The new Northwest. [volume] (Portland, Or.) 1871-1887, 1878-05-24
AN HOUR WITH CORRESPONDENTS.
Seven times has
"Morn with rosy hand
Unbarred the gates Of Light"

again the correspondent hour Is al
hand. Behold US sitting with a huge
pile Of exchanges lying wrong side out
upon the floor at our left, showing here
and there the marks Of the remOrseless
scissors, q small mountain Of letters,
from some of which extracts are to be
made for this column, on the table at
our right, the sharp click, click, of fall
ing type at the cases behind us, varied
by an occasional call for "copy." Could
we have the portraiture of each writer
Of the various missives to be considered,
just as he or she looked when penning
themi could we note their surroundings,
and guess the groove in which their life
lines run, we might perhaps be able to
answer according to their expectations.
But as this is impossible, at random we
pick up the letters, at random we an
swer them.
Here is one in a dainty, family pink
envelope, about which fingers, as it
seems, sweet incense. Its concluding
words, "the baby is awake, and must
close" explain the mystery, and we
imagine the young mother, whom we
knew few short years ago as a happy,
healthful maiden, hurriedly sealing the
letter as she bends low over the cradle,
jogging it with her foot in the old-time
way, chirruping meanwhile to- the
bright-eyed baby, whose plump limbs
and snowy garments reveal not the fact
that his mother has been neglecting
him TO write to an editor. Happy
baby. He has no suspicion that the
babies Of literary women are lily cared
for; innocent little mother, never TO
suspect that such strong minded occu-
patton causes her to "scant her duty" to
her child. Write on and dream on, lit
tie woman, and may the wee boy never
cause you more or graver cares than now.
'HOw is it," asks friend to whom
reference was made in this talk with
correspondents several weeks ago, chow
is IL that a woman can so shrewdly sus-
pect or by intuition read a mans
thoughts? / would like to see an arti-
Gle in your paper upon this subject" I"
Ask US not how or why, good friend;
sufficient for us that the fact is indis-
putable ESQ indisputable that men
everywhere acknowledge it, even while
they vince at times over the revelations
that it occasions.
a postal, printed ia a child's chirog-
raphy. After some trouble we decipher
it, and find that "mother wants to write
to the NEW NORTHWEST, but her hands
are so stiff she can't write hardly at all,
so am doing it for her" Brave and
helpful little daughter, may your tiny
hands soon be able 10 lift the heavier
burdens from "mother's hands," as we
are sure your willingness to serve her
now lifts the heavier burdens from her
spirit.
Heigh no, what medley! Politics
/ this time. From Yamhill, from whence,
by the way, come many CHEEKY words,
come congratulations for tour ticket, f"
interspersed a little incoherently with
jubilant representations of the good
time coming, and buoyant hopes for the
only woman candidate in the field. Nor
are farm details forgotten, and here is
the postscript: 81 want you to send
me a pattern offs new style of polonaise. F"
/ Tell US now, ye scoffers at equality,
whether woman can't talk politics, be
interested therein, and yet retain her
/ feminine instincts. After all, what is
there more incongruous in politics and
polonaises than in politics and ulsters
a subscriber in Lane county writes:
~ very much appreciate your efforts in
favor of the interests Of a wrOnged class
of our citizens, and hope in the near fu-
ture the great object for which you are
laboring will be crowned with success" "
This hope, good friend, is echoed by
thousands from Maine to Oregon, and
from the great lakes to the gulf. In
due time these hopes will be realized, for
Right is right. since God is God,
And right the day must win;
To doubt would be disloyalty.
To falter would be SIM"
81 am" says a peregrinating friend
who enjoys life as he finds it, and re-
verses the Scripture injunction by laugh
ing when others weep, "writing in a
small log hut beneath two untamed
jumpers; hard by the door is water
/ trough, and all around a vast expanse
of sage-brush. The window that sheds
lighton my page has all the glass broken
out, and in lieu thereof gunny sack is
stretched across and snugly nailed.
How did get here? With Will Carle-
l ton can only exclaim,
''I swan its hard to tell"
These quaint pictures of pioneer cabins,
even though drawn in sportive mood,
awaken visions of the dim long ago in
the memory of many a white-haired
man and woman throughout the great
l West, are almost the only stories that
never grow old, and are among the pic
lures that are faithfully photographed
on minds that through age and feeble
ness can scarce recollect the occurrences
OF yesterday.
/ The North american announces that
the transfer of the iron steamer Estate
D