Year: 1877

lu6 lulLUl UlgTduG WHO dTTlNeS III OISBOu
at the present day, when company is
plenty, and provisions, transportation,
and communication are almost every
where available, is frequently heard to
complain of the tedious monotony of
the first rainy season. If from the
North, he has enduring memories of
feecy SHOWS and exhilarating sleigh
rides, and if from the South, of sunny
skies and tropical vegetation, all COM
bined with merry voices of absent loved
ones, from whose company he has been
Reluctantly transplanted. 1t is hard,
at best, for those accustomed to one To-
cality for many years to tear themselves
away from old associations and take up
their abode in strange localities. A hu-
man being is like tree. The older he
grows the harder you find it to success
fully transplant him from one region to
another. But the immigrant of to-day
knows little of the monOtony of the
rainy season in Oregon, as it appeared
to the newcomer of a third of century
ago. There was then no life for him
outside of his own little world. Bridges
were not; railroads and steamers had
not made their appearance, and when
the high waters came, shutting off all
intercourse between the scattering set
Elements of different neighborhoods,
there was nothing to do but eat, sleep,
and endure existence, as any set of
lower animals might.


To the spirit of an active-brained girl
like Martha Jones nee Marblehead the
monotony of the long, lonely winter was
decidedly irksome. Had she been in
love with her husband from the Begin
ming, she might have entered with
spirit into all the details of his plans for
the future. Not that his plans had
much of spirit in them, for they were
commonplace, indeed, beside those of
his ambitious mother, who managed the
Major as though he were but clay in the
potter's palms. Martha not only did
not love her husband, but she was pow
erless to enter harmoniously into his
humdrum talk concerning deer and bear
hunts, "worm" fences, onion patches,
and the like, with which the measure of
his mind was filled.


martha, my child, you ought to have
been the man, instead of Thomas, for
you are far more ambitious than he,"
said Mrs. Marblehead, who had tried in
vain to interest her son in the provis-
ional government, which was OH the
eve of permanent organization.


''I wish had been a man! Then I'd
never been caught mOping here" was
the impatient answer.


"Are you not happy, child?"


"Happy!"


The girl wife turned upon her mother
in-law with look of scorn as express
sive as her exclamation.


"Wby should be happy, pray?"


For many reasons, daughter.
Haven't you possession of my son ?
And isn't he devotedly in love with
you?"


Suppose he is! What of it ?" and
the daughter tossed her head defiantly.
"I'd rather be back in the old cabin,
wading in the mud and scolding the
young ones, than to exist here in this
lonely place, with no companion when
Toms away but the rain, aud none
when he's here but his stupid conversa-
tion or his equally stupid love makingri
Mrs Marblehead burst into tears. In
truth, she was not as happy herself a.
she had hoped to be in her new relation
for Major Marblehead as a lover haC
been indeed different style of mar
from Major Marblehead the husband.


Had he possessed this black-eyed
brilliant, enterprising, witty and schem
ing woman in GalestOwn, where he wa
the principal figurehead in a church anC
Sunday School of his own creating, b,
would have been very proud, as we'll a
very fond of her. But be had her all t.
himself, in a new country, where Their
were few spectators before whom b.
might exhibit her, and her attraction
were very soon as commonplace in hi
eyes as those of his departed spouse ha,
been. And yet be obeyed her slightes
command.


Mrs. Marblehead was not to be ignores
with impunity. She had set her hear
upon public life, and she was not to
old, or too poorly preserved, to bide he
time.


doubt if her faith in her husband
religion was as exalted after she ha,
been his wife for few months as il ha
been before she married him. 1t j
tritely and truly said that no man is
hero to his valet, and I fear that fe,
husbands are heroes to their wives,
wives would but be honest and confes
it. But, bless you, reader, you can u
more understand a woman's real est
mate of her husband by what she say
about him than you can comprehend
mans opinion of his wife by the way b
speaks of her.


guess this is all right. None of U
are perfect, and it is well that those VIII