The new Northwest. [volume] (Portland, Or.) 1871-1887, 1876-07-14

watched the waning breath of the
bright little four-year-old, whose
mother and ours had been buried in the
Black Hills of Wyoming just ten fleet
ing weeks before. AS we gazed, it
seemed as though an angel whispered.
The spot was holy. We were glad we
weIe alone.
In the long ago we wrote,
'' In this wild retreat, far away from our home,
am watching a brother most dear,
! Whose eyeballs are painfully swimming In
death,
And his forehead is glistening and clear"
Wide opened the gates of memory.
Visions of the long ago so vividly came
before US that we saw, or seemed to
see, the worn emigrant wagons, the
jaded oxen, and the dilapidated para
phernalia of the nomadic camp.
Around US slept, or seemed to sleep, the
weary members of our honored fathers
broken household. The occasion was
too awe-inspiring for tears. The stage
coach jostled and rumbled on. The
fierce sunbeams and sitting dust alike
overcame US. Leaning back on the
cushions, we closed our weary eyes and
yielded to the floods of retrospection
that overswept us.
Who spoke TO us? Was it a mere
fancy-the still, small voice that whis-
pered to the solitary wanderer, "Fear
not, beloved; for 10, am with you al
All, me!
The sun rode high in the dazzling
heavens. The rugged, eternal hills
gradually receded. From our seat in
the coach we espied occasional clear
ings upon the river bottom, where veg
citation, under the skillful care of hus-
bandmen, grew marvelously. These
oases in the great, grazing Sahara of
the Northwest are Meccas to the wan
derer.
Eight o'clock, and breakfast. A soli-
tary bachelor cultivates every fruit in
its season here. Such strawberries
such currants such an orchard and,
in spite of the flood of oIden memories
that have filled our spirit, the body is
half famished.
On we go again. How the long miles
unroll, one after another in seemingly
endless succession. Snake River is
reached long before noon. Again old
memories crowd upon US. The river
seems to sing a requiem to John
Mcdonald, who lost his life in trying to
recover the strayed cattle of our immi-
grant party a quarter of a century ago.
But John knows no desert country
now. Like brother Willie, he has long
been transplanted from the arid plains
of earth to the evergreen gardens of
God. With a sigh to his memory we
cross the river in boat, and find our
self in Idaho.
1t is high noon when we reach the
Weiser, rapid stream that wanders
through the arid plain, a very river of
life to countless herds which luxuriate
among the rank rye-grass that carries
on a constant warfare with the ever
abounding sage.
The aprons of the bridge are flooded.
Divers rumors of recent accidents reach
us. But the driver, the division agents,
and other employees of the road, are ex-
pert and watchful.
We are over without accident, and on
we go again. Our road for many miles
runs through vast, arid plain. Lonely
farm-houses are seen at long intervals.
Cattle abound everywhere.
Three o'clock, and our driver points out
the dinner station, three or four miles
away. The high waters drive US to the
foothills. We head long bend and
call halt at boat, where the stage
stops, and we cross the slough and walk
to dinner. The good landlady is dis
couraged. The high water has drowned
her garden-quite an item in a country
so remote from the worlds markets.
We must hurry, for the Payette, like
the Columbia, is on spree, and we must
cross it before dark. Reach the river at
six o'clock. The banks are full to over
flowing. The current runs like a mill
race. A well-rigged ferry-boat conveys
us safely across the swift waters, and here
the struggle begins. The horses plunge
into a swamp, the stage splashes and
labors, and we catch the straps ner-
vously, for there is trouble ahead, the
great danger being the possibility of
upsetting. Three of the horses swamp
and fall down.
"Whoa ~ says the driver.
Instantly a half-dozen brave men
doff their boots, roll up their panta-
looms, and plunge into the slough.
The horses are loosed from the coach.
We'd give the Kohinoor, if we had it,
to be ashore. How we'd like to be
busy, too. But we must watch and
wait. The running-gear of a wagon is
brought, drawn by span of gray
mules. They are hitched on with a
rope. The men lift the great wheels
with herculean labor. The driver
whips the team. The rope breaks.
Some time is spent in procuring cable.
One is brought at last that could hold
the steamer "Ajax." A mighty effort
Of