against the sky. When he got close enough I heard him fumbling in his pocket for a match. Silently raising my revolver over his head, I put all the strength of my body into my blow, and dashed the butt of the weapon into his face. Again he fell senseless.
" Hello, Bill ! what 's up ? " cried his companions, as they heard the thudding sound.
Silence was no longer of service to me ; the stunned man would soon recov- er, and all would be lost. In addition I could see the flicker of a lantern ap- proaching ; some of the men had gone back to the camp after it. The gang only waited for the lantern to close in on me. If they did not kill me, they would at least hold me till their smug- gling was completed, possibly taking me afterward to some Justice of the Peace, or otherwise to some mock court, and trumping up some charge or other
against me, possibly for shooting the doe contrary to law, and assault and battery ; possibly robbery. I would be fined, detained, and very likely thrown into jail. In the meantime, some other fellow would walk off with the glory of their arrest, and capture of the Chinese. I would have my adventures and dan- gers for my payment. I also knew that " Bill " would never let up till he got his revenge.
Bill moved slightly ; jumping quickly out of the hole, I dashed again into the brush. The men hesitated to shoot, not knowing whether I was Bill or me. The lantern soon reached them, they rushed to the hole, and discovered that the bird had flown, and that Bill had been done for again.
Expecting a score of bullets to come whistling around my ears, I passed around a tree trunk, and looked back ; still they did not shoot. 1 could not un- derstand it at all. Rushing to another tree, I ran behind its sheltering trunk a short distance, feeling that my chances of escaping were getting better. Sud- denly a black form loomed up in front of me, something hard and heavy swooped down upon my head ; I knew nothing of what occurred afterward.
Stiff, sore, my head throbbing and aching, .my temples feeling as if a ton weight was crushing them, I came to my senses. A bandage was over my eyes, my legs and arms tied tightly with ropes, which cut into the flesh. I was a prisoner. I could hear voices around me, and a little distant from the others I heard thoseof a number of Chinamen. I was in the smugglers' camp. A foot kicked me rudely ; it was Bill, and he wanted to kill me, but the rest of the gang objected. He kicked me again, and I heard a slight struggle. They were evidently pulling him away. A man said to him rather roughly :
" Bill, you let that fellow alone ! he 's punished enough ; you sha'n't kill him ! there 's no need for it ! We will leave ​
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him here ; Jake will stay with him. We will finish our job, and let him go ; he does n't know any of us ; anyway, if he does, what harm can he do ? He won't dare show himself on this side of the line again ! He can't hurt us on the other side ; we will be hundreds of miles away from there and this place. Let him alone !"
"That's what, Bill ; you sha'n't kill kill him ! " chorused the others.
"Oh, you fellers is getting mighty vir- tuous all of a sudden ! You will be get- ting religion next thing, and turn mis- sionaries ! You can 't bluff me off from gettin' even with that skunk ! " yelled Bill, in a rage.
The rest of the men still persisted in taking my part, so the avenger had to give in.
A new thought striking him, he re- quested in an imploring voice that they allow him to "thump the darned stuffin' out of the beggar." To this they all agreed, but insisted that he use nothing but the weapons nature had endowed him with, hands and feet,and had to stop when they gave the word.
The blood from the gash on my head was trickling down over my face ; I knew that I had a dangerous wound and could n't last long under the treatment that Bill would subject me to. I im- plored them to let me go, to keep him off, as he would surely finish me ; I begged them to untie my bonds, and at least give me a fighting chance for my life.
They laughed loudly, saying : " You 're a good one, neighbor ! Good for you, old boy ! "
" If we had time we 'd like to see the scrap ! Bill would come out as second best!"
" Not today, old fellow ! Bill's enti- tled to one round ! We 're agoin' to let him have it too ! "
" If you 'd 'a' done any shooting, or hurt any of us worse than you have, we 'd let Bill plant you now. But seein'
as how your body might get some on us into trouble some day, and you 're quite harmless as you be, our consciences will be clear. As it is, we are willin' to let you off with your hide full of bruises. You deserve it for givin' us so much trouble, and a delayin' of us so long. We 're no chickens, and ain't out on any sympathy racket. Bill is entitled to one good go at you. You 've got grit, neigh- bor. But we fellers reckon as how you won't come nosin' around our camp no more."
"Git inter him, Bill." Bill didn't need any second bidding. The men flocked around to see the fun. Even the Chinamen drew up, jabbering like a lot of monkeys. "Time," yelled one. " Hoi' on,". called another ; " give him some show for his white alley."
Several of them took hold of me, un- tied my feet, and shoved me into the middle of the mock ring. I tried to dodge past them, but they shoved me back. Some one called time, and then Bill stepped up to me, and slapped me viciously on each cheek, following that up with light and tantalizing blows on my face, neck, body, and ears. I kicked at him every time he came near me, but being still blindfolded, my chances for hitting him were very slim indeed ; "but this produced great mirth amongst the men ; they laughed boisterously at each effort on my part. Bill appeared to wish that the fun would last as long as pos- sible ; he carefully avoided any knock- down blows. I became utterly weary of the farce. Disgusted and desperate, I chaffed him ; called him a coward, brute, big baby; told him I had thrashed him twice, and could do it again if he was n't too big a coward to untie my hands.
During the next few seconds he hit me viciously ; the bandage over my eyes became loose ; I could see a leg close to my feet ; kicked at it viciously with the instinct of self-preservation, and my toe ​landed squarely on his shin. He cried out with pain and rage; a sledge hammer blow landed on my wounded and lacerated brow; I sank down, and again I was unconscious.
How long I lay after Bill's last brutal blow I do not know. My first second of consciousness disclosed the fact to me that my eyes were uncovered, my limbs untied, and Beggs sitting by my side bathing my wounded head. In surprise I attempted to get up, but fell back.
"How in the world did you get here?" I asked.
"We got alarmed at your delay and crossed over the line; got on the trail of the smugglers; followed one of the men to this camp; found them all gone but the one that was watching you; tied him up and let you loose," answered Beggs.
"Where did the smugglers go?"
"Towards the American side; got a man trailing them!"
"And I won't have a hand in it at all, after all my fight!"
"Looks that way! I will have to leave you now, I have to get back to be in the arrest; these two lads will help you home. Goodby!"
"Goodby!" and he was gone. The men helped me home, where for several days I tossed about feverishly in bed. As soon as I could sit up in bed, I sent for the county papers. I learned that the smugglers had undoubtedly given the officials the slip, and that a recent seizure of a large quantity of opium made a few days before was supposed to have been a part of the outfit of the gang I had been interviewing.
The papers also published an interview that a reporter had with a ranchman back in the country some distance from the Sound. The ranchman stated that he had seen a large body of Chinamen near his ranch.
The paragraph that interested me the most was the following:—
Collector ——— has been notified that some meddlesome fellow had interfered with the government officials' plans for the capture of a gang of rascals that were almost in their grasp. Through this man's officious interference the said suspected rascals were warned of the near proximity of American officers, and crossed over at a remote point. This charge has been investigated, and satisfactory evidence produced to prove the criminal carelessness or guilt of this man. It has been ascertained that he got into a drunken brawl, was seriously wounded, and is now lying delirious from the effects of cuts and the vile stuff he had been drinking. He has been dismissed from the service, without pay.
I read all this in wild-eyed dismay, speechless and thunderstruck, and skipping the next few paragraphs, I read the closing one at the bottom of the page and article, the man's name who had created so much turmoil with the government "internals," in large, bold characters,—Brandreth Jones.
Crazy with disappointment, grief, and blasted hopes, I fell on my back, tearing the paper to shreds. I would prosecute the government. I would sue them for libel. They should suffer for this, the thankless ingrates.
Calmer moments succeeded; then came reaction. I would let the country go to the dogs. No more would I risk my life in its cause. I would let them feel my loss, and allow smugglers to walk in their midst unmolested.
The once (should have been) great name of Brandreth Jones, no longer is found on a government pay-roll, but may be seen on a small sign over a boot-black's chair in a doorway on a Tacoma street:—
Shine 'em up. 10 cts.
B. Jones. Prop.
J. C. Nattrass.
RECENT FICTION.
Our books of short stories this season show a higher average than the novels. The short story used to be considered the more difficult test of an author's power; but it was only necessary after all to catch a trick of condensation, and it was much the easier art, as a quatrain or song is easier than an ode, once the elementary fault of diffuseness is conquered. Nowadays, more writers of good short stories than of good novels are to be found.
Foremost among those before us for review is T. B. Aldrich's Two Bites at a Cherry,—half a dozen most readable and refined little stories, ranging from grave to gay in topic; but however grave, never without the light, fine touch by which Mr. Aldrich holds himself above altogether giving up to the pathos he suggests. One must read these stories over more than once to appreciate how clear and nice is the workmanship; and yet if one does this, he realizes that the flavor is evanescent, for like others of Mr. Aldrich's tales, they depend on a surprise at the end for their effect, and that is spoiled after the first reading. Most of the stories, if not all, have been in magazines before being collected into this book.
The latest collection of Miss Jewett's stories goes farther afield than many of her books. There are two Irish stories and the scene of another is mostly set in St. Augustine,—a sailor tale, on the same strain that Mrs. Phelps Ward touches in "A Madonna of the Tubs" and similar stories. Miss Jewett's is more true to life, it seems, than Mrs. Ward's and its pathos is certainly less evidently sought. The name story is a touching sketch of a prosperous politician and an old-time school sweetheart, who, cooped up in her little native hamlet, yet follows his career and in intellectual matters keeps herself the peer of this senator and man of the world. "Decoration Day" is a pretty story of the veteran of thirty years after the war; and "The Flight of Betsy Lane" is a narrative of a little woman who goes from a poorhouse to the Centennial. But it is unnecessary to tell the charm of each of Miss Jewett's stories, they are her stories and in her best vein, and that is enough for the discerning reader to know.
A book of short stories, absolutely new in its field to most American readers,—unless indeed they go back far enough into childhood days to recall Jack the Giant-killer and his honest Cornish giants,—is The Delectable Duchy. The tales have more of variety than Miss Jewett's and yet they fill much the same field. They tell of the honest poor, but with a touch of the ancient folk lore that is charming and foreign to Miss Jewett's work. There is broad fun in the Irish St. Piran legends, touching pathos in "The Conspiracy Aboard the Midas" and "Mr. Punch's Understudy." "The Paupers" might have been written by Miss Jewett herself so close and sympathetic is its study into the feelings of the old couple on their way to the poorhouse, and the little final touch where the poor old people walk beyond the gate, that the man in the cart may not see them enter, is exquisite. In this story is shown strikingly the difference between the old country poverty and that of even the oldest and most barren parts of America. Country people here go to the poorhouse
* ↑ No such thought has been apparent in recent discussion. It is generally assumed that immigration evils will be corrected, and various remedies are proposed. But practical men manifest great distrust of the remedies. During the recent debate in Congress an experienced member of the House declared that the present laws are of no practical use, and that the examination of arriving immigrants was a mere farce. In short, the remedies don't reach the disease.
* ↑ Sparks's Life and Letters of Washington. Vol. xi. pp. 2 and 392
* ↑ Works of Hamilton. Published by order of Congress; Vol. vii, pp. 774-6.
* ↑ Two Bites at a Cherry. By T. B. Aldrich. Boston: Houghton, Mfflin, & Co.: 1893.
* ↑ A Native of Winby. By Sarah Orne Jewett. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co.: 1893.
* ↑ The Delectable Duchy. By Q. New York: Macmillan & Co.: 1893.