{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_63172/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_63172","id":"gutenberg_63172","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63172","summary":null,"tags":["Alaska -- Description and travel","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Travel Writing","Pacific Coast (North America) -- Description and travel"],"text":"Transcriber\u2019s Notes:\n\nText enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).\n\nAdditional Transcriber\u2019s Notes are at the end.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n[Illustration: MRS. JAMES EDWIN MORRIS.]\n\n\n\n\nA PACIFIC COAST VACATION\n\n\n  BY MRS. JAMES EDWIN MORRIS\n\n  _Illustrated from Photographs Taken En Route\n  by James Edwin Morris_\n\n  THE Abbey Press\n  PUBLISHERS\n  114 FIFTH AVENUE\n  LONDON  NEW YORK  MONTREAL\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nCopyright, 1901, by THE Abbey Press\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDedicated to Alaska\u2019s Beautiful Daughter,\n\nMISS EDNA MCFARLAND\n\nLinked in my memory of those sea-girt shores where snow-crowned\nmountains tower like castles old; where wild cataracts hurl their\nwaters down rugged cliffs to the sea; where sea gulls mingle their\ncries with the rushing torrents; where frost giants stride up and down\nthe land; where the Aurora flames through the long winter nights, will\never be the name of this gifted daughter of Alaska.\n\n\n\n\nFOREWORD\n\n\nIf you ask what motive she who loved these scenes had in essaying to\nportray them with pen and camera, she would reply that like the Duke of\nBuckingham, when visiting the scene where Anna of Austria had whispered\nthat she loved him, let fall a precious gem that another finding it,\nmight be happy in that charm\u00e9d spot where he himself had been.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                        PAGE\n\n  FOREWORD\n\n  CHAPTER\n\n      I. AUF WIEDERSEHEN                   1\n\n     II. PLENTY OF ROOM                   34\n\n    III. OFF FOR ALASKA                   46\n\n     IV. FIRST VIEWS                      59\n\n      V. FURTHER GLIMPSES                 72\n\n     VI. GOLD FIELDS                      85\n\n    VII. MUIR GLACIER                     91\n\n   VIII. SITKA                           103\n\n     IX. ALASKA                          116\n\n      X. FAREWELL TO SKAGWAY             129\n\n     XI. WASHINGTON AND OREGON           137\n\n    XII. OFF FOR CALIFORNIA              160\n\n   XIII. SAN FRANCISCO                   173\n\n    XIV. CALIFORNIA FARMS AND VINEYARDS  187\n\n     XV. YOSEMITE                        191\n\n    XVI. SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA             210\n\n   XVII. HERE AND THERE ON THE COAST     217\n\n  XVIII. WALLA WALLA VALLEY              224\n\n    XIX. HISTORICAL REFERENCES           228\n\n     XX. YELLOWSTONE PARK                236\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.\n\n\n                                                        PAGE\n\n  Junction of the Mississippi and Black Rivers             9\n\n  Falls of Saint Anthony                                  11\n\n  Falls of Minnehaha                                      13\n\n  Old Fort Snelling                                       15\n\n  Roadway, Soldiers\u2019 Barracks, Fort Snelling              17\n\n  Entering the Cascade Range                              35\n\n  Lava Beds in Washington                                 37\n\n  Tangle of Wild Fern in a Washington Forest              39\n\n  Mount Rainier                                           41\n\n  Street in Tacoma, Washington                            45\n\n  Parliament House, Victoria                              51\n\n  Gorge of Homathco                                       53\n\n  Light House, Point Robert                               55\n\n  Fjords of Alaska                                        57\n\n  Fishing Hamlet of Ketchikan                             59\n\n  Fort Wrangel, Alaska                                    63\n\n  Chief Shake\u2019s House, Fort Wrangel                       67\n\n  Entering Wrangel Narrows                                71\n\n  Douglas Island, Looking Toward Juneau                   73\n\n  Silver Bow Ca\u00f1on, Juneau. (_By permission of F.\n    Laroche, photographer, Seattle, Washington_)          75\n\n  Old Russian Court House, Juneau                         77\n\n  Street in Juneau                                        79\n\n  Greek Church, Juneau                                    81\n\n  Indian Chief\u2019s House, Juneau                            83\n\n  Summit of the Selkirk Range, at Head of Yukon River.\n    Old Glory Waves Beside the British Flag               85\n\n  The Skagway Enchantress                                 89\n\n  Skagway, Showing White Pass                             91\n\n  Muir Glacier (section of)                               93\n\n  Greek Church, Killisnoo                                 99\n\n  Kitchnatti                                             101\n\n  Sitka--Soldiers\u2019 Barracks, Old Russian Warehouse and\n    Greek Church on the right, Indian Village on the\n    left, Russian Blockhouses Beyond, and Mission\n    Schools in the Distance. (_By permission of\n    F. Laroche, photographer, Seattle, Washington_)      103\n\n  Indian Avenue, Sitka                                   105\n\n  Blockhouse on Bank of Indian River, Sitka, Alaska      107\n\n  Rapids, Indian River, Sitka                            113\n\n  Where Whales and Porpoises Poke Their Noses Up\n    Through the Brine                                    119\n\n  Steamer Queen Leaving Juneau                           133\n\n  Alps of America                                        135\n\n  Government Locks on the Columbia River                 143\n\n  Rapids, Columbia River                                 145\n\n  Farm on the Bank of the Columbia River, Below the\n    Dalles, Oregon                                       147\n\n  Scene on an Oregon Farm in the Willamette Valley       151\n\n  Roadway in Oregon                                      153\n\n  Climbing the Shasta Range                              163\n\n  The Highest Trestle in the World, near Muir\u2019s Peak,\n    Shasta Range                                         165\n\n  Mount Shasta. (_By permission of F. Laroche,\n    photographer, Seattle, Washington_)                  167\n\n  Street Scene in Chinatown, San Francisco               177\n\n  Museum in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco              181\n\n  Early Morning, Yosemite Valley                         189\n\n  Wawona Valley                                          191\n\n  Oldest Log Cabin in the Sequoia Grove, Mariposa\n    County, California. Old Columbia in the Foreground   193\n\n  Half Dome and Merced River                             195\n\n  Merced River, Yosemite Valley                          197\n\n  Yosemite Falls                                         199\n\n  El Capitan                                             201\n\n  Bridal Veil Falls and the Three Brothers (solid rock)  203\n\n  Mirror Lake, Sleeping Water                            205\n\n  Yosemite Falls, Showing Floor of the Valley            207\n\n  Sunrise in Yosemite Valley                             209\n\n  Entering Hell Gate Ca\u00f1on                               233\n\n  Liberty Cap and Old Fort Yellowstone                   235\n\n  Hotel Mammoth, Hot Springs, Yellowstone Park           237\n\n  Old Faithful Geyser, Yellowstone Park, Just Before\n    an Eruption                                          239\n\n  Yellowstone Lake                                       241\n\n  Camping on the Shore of Lake Yellowstone               243\n\n  Paint Pots on Shore of Yellowstone Lake                245\n\n  Grand Ca\u00f1on of the Yellowstone                         247\n\n  Gibbon River Falls                                     249\n\n  Micky and Annie Rooney                                 251\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nA Pacific Coast Vacation\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I AUF WIEDERSEHEN\n\n\nOff to see the land of icebergs and glaciers; the land I have often\nvisited in my imagination. It seems but yesterday that the first\ngeography was put into my hands. O, that dear old geography, the silent\ncompanion of my childhood days.\n\nThe first page to which I opened pictured an iceberg, with a polar\nbear walking right up the perpendicular side, and another bold fellow\nsitting on top as serenely as Patience on a monument.\n\n\u201cWhat was an iceberg? What were the bears doing on the ice and what did\nthey eat? Was that the sun shining over yonder? Why didn\u2019t it melt the\nice and drop the bears into the sea? No, that was not the sun, it was\nthe aurora borealis. Aurora? Who was she and why did she live in that\ncold, cold country, the home of Hoder, the gray old god of winter?\u201d\n\nThe phenomenon of the aurora was explained to us, but to our childish\nimagination Aurora ever remained a maiden whose wonderful hair of\nrainbow tints lit up the northern sky.\n\nWe talked of Aurora, we dreamed of Aurora, and now we are off to see\nthe charming ice maiden of our childhood fancy.\n\nOff to Alaska. For years we have dreamed of it; for days and weeks\nwe have breakfasted on Rocky Mountain flora, lunched on icebergs and\nglaciers and dined on totem poles and Indian chiefs.\n\nMuch of the charm of travel in any country comes of the glamour with\nwhich fable and legend have enshrouded its historic places.\n\nAmerica is rapidly developing a legendary era. Travel up and down the\nshores of the historic Hudson and note her fabled places.\n\nThe \u201cHeadless Hessian\u201d still chases timid \u201cIchabods\u201d through \u201cSleepy\nHollow.\u201d \u201cRip Van Winkle,\u201d the happy-go-lucky fellow, still stalks the\nCatskills, gun in hand. The death light of \u201cJack Welsh\u201d may be seen\non a summer\u2019s night off the coast of Pond Cove. \u201cMother Crew\u2019s\u201d evil\nspirit haunts Plymouth, while \u201cSkipper Ireson\u201d floats off Marble Head\nin his ill-fated smack.\n\nWith a cloud for a blanket the \u201cIndian Witch\u201d of the Catskills sits on\nher mountain peak sending forth fair weather and foul at her pleasure,\nwhile the pygmies distil their magic liquor in the valley below.\n\n\u201cAtlantis\u201d lies fathoms deep in the blue waters of the Atlantic, and\nthe \u201cFlying Dutchman\u201d haunts the South Seas.\n\nWe have our Siegfried and our Thor, whom men call Washington and\nFranklin. Our \u201cHymer\u201d splits rocks and levels mountains with his\ndevil\u2019s eye, though we call him dynamite.\n\nIsrael Putnam and Daniel Boone may yet live in history as the Theseus\nand Perseus of our heroic age.\n\nCertainly our country has her myths and her folk lore.\n\nIn time America, too, will have her saga book.\n\nYonder, Black Hawk, chief of the Sac, Fox, and Winnebago Indians, made\nhis last stand, was defeated by General Scott, captured and carried to\nWashington and other cities of the East, where he recognized the power\nof the nation to which he had come in contact. Returning to his people,\nhe advised them that resistance was useless. The Indians then abandoned\nthe disputed lands and retired into Iowa.\n\nJust north of Chicago we passed field after field yellow with the bloom\nof mustard. Calling the porter I asked him what was being grown yonder.\nHe looked puzzled for a moment, then his face lighted up with the\ninspiration of a happy thought as he replied:\n\n\u201cThat, Madam, is dandelion.\u201d\n\n\u201cO, thank you; I suppose that they are being grown for the Chicago\nmarket?\u201d said I, knowing that dandelion greens with the buds in blossom\nand full bloom are considered a delicacy in the city.\n\n\u201cNo, Madam,\u201d answered my porter wise, \u201cI don\u2019t think them fields is\nbeing cultivated at all.\u201d\n\nI forebore to point out to him the well kept fence and the marks of the\nplow along it, but brought my field glasses into play and discovered\nthat the disputed fields had been sown to oats, but the oats were being\nsmothered out by the mustard.\n\nWisconsin is a beautiful state. Had the French government cultivated\nthe rich lands of the Mississippi valley and developed its mineral\nresources as urged by Joliet, Wisconsin might still be a French\nterritory. But all his plans for colonization were rejected by the\ngovernment he served. A map of this country over which Joliet traveled\nmay be seen in the Archives de la Marine, Paris, France, to-day.\n\nThe soil is light and farming in Wisconsin is along different lines\nfrom that of her sister state, Illinois. In every direction great dairy\nbarns dot the landscape. Corn is grown almost entirely for fodder. The\nseasons here are too short to mature it properly. In planting corn for\nfodder it is sown much as are wheat and oats.\n\nThe principal crops of this great state are flax, oats, hops, and I\nmight add ice. Large ice houses are seen on every side. Much of the\ncountry is yet wild. Acres of virgin prairie just now aglow with wild\nflowers, take me back to my childhood, when we spent whole days on the\nprairie, \u201cWhere the great warm heart of God beat down in the sunshine\nand up from the sod;\u201d where Marguerites and black-eyed Susans nodded\nin the golden sunshine, and the thistle for very joy tossed off her\npurple bonnet.\n\nHere and there in northern Illinois and Wisconsin kettle holes mark the\ntrack of the glaciers that once flowed down from the great n\u00e9v\u00e9 fields\nof Manitoba and the Hudson lake district.\n\nIn traveling across Wisconsin one is reminded of the time when witches,\ndevils, magicians, and manitous held sway over the Indian mind.\n\nMilwaukee is a name of Indian origin,--Mahn-a-wau-kie, anglicized into\nMilwaukee--means in the language of the Winnebagoes, rich, beautiful\nland.\n\nAccording to an Indian legend the name comes from mahn-wau, a root of\nwonderful medicinal properties. The healing power of this root, found\nonly in this locality, was so great that the Chippewas on Lake Superior\nwould give a beaver skin for a finger length piece.\n\nThe market place now stands on the site of a forest-clad hill, which\nhad been consecrated to the Great Manitou. Here tomahawks were belted\nand knives were sheathed. Here the tribes of all the surrounding\ncountry met to hold the peace dance which preceded the religious\nfestival. At the close of the religious services each Indian carried\naway with him from the holy hill a memento to worship as an amulet.\n\nIt was the greatest wish, the most passionate desire of every Indian to\nbe buried at the foot of this hill on the bank of the Mahn-a-wau-kie.\n\nRecent investigation has shown that Wisconsin was the dwelling place of\nstrange tribes long before the advent of the Indian.\n\nThe Dells of the Wisconsin river was a favorite resort of the Indian\nmanitous. Yonder is a chasm fifty feet wide, across which Black Hawk\nleaped when fleeing from the whites. He surely had the aid of the\nnether world.\n\nIn this beautiful region, hemmed in by rugged bowlder cliffs, lies a\nveritable Sleepy Hollow. In a dense wood back of the cliff stands the\nmythical \u201clost cabin.\u201d Many have lost their way searching for it. The\nstrange thing about it is that they who have once found it are never\nable to find it again. Weird stories are told about it. Its logs are\nold and strange, different from the wood of the dark old forest in\nwhich it stands. There are stories afloat that it is haunted by its\nformer inhabitants, who move it about from place to place.\n\nAt the foot of this rugged cliff lies Devil\u2019s lake. At the head of this\nfathomless body of water is a mound built in the form of an eagle with\nwings outspread. Here, no doubt, lies buried a great chief. Nothing is\nleft in Wisconsin to-day of the Indian but footprints,--mounds, graves,\nlegends and myths.\n\nAt Devil\u2019s Lake lived a manitou of wonderful power. This lake fills the\ncrater of an extinct volcano. Now this manitou, so the tale runs, piled\nup those heavy blocks of stone, which form the Devil\u2019s Doorway. He\nalso set up Black Monument and Pedestaled Bowlder for thrones where he\nmight sit and view the landscape o\u2019er when on his visits to the earth.\nThese visits have ceased, since the white man possesses the country.\nOne day this wonderful manitou aimed a dart at a bad Indian and missing\nhim, cleft a huge rock in twain, which is now known as Cleft Rock. At\nnight, long ago, he might have been seen sitting on one of his thrones\nor peeping out of the Devil\u2019s Doorway watching the dance of the frost\nfairies or gazing at the aurora flaming through the night.\n\nEvery night at midnight Gitche Manitou appears in the middle of the\nlake.\n\nIn days gone by a strange, wild creature, known as the Red Dwarf,\nroamed the region of the great lakes, haunting alike the lives of red\nman and white.\n\nThe snake god, the stone god, the witch of pictured rocks, were-wolves\nand wizards held sway in that charm\u00e9d region where San Souci, Jean\nBeaugrand\u2019s famous horse, despite his hundred years, leaped wall of\nfort and stockade at pleasure.\n\n[Illustration: JUNCTION OF THE MISSISSIPPI AND BLACK RIVERS.]\n\nAt LaCrosse we crossed Black river into Minnesota and shortly after\ncrossed the Mississippi. LaCrosse, although French, originally, means\na game played by the Indian maidens on the ice. The heights on either\nside of the Mississippi river remind one of the Catskills along the\nHudson. Indeed, the scenery is very similar. You easily imagine yonder\ncliffs to be the palisades. Here, a spur of the Catskills range and the\nlittle valley between might be Sleepy Hollow. But you miss the historic\nplaces--Washington\u2019s headquarters, Tarrytown, West Point and others.\nLike forces produce like results. When you have seen the Hudson river\nand its environs you have seen the upper Mississippi.\n\nSt. Paul and Minneapolis form the commercial center of the North.\nAlthough the ground freezes from fifteen to sixteen feet, the concrete\nsidewalks and pavements show no effect of the touch of Jack Frost\u2019s icy\nfingers. The street-cars here are larger and heavier than any I have\never seen. Then, too, they have large wheels, and that sets them up so\nhigh. This is on account of the snow, which lasts from Thanksgiving to\nEaster, good sleighing all the time.\n\nThe French and Indian have left to this region a nomenclature\npeculiarly its own. There is Bear street and White Bear street. In the\nshop windows are displayed headgear marked Black Bear, White Bear and\nRed Cloud. There are on sale Indian dolls, Indian slippers, French\nsoldier dolls, Red Indian tobacco, showing the influence still existing\nof the two peoples. One sees many French faces and hears that language\nquite often on the streets and in the cars.\n\nThe falls of St. Anthony are at the foot of Fifth street in\nMinneapolis. The water does not come leaping over, but pours over\neasily and smoothly in one solid sheet. On either bank of the river are\nlocated the largest flouring mills in the world. Not a drop of the old\nMississippi that comes sweeping over the falls but pays tribute in\nfurnishing power for these mills. Huge iron turbine wheels that twenty\nmen could not lift are turned as easily as a child rolls a hoop.\n\n[Illustration: FALLS OF SAINT ANTHONY.]\n\nOn the site of these mills long ago were camped the Dakotas. They had\njust come down from another village where one of the men had married\nanother wife and brought her along. The woman was stronger than the\nsavage in wife number one, and when the Indians broke camp and packed\nup their canoes and goods for the journey to the foot of the falls, the\nforsaken wife, taking her child, leaped into a canoe and rowed with\na steady hand down stream toward the falls. Her husband saw her and\ncalled to her, but she seemed not to hear him and she did not even turn\nher head when his comrades joined him in his cries. On swept the boat,\nwhile the broken-hearted wife sang her death-song. Presently the falls\nwere reached. The boat trembled for a moment, then turning sideways,\nwas dashed to pieces on the rocks below.\n\nMinnesota was the land of Gitche Manitou the Mighty and Mudjekeewis.\nMackinack was the home of Hiawatha and old Nokomis. There Gitche\nManitou made Adam and Eve and placed them in the Indian Garden of Eden.\nOne day Manitou or Great God made a turtle and dropped it into Lake\nHuron. When it came up with a mouth full of mud, Manitou took the mud\nand made the island of Mackinack.\n\nAs we steamed up the Mississippi to the falls of Minnehaha we had a\ngood view of the bank swallows in their homes in the sandstone banks\nalong the river. The action of the air on sandstone hardens a very\nthin crust on the surface, and when this is scraped off one can easily\ndig into the bank. The swallows are geologists enough to know this and\nhundreds of them have dug holes in the perpendicular walls. Here the\nchattering, noisy little cave-dwellers fly in and out all day long,\nflying up over the cliffs and away in search of food or resting in the\nshrubbery which grows in the water near by. It is a pretty sight to see\nthe happy little fellows skim the water. It makes you wish that you,\ntoo, had wings.\n\nAt the entrance of Minnehaha park we were greeted by a merry wood\nthrush, whose voice is melodious beyond description. There he sat on a\nswaggy limb not ten feet from us. We were familiar with his biography\nand recognized him by his brown and white speckled coat. We advanced\ncautiously. We had come six hundred miles to see him and I think he\nknew it, too, for when we were so near that we could have taken him in\nour hands he recognized our presence by nodding his graceful head first\nthis way, then that, and sang on. We spent some ten minutes with him,\nthen \u201c_bon voyage_\u201d he sang out as we passed on.\n\n[Illustration: FALLS OF MINNEHAHA.]\n\nThree miles above Minneapolis are the beautiful falls of Minnehaha,\nLaughing Water. These falls are beautiful beyond the power of my pen to\ndescribe. The water does not pour over, but comes leaping and dancing,\nlike one great shower of diamonds, pearls, sapphires and rubies. The\nvast sheet of water sixty-five feet high reminds one of a bridal veil\ndecked with gems and sprinkled with diamond dust.\n\n  \u201cWhere the falls of Minnehaha\n   Flash and gleam among the oak trees,\n   Laugh and leap into the valley.\u201d\n\nIt was here that Hiawatha came courting the lovely maiden Minnehaha.\nThe falls are surrounded by a government park. Hurrying along through\nglen and dale, looking for the falls, we met a party of young ladies\nwho were having a picnic in the park.\n\nI accosted one of them, \u201cBeg pardon, Mademoiselle, can you tell me\nwhere to find the falls?\u201d\n\nShe looked astonished for a moment. \u201cThe falls of what?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe falls of Minnehaha.\u201d\n\n\u201cO, I don\u2019t know; never heard of her,\u201d replied my maiden fair as she\nturned and tripped away.\n\nIt has always seemed so strange to me that people living near places of\ninterest are oftentimes ignorant of the fact.\n\nWe next met a youth of some fourteen summers, who knew the history of\nSt. Paul, Minneapolis and their environs. He could tell you all about\nthe big mills, the soldiers, the barracks and old Fort Snelling. He\nknew the story of Minnehaha, too; had been to the falls hundreds of\ntimes, and knew the Song of Hiawatha as he knew his alphabet. Gitche\nManitou had but to set his foot on the earth and a mighty river flowed\nfrom his tracks. Mudjekeewis was a great warrior, but Hiawatha was\nhis hero. It was with genuine regret that we bade good-by to this\ninteresting youth.\n\n[Illustration: OLD FORT SNELLING.]\n\nOur next visit was to old Fort Snelling, three miles out from St.\nPaul. This fort was built in 1820. It is round, two stories high\nand is constructed of stone. The old fort, of course, is not used\nnow. The regular soldiers stationed here are located in delightful\nquarters. The barracks are just beyond the old fort. The hospital is a\nlarge, commodious building of stone. The parade field is a delightful\nbit of rolling prairie. The barracks are quite deserted now, most of\nthe regiment being in the Philippines. Only a small detachment of\ntwenty-five troops remains to take care of the property. Fort Snelling\nwas the rendezvous of the Chippewas and the Sioux in the old days of\nIndian occupation.\n\nWhile the two tribes smoked the pipe of peace and made protestations of\nfriendship they might not intermarry.\n\nAt one of these meetings a Sioux brave won the heart of a Chippewa\nmaiden. Their love they kept a secret, but when the tribes met again\nat old Fort Snelling a quarrel arose among the young warriors which\nresulted in the death of a Sioux.\n\nThe Sioux fell upon the Chippewas with the cry of extermination.\n\nIn the midst of battle lover and loved one met, but for a moment. They\nwere swept apart and the young warrior knew that the fair maiden lived\nonly in the land of shadows.\n\nThere dwells in the river at the falls of Saint Anthony a dusky Undine.\nShe was once a mermaid living in a placid lake, longing for a soul\nwhich the good Manitou finally promised her upon her marriage with a\nmortal. The mortal appeared one day in the form of a handsome Ottawa\nbrave, and to him the beautiful mermaid told her tale of woe. The two\nwere wed. The mermaid received her soul and the form of a human, but\nher new relatives disliked her. They quarreled over her and at last the\nOttawas and the Adirondacks fought over her, and threw her into the\nriver. There she lives to this day, thankfully giving up her soul for\nthe peace and quiet of a mermaid\u2019s life.\n\nThis is the home of the pine and the birch. The white melilotus grows\nrank in the byways of Minneapolis.\n\n[Illustration: ROADWAY, SOLDIER\u2019S BARRACKS, FORT SNELLING.]\n\nThe horse may not have to go, but the bicycle has surely come to stay.\nA unique figure on the streets of St. Paul is a window washer, black as\nthe ace of spades, mounted on a wheel. Rags of all sorts and conditions\nhang from his pockets. He carries his brushes aloft _a la_ \u201cSancho\nPanza.\u201d He rides up to the curbstone, dismounts, leans his steed\nagainst the curb, washes his windows and rides away at a pace that\nwould make Don Quixote\u2019s sleepy squire open his eyes in amazement.\n\nA beautiful morning in June finds us aboard the Great Northern Flyer,\nbound for the Pacific coast. We were soon up on the river bluffs. Here\nis some fine farming land, the only drawback being the lack of well\nwater. The geological formation is entirely different from that of\nIndiana and Illinois, where water may be had on the bluffs as easily as\nlower down toward the riverbed. Here the underground water current lies\non a level with the bed of the river and a well must go down five or\nsix hundred feet through the bluff before water is obtained.\n\nOur route here follows the Mississippi, which in places is jammed with\nrafts of logs on their way down to the saw mills. Each log bears the\nowner\u2019s mark. One sees many logs, big fellows worth ten or fifteen\ndollars, which have slipped from their rafts and like independent boys,\nget lost in all sorts of places.\n\nGeorge Monte was an Indian lumberman of the north. He worked at a chute\nwhere the logs were floated down to the river and held back by a gate\nuntil it was time to send them through _en masse_. When all was ready\nthe foreman ordered the log drivers to open the gate. One chilly night\nthe order came to open the gate. The night was dark and the men drew\nlots to see who should attempt the dangerous feat. Monte drew what was\nto him the fatal slip. Without a word he opened the door and passed\nout into the night. The jam was broken and the logs passed through,\nbut hours passed and Monte failed to return. Then his companions went\nin search of him. Investigation showed that the big gate which sank\nby its own weight when the pins had been removed, was held by some\nobstruction. The object was removed with long spike-poles and proved\nto be the mangled body of Monte. The chute was soon abandoned, for\nevery night at midnight his ghost walks the banks. His moans can be\ndistinctly heard above the swish and lap of the water.\n\nOn the Coteau des Prairies (side of the prairies) in Minnesota,\npipe-stone, a smooth clay, from which hundreds of Indians have cut\ntheir pipes, forms a wall two miles long and thirty feet high. In front\nof the wall lie five big bowlders dropped there by the glaciers. Under\nthese bowlders lies the spirit of a squaw, which must be propitiated\nbefore the stone is cut. This quarry was neutral ground for all the\ntribes. Here knives were sheathed and tomahawks belted. To this place\ncame the Great Spirit to kill and eat the buffalo of the prairies.\nThe thunder bird had her nest here and the clashing of the iron wings\nof her young brood created the storms. Once upon a time, when a snake\ncrawled into the nest to steal the young thunderers, Manitou, the Great\nSpirit, seized a piece of pipe stone and pressing it into the form\nof a man, hurled it at the snake. The clay man missed the snake and\nstruck the ground. He turned to stone and there he stood for a thousand\nyears. He grew to manhood\u2019s stature and in time another shape, that of\na woman, grew beside him. One day the red pair wandered away over the\nplains. From this pair sprang all the red people.\n\nFrom St. Paul to Fargo not a stalk of corn was to be seen, but there\nwas field after field of fine wheat. This part of Minnesota is much\nmore thickly settled than immediately around St. Paul and Minneapolis.\nMorehead in Minnesota and Fargo, across the line in Dakota, are\nthriving towns. The country here looks like Illinois. The lay of the\nland is the same and groves and houses dot the landscape. Here dwelt\nthe Dakota tribes from which the states of Dakota and Minnesota take\ntheir names. Here came Hiawatha and his bride, Minnehaha, whom he won\nat St. Paul when the tribe was visiting that country, for Minnehaha was\na Dakota girl, you remember.\n\nHiawatha\u2019s fight with his father began on the upper Mississippi and the\nbowlders found there were their missiles. Hiawatha fought against him\nfor many long days before peace was declared between them.\n\nThe evil Peace Father had slain one of Hiawatha\u2019s relatives. He engaged\nhim in combat all the hot day long. They battled to no purpose, but the\nnext day a woodpecker flew overhead and cried out, \u201cYour enemy has but\none vulnerable point; shoot at his scalp-lock.\u201d Hiawatha did this and\nthe Peace Father fell dead. Taking some of the blood on his finger the\nvictor touched the woodpecker on the head and the red mark is seen on\nevery woodpecker to this day.\n\nDakota as well as Wisconsin has her Devil\u2019s Lake, about which hang\nmany legends, but unlike that of Wisconsin the Great Spirit, Gitche\nManitou, does not appear in the middle of it every night at twelve\no\u2019clock.\n\nIndians as well as whites believe in a coming Messiah. In 1890 a frenzy\nswept over the northwest, inspiring the Indians to believe that the\nMessiah, who was no less than Hiawatha himself, and who was to sweep\nthe white people off the face of the earth, would soon arrive. Dakota\nwas the meeting ground of the tribes. Sitting Bull, a Sioux chief, told\nthem in assembly that he had seen the wonderful Messiah while hunting\nin the mountains. He told them that having lost his way, he followed\na star which led him to a wonderful valley, where he saw throngs of\nchiefs long dead, as they appeared in a spirit dance. Christ was there,\ntoo, and showed him the nail wounds in his hands and feet and the place\nwhere the spear pierced his side. Then the old rogue returned to his\npeople and taught them the ghost dance, which caused the whites so much\ntrouble.\n\nDakota is a beautiful state. The land along the route of the Great\nNorthern railway lies more level than in Minnesota. The crops are\nlooking well in this region. There seems to be but one drawback to\nfarming here and that is the famous Russian thistle imported a few\nyears ago. The principal crops are oats, barley and wheat. Rye bread\nis plenty and good, too. Out there on the broad cheek of the Dakota\nprairie the weeds are holding high revelry. Some of the same old weeds\nwe have at home and many which are new to the writer. Wild ducks build\ntheir nests in the tall grass of the ponds just as they did in Illinois\nthirty years ago.\n\nAt Minot, Dakota, we set our watches to Mountain time, turning them\nback one hour. We arrived at Minot at 11:10 P. M., remained fifteen\nminutes and left at 10:25. At 9:15 o\u2019clock the sun was just sinking in\nthe west. It does not get dark here, only twilight. At 10 o\u2019clock the\nmoon came up and we bade good night to Saturday.\n\nSunday we spent in the Bad Lands of Montana. \u201cHell with the fires\nout\u201d is the popular name given to the Bad Lands in the wild, fearless\nnomenclature of the west. It is an ancient sea bottom. The lower strata\nis clay and the one above it is sand. They are wild and rugged beyond\ndescription. The action of the air, wind and storm have worn them into\ntowers, citadels and fantastic peaks.\n\nThe highly colored scoria rocks crop out here and there, adding a\nbeauty of their own. Summer and winter, long before the advent of the\nwhite man the coal mines in this region were burning. Looking down into\nthe fiery furnace one may see the white-hot glow of the coal and the\nheated rocks glowing with a white heat. Rattlesnakes wriggle through\nthe short grass. Quails and grouse fly up and away.\n\nThere is a banshee in the Bad Lands whose cries chill your blood if you\nhappen to hear her, which I did not. She is most frequently seen on a\nhill south of Watch Dog Butte, in Dakota, her flowing hair and her long\narms tossing in wild gestures, make a weird picture in the moonlight.\nCattle will not remain near the butte and cowboys fear the banshee and\nher companion, a skeleton that walks about and haunts the camps in the\nvicinity. Leave a violin lying near and he will seize it and away,\nplaying the most weird music, but you must not follow him, for he will\nlead you into pits and foot falls. The explanation of all this is the\nphosphorus found in this vicinity, which glows in the night air.\n\nStanding Rock agency is the best known of our frontier posts. The rock\nfrom which the post takes its name is only about three feet high and\ntwo feet in width. This rock was once a beautiful Indian bride who\nstarved herself to death upon her husband marrying a second wife. After\nher death the Great Manitou turned her to stone, and here she stands to\nthis day.\n\nGlasgow, Montana, lies in the midst of the Sioux reservation. Like the\nSpartans of old, these warriors of the plains dwell in tents during a\npart of every year. Just beyond the town tepees now dot the landscape\nwhere for a brief space the red man forgets the things taught him by\nhis white brother and resumes his old wild ways, but at the approach\nof winter he abandons his tent and returns to his log cabin and to\ncivilization.\n\nThe Indian costume is a mixture of savage and civilized dress, looking\nmore like that of the Raggedy Man than any other.\n\nBlackfoot is a village in the heart of the Blackfeet reservation, lying\njust west of that of the Sioux. These people, like the ancient Greeks,\nreverence the butterfly.\n\n\u201cAh!\u201d exclaim these red children of nature when they see one of these\nPsyches of the prairie flitting from flower to flower over the green\nmeadow, \u201cah, see him now. He is gathering the dreams which he will\nbring to us in our sleep.\u201d\n\nIf you see the sign for the butterfly which is something like a maltese\ncross painted on a lodge, you will know that the owner was taught\nhow to decorate his lodge, in a dream by an apunni,--butterfly. A\nBlackfeet woman embroiders a butterfly on a piece of buckskin and ties\nit on her baby\u2019s head when she wishes to put it to sleep. Wrapped in\ntheir blankets the Indians stood about Blackfoot village as we came in\nreminding us of Longfellow\u2019s address to \u201cDriving Cloud:\u201d\n\n  \u201cWrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city\u2019s\n   Narrow and populous street, as once by the margin of rivers\n   Stalked those birds unknown which have left to us only their\n     footprints.\n   What in a few short years will remain of thy race but footprints?\n   How canst thou tread these streets, who hast trod the green turf of\n     the prairies?\n   How canst thou breathe this air who hast breathed the sweet air of\n     the mountains?\u201d\n\nWhen one has trod the velvety green turf of the prairies and breathed\nthe sweet air of the mountains he is quite ready to sympathize with\n\u201cDriving Cloud.\u201d\n\nThe government schools for the Blackfeet Indians are located in a\nvalley beyond Blackfoot village. The schools are conducted exactly as\nour public schools are, only that the Blackfeet children must go to\nschool ten months in the year. Think of that, boys and girls. During\nJuly and August these dusky redskins get a vacation, which they spend\nwith their parents and for the time being return to the savage state.\nThe agent told me they were always quite wild upon their return to\nschool after two months of hunting, fishing and living in tepees.\n\nNow and then a fine covey of quails or prairie chickens flies up and\naway. How glad they would make a sportsman\u2019s heart!\n\nWith our glasses we see easily two hundred miles in this rarefied\natmosphere. I discovered several coyotes running along a ledge in the\nBad Lands that I could not see at all with my naked eye. The Sweet\nGrass mountains, sixty miles away on the Canadian line, loom up so\nplainly that they appear to be only two miles distant. With the aid of\nthe glasses we could see the vegetation and rocks on the sides of the\nmountains quite plainly.\n\nThe United States geological survey reports Montana the best watered\nstate in the Union. It has more large rivers than all of the states\nwest of the Mississippi combined. Milk river is five hundred miles\nlong. This valley is one of the finest in Montana. Here irrigation is a\nperfect success.\n\nHere one sees the cowboy in all his picturesqueness. The saddle is your\ntrue seat of empire. Montana cattle bring a big price in the Chicago\nmarket. The top price paid in 1897 was five dollars per hundredweight,\nand was paid to George Draggs for a shipment from Valley county. I\nwould almost be willing to live in the Bad Lands if I might always\nhave my table supplied with the juicy mountain beef which we have been\neating since we arrived at St. Paul.\n\nThis is a fine sheep as well as cattle country.\n\nMontana is not all sage brush, coyotes and rattlesnakes.\n\nMontana has according to the report of the secretary of the interior\nseventy million acres of untillable lands. A great portion of this land\ncan be reclaimed by irrigation.\n\nWe passed the Little Rockies sixty miles to the north (the distance\nlooked to be only about two miles). The Bear Paw mountains are west\nof these. The Indians are very superstitious about the mountains. The\ngreat spirit, Manitou, they tell us, broke a hole through the floor of\nheaven with a rock and on the spot where it fell he threw down more\nrocks, snow and ice until the pile was so high that he could step from\nthe summit into heaven.\n\nAfter the mountains were completed, Manitou by running his hands over\ntheir rugged sides, forced up the forests. Then he plucked some leaves,\nblew his breath upon them and gave them a toss in the air and lo they\nsailed away in the breezy blue birds. His staff he turned into beasts\nand fishes. The earth became so beautiful he decided to live on it and\nstarting a fire in Mt. Shasta he burned it out for a wigwam.\n\nAn interesting part of life on the plains is the prairie dog and his\ntown, the streets of which were not laid out by an engineer. Each dog\nselects the site of his home to suit his taste. The houses are about\nthe size of a wagon wheel, almost perfectly round. As the train whirls\nby they sit on top of their houses looking much like soldiers standing\nguard. The dogs are three times as large as a gopher and of a pale\nstraw color. As one walks toward them, down they go through the door,\nbut they are very curious and presently back they come for another\nlook. They are agile and graceful in movement. One handsome fellow lay\non the projecting sill of a house basking in the sun. We approached\nvery near before he saw us. The flies were annoying him. He shook his\nhead and blinked his eyes at the flies, paying little attention to us.\n\nThe wild flowers of Montana are as abundant and beautiful as those of\nthe Alps, and more varied. Shooting stars greet the spring. Dandelions\nabound but do not reach full rounded perfection. The common blue\nlarkspur, however, revels in the cool air and warm sunshine. The little\nyellow violet which haunts the woods in the eastern states makes\nherself quite at home here. Blue bells nod and sway in the breeze,\nlittle ragged sun flowers turn their faces to the sun and mitreworts\ngrow everywhere.\n\nAlong the shady streams wild currants flaunt their yellow flags while\nhydrangea, that queen of flowers, lends a shade to the violets blooming\nat her feet. Wild roses strew the ground with their delicate petals.\nStately lilies, their purple stamens contrasting strangely with their\nyellow petals, are abundant. The most dainty of this fair host is the\ngolden saxifrage, and the most delicate gold thread, whose dainty,\nslender roots resemble nothing so much as threads of pure gold.\n\nAt Havre, Montana, the Twenty-fourth United States Infantry came\naboard. They are stalwart colored soldiers who will do credit to\nthe uniforms they wear. They go to San Francisco, where they take\ntransports for Manila. The good-bys at the station between the soldiers\nand their friends and relatives were pathetic indeed. Not one of the\nbrave fellows but acted a soldier\u2019s part.\n\nJust as the train was pulling out a handsome girl ran along one of the\ncars to the window calling out to her sweetheart:\n\n\u201cO, lift me up till I kiss you again.\u201d\n\nWe were glad when two big black hands came out through the open window\nand strong arms clasped the maiden for a moment.\n\nEvery heart beat with the same thought; how many of these brave men\nwould return from the deadly Philippines?\n\nWe were proud of the Twenty-fourth when they bade good-by to their\nfriends at Havre; we were proud of them when they marched up the\nstreet at Spokane; we are proud of them still.\n\nThe officers of this regiment are white. They and their wives came into\nour car.\n\nThe conversation was enlivened with tales of camp life. When a private,\none officer was greatly annoyed by the Indians, who came day after day\nto sit in the shade of his quarters, when having been on night duty he\nwanted to sleep. He bought a sun-glass and when they began talking he\nwould sit down at the window and carelessly with the glass draw a focus\non one of his tormentor\u2019s feet. With a yell worthy an Indian with the\nbad spirit after him he would bound away, followed by his companions.\nSoon they would return, when the glass would be brought into play with\nthe same effect. At last the Indians came to believe the house haunted\nand our captain was no longer troubled by his red brothers.\n\nAfter forty miles of mountain climbing we reached the summit of the\nRockies. At nine o\u2019clock we were still in the mountains and the sun was\nstill shining.\n\nThe smallest owl in the world has his home in these mountains. It is\nthe Pigmy owl, but you must look sharply if you see him as he flits\nfrom limb to limb and hides in the dense foliage. The Rocky Mountain\nblue jay is not blue at all. His coat is a reddish brown, he sports a\nblack-crested cap and has black bars on his wings like his Illinois\nbrothers.\n\nFlowers, ice, snow and mountain torrents spread out in one grand\npanorama. Fleecy white clouds not much larger than one\u2019s hand float up\nand join larger ones at the summit of the peaks. There is no grander\nscene on earth than this range of snow-capped mountains spread out in\nmighty panorama, peak after peak and turret after turret glistening in\nthe golden sunshine against skies as blue as those of Italy.\n\n  \u201cCome up into the mountains--come up into the blue,\n   Oh, friend down in the valley, the way is clear for you;\n   The path is full of perils, and devious, but your feet\n   May safely thread its windings, and reach to my retreat.\n   The mountains, oh, the mountains! How all the ambient air\n   Bends like a benediction, and all the soul is prayer.\n   How blithely on this summit the echoing wind\u2019s refrain\n   Invites us to the mountains--God\u2019s eminent domain.\n   Oh, soul below in the valley where aspirations rise\n   No higher than the plunging of water fowl that flies,\n   Come up into the mountains--come up into the blue;\n   Leave weary leagues behind you the lowland\u2019s meaner view,\n   The autumn\u2019s rotting verdure, the sapless grasses browned,\n   Come where the snows are lilies that bloom the whole year round.\n   Here in the subtle spirit of all these climbing hills,\n   Man may achieve his dreaming, and be the thing he wills.\u201d\n\n   --_Joseph Dana Miller._\n\nWhen one has felt the inspiration which the air of the mountains gives,\nhe feels that he may achieve his dreaming, may be the thing he wills.\n\nTen o\u2019clock found us going down the western slope of the Rockies in\nthe twilight. Daylight comes at two o\u2019clock in the morning. All along\nthe track over the mountains are stationed track walkers, who live\nin little shacks. Before every train which passes over the road each\nwalker goes over his section to see that all is well.\n\nAll the Indians east of the Rockies located the Happy Hunting Ground\nwest of the mountains and those west of the divide thought it was on\nthe eastern side, and that every red man\u2019s soul would be carried over\non a cob-web float.\n\nAt Spokane we turned our watches back another hour. We are now in\nPacific Coast time.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II PLENTY OF ROOM\n\n\nThere is plenty of room in the great Northwest. For twenty-five years\nto come Horace Greeley\u2019s advice \u201cGo west,\u201d will hold good. Charles\nDickens once said that the typical American would hesitate to enter\nheaven unless assured that he could go farther west. \u201cGo west.\u201d Surely\nthese are words to conjure with. \u201cGo west,\u201d thrills the blood of youth\nand stirs the blood of age.\n\nThe tide of immigration is turning this way. No matter what your trade\nor profession, there is room for you here.\n\nAgriculture, the supporting pillar in the temple of wealth of any\nnation, stands in the front rank in Washington and Idaho, the soil\nbeing wonderfully productive. Stock raising, dairying and fruit farming\nare carried on with great success. But the great mining interest must\nnot be forgotten. The annual rainfall varies from thirty-five to sixty\ninches. A healthful climate meets one in almost every part of these\ngreat states. Malaria is practically unknown. As to scenery one may\nhave here the sublime grandeur of Switzerland, the picturesqueness of\nthe Rhine and the rugged beauty of Norway.\n\nThe lava beds of eastern Washington are wild and barren as to rocks,\nbut the soil is very productive when irrigated. The lava is burned\nred in many places. Castle after castle with drawbridge, turrets and\nsoldiers on guard, all of solid rock, greet the eye. Column after\ncolumn stand hundreds of feet high.\n\n[Illustration: ENTERING THE CASCADE RANGE.]\n\nThe Cascade mountains surpass the Rockies in grandeur and ruggedness\nof scenery. We crossed on the Switch Back. This is by \u201ctacking,\u201d as a\nsailor would say. We had three engines, mammoth Moguls, one forward,\nthe other two in the rear. There are but two engines in the world\nlarger than these.\n\nTo explain more fully we went back and forth three times on the side\nof the mountain until we reached the summit, then down on the other\nside in the same manner. Going up we made snowballs with one hand\nand gathered flowers with the other, tiger lilies, perfect ones one\nand one-half inch from tip of petal to petal on tiny stalks five\ninches high. Blackberry vines run on the ground to the summit of the\nmountains. They creep along like strawberry vines. They are in bloom\nnow and the berries will ripen in time.\n\nThe snowfall last winter on the summit was one hundred and nine feet.\nMiles of snowsheds are built over the road and men are kept constantly\nat work keeping the tracks clear of snow and bowlders. Five huge\nsnow-plows are required, all working constantly to keep the sixty-six\nhighest miles clear. The fall of snow for one day is often four feet.\nThe Great Northern road is putting a tunnel through the mountains now,\nand will thus do away with the Switch Back. Eight thousand men work in\nthe shafts night and day. They have been at work two years and expect\nto finish in 1901.\n\nFor hours we traveled above the clouds and at other times we passed\nthrough them and were deluged with rain. Magnificent ferns grow\neverywhere on the mountain sides and towns and villages are to be seen\nfrequently.\n\n[Illustration: LAVA BEDS IN WASHINGTON.]\n\nDescending the mountains we came to the Flat Head valley, the scenery\nof which is wild and rugged enough to suit the taste of the most\nimaginative Indian. The Flat Head river, a wild, raging, roaring\ntorrent which sweeps everything before it as it comes leaping down the\nmountains, flows peacefully enough in the valley. Here water nymphs\nbathe in purple pools, yonder fairies and fauns dance on the green.\n\nOn the trees we see such signs as \u201cSmoke Red Cloud,\u201d \u201cChew Scalping\nKnife,\u201d \u201cDrink Smoky Mountain Whisky,\u201d \u201cChew Indian Hatchet,\u201d \u201cChew\nTomahawk,\u201d \u201cDrink White Bear.\u201d\n\nWenatchee valley is famous for its irrigated fruit farms. A great\nvariety of fruits is grown. Water is easily and cheaply obtained.\nMission District is another fine fruit valley. The interest in\nagriculture is growing. Bees do well here. If you do not own all the\nland you want come west where it is cheap, good and plenty. The country\nis rapidly filling up with settlers. We passed fine wheat lands that\nstretch away across the country to Walla Walla. Men are now coming in\nto the wheat harvest just as in Illinois they come to cut broomcorn.\nBut they are a better looking class of men. One sees no genuine tramp.\nThere is no room for him here, there is too much work and he shuns\nsuch districts as one would a smallpox infected region.\n\nSEATTLE.--The first white men to explore this coast was an expedition\nunder command of Juan de Fuca, a Greek pilot in the service of the\nViceroy of Mexico. They explored the coast as far north as Vancouver\nisland in 1592. Two hundred years later Captain George Vancouver, of\nthe British navy, made extensive explorations along this same coast.\nThe first overland expedition was commanded by Lewis and Clarke.\nThe next was also a military expedition and was commanded by John\nC. Fremont. The first people to settle in the country were the fur\ntraders. The first mission was established by Dr. Marcus Whitman at\nWalla Walla in 1836. It was Dr. Whitman who rode to Washington, D.\nC., leaving here in December, and informed the government of the\nconspiracy of England to drive out all the American settlers and seize\nthe country. The first town was Tumwater, founded in 1845 by Michael\nSimmons. These are some of the people who helped make Washington.\n\nGeneral Sherman said, that God had done more for Seattle than for\nany other place in the world. It is destined to be the Chicago of\nthe West. The largest saw-mills in the world are located here. The\npopulation is about eighty thousand and the increase is rapid. The\nUniversity of Washington, supported by the state, is grandly located\nin Seattle. The Federal government has a fine military station twelve\nmiles out of the city.\n\n[Illustration: TANGLE OF WILD FERN IN A WASHINGTON FOREST.]\n\nAt every turn Indian names meet the eye. We steamed down the bay on\nthe Skagit Chief to the city park, where we lunched at the Duramash\nrestaurant. In the shop windows Umatilla hats, Black Eagle caps and\nAncelline ties are offered for sale.\n\nAncelline was an Indian princess, daughter of Seattle. Seattle was\nchief of the Old Man House Indians. These Indians had a big wigwam in\nwhich the entire tribe lived during the winter. They called this the\nOld Man House and the tribe took its name from this house. There is but\none family of these Indians left.\n\nThe Indians on this side of the mountains have never received any\nsupport from the government. They are much more industrious than their\nred brothers on the other side. There are many tribes here and many\nof them are quite well to do in the way of lands and money. All talk\nEnglish but prefer to speak Chinook.\n\nNokomis was an old Indian woman who did laundry work for a family in\nSeattle with whom I have become acquainted. Nokomis was exceedingly\nstubborn. She would permit no one to tell her how to wash for had she\nnot washed in the creeks and rivers all her life? This old woman was\nsomewhat deaf and when directions were being given her she could not\npossibly hear and continued the work her own way. But when the mistress\nwould say, \u201cCome Nokomis, have some coppe (Chinook for coffee) and muck\namuck (Chinook for \u2018something to eat\u2019),\u201d she never failed to hear,\nthough this was often said in a low tone of voice to test Nokomis\u2019s\nears.\n\nWheat in this section easily goes fifty bushels per acre. The root\ncrops, potatoes, turnips, onions, carrots, beets and parsnips yield\nenormously, with prices fair to good. The fruits are fine and prices\ngood. Strawberries sell here now three quarts for twenty-five cents.\nThe fruits go to Alaska, Canada and east to Montana and Minnesota.\nStock and poultry do well here and supply eastern markets at good\nprices. Another industrial resource in which many are engaged is\nfishing. The cod, halibut, oyster, crab, shrimp, whale and fur seal\nyield fine profits. Canned fish go to the Eastern States, to Europe,\nAsia and Australia. The timber, coal, iron, gold and silver industries\nare well represented.\n\nThere is one industry that is not represented here at all, and that is\nthe window-screen industry. There is but one fly in Seattle; at any\nrate I have seen but one. Meat markets and fruit markets stand open.\nThe temperature has averaged sixty-two in the shade for several days.\nIt is quite hot in the sun, however.\n\nIf you are out of a fortune and would like to make one, come to\nWashington.\n\n[Illustration: MOUNT RAINIER.]\n\nMount Rainier is the highest peak of the Cascade Range and the most\nbeautiful. Though standing on American soil it bears an English name,\nthat of Rear Admiral Rainier of the English navy. The local name was\nfor years Tacoma, but in 1890 the United States board of geographic\nsurvey decided that Rainier must stand on all government maps.\n\nThe people of Washington speak lovingly of this splendid peak which was\nsmoking so grandly when the Pathfinder found his way into this country\nfifty years ago.\n\nFrom its summit eight glaciers radiate like the spokes of a wheel down\nfrom which flow as many rivers. Its ice caverns formed by sulphur vent\nholes in the crater, its steam jets, its moss draped pines, its dainty\nvines and hemlocks, its grassy vales, where wild flowers are swayed\nby the breath of the glaciers, its beautiful lilies, remind one of\n\u201cAladdin\u2019s\u201d journey through the wonderful cave in search of the magic\nlamp.\n\nHere blows the heather and the shamrock.\n\n  \u201cWith a four-leafed clover, a double-leafed ash, and a greentopped\n     seave,\n   You may go before the queen\u2019s daughter without asking leave.\u201d\n\nThere stands fair Daphne, changed to a laurel tree.\n\nIn the legends of the Silash Indians Mount Rainier has always been\nheld as a place of superstitious regard. It was the refuge of the last\nman when the waters of Puget Sound swept inland, drowning every living\nthing except one man. Chased by the waves, he reached the summit, where\nhe was standing waist deep in the water when the Tamanous, the god of\nthe mountain, commanded the waters to recede. Slowly they receded, but\nthe man had turned to stone. The Tamanous broke loose one of his ribs\nand changing it to a woman, stood it by his side, then waving his\nmagic wand over the two, bade them to awake. Joyfully this strange Adam\nand Eve passed down the mountain side, where they made their home on\nthe forested slopes. These were the first parents of the Silash Indians.\n\nIn the very center of the Cascade range stands another mountain of\nequal beauty, Mount St. Helens.\n\nWashington is the home of the genuine sea serpent. He makes his\nheadquarters in Rock Lake, where he disports himself in the water,\ndevouring every living thing that ventures into it or dares to come on\nthe shore. Only a few years ago he swallowed an entire band of Indians.\n\nExpansion seems to be the law of our national and commercial life.\nBeyond the placid Pacific are six hundred million people who want the\nthings we produce. China and Japan furnish a market for our wheat. The\ncry now is for more ships to carry our produce to Asia, Australia, to\nislands of the Pacific and to Alaska, not to speak of the Philippines.\nManila is the center of the great Asiatic ports, including those of\nBritish India and Australia. Our trade with the Orient is growing and\nManila will make a fine distributing depot. These eastern countries use\nannually over eighty-six million dollars\u2019 worth of cotton goods and\nnearly forty million dollars\u2019 worth of iron and steel manufactures.\nThis we can produce in this country as cheap if not cheaper than in any\nother country. Seattle is the best point from which to export, as the\nroute is shorter than from San Francisco.\n\nThe battleship Iowa is in dry dock here. I should liked to have been a\nmarine myself and have stood behind one of those big guns when Cervera\nleft the harbor of Santiago. And now I\u2019d like to train that same gun on\nthe anti-expansionist and send him to the bottom of the sea, there to\nsleep with the Spaniards and other useless things. Officers and marines\nalike are proud of their ship and delighted to explain the mechanism of\nthe guns.\n\nWe took a steamer over to Tacoma one morning, where we had the pleasure\nof seeing the North Pacific steamship Glenogle, which had just arrived\nfrom Japan, unload her cargo. She brought two thousand tons of tea,\nover two thousand pounds of rice, two thousand and twelve bails of\nmatting, two hundred and eighty-six bails of straw braid, one\nhundred and thirty-nine cases of porcelain, two hundred and eighty-five\npackages of curios, three thousand packages of bamboo ware, silk goods\nand a multitude of small articles made the load. She had forty Japanese\npassengers for this port, and left forty-five at Victoria.\n\n[Illustration: STREET IN TACOMA, WASHINGTON.]\n\nThe air was fragrant with the odor of roses and beautiful pinks.\n\nOn the street we met a party of Indians in civilian dress, wearing\nclosely cropped hair and moustaches.\n\nTacoma pays ninety dollars per ton for copper ore from Alaska.\n\nReturning across the bay we met a flock of crows on the flotsam and\njetsam which floats down from the saw-mills. Their antics reminded me\nof a party of school boys playing tag. At the steamer\u2019s approach the\nleader gave a warning caw and they were up and away before the steamer\nstruck their floating playground and scattered it to the waves.\n\nAt sunset the reflection of the sun-lit clouds on the waves and the\nfire and glow of the sparkling water, now ruby red, changing to\nturquoise blues and emerald greens, make a scene delightful to the eye\nof one who loves the sea.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III OFF FOR ALASKA\n\n\n\u201cAll aboard!\u201d At ten o\u2019clock we steamed out of the harbor of Seattle\nand headed toward Alaska, the land of icebergs, glaciers and gold\nfields. Seattle sat as serenely on her terraced slopes as Rome on her\nseven hills. The sun shone bright and clear on the snow-capped peaks of\nthe Cascades. Mt. Tacoma stood out bold and clear against the sun-lit\nsky.\n\nWe steamed at full speed down Admiralty Inlet.\n\nAt noon we stop at Port Townsend, the port of entry for Puget sound.\nOne sees at all these coast towns many Japanese, some dressed in nobby\nbicycle costumes, leading their wheels about the wharves, others\nwearing neat business suits and sporting canes. The less fortunate\nalmond-eyed people are here too, dressed in the garb of the laborer,\nbut it is to the former, the padrone, that the American employer goes\nfor contract labor.\n\nIn any case the laborer pays his padrone a per cent. of his wages.\n\nIt holds true the world over that \u201csome must follow and some command,\nthough all are made of clay,\u201d as Longfellow puts it.\n\nWe are soon out on the ocean, where it is all sea and flood and long\nPacific swell.\n\nAll up and down the picturesque shores of Puget Sound live the Silash\nIndians, who to-day dress in American costumes and follow American\npursuits. One sees them on the streets of the cities and towns. The\nSilash, like the ancient Greeks, peopled the unseen world with spirits.\nGood and evil genii lived in the forest; every spring had its Nereid\nand every tree its dryad. They believed the Milky Way to be the path to\nheaven; so believed the ancient Greeks.\n\nOne beautiful day there gleamed and danced in the sunshine a copper\ncanoe of wonderful design. Down the sound it came. When the stranger\nwhom it carried had landed he announced that he had a message for the\nred man, and sending for every Silash, he taught them the law of love.\nThe Indian mind is slow to adjust itself to new thought. Such ideas\nwere new and strange to these children of nature. When this beautiful\nstranger about whose head the sun was always shining, told them of the\nnew, the eternal life in the world beyond, they listened with deep\ninterest, but the savage was stronger than the man in the red skins and\nthey dragged the stranger to a tree, where they nailed him fast with\npegs in his hands and feet, torturing him as they did their victims of\nthe devil dance.\n\nThen they danced around him until the strange light faded from his\nbeautiful eyes. Slowly the radiant head dropped and life itself went\nout. A great storm arose that shook the earth to its very center. Great\nrocks came tearing down the mountain side. The sun hid his face for\nthree days.\n\nThey took the body down and laid it away. On the third day, when the\nsun burst forth, the dead man arose and resumed his teaching. The\nIndians now declared him a god and believed in him.\n\nYear by year the Silash grew more gentle and less warlike, until of all\nIndians they became the most peaceful. My readers will readily see that\nthis is a confused tale of the Christ.\n\nAnother fantastic tale of this region is that of an Indian\nmiser who dried salmon and jerked meat, which he sold for\nhaiqua,--tusk-shells,--the wampum of the Silash Indians. Like all\nmisers, the more haiqua he got the more he wanted.\n\nOne cold winter day he went hunting on the slopes of Mount Rainier.\nEvery mountain has its Tamanous, to which travelers and hunters must\npay homage. Now the miser, instead of paying devotion to the god of\nthe mountain, only looked at the snow and sighed, \u201cAh, if it were only\nhaiqua.\u201d\n\nUp, up he went, and soon reached the rim of the volcano\u2019s crater, and\nhurrying down the inside of the crater he came to a rock in the form of\na deer\u2019s head. With desperate energy he flung snow and gravel about.\nPresently he came to a smooth, flat rock; summoning all his strength,\nhe lifted the rock. Beyond was a wonderful cave where were stored great\nquantities of the most beautiful haiqua his eyes had ever beheld.\n\nWinding string after string about his body, until he had all the haiqua\nhe could carry, he climbed out of the crater and started down the\nmountain side. But the Tamanous was angry. Wrapping himself in a storm\ncloud, he pursued the miser, who buffeted by the wind and blinded by\nthe snow and darkness, stumbled on, grasping his treasure. The unseen\nhands of the god clutched him and tore strand after strand from his\nneck.\n\nThe storm lulled a moment, but returned with renewed energy; the\nthunder and lightning increased; again the unseen hands held him in\na vice-like grasp. Strand after strand the angry god tore from the\nmiser\u2019s grasp, until by the time he arrived at the timber line but one\nstrand remained; this he flung aside and hurried on down the mountain.\nNot one shell remained to reward him for his perilous journey. Weary\nand foot-sore he fell fainting in the darkness. When he awoke his hair\nwas white as the snow on the mountain\u2019s brow. He looked back at the\nsnow-crowned peak with never a wish for the treasures of the Tamanous.\nWhen he arrived at his home an aged woman was there cooking fish. In\nher he recognized his wife, who had mourned him as dead for many long\nyears. He dried salmon and jerked meat, which he sold for haiqua, but\nnever again did he brave the Tamanous of Mount Rainier. Thus ends the\nweird tale of Puget Sound.\n\nClearing this port, our course lay across the straits of Juan de\nFuca, named for the Greek explorer before mentioned. The green slopes\nof the beautiful San Juan islands now came into view.\n\nWe landed at Victoria, the capital of the province of British Columbia,\nat eight o\u2019clock in the morning. The city was still wrapt in slumber. A\ncow placidly munching grass in the street, looked at us inquiringly. We\nmet a dejected looking dog and presently a laborer going to his work.\n\n[Illustration: PARLIAMENT HOUSE, VICTORIA.]\n\nA handsome hotel occupies a commanding site, but the doors were closed.\nNot a store was open. The government buildings, naval station and\nmuseum are the only places of interest.\n\nThe Island of Vancouver is composed of rock and sand. All along the\nshore are magnificent sea weeds, ferns and club mosses, growing fast to\nthe rocky side and the bottom of the sea. Many of these plants break\nloose and go floating about.\n\nImagine a perfectly smooth, flexible parsnip, from twenty to fifty feet\nlong, with leaves of the same length like those of the horse radish in\nform, but the color of sapless, water-soaked grasses, and you have a\nkelp. Coming toward you head on, the long leaves floating back under\nit, you have a miniature man-of-war.\n\nThe fortifications for the protection of the harbor are submerged. You\nwould never suspect that below that innocent looking daisy covered\nsurface great guns were ready at a moment\u2019s notice to blow you and your\ngood ship to atoms should her actions proclaim her an enemy.\n\nFarther up the coast Exquimalt, the most formidable fortress on the\nAmerican Continent, occupies a commanding site.\n\nWe were glad to retrace our steps to the steamer and shake from off\nour feet the dust of that sleepy old town, which never felt a quiver\nwhen \u201cFreedom from her mountain height unfurled her standard to the\nair,\u201d and shake off too that strange feeling which possesses one when\ntreading a foreign shore.\n\nAll day long Mount Baker of the Cascade range has stood like an old\nsentinel, white and hoary, to point us on our way.\n\nFair Haven and New Whatcomb, the terminus of the Great Northern railway\nfor passenger traffic, are delightfully located on the coast. These\ntowns are growing rapidly. The population is now twelve hundred. The\nlargest shingle mill in the world is located here. It turns out\nhalf a million shingles every ten hours. The saw-mill turns out lumber\nenough every day to build five ten-room houses, while a tin can factory\nturns out a half million cans a day.\n\nIn time Fair Haven and New Whatcomb will be two of the most beautiful\ntowns in Washington. The streets are broad. Green lawns surround\nhandsome homes and pretty cottages.\n\nAt noon we passed the forty-ninth parallel, the boundary line between\nthe United States and the British possessions. What a vast expanse of\nterritory had been ours had we adhered to our determination to maintain\nthe fifty-fourth parallel. \u201cFifty-four, forty or fight,\u201d we said, but\ngave it up without a blow.\n\nForty miles across from Vancouver lies the busy collier town of\nNanaimo. The Indians discovered the coal fifty years ago. On the knoll\nnear the coal wharves, there is a beautiful grove of madronas. In the\nsurrounding forest gigantic ferns and strange wild flowers grow in\ngreat profusion. Berries are plentiful and game abundant.\n\nAt Cape Mudge we bid farewell to the Silash tribes. Cape Mudge\npotlatches are famous for their extravagance. In 1888 a neighboring\ntribe was worth nearly five hundred thousand dollars. The British\nColumbia legislature prohibited potlatches and in one year their wealth\ndecreased four-fifths. The prohibition of potlatches quenched their\ndesire to accumulate property.\n\n[Illustration: GORGE OF HOMATHCO.]\n\nThe wild gorge of Homathco is the result of the relentless glaciers.\n\nIn Jervis Inlet is a great tidal rapid, the roar of which can be heard\nfor miles. It is considered the equal of the famous Malstrom and\nSalstrom of Norway.\n\nAt Point Robert we pass the last light house on the American coast. The\nstars and stripes floated from the flag staff. With a dash and a roar\nthe white crested waves tumbled on the beach. With a last farewell to\nOld Glory, we steam ahead and for six hundred miles plow the British\nmain.\n\n[Illustration: LIGHT HOUSE, POINT ROBERT.]\n\nThe scenery becomes more wild, savage, grand and awful. Snow-clad\nmountains guard the waterway on either side. Such Oh\u2019s and Ah\u2019s when\nsome scene of more than usual grandeur bursts upon our view. A canoe\nshoots out from yonder overhanging ledge. The glasses reveal the\noccupants to be four Indians out on a fishing expedition.\n\nNearly every one of our three hundred passengers was interested in\nthe first whale sighted. \u201cO yonder he goes, a whale;\u201d \u201cO, see him\nspout;\u201d \u201cNow look, look!\u201d \u201cAh, down he goes.\u201d Then everyone questions\neveryone else. \u201cDid you see the whale?\u201d \u201cDid you see our whale?\u201d \u201cO,\nwe had whales on our side of the boat,\u201d and adds some one, \u201cThey were\nperforming whales, too.\u201d Then the gong sounds for dinner and the whale\nis forgotten in the discussion of the menu.\n\nMany of our passengers are bound for Dawson City, Juneau and other\nAlaskan points. One hears much discussion of the dollar, not the\ncommon American dollar, but the Alaskan dollar, which seems to be more\nprecious as it is more difficult to obtain.\n\nHere are young men bound for the frozen field of gold who could carry\na message to Garcia and never once ask, \u201cWhere is he \u2018at?\u2019\u201d \u201cWho is\nhe?\u201d or \u201cWhy do you want to send the message, anyway?\u201d Young men with\nbackbone, muscle and brains, who would succeed in almost any field.\n\nFrom Queen Charlotte\u2019s sound to Cape Calvert we were out on the\nPacific. Old Neptune tossed us about pretty much as he liked, although\nCaptain Wallace, who, by the way, is a genial gentleman and a charming\nhost, assured us that we had a smooth passage across this arm of the\nold ocean. Many suffered from _mal de mer_.\n\nWrapped in furs and rugs, we sit on deck, enjoying the panorama of sea\nand sky. Sun-lit mountains, white with the snows of a thousand years\nand green-clad foot hills covered with pines as thick as the weeds on a\ncommon. Here and there in a wild, dreary nook the glasses revealed an\nIndian trapper\u2019s cabin. Here he lives and hunts and fishes. When he has\na sufficient number of skins he loads his canoe and skims across the\nwater, it may be eighty or a hundred miles, to a town, where he trades\nhis furs and fish for sugar, coffee, tea, and the many things which\nhe has learned to eat from his white brother. He is very fond of tea\nand rum. He does not bury his dead, but wraps them in their blankets\nand lays them on the top of the ground, that they may the more easily\nfind their way to the Happy Hunting Ground. Then he builds a tight\nboard fence five or six feet high about the lonely grave and covers\nit tightly over the top to keep out the wild animals which roam the\nmountain sides. A tall staff rises from the grave and a white cloth\nfloats from its pinnacle. We sighted one of these lonely graves on the\ntop of a small island on our second day out, and were reminded of that\nother lonely grave in the vale of the Land of Moab.\n\n[Illustration: FJORDS OF ALASKA.]\n\nBella Bella is an Indian town located on Hunter island. The houses are\nall two-story and nicely painted. There is nothing in the aspect of the\ntown to indicate that it is other than a white man\u2019s town, though the\nIndians who reside here were once the most savage on the coast. On a\nsmaller island near by is a cemetery. Small, one-roomed houses are the\nvaults in which the bodies are placed after being wrapped in blankets.\nHere we saw the first grave stones. They stand in front of these vaults\nand are higher. On them are carved the owner\u2019s name and his exploits in\nhunting or war in picture language.\n\nThe Silash Indians are very gentle and kind. If you are hungry they\nwill divide their last crust with you. If you are cold they will give\nyou their last blanket. They wear civilized dress, fish and hunt and\nare quite prosperous. Many hops are grown in the State of Washington\nand in the fall these Indians go down in their canoes to pick hops.\nThey are preferred to white pickers, because of their industry and\nhonesty.\n\nSaturday night we crossed \u201cFifty-four forty or fight\u201d and Sunday\nmorning found us in Alaska.\n\n[Illustration: FISHING HAMLET OF KETCHIKAN.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV FIRST VIEWS\n\n\nWe visited the Indian village of Ketchikan. The Episcopalians have a\nmission at this place. The teacher is an able young woman. A young\nlady, a handsome half-breed Indian girl, came upon the wharf to meet\nsomeone who came on the boat. Her carriage, language and manner were\nthose of a lady. We landed some freight at this point. The freight\nagent was a half-breed Indian, quite good looking and a gentleman.\n\nNew Metlakahtla is a most attractive village on the Annette Islands.\n\nThe Metlakahtlans are the most progressive race in Alaska. Mr. Duncan\nvisited the United States in 1887, enlisting aid for the Indians. Henry\nWard Beecher and Phillips Brooks became champions of his cause.\n\nThe government at Washington assured Mr. Duncan that his people would\nbe protected in any lands which they might select in Alaska.\n\nIn the spring of 1887 four hundred Metlakahtlans crossed to the Annette\nIslands.\n\nThese enterprising people print their own newspaper. They have a\nphotographer. The silversmiths, woodcarvers and bark weavers do a large\nbusiness on tourist days.\n\nThe salmon cannery ships from six to eight thousand cases a year. There\nis a government school and a boarding school for girls. On steamer days\nthe Indian band plays on a platform built on the tall stump of a cedar.\n\nThese people, all Christians, have all subscribed and faithfully live\nup to a code of rules, called the Declaration of Residents.\n\nThe inhabitants are greatly disturbed over the discovery of gold on\nthese islands. The white man discovered the gold and now he wants the\nislands. Will the government keep faith with the Metlakahtlans?\n\nNow let me tell the boys and girls what our vessel has down in her\nhold. Our boat, The Queen, is three hundred and fifty feet long and\ndraws twenty-five feet of water, so you see she has a big hold down\nbelow her decks. There are twenty big steers going to Juneau to be made\ninto beef; two big gray horses going to Dawson to work about the mines\nin the Klondike and when winter comes to be killed and dried for meat\nfor dogs, as there will be no feed for the horses in the Klondike when\nwinter sets in and the grass dies. A sad fate. They are gentle horses,\npoking their noses into your hand as you pass for an apple, peach or\nbit of grain. There are five hundred chickens down there, too, going\nto different points in Alaska. Two little Esquimaux pups, worth one\nhundred dollars each, are also here. Their mother, which was killed\nby the electric cars at Seattle the day before we sailed, cost four\nhundred dollars. The little curly-haired fellows play and tumble about\nvery much like kittens, then suddenly they remember their mother and\nset up such a pitiful wail.\n\nThere is also a big, black Husky aboard. He is a cross between an\nIndian (not an Esquimaux) dog and a wolf. He is a big, heavy fellow,\nlarge of head, strong of limb and feet widened in muscular development\nwrought in his race by generations of hard service in this rugged\nclimate. He is valued at three hundred and fifty dollars. He will pull\nthree hundred pounds and travel forty miles a day over ice and snow,\nbeing fed but once a day on dried fish.\n\nThe most curious and by far the handsomest dog aboard is a Malamute.\nHe is a beautiful dog. His furry coat is heavy and his fine ears stand\nerect. For actions, manners and affection for his master he is a fine\nspecimen of the canine tribe. His walk is somewhat of a stride like\nthat of the bear.\n\nHis owner, who lives in Chicago, is aboard. He paid three hundred\ndollars for the dog and took him home, but it is too warm for him in\nChicago, so he is taking him back to Alaska.\n\nThere are many cases of oranges, lemons, peaches, apples, apricots\nand plums and tons of groceries of all sorts for Skagway, Dawson,\nJuneau, Sitka and other Alaskan points. Also many pounds of dressed\nbeef, mutton, flour, cornmeal, oatmeal and canned goods. There are one\nthousand cases of oil, lots of dry goods and many miners\u2019 outfits. So\nyou see there is quite a traffic up and down this coast.\n\nAs we steam steadily on toward the home of Hoder, the stormy old god\nof winter, the air grows colder, the scenery more wild and strange.\nSnowclad mountains, sun-lit clouds resting on their peaks and veiling\ntheir sides, blue sky and sparkling water make a scene which may be\nimagined but not described.\n\n[Illustration: FORT WRANGEL, ALASKA.]\n\nAlaska is the aboriginal name and means \u201cgreat country.\u201d It was at the\nrequest of Charles Sumner that the original name was retained. Seven\nmillion two hundred thousand dollars for a field of stony mountain,\nicebergs and glaciers! Had Seward gone mad? Ah, no. He builded wiser\nthan he knew. Alaska is nine times the size of the New England States\nand cost less than one-half cent per acre.\n\nThe northwest coast of Alaska was discovered and explored by a Russian\nexpedition under Behring, in 1741. Russian settlements were made and\nthe fur trade developed.\n\nThe climate is no colder than at St. Petersburg and many other parts\nof Russia. The warm Japan current sweeps the coast and tempers the\nclimate. Sitka is only three miles north of Balmoral, Scotland. The\nisothermal line running through Sitka runs through Richmond, Va.,\ngiving both points the same temperature. The average summer temperature\nis fifty-two degrees and the average winter weather thirty-one degrees\nabove zero.\n\nThe average rainfall at this point is eighty-two inches. Native grasses\nand berries grow plentifully in the valleys. The chief wealth of the\ncountry lies in its forests, fish, fur-bearing animals and mines.\nThe forest consists of yellow pine, spruce, larch, fir of great size,\ncypress and hemlock. The wild animals include the elk, deer and bear.\nThe fur-bearing animals are the fox, wolf, beaver, ermine, otter and\nsquirrel. Fur-bearing seals inhabit the waters along the coast. Salmon\nabound in the rivers.\n\nIt is one of the secrets of the rebellion that the large sum paid\nto Russia for Alaska was to compensate her for the presence of her\nwarships in our harbor during the early days of the Civil War, thus\nhelping to prevent English interference.\n\nFort Wrangel is delightfully located on the green slopes of the\nmountains. It was once a Russian military post and takes its name from\nthe Russian governor of Alaska, Baron Wrangel.\n\nHere are some fine totem poles. Totemism is a species of heraldry.\nTheir whales, frogs, crows, and wolves are no more difficult to\nunderstand than the dragons, griffins, and fleur-de-lis of European\nheraldry. The totem pole of the Alaskan Indian is his crest, his\nmonument. The totem is his clan name, his god. He is a crow, a raven,\nan eagle, a bear, a whale, or a wolf. It is the old story of Beauty and\nthe Beast. The beautiful raven maiden may live happily with her bear\nhusband.\n\nEvery Indian claims kinship with three totems. The clan totem is the\nanimal from which the clan descended. There is a totem common to all\nthe women of the clan. The men of the clan have a totem and each\nindividual when he or she arrives at manhood or womanhood chooses a\ntotem sacred to him or herself. This totem is his guardian angel and\nprotects him from danger and harm. The Alaskan Indian believes the\neagle to be the American man\u2019s totem and the lion and the unicorn the\ntwo totems of the Englishman.\n\nThe civilized races of antiquity all passed through the totem period.\nOur Indians all had their totems as their names indicate, Blackfeet,\nCrow and Sioux. Totems are common to all savage races, but the Alaskan\nIndian is the only North American who erects a monument to his totem.\n\nWhile the totem protects the Indian the Indian is in duty bound to\nprotect his totem. He may neither kill nor eat his own totem, but he\nmay with impunity kill the god of another. If you kill his totem he\nwill be grieved and sorrowfully ask, \u201cWhy you kill him, my brother?\u201d\n\nThese people were evolutionists long before Darwin. There are no\nmonkeys, however, among the totems of the Alaskan Indians.\n\nWhen an Indian marries he takes his wife\u2019s name, the name of her clan\ntotem. The children, too, belong to the mother\u2019s totem, and, of course,\ntake her name. The wife is the head of the family, managing it and\ntransacting all the business.\n\nThese Indians and all the Indians of southern Alaska are Tlingits.\nTlingit means people. There are many traditions among them of a\nsupernatural origin; one to the effect that the crow in whom dwelt the\nGreat Spirit lived on the Nass River, where he turned two blades of\ngrass into a man and a woman. This was the first pair from whom sprang\nall Tlingits. They have tales of a migration from the southeast, the\nMars River country. Their propitiation of evil spirits, their shamanism\nand their belief in the transmigration of souls, all point to Asiatic\norigin, yet there is no tradition among them of any such origin. Once,\nmany thousands of snows ago, a Tlingit stole the sun and hid it, then\nnearly all the people died, but the crow found it and placed it in the\nsky again. After this the tribe increased.\n\nThe Tlingit idea of justice is something of a novelty. The code,\nhowever, is short; an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, is\nalways strictly demanded. A Tlingit once shot at a decoy duck, but he\nmade the owner pay for the shot used. A young Indian stole a rifle and\naccidentally killed himself with it. His relatives made the owner pay\nfor the dead thief. If a patient dies under a doctor\u2019s care he pays for\nhim.\n\nBefore the advent of the white man shamanism held sway. When a Tlingit\nfell ill he sent for his medicine man, who by incantations cured him,\nor failing that, accused some one of bewitching his patient. The wizard\nor witch was tortured and put to death, after which the sick Indian\nrecovered or died, as the case might be.\n\nCaptain E. C. Merriman, of the U. S. Navy, destroyed the power of the\nshaman by rescuing the accused and punishing the shaman.\n\nThe shaman spends the greater part of his life in the forest, fasting\nand receiving inspiration from his totemic spirits. A concoction of\ndried frogs\u2019 legs and sea water give him power to perceive a man\u2019s\nsoul--the Tlingit woman had no soul then--escaping from his body and\nto catch it and restore it to the man.\n\nThe Tlingits practiced cremation, but the body of a shaman was never\ncremated, it would not burn. It was always buried in a little box-like\ntomb. The body was wrapped in blankets and placed in a sitting posture,\nsurrounded by the masks, wands, rattles, and all the paraphernalia of\nthe office of a shaman, ready for use in the heaven to which he had\ngone.\n\nThe missionaries have destroyed faith in the shaman and broken up the\npractice of cremation.\n\n[Illustration: CHIEF SHAKE\u2019S HOUSE, FORT WRANGEL.]\n\nAt Fort Wrangel we called on the chief. He has the tallest and the most\nhandsomely carved pole in the Indian village.\n\nThere are three kinds of totem poles. The family totem pole, which is\nerected in front of the home. On it are carved figures representing the\ntotems of the family, the wife\u2019s totem always surmounting the pole and\nthe husband\u2019s next below. Then appear totems of other members of the\nfamily.\n\nThe death totem pole is erected at the grave. On it are engraved the\ntotems of the dead man\u2019s ancestors, as well as his own. The third class\nof poles are erected to commemorate some remarkable event in history\nof the tribe or of the man. These poles may be seen up and down the\ncoast from Vancouver to Yakutat.\n\n  \u201cAnd they painted on the grave-posts\n   Of the graves yet unforgotten,\n   Each his ancestral totem,\n   Each the symbol of his household,\n   Figures of the bear, the reindeer,\n   Of the turtle, crane and beaver.\u201d\n\n   --_Longfellow._\n\nThe fine flower of the native races of the coast are the Haidas. They\nare taller and fairer, with more regular features than any of the\nColumbian coast tribes. They are aliens to the Tlingits, differing\nfrom them mentally and physically, in speech and customs. The Tlingits\ncall them \u201cpeople of the sea.\u201d They were the Norsemen of the Pacific\nshores; the coppery Erics and Harolds, who sailed the blue waters of\nthe Pacific, sweeping the coast, attacking native villages, Hudson Bay\nCompany posts, and the settlements of the whites. The harbor at Seattle\nwas a place of rendezvous.\n\nThe origin of this daring race is a mystery. They hold many traditions\nin common with the Aztec and Zunis of Mexico. Marchand identifies them\nwith those whom Cortes drove out of Mexico. Many of their images are\nsimilar to silver relics found in the ruins of Guatemala.\n\nThese people bear a resemblance to the Japanese. They have Japanese\nwords in their language; they sit always at their work and cut towards\nthem in using tools, which are much like those in use by the Japanese\nto-day. They have also many modern Apache words in their speech, while\ntheir picture writing is similar and in many cases the same as that of\nthe Zunis.\n\nTheir own legend of their origin runs in this wise: During a great\nflood when every living thing on the earth perished, a few people\nfloated to the tops of the mountains in canoes, which they anchored\nwith heavy stones. The water rose so high, however, that they at last\nwere drowned.\n\nThe only living thing to survive the flood was a raven. When the waters\nhad subsided he flew down to the coast, where the waves dashing on the\nrocks sent forth a noise as of thunder. Presently he heard the cry of\nbabies; directly a huge shell came rolling in on the sandy beach. The\nraven opened it and out came a strange people. In thankfulness for\ntheir deliverance they have made the raven their clan totem.\n\nThese people make baskets and mats to-day exactly like those made by\nthe natives of the Islands of Polynesia, while their carving, in which\nthey excel all other tribes of the North, resembles the sculpture of\nancient Egypt.\n\nTotem poles originated with these people and spread from them to other\ntribes with whom they came in contact. They practiced cremation and\ntheir death totem poles are always hollow, making a receptacle for the\nashes of the dead.\n\nThe earliest explorers found these people living in houses built of\nheavy, hewn logs, and planks hewn out and neatly mortised. The houses\nwere covered with a hip roof, supported by heavy rafters and thatched\nwith an odd sort of shingle, clipped or hewn out of the logs. On the\nplank floors were mats made from a rush which grows on the islands.\n\nThe old Hydahs were a warlike people, who were ever waging battle with\nthe fierce Chilkats.\n\n[Illustration: ENTERING WRANGEL NARROWS.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V FURTHER GLIMPSES\n\n\nWrangel narrows is one of the finest scenic passages along the coast\nof Alaska. The magnificent range of snow-covered mountain peaks, the\ngreen-clad slopes on the shore and the Stickine delta compose as\nnoble a landscape as one will see anywhere in the world. The sunset\nand sunrise lights in the narrows and on the snowy, cloud-wreathed\nmountains are marvelous pictures of beauty, beyond the power of pen or\nbrush to portray.\n\nAt low tide broad bands of russet hued algae border the sea-washed\nshores. Giant kelp break loose from their moorings and go floating\nabout, their yellow fronds and orange heads contrasting strangely with\nthe intense green of the water. The Indians say these kelp are the\nqueues of shipwrecked Chinamen. Many eagles build their nests in the\ntrees, while myriads of seagulls skim the water.\n\nThe scenery of the Stickine river is equally grand. Three hundred\nglaciers drain their waters into this river.\n\nThe tourist meets the first tide water glacier in the Bay of Le Conte.\nThe Stickine Indians called it Hutli, Thunder Bay. Here, they say,\ndwells Hutli, the Thunder Bird. To their imaginative mind the cracking\nof the ice and the noise of the falling icebergs, is the cry of Hutli,\nand the roar of the falling water the flapping of his huge wings.\n\nIn Lapland the guardian spirit of the mountains is known as Haltios.\n\n[Illustration: DOUGLAS ISLAND, LOOKING TOWARD JUNEAU.]\n\nJuneau is located at the foot of Mt. Juneau, which is more than three\nthousand feet high. It is snow-capped and delicious water comes pouring\ndown the mountain sides. Juneau is a newly built town and is the\nlargest on the coast. It has a population of thirty-five hundred. Just\nbelow the town is a village of Taku Indians. Back of the village are\nthe grave houses. Here we find totem poles and Indian offerings to the\nspirits. Steamers bring to this wharf fruits and vegetables. Radishes,\nlettuce and onions, also rhubarb, look tempting in the gardens. Juneau\nis the home of many miners and prospectors. The chief mining interest\nin this vicinity is the Treadwell mines, located on Douglas island,\njust across Gastineau channel from Juneau. The ore runs from two\ndollars and twenty cents to four dollars per ton only, but the water\npower coming from the mountains makes the working of the mines cheap,\nso that the company is enabled to pay large dividends. Hundreds of\nsacks of gold, nearly free from rock, lay day and night on the wharves,\nwaiting for the steamers to carry it away to the stamping mill. On the\nwharf at Treadwell lay twenty thousand dollars.\n\nThe mill spoken of is the largest in the world. It runs eight hundred\nand eighty stamps day and night. There is enough ore in sight to run\nthe mill twenty-four hours a day for thirty years. The mountains are\nbeing literally blasted down and carted away. The Indians work in the\nmines, but they cannot compete with their Anglo Saxon brothers, they\nearning only about half as much. They will not trust the white man over\nnight, hence are paid at the close of each day.\n\nThe Indians wear citizens\u2019 clothes and carry watches. Many of them\nsport canes when walking about the streets. The women and girls do\nthe family washing on the rocks in the mountain streams. One little\nblack-eyed, brown-faced witch who said her name was Troke Lewis, was\nwashing handkerchiefs on a big rock over which the water poured. She\npaused to talk to us, a cake of soap held high in one hand, while with\nthe other she held her handkerchiefs down in the cold water on the rock.\n\nJust around the cliff, back of Juneau, lies the beautiful Silver Bow\nca\u00f1on.\n\n[Illustration: SILVER BOW CA\u00d1ON, JUNEAU. By permission of F. LAROCHE,\nPhotographer, Seattle, Washington.]\n\nThere are plenty of fine fish in the bay. Salmon, trout and eels\nabound. The writer caught a trout weighing ten pounds and an eel\nweighing one pound.\n\nSkagway is located on the Lynn canal at the foot of Mt. Dewey, which\nrises sheer fifty-five hundred feet above the sea. The climate is\nvery mild, the thermometer never being known to register over six\nbelow zero. A veritable Ganymede sends down a vast supply of the most\ndelicious water. Skagway is the coming city of Alaska. It will be to\nAlaska what Chicago is to the Middle Western States, what St. Paul\nand Minneapolis are to the Northwest and what Seattle is to the North\nPacific coast. Streets are being laid out and other improvements are\ngoing on. Log cabins covered with tar paper are being replaced by\nmore substantial buildings. People are coming here to stay and the\nrepresentative inhabitants of this youthful town are men and women of\nrefinement and culture from the Eastern and Middle States.\n\nAt Skagway all sorts of vegetables are growing in the gardens, lettuce,\nradishes, onions, potatoes, cabbage and tomatoes.\n\nWe spent the Fourth of July in this place. Congressman Warner invited\nus to join him and the senatorial party for the day. We went to the\nsummit of the Selkirk mountains, to the head of the Yukon River on the\nWhite Pass and Yukon railway, after which the party was entertained in\nSkagway.\n\n[Illustration: OLD RUSSIAN COURT HOUSE, JUNEAU.]\n\nObservation cars were especially prepared for the party. These\nconsisted of flat cars around which run a railing. The seats were\nreversable and ran lengthwise of the cars. Thus you might view the wall\nof granite along which you were passing or reverse the seat and behold\nthe wonderful things to be seen in the pass below, where the march of\nCivilization has left her trail, cabins, mining camps, amidst snow and\nflowering mosses, tin cans, cracker boxes; and last but not least,\nhorses and mules just as good as when they lay down to their last\nsleep in these wilds.\n\nThe run to the summit was made in two hours. Over the same route men\nand pack mules plod along three weeks. Only in places is there much\nvegetation on these granite mountains. Toward the summit blackberries\nare in bloom. They are perfect plants only two inches high, each plant\nsending out two or three branches loaded with bloom. Dwarf pines and\ntufts of grass grow in the crevices of the rocks and on the sides of\nthe mountains, where a little soil has found lodgment.\n\nThe White Pass and Yukon railway, which was opened in February, now\nruns trains over the summit to Lake Bennett. Work is being pushed\nrapidly forward to the final destination, Ft. Selkirk, Northwest\nTerritory. The distance from Skagway to the summit is sixteen miles.\nThe road was blasted out of solid granite all the way and is a\nwonderful feat of engineering skill.\n\nThere are the usual curves and loops, but these are not sufficient to\novercome the steep grade which rises two hundred feet to the mile. The\nroad rises thirty-two hundred feet in the sixteen miles. At one place\nthe train was run up into a ravine on a Y. The engine was uncoupled and\ncoming in behind us pushed the coaches up to the summit.\n\nThe ice bridges all through the mountains are in good repair, the\nturbulent streams flowing under them with a dash and a roar of the\nSelkirk\u2019s own.\n\nAll along the way to the summit is visible on the opposite side of the\npass, the foot trail of the Indians. This narrow path lies along the\nsheer cliffs, dropping suddenly into deep ravines, then almost straight\nup the precipitous side of the mountain.\n\nAn enterprising company has built a wagon road to the summit, but a\nnervous person had best run his carriage on more level ground. This\nroad stands on end in many places. It runs along level enough for a\nfoot or two then takes a header into a ravine, presently it winds over\na frail bridge which the spuming torrent below threatens every minute\nto wreck.\n\n[Illustration: STREET IN JUNEAU.]\n\nThe wagon relegated the trail to oblivion. Then came the railroad and\ntravel and commerce deserted the wagon road. Here they lie, the foot\ntrail on one side, the wagon way on the other, and just above the road\nway, the railway. Three path ways: that of the untaught, unskilled\nIndian, that of the enterprising pioneer and that of the modern\nengineer, traverse this play ground of the Titans.\n\nAt the summit of the mountains Old Glory waves beside the British flag.\nSeveral British red-coated police are on duty at this point. They live\nin one-room frame houses covered with sail cloth.\n\nThe Yukon river rises at this point and flows four thousand miles into\nBehring Sea. Just now the head is a bank of snow from which we made\nsnowballs.\n\nThe railroad will shortly be completed to Lake Bennett. From that\npoint, with the exception of White Horse rapids, is a clear, unimpeded\nwater route to Dawson City, in the heart of the Klondike.\n\nFrom the Dawson City _Midnight Sun_ we learn that this metropolis of\nthe Northwest Territory is quite a busy place.\n\nHundreds are leaving for the Cape Nome country by every steamer, and\nmany are making the trip in open boats.\n\nA disastrous fire occurred on the hill back of Dawson on Wednesday\nlast, when about forty cabins were destroyed by the blaze. In many\ncases the entire contents were destroyed, while some few were enabled\nto save their outfits. The fire caught from a small bonfire down\nnear the Klondike, and in the first ravine up that stream. It ran up\nthe hill to the trail, and then burning down towards the ferry, also\ndestroyed half the homes on the lower side of the trail. The loss is\nestimated to reach about five thousand dollars, and fell on a class who\ncould ill afford the loss, some being left absolutely destitute.\n\nScows and boats through from Lake Bennett began arriving in great\nnumbers the last of the week, and are continuing to do so.\n\nTrunks and bandboxes are taking the place of dunnage bags heretofore\nbrought into the country. Every steamer is unloading cords of them.\n\nMen who during the winter were spending hundreds of dollars over the\ngambling tables are now looking for a chance to work their passage out.\n\nThe suspicious actions of two strangers over on Gold Run has caused\ngold sacks to be guarded more carefully.\n\nTwo men while poling a boat up the river, were overturned near the\nmouth of the Klondike, losing a valuable kit of tools. The men were\npicked up by a boat pushed off from the river bank.\n\n[Illustration: GREEK CHURCH, JUNEAU.]\n\nThe grand opera house, built by Charles Meddows, is to be the finest\nbuilding in Dawson. It is three stories high. The auditorium has a\nseating capacity of two thousand and a double row of boxes, forty-two\nin number.\n\nFrom present indication Dawson will celebrate the Fourth of July as it\nwas never before celebrated. Citizens of Canada are as eager supporters\nof this movement as are those of the States. There was a public mass\nmeeting held in June at the A. C. warehouse, when there was about five\nhundred people present, and an executive committee appointed. Since\nthen the different committees have been appointed and are meeting even\nbetter support from all quarters than expected.\n\nThe foreman of the Gold Hill mine saved from his washup a thousand\ndollars\u2019 worth of handsome nuggets. Over these he kept a jealous eye\ncontinually until last Friday. Between seven and eight o\u2019clock that\nevening he went to a neighboring cabin to bid good-by to Sam Miller,\nwho was preparing to return to the States. During his temporary absence\nsome sneak thief entered the cabin and cutting open a valise secured\nthe sack of nuggets, but in his haste overlooked fifteen hundred\ndollars in dust lying near by.\n\nWe learn that a responsible firm is organizing a properly conducted\nexpress company, which will be prepared to carry parcels, gold dust,\nand attend to commissions. Thus a long felt want will be supplied in\nconnection with Dawson\u2019s dealing with outside points.\n\nThe foreman of the Eldorado is doing the finest piece of mining yet\nseen in the Klondike. A passer by would think that his large force\nof men was laying off a baseball ground, so level is the entire five\nhundred-foot claim being stripped for summer sluicing.\n\nCards are out announcing the marriage of two of Dawson\u2019s most prominent\nyoung people.\n\nA beautiful baby girl born over on Bonanza claim the other day is\nconsidered the most valuable nugget on the claim.\n\n[Illustration: INDIAN CHIEF\u2019S HOUSE, JUNEAU.]\n\nPatrick O\u2019Flynn, a prisoner serving a six months\u2019 sentence, escaped\nThursday and has gone, nobody knows where. He, with other prisoners,\nwas carrying water from the Yukon when he bolted among the tents along\nthe river bank, mingled with the crowd and was lost sight of. One\nhundred dollars reward was promptly offered for information leading to\nhis capture.\n\nThe Yukon has been steadily rising for the past week, and the high\nwater mark is not yet reached. Water is backed up in the Klondike,\noverflowing the island.\n\nThis little city came near having a Johnstown flood last winter. An\neye witness thus describes how the ice went out at Dawson. The river\nhad been frozen all winter. When a few warm spring days came, the\nmelting ice and snow in the mountains sent down immense volumes of\nwater the strain of which the ice could not long withstand. All day the\npeople stood helplessly about discussing the situation. A flood seemed\ninevitable; the greater part of the city was in danger of being swept\naway; until three o\u2019clock in the afternoon the situation was unchanged,\nthe ice gave no evidence of going.\n\nSuddenly and almost simultaneously all along the city front the ice\nwas seen to commence moving. A steamboat whistled and the cry went up,\n\u201cThe ice is moving,\u201d and thousands of spectators rushed to the river\nbank just in time to see it go. The dancing masses of huge pieces\nof ice weighing tons upon tons, reared high in the air and tumbling\nover each other as they fell, presented a most beautiful spectacle. At\nten o\u2019clock it jammed and raised the water about three feet, doing no\ndamage except smashing the wheel of the steamer Nellie Irving. In ten\nminutes the jam broke and the next morning the river, which the day\nbefore was frozen solid across, was entirely free except for blocks of\nfloating ice from above.\n\nLast year ice jammed and, backing the water up, flooded the town, doing\nmuch damage.\n\n[Illustration: SUMMIT OF THE SELKIRK RANGE, AT HEAD OF YUKON RIVER. OLD\nGLORY WAVES BESIDE THE BRITISH FLAG.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI GOLD FIELDS\n\n\nThe United States Geological Survey has gathered a volume of\ninformation on the subject of the gold fields of Alaska. The object\nof the expedition was to discover the source from which the gold of\nthe Yukon placer mines was derived. A belt of auriferous rocks, five\nhundred miles long and from fifty to one hundred wide, runs from the\nBritish Territory across the American line at Forty Mile Creek. It is\nthe opinion of the Geological Survey that the gold deposits of Alaska\nwill rival those of South Africa.\n\nReturning to Skagway the gentlemen of our party were entertained at\na banquet given by the members of the Chamber of Commerce, in their\nbuilding.\n\nThe ladies were invited by Mrs. Bracket to her lovely home where a\ndelightful luncheon was served. The leading ladies of Skagway were\nmet at the home of our charming hostess to bid us welcome to their\nenterprising little city.\n\nAn employe of the engineering department of the White Pass and Yukon\nRailroad is at the Portland hotel. He came in from Cariboo Crossing to\ncelebrate the Fourth, and recuperate from a hard trip up the Watson\nriver and along the foothills of the mountains to the Fifty Mile river\nbelow White Horse Rapids. Most of the country through which the party\ntraveled is entirely new to map makers and no signs of trails, mess\ndebris, chopping or other evidences of a previous visitation could be\nfound. As a consequence a number of streams and lakes were discovered.\nOf the latter some are quite large and are teeming with large lake\ntrout. The latter were caught in large numbers by throwing a common\npickerel trotting hook, attached to a line, out into the lake and\nhauling it ashore. It was seldom that a cast failed to land a fish.\nArtificial flies had no attraction for them. In appearance these fish\nlook very much like the mountain trout of Puget Sound, but are much\nlighter in color. The topographer of the party says they are identical\nwith the trout found in the Adirondack lake regions.\n\nThe head chainman killed a huge brown bear, which, after being shot,\nmade a furious charge upon him and was only laid low when but a few\nfeet away from his slayer.\n\nThe lower lands of this country are almost entirely devoid of rock. The\nsoil is an ashy sand patched with powdered limestone stretching over\nthe country in white patches like alkali lakes. On the Forty Mile river\ndeclivity the country is cut up with huge pot-holes. Many of these\ncontain lakes of the purest water, that gleam in the sunlight in green,\nazure and dark blue according to their depths and shades. A curious\npeculiarity of these lakes lies in the fact that their outlets and\ninlets are subterranean. They receive their supply from the bottoms of\nlakes above and their overflow percolates through their lower banks to\nlakes below.\n\nThe country swarms with ducks, snipe and other water fowl. It is now\nthe breeding season and ducks followed by broods of ducklings may be\nseen along the edge of every sheet of water. Much fresh sign of bear,\nmoose, mountain sheep and cariboo were seen throughout the country, but\nthe noise attendant upon the progress of the party along the line of\ntheir journey, gave all the big game a good opportunity to get out of\nsight.\n\nThe open coul\u00e9es and plateaus of this country are waving with luxuriant\nbunch-grass, rye-grass and redtop, but the mosquitoes are in such\nuntold numbers and so violent in their attacks that the pack horses\nof the party were too worried to receive much benefit in grazing. In\nplaces are woodlands of large spruce and tall lodge-pole pines, but\nmost of the timber is scrubby and fit only for fuel.\n\nNo indications of mineral could be seen.\n\nThe night before the Fourth a large flag was planted on top of Mt.\nDewey. The town was decorated with bunting and flags. Well dressed\npeople thronged the streets. An oration was delivered from the grand\nstand and foot and horse races lent zest to the sports.\n\nThe town has two fire companies. These exhibited their hose-carts and\nran a race, making an exhibition of their skill in handling the hose.\nWater is plenty, as it comes down the mountain side in a vast volume\nfrom a lake near the summit of Mt. Dewey and is piped over the town.\n\n[Illustration: THE SKAGWAY ENCHANTRESS.]\n\nWhile the town looks and is new there was nothing to distinguish the\ncelebration of the national holiday from the same day in the States.\n\nWe are now above the line of night. It is as light as day all night. No\nlight is needed as one can read at any time of night without it. The\nsun scarcely sets in the west until it rises in the east. At Summit\nlake, which is at the top of the mountains, there is no night at all,\nit being in latitude sixty north and longitude one hundred and sixty\nwest.\n\nThe display of the aurora borealis each night is a scene never to be\nforgotten. Night after night the whole northern sky is aflame with\na light akin to sunlight tempered by moonlight and enriched by the\nsplendor of the rainbow\u2019s glorious hues. The Tlingit Indians believe\nthe aurora to be the ghost-dance of dead warriors who live on the\nplains of the sky.\n\nThe Skagway enchantress is a figure in stone high up on the mountain\nside resembling a woman. Her flowing garments resemble those of a\nstylish Parisian gown. The Indians formerly crossed the mountains at\nthis point, Chilkat Pass, but this witch long ago enchanted the trail,\nso that it meant death to follow it. The Indians now turn aside here\nand follow the White Pass.\n\nHigh above the enchantress\u2019s head a bear, whose head is plainly\nvisible, stands guard over her.\n\nIf you look long enough on a moonlight night you can see the\nEnchantress move, but she cannot leave the mountain. She cannot come\ndown, yet Chilkat Pass remains enchanted.\n\n[Illustration: SKAGWAY, SHOWING WHITE PASS.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII MUIR GLACIER\n\n\nThe sun shone bright and warm, but a cold wave swept over the glacier.\nIt was the beautiful Muir glacier.\n\nWe left the steamer in a little boat and were rowed to the shore,\nlanding on the sandy beach. High on the sand lay an Indian canoe, a\ndug-out. Near by a party of Indians wrapped in their scarlet blankets\nsquatted on the sand. They had come to meet the steamer and sell their\ntoys, baskets and slippers.\n\nA little black eyed boy had a half dozen young seagulls, in a basket,\ngreat awkward squabs. Their coats were a dirty fuzzy down like that of\na gosling, sprinkled over with black dots. Their big hungry mouths and\nfrowsy coats gave no hint of the beautiful birds they would be when\nthey grew up.\n\nWhen I paused to look at the birds their owner regarded me with\ninterest as he sat with the basket hugged to his breast. Then the\nyoung merchant held one up for my inspection, with the remark, \u201chees\nnice bird.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d said I, \u201chees very nice.\u201d I had no thought of buying a seagull.\nWhat would I do with it? Then I remembered a little invalid boy whom I\nthought might be pleased with a pet seagull.\n\n\u201cHow much you give?\u201d inquired my little Indian boy.\n\n\u201cHow much will you take?\u201d\n\n\u201cTwo bits.\u201d\n\nSo, I paid down my two bits and picked up my baby seagull. Then my\nlittle merchant spoke up, \u201cHim want basket?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d I said, \u201cI think that I want a basket.\u201d\n\nThe basket was paid for and my enterprising little Indian tucked the\nbaby gull in with a wisp of sea weed and handed him to me with the\nremark, \u201cHim all right now.\u201d\n\nHow that gull did squawk when he found himself all alone in a big\nbasket. What cared he that I had purchased for him the prettiest basket\non the beach? He wanted his brothers. When we arrived on the deck of\nthe steamer I hurried my gull down to the steward and gained admission\nfor him to the cook\u2019s department, where he was cared for the\nremainder of the voyage.\n\n[Illustration: MUIR GLACIER (SECTION OF).]\n\nIt is something of a novelty to be seated at the base of a glacier\nin July. From the Chilkoot to the source of the Yukon river is only\nthirty-five miles, but the intervening mountain chain is several\nthousand feet high and bears numerous glaciers on its seaward side.\nForty miles west of Lynn canal and separated from it by a low range\nof mountains is Glacier bay, and at the head of one of its inlets\nis the far-famed Muir glacier. It is one of the many fields of ice\nwhich stellates from a center fifteen miles back of the Muir front\nand covers the valley of the mountains between the Pacific and the\nheadwaters of the Yukon river. Nine glaciers now discharge icebergs\ninto the bay. All of these glaciers have receded from one to four miles\nin the past twenty years. Kate Field says, \u201cIn Switzerland a glacier\nis a vast bed of dirty air-holed ice that has fastened itself like a\ncold porous plaster to the Alps. In Alaska a glacier is a wonderful\ntorrent that seems to have been frozen when about to plunge into the\nsea.\u201d There they lay, almost free from debris, clear and gleaming in\nthe cold sunshine of Alaska. The most beautiful of them all is the\nMuir glacier. It is named in honor of John Muir, who visited Alaska\nin company with Mr. Young, the Presbyterian missionary, in 1879,\nand discovered it. This glacier extends straight across the fiord,\npresenting at tide water a perpendicular wall two hundred to four\nhundred feet above and seven hundred and fifty feet below the surface,\nmaking a solid wall of ice a thousand feet high and three miles wide.\n\nI cannot do better than to give Prof. Muir\u2019s own description of this\nwonderful _mer de glace_: \u201cThe front and brow of the glacier were\ndashed and sculptured into a maze of yawning chasms, ravines, ca\u00f1ons,\ncrevasses, and a bewildering chaos of architectural forms, beautiful\nbeyond description, and so bewildering in their beauty as to almost\nmake the spectator believe he is reveling in a dream. There were\ngreat clusters of glistening spires, gables, obelisks, monoliths,\nand castles, standing out boldly against the sky, with bastion and\nmural surmounted by fretted cornice and every interstice and chasm\nreflecting a sheen of scintillating light and deep blue shadow, making\na combination of color, dazzling, startling and enchanting.\u201d\n\nThis is nature\u2019s iceberg factory. The \u201ccalving\u201d of a berg is a\nwonderful sight and one never to be forgotten. Avalanches and great\nblocks of crumbling ice are continually falling with a crash and roar\ninto the sea, while spray dashes high and great waves roll along the\nwall of the glacier, washing the blocks of floating ice upon the sandy\nbeach on either side of the great ice-wall. The great buttresses on\neither side as they rise from the sea are solid white, veined and\nstreaked with mud and rocks, but farther in near the middle of the wall\nthe color changes to turquoise and sapphire blues, blended with the\nchangeable greens of the sea.\n\nThe upper strata of a glacier moves faster than the lower and is\nconstantly being pushed forward, producing a perpendicular and at\ntimes projecting front. A piece of the projecting front breaks off\nand falls with a heavy splash into the water, then up it comes almost\nwhite. Now a piece breaks from the lower and older strata and comes up\na dazzling green. Again a deafening roar as of artillery and a huge\npiece of ice splits off from top to bottom of the sea wall and goes\nplunging and raving like a great lion to the bottom of the sea, then up\nit comes slowly, a berg of dazzling rainbow hues. Such a one, as big\nas all the business houses in a village, floated toward the beach and\nthe outgoing tide left it stranded there. We ate a piece of it, ice\nthousands of years old, and drank water from a cup or pocket in its\nside.\n\nThe beach is strewn with rock, pebbles and bowlders carved by the icy\nhand of the glacier. Along the beach near the glacier, just above high\ntide, in the rocks and sand grow lagoon grass, laurel and beautiful\nclarkias. These brilliant purple flowers are named for Prof. Clarke,\nwho first studied and classified them. They are sweet scented and\nbelong to the evening primrose family.\n\nThe Tlingit Indians believe that mountains were once living creatures\nand that the glaciers are their children. These parents hold them in\ntheir arms, dip their feet into the sea, then cover them with snow\nin the winter and scatter rocks and sand over them in summer. These\nIndians dread the cold and always speak the name Sith, the ice god,\nin a whisper. They have no fear of a hades such as ours. To them hell\nis a place of everlasting cold. The chill of the ice god\u2019s breath is\ndeath. He freezes rivers into glaciers and when angry heaves down the\nbergs and crushes canoes. When summer comes the ice spirit sleeps, but\nthe Indians speak in whispers and never touch the icebergs with their\ncanoe paddles for fear of awaking him.\n\nOnce upon a time glaciers plowed over Illinois. Manitoba and Hudson Bay\nwere then great snow and ice fields, down from which swept the glaciers\nover the United States south to the Ohio river. Great rocks and\nbowlders were carried along and deposited here and there on the broad\nprairies. Many of these rocks and bowlders may still be seen in central\nIllinois, still bearing the marks of the glacial slide.\n\nAn odd old character in our neighborhood used to tell us children that\nthose big flattened bowlders were left there for the good people to\nstand on when the world should be burned up. \u201cWould they get hot?\u201d we\nasked. \u201cOh, how could they when they had lain years in the heart of a\nglacier?\u201d To all of our questions as to how he knew he always turned a\ndeaf ear.\n\nOur sailors rowed out and with ropes captured an iceberg which they\nsaid would weigh five tons and with rope and tackle hauled it aboard\nand put it down in the hold. Then they captured a second one not quite\nso large and after it was safely stored away we weighed anchor and\nsteamed out of the beautiful bay, afloat with icebergs, many of them\nbeing larger above water than our ship. But one disappointment met me,\nnot a polar bear was in sight.\n\nA nunatak is an area of fertile land surrounded by ice. One of the\nfinest on the Alaskan coast is Blossom island. It is quite a large\ntract of rich land covered with forest and brilliant flowers.\n\nWhen Mr. Young (before mentioned) was missionary to the Hoonah Indians\nthey appealed to him to pray to God to keep the glaciers from cutting\ndown the trees on the bays putting into Cross sound. They said their\nmedicine man had advised them to offer as a sacrifice two of their\nslaves to the ice god, but this they had done without any effect. They\nwere greatly disappointed when Mr. Young told them that he could do\nnothing to prevent the glaciers destroying their forests.\n\n[Illustration: GREEK CHURCH, KILLISNOO.]\n\nPassing Cross strait we go down Chatham strait. Our next stop is\nKillisnoo, a small fishing hamlet on Admiralty island. The largest cod\nliver oil factory in the world is located here. The Northwest Trading\nCompany established a fishing post here in 1880. Chatham strait is full\nof cod. The fish are artificially dried. The natives receive two\ncents apiece for a five-pound fish. Many fish are packed in salt. Our\nsteamer took on many hundred pounds of dried and packed fish. Cod liver\noil is made in the factory. Each barrel of fish when pressed yields\nthree quarts of oil valued at twenty-five cents to thirty-five cents\nper gallon. The refuse of fifty barrels of fish when dried and powdered\nyields one ton of guano worth thirty dollars. This is shipped to the\nfruit ranches of California and the sugar plantations of the Hawaiian\nislands. Great vats of oil stand in rows under the shed of the factory.\n\nThere is a little fish here called the candle fish. It is almost all\noil. For a light the natives impale this fish on a stick and light the\nfish. It burns with a sizzle and sputter but makes a good light.\n\nThis is a beautiful island. The gardens are now at their best.\nEverything grows luxuriantly. Fine strawberries, currants and\ngooseberries are grown. Beds of royal purple and golden pansies in\ndewy splendor adorn the yards and gardens, great broad faced beauties\nmeasuring from two to two and a half inches across.\n\nHere we met our first Alaskan mosquito. He is about the size of our\nglow flies. His bite is something to remember. It leaves a miniature\nsnow capped mountain on your face.\n\nThe Indians say that once upon a time, many thousand of snows ago, he\nwas a giant spider, but a wicked manitou tossed him into the fire one\nday where he shriveled up to his present size. The bad manitou thought\nhim dead but when the fire burned low he escaped and flew away with a\nlive coal in his mouth which he carries to this day. Since he could not\nbe revenged on the manitou he takes his vengeance out on man.\n\nArachne, fair mortal, at Minerva\u2019s fateful touch shrank and shriveled\ninto a spider.\n\nThe student of Indian myths will be impressed before he carries his\nresearches very far, with the likeness of many of these legends to the\nmythologies of the old world.\n\n[Illustration: KITCHNATTI.]\n\nThese Indians, the Kootznahoos, claim to have come from over the\nseas. They deny any relation with the Tlingits. They were the first\nIndians to distill hoochinoo, which carries more fight and warwhoop\nto the drop than any other liquor known. It is made from a mash of\nyeast and molasses, thickened with a little flour. They were great\nfighters and murdered the traders as soon as the Russians left. In\n1869 Commander Mead shelled the village and took Kitchnatti prisoner.\nHe was taken to Mare Island, California, and confined for a year.\nThe tribe now numbers only five hundred souls. They are a peaceable\npeople and follow fishing for a livelihood. Many of them are employed\nin the fish factory on the island. Kitchnatti is still the recognized\nchief, and is very proud of his position. He meets all the steamers\ncoming in and is delighted to meet the officers of the vessels, all of\nwhom are kind to him. He is quite vain in his dress, wearing a silk\nhat, long coat, black pantaloons and slippers. He also sports a cane,\nwhich is a sheathed sword. He claims descent from ancestry as old as\n\u201cyonder granite mountain\u201d which stands across the strait. His state\ndress consists of a crown made of goat horns and a tunic made of red\nfelt trimmed with fur. Over his door he has posted his escutcheon,\nwhich some one has translated for him into English. It reads, \u201cBy the\ngovernor\u2019s permission and the company\u2019s commission I am made the Grand\nTyhee of this entire illabee.\u201d\n\nOn a green slope stands a Greek church, established by the Russian\ngovernment. The priest lives in a tiny cottage next door.\n\nAt the wharf a dozen little Indian boys, dressed in sweaters and\noveralls, displayed much energy and skill in helping to unload the\nfreight which was landed at this point. The first officer gave them\nfifty cents apiece when the work was completed and away they went to\nspend it, American boy like, at the candy store.\n\nOne of the most interesting things that I saw in the village was a\nlittle papoose taking his bath in a big dishpan on the front veranda.\nHe did not like it at all and kicked and screamed but his mother\nwithout a word proceeded with the bathing.\n\nJust off Killisnoo the steamer anchored several hours to give the\npassengers an opportunity to try deep-sea fishing. Some fine halibut\nwere brought aboard. Then we weighed anchor and steamed toward the old\ntown of Sitka. This ancient capital of the Romanoffs is the seat of the\nterritorial government of Alaska. A strong effort is being made by the\nmining interest of Juneau to move it to that point.\n\n[Illustration: SITKA.--SOLDIERS\u2019 BARRACKS, OLD RUSSIAN WAREHOUSE\nAND GREEK CHURCH ON THE RIGHT, INDIAN VILLAGE ON THE LEFT, RUSSIAN\nBLOCKHOUSES BEYOND AND MISSION SCHOOLS IN THE DISTANCE. By permission\nof F. LAROCHE, Photographer, Seattle, Washington.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII SITKA\n\n\nSitka is beautifully located at the foot of the mountains and commands\na fine view seaward. The streets are not regularly laid out. Everyone\nappears to have chosen the site that pleased him best, regardless of\nhis neighbors. Many of the buildings are old. At every turn one is\nmade aware of Russian architecture. Several blocks from the wharf and\ndirectly in the middle of the street stands the Russian orthodox church\nof St. Michaels. The interior is richly decorated. Many rich paintings\nadorn the walls. A handsome brass chandelier hangs from the ceiling.\nMassive brass candlesticks stand on either side of the door. The\ninterior is finished in white and gold, and the inner sanctuary where\nwomen may not enter is separated from the church proper by fine bronze\ndoors.\n\nThe Sitka Mission and Industrial School was established by the\nPresbyterian board in 1878. There are now enrolled sixty-four boys and\nforty-six girls. School continues nine months of the year. The boys\nand girls occupy separate buildings. The forenoon the pupils spend\nin the school rooms and the afternoons the girls spend in the sewing\nroom and the boys in the shops. The superintendent called a bright boy\nabout twelve years of age and asked him if he could show me about the\ngrounds and through the workshops while he conducted a larger party in\na different direction. \u201cYes sir,\u201d and with a touch of his cap to me,\nled the way to the carpenter shop. Two young men busy at work at a long\nbench touched their caps and a \u201cGood afternoon, madam,\u201d greeted me.\n\u201cYes madam, I am a carpenter,\u201d proudly replied one of the young men to\nmy question. He was about eighteen years old, while his companion was\nonly sixteen. In this shop the pupils make tables, chairs and all sorts\nof furniture. I was next conducted to the tin shop, where besides pots\nand pans, stoves are made out of sheet iron and scraps of any old thing\nthat is left over. All of the stoves in the school buildings are made\nin this way. My young Indian guide next conducted me to the shoe shop.\n\n[Illustration: INDIAN AVENUE, SITKA.]\n\nThe schools are having vacation now, so the shops are not running\na full number of pupils. The conductor and two pupils were at work,\nthe former on fine shoes and the latter on heavy Klondike boots. Each\nboy has his own cobbler\u2019s bench and a full set of tools. A third\nboy was sauntering about the room making himself familiar with his\nsurroundings. The conductor of the shop told me that this lad had\nchosen the shoe maker\u2019s trade and was to begin work on the following\nmorning.\n\nThe boys all greeted me with a smile of welcome when I entered and\nbade me good-by when I departed. My guide said that the paint shop was\nclosed, but he explained to me the object of the shop and the work\ndone there. When I asked him if he had chosen his trade he politely\nexplained that he had only been in the school a year and that he had\nnot decided what he would like. The pupils enter for five years,\nthe parents or guardian signing a contract to that effect. My guide\nconducted me to the gate, where I thanked him for his kindness. He\ngracefully touched his cap and said: \u201cGood-by madam, I was glad to show\nyou about.\u201d\n\nAll of the dormitories, play rooms and school rooms are models of\nneatness. In the girls\u2019 building the bread was just being taken out\nof the bake oven. Thirty loaves was the day\u2019s baking. The boys make\nthe bread and put it to rise. The girls mould it out and bake it. The\nIndians are very proud of the school and come of their own accord\nseeking admission for their children. This school is making these\nIndians self-supporting and consequently prosperous. One sees many\nbright faces among them and the younger people are happy and contented,\nwith nothing in their dress or manner to distinguish them from young\nwhite Americans of the same age. In an old blockhouse located on a\nrocky prominence overlooking the sea some of the boys of the school\nspend the evening hours in band practice. They played until eleven\no\u2019clock on the parade ground without a light, reading their music by\ntwilight. The selections were choice and well rendered. They played\n\u201cStar Spangled Banner\u201d as an opening piece. Sitka is rightfully proud\nof her Indian band. The Indian is given his chance in this land of the\nmidnight sun and he is making the most of his opportunities.\n\n[Illustration: BLOCKHOUSE ON BANK OF INDIAN RIVER, SITKA, ALASKA.]\n\nOpposite the Mission on the bank of the Indian River is a large square\nrock called the Blarney-stone, which dowers the kisser with a magic\ntongue, but never a four leafed shamrock in all the merry dell with\nwhich to weave a magic spell.\n\nThe Sitkans, like all native races have a mythical legend as to their\norigin.\n\nTwo brothers, twins, lived in paradise. One of them ate a sea cucumber.\nIt was the one forbidden fruit. The paradise became a wilderness. The\nbrothers were starving when a band of roving Stickines came that way\none day and pitying them left them wives to care for them.\n\nFrom one of these pairs sprang all the Kaksatti, the Crow clan. From\nthe other descended all the Kokwantons, the Wolf clan.\n\nThe legends of these Indians as well as all other tribes in this\ncountry, contain a full account of the landing of Columbus. The news\nwas carried overland from post to post and tribe to tribe by runners.\nThe history of the tribe at Sitka runs back five hundred years. Beyond\nthat period they have no record and frankly say that they have no\nauthentic account of their origin.\n\nTheir stature, their industry, their faith in the shaman, their belief\nin transmigration of souls, all point to Asiatic origin. Their word\nfor water is agua, much like the Latin aqua.\n\nThe Mission and Training schools have transformed these savages, whose\nancestors murdered the intrepid Muscovites, into frontier fishermen,\nboatmen and loggers.\n\nAn Indian never willingly consents to have his photograph taken,\nbecause, when you have a picture of him, he firmly believes that you\nhave power over his soul. The educated Indian, however, is fearless of\nthe camera.\n\nThe Kletwantans and the Klukwahuttes, two branches of the Frog clan,\nare at variance over the erection of a totem pole and have gone into\ncourt to settle the matter. The Klukwahuttes are the true aristocrats\nof Indian society in Sitka. The Kletwantons are the wealthy members of\nthe real Indian four hundred, but having made their money in fish and\noil, are considered upstarts by their more aristocratic brothers. The\nKletwantons decided to build a new home for the chief and to set up\nan elaborately carved and decorated totem pole. The eyes of the frog\nwhich was to surmount this wonderful pole were to be twenty-dollar\ngold pieces. A grand potlatch was to be held when the pole was ready\nto set up. All of the Indians up and down the coast, from Juneau,\nKillisnoo, Skagway, Ft. Wrangel and Bella Bella, were invited, but the\naristocratic Klukwahuttes were left out. Did they sit down and quietly\nignore this insult? No indeed. They told their wealthy brothers in true\nAmerican style what they thought of such conduct, and the matter would,\nno doubt, have been dropped here had not the wealthy fish oil makers\ndenied that the Klukwahuttes belonged to the Frog clan at all. Upon\nthis things grew so warm that the missionary appealed to the district\nattorney to aid him in making the Indians keep the peace. Then the\ndisgusted Klukwahuttes went to him asking for an injunction to keep\nthe pretended Frogs from holding the potlatch and setting up the pole.\nHe replied to them that he would take the case upon them paying him\na retainer of five hundred dollars, feeling sure that would end the\nmatter, well knowing that they could not raise the money. Petitioned\nagain he reduced his fee to two hundred and fifty dollars, feeling\nquite sure that they could not raise even that amount. But he reckoned\nwithout his host. In less than two hours the leading men of the\nKlukwahuttes filed into his office, carrying goat skin bags and pouches\nfilled with money and counted out the two hundred and fifty dollars in\nsmall coins, no coin being larger than a fifty-cent piece. The attorney\nwas obliged to keep his word and take the case. The injunction was\nissued restraining the oil makers from building the house and setting\nup the totem pole. The potlatch, however, was held.\n\nWhen the Juneau Indians arrived in their canoes off the shore the chief\nstood up and chanted their traditions to prove that they belonged to\nthe Frog clan and were rightfully invited. When he had finished the\nleaders of the Klukwahuttes, who were standing on the beach, recited\ntheir traditions to prove that they and not the Kletwantans were the\ntrue Frogs. The Klukwahuttes, however, made no disturbance during the\nfeast. Later the Kletwantans employed a young Boston lawyer who was\nstopping at Sitka and sued the Klukwahuttes for damages. Not wishing to\nbe outdone by the aristocratic Klukwahuttes, they at once paid their\nlawyer a retainer of two hundred and fifty dollars. There the case\nrests. The lawyers are trying to settle it out of court.\n\nOn an eminence which commands a fine view of the harbor and the town,\nstood the Baranhoff castle, which was burned a few years ago. It did\nnot in the least resemble a castle. The picture makes it look like an\nold country inn. The ruins are still visible and the two flights of\nsteps leading to it still exist. Around this historic ground cluster\nthe scenes and incidents of the past century. The castle, like the\nisland on which it stood, took its name from the Russian governor,\nBaranhoff, who in the early part of the century ruled the people with\nan iron hand, beginning with the knout and ending with the ax.\n\nNot one of the intrepid Muscovites who landed here in 1741 were left to\ntell the tale of their capture and execution by the native Sitkans. In\n1800 another party arrived and placed themselves under the protection\nof the Archangel Gabriel instead of trusting to the power of gunpowder\nand stockades. They too were massacred and their homes destroyed by\nfire. Baranhoff was at once sent out by the Russian government. He\nerected the castle and stockade, withdrew the town from the protection\nof Gabriel and placed it under the protection of the Archangel Michael.\n\nThis old castle was once the home of nobility and the scene of grand\nfestivities. Here princes and princesses of the blood royal ate their\ncaviare, quaffed their vodka and measured a minuet. It was in this\nold castle that Lady Franklin spent three weeks twenty-five years ago\nwhen in search of her husband, Sir John. It was here that W. H. Seward\nspent several days when on a trip to Alaska after its purchase from\nRussia, through the sagacity of himself and Charles Sumner. At one\nof the windows sat the beautiful Princess Maksoutoff weeping bitter\ntears as the Russian flag was lowered for the last time. On the 18th\nof October, 1867, three United States warships lay at anchor in the\nbay. They were the Ossipee, Resaca and Jamestown, commanded by Captains\nEmmons, Bradford and McDougal. Each vessel was dressed in the national\ncolors, while the Russian soldiers, citizens and Indians assembled upon\nthe open space at the foot of the castle carrying aloft the eagle of\nthe czar of all the Russias. At a given signal the American navy fired\na salute in honor of the Russian flag, which was lowered from the staff\non the castle. After a national salute from the Russian garrison in\nhonor of our flag, the stars and stripes were hoisted to the top of the\nold flag staff.\n\nThe Russian parade ground has been converted into a base ball\nground, where Indian and white teams contest for honors.\n\nThe native races of Alaska are slowly dying out. The bright light of\ncivilization is always the death doom of savagism.\n\n[Illustration: RAPIDS, INDIAN RIVER, SITKA.]\n\nThe most beautiful natural park in the world lies just above Sitka, on\nthe banks of the Indian River, which rises in the valley between the\nmountains and winding down, empties into the sea.\n\nHere are the greenest of pines, cedars and firs. The grasses and mosses\nare the brilliant green of the tropics. A neat suspension foot bridge\nswings clear of the water from buttress to buttress. The shallow,\nmurmuring, sparkling water bathes the brown roots of shrubs and trees.\nGreat cedars lie prostrate, covered with short green moss. Giant firs\nare draped with a delicate sea green moss, which hangs in festoons and\npendants from branch, limb and trunk. The pine tops sigh softly the\nmusic of the seas.\n\nSunny banks are yellow with the familiar cinquefoil, the blossoms of\nwhich are five or six times as large as they are at home. In open\nglades the ground is white with cornells, and tiny dogwood shrubs\ngrowing from two to five inches high. The wild purple geranium\nbrightens sunny glades, while the mountain spiraea, the most beautiful\nof all spiraeas, bends and sways in the breeze.\n\nThickets of salmon berry and wonderful mazes of strange ferns meet\none at every turn. One of the handsomest bushes in the park is the\nmagnificent Devil\u2019s Club. There are great thickets of them twenty feet\nhigh casting an enticing but dangerous shade. The dainty green leaves,\nas large as dinner plates, rear their heads aloft, umbrella-like. The\nstems, limbs, and trunk are covered with thousands of tiny poisonous\nprickles, which work deep into the flesh, making ugly sores.\n\nDown on the beach are the graves of Lisiansky\u2019s men, who were killed by\nambuscaded Indians while taking water for their ship, in 1804.\n\nFriday evening we weighed anchor and steamed out of the harbor. The\nbeautiful bay, with its beautiful islands, slowly receded from view and\nwe bade farewell to the historic old town of Sitka.\n\nHamerton, in his charming work on Landscape, says: \u201cThere are, I\nbelieve, four new experiences for which no description ever adequately\nprepares us, the first sight of the sea, the first journey in the\ndesert, the sight of flowing molten lava, and a walk on a great\nglacier. We feel in each case that the strange thing is pure nature, as\nmuch nature as a familiar English moor, yet so extraordinary that we\nmight be in another planet.\u201d\n\nI would add a fifth, sunset at sea. Earth holds nothing more fair,\nnothing more beautiful than sunshine.\n\nA little while ago the sky was blue, flaked with fleecy white clouds,\nthe snows on the coast range lay sparkling like diamonds in the sun,\nthe forest lay dark and green on the mountainside, the sea gray and\nblue by turns; but now a change comes over nature\u2019s moods, the clouds\nglow, the snows take on brilliant hues, the dark old forest grows\ndarker, the sea shimmers and sparkles, a flaming molten mass.\n\nThe imperial sunset throws its red flame afar, \u2019till the land, the sea,\nthe mountains, the sky, the very air it incarnadines in one grand flame\nof scarlet. Long, long will the beholder remember that glorious sunset\nat Sitka.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX ALASKA\n\n\nA friend of the writer who owns mines at Cook\u2019s Inlet thus describes\nhis voyage north along the coast to Unalaska:\n\nWe were now aboard the Excelsior. About noon the next day we put out to\nsea and saw no more island passages such as we had seen while aboard\nthe Queen.\n\nOur first stop was at Yakutat, an Indian village on the Yakutat Bay.\nThis bay is only an indentation of the coast, curving inward for about\ntwenty miles. The whole force of the Pacific sweeps into it. Landing is\nboth difficult and dangerous. In the bay are always many icebergs from\nthe glaciers at its head.\n\nGreat excitement prevailed here in 1880 when gold was discovered in\nthe black sand beaches. The rotary hand amalgamators were used and\nas much as forty dollars per day to the man was often realized. The\nminers, however, had reckoned without their host; the Yakutat chief,\nwho suddenly developed financial ability worthy of his white brother,\nexacted licenses and royalties from the miners.\n\nThis black sand mine was not yet exhausted when a tidal wave heaped the\ncoast with fish. These decayed in the hot sun and the oil soaked down\ninto the sand. The mercury would not work and the miners moved to a new\nbeach, but again a tidal wave ruined the mines by washing all the black\nsand out to sea. Yakutat was then deserted by the miners. The Indian\nwomen of this village are the finest basket weavers in Alaska.\n\nSoon after leaving Yakutat we sighted Mt. St. Elias and the Malispania\nglacier. The Indians call it Bolshoi Shopka--great one. This snow-clad\nmountain, nearly four miles high, beautiful as Valaskjalf, the silver\nroofed mansion of Odin, is a most magnificent sight. Such grandeur,\nsuch solidity, such poetry of color,--the white peak kisses the blue\nheaven,--such solitude. Like the golden few of earth\u2019s great ones, it\nstands alone, isolated by its very greatness.\n\nThe Malispania glacier which flows down from a great n\u00e9v\u00e9 field in\nthe mountains, is said to be the largest glacier in the world. It is\nnearly one hundred miles long and thirty-five miles wide where it pours\ninto the sea, and rises four hundred and fifty feet above tide water.\n\nOrca, on the shore of Prince William\u2019s Sound, lies snuggled up under\nthe rugged cliffs, which rise sheer thousands of feet high. From the\nwoods beyond a noisy river goes leaping down the rocks to the sea,\nwhere its power is chained to run the machinery of a cannery. That\nother Orca was a powerful sea dragon, especially fond of a seal diet,\nbut this Orca preys only on the salmon.\n\nOur next stop was at Valdes, where two years ago two thousand miners\nstarted for Copper River, to prospect for gold, but they were doomed\nto disappointment, as yet no gold has been discovered on this river.\nMany and sad are the tales of hardships endured by these miners. Some\nworked their way up the Copper River and down Tanana River to the\nYukon, but by far the greater number returned to Valdes destitute. Many\nof the miners lost their lives on the Valdes\u2019 glacier. In going to\nCopper River they had to travel eighteen miles across this treacherous\nglacier. Nine men lost their lives here last winter.\n\n[Illustration: WHERE WHALES AND PORPOISES POKE THEIR NOSES UP THROUGH\nTHE BRINE.]\n\nAt Valdes is located a government expedition under the command of\nCaptain Ambercrombie. The object of this expedition is to study the\ntopography of the country and to make surveys. The government is doing\nmuch to aid stranded miners to reach Seattle. For thirty days\u2019 work\nthey are paid five dollars and given a free passage to that city.\n\nPrince William Sound is a fine body of water. It is almost surrounded\nby land. Abrupt mountains rise seemingly out of the sea. It is deeply\nindented by fiords and inlets running back from ten to twenty-five\nmiles. On the south it is protected by mountainous islands. In coming\nout of this sound we passed around Mummy Point, into the ocean.\nPresently we came to the Seal Rocks. They were alive with seals. When\nthe engineer blew the whistle they went plunging into the sea, making\na great splash. Whales and porpoises bob their noses up through the\nbrine--descendants, no doubt, of that gallant crew of Tyrrhenian\nmariners changed by angry Bacchus to dolphins in that dusky old time\nwhen the gods held sway over nature\u2019s forces.\n\nFrom here to Cook\u2019s Inlet we had rough sailing. Neptune was out on a\nlark. We realized fully that he was king of the sea and that we were\nhis timid subjects.\n\nThe crowning glory of Alaska\u2019s natural attractions is Cook\u2019s Inlet.\nSheltered by a great mountain wall on the west, its shores enjoy\ndelightful summer weather. Only the pen of a Milton or the matchless\nbrush of a Turner could paint this fair empire of earth, sea and air.\nGlacier after glacier, frozen to the cold breast of the mountains, lay\nglistening in the sunshine. The finest waterfalls in Alaska leap from\nrugged cliffs and go singing to the sea.\n\nA grand panorama of snowy peaks, smoking volcanoes, forested slopes,\ngrassy glades bright with flowers and fertile valleys, lend enchantment\nto this wild Arcadia of the North. Goethe truly says: \u201cHim whom the\ngods true art would teach, they send out into the mighty world.\u201d\n\nMoose graze in the open glades, mountain goat and sheep leap from\ncliff to rock and away. Extensive level plateaus line both shores of\nthe inlet, which will make fine grazing country some day in the near\nfuture. The grass grows luxuriantly and in many places reaches a height\nof six feet. We traveled up the inlet seventy miles to a branch of the\ninlet known as the Turnagain Arm, which is from five to eight miles\nwide and enclosed by high mountains. These mountains are covered with\ntimber at the base. Tall grass covers the mountain side to the height\nof three thousand feet, sweet grass for all the flocks of some future\nPan.\n\nWe landed at Sunrise, which is the largest city on the inlet. It has a\npopulation of one hundred and fifty, mostly miners. Hope, twelve miles\naway, has a population of seventy-five miners. Fine vegetables grow\nhere. A storekeeper has a small garden. His potatoes are as fine as\nany grown in the states, some weighing one and one-half pounds. He has\ncabbages weighing seven pounds, and turnips weighing eleven pounds.\nBeets, peas and other vegetables are as fine as grown anywhere. People\nwho have lived here during the winters say that the temperature rarely\nfalls twenty degrees below zero, and that the winters are dry and\nwithout blizzards.\n\nMoose, mountain goat and wild sheep furnish the towns and camps with\nmeat, which is usually bought from the Indians, who are good hunters,\nbut very superstitious. They are afraid of a giant who, Odin like,\nrides from mountain to mountain on the wind, killing every Indian whom\nhe finds traveling alone. White men don\u2019t count, so if you wish to\nemploy a guide to accompany you on a hunting expedition you must also\nemploy a brother Indian to protect him, or he \u201cno go.\u201d\n\nFarther south along the coast a black dwarf haunts the mountains,\nmaking life miserable for lone Indians. His arrows, like the magical\nspear of Odin, never miss their mark.\n\nIn the mountains north and west of the inlet a giant floats his birch\ncanoe on the wind, from peak to peak, seeking lone Indians, whom he\nslays with the canoe paddles. This wonderful canoe, like that good ship\nof Frey, always gets a fair wind, no matter for what port its oarsman\nis bound.\n\nThis portion of the inlet, Turnagain Arm, is a treacherous bit of\nwater. The highest tides rise fifty feet. Then there is the bore, which\nruns up just as the tide comes in, rising eighteen to twenty feet\nperpendicularly.\n\nNo boat can live in it. The tide usually comes in three great waves,\none right after the other. The water is thick with mud, ground up by\nthe glaciers at the head of the Arm and brought down by the streams.\n\nThere will be some good placer mines in Cook\u2019s Inlet when the country\nis properly opened, but it has hardly been prospected as yet, owing to\nthe difficulty in sinking shafts to bed rock on account of the water\ncoming in so rapidly. It is necessary to go through bed rock to the\nglacier channels below for the main deposits of gold.\n\nBy timbering the shafts the water may be kept out. The soil and gravel\ntaken out of a shaft which has just been sunk averages only twenty-five\ncents per cubic yard, but the owners intend to go through the rock to\nthe channels below, where they expect to strike a rich vein, make their\nfortunes and return to civilization.\n\nThere is usually a light freeze about the middle of September, after\nwhich the weather is fine until the last of November.\n\nThe king of volcanoes in this region is Iliamna. Steam and smoke issue\nfrom two craters at the summit of the snow-clad mountain. During an\neruption this giant shakes the earth to its very center.\n\nThis wonderful estuary was discovered by Captain Cook, on the natal day\nof Princess Elizabeth, May 21, 1778. He took possession in the name of\nher majesty, and buried his records in a bottle at Possession Point.\nVancouver searched for these records in vain.\n\nTramways, stone piers and decaying buildings speak in unmistakable\nlanguage of busy scenes during Russian occupation.\n\nFive hundred miles west of Sitka, on the shore of Kadiak, one of the\nemerald isles of the Alaskan coast, is St. Paul, the first capital of\nAlaska, and the center of the fur trade established by Shelikoff and\nBaranhoff.\n\nThe natives say that many summers ago the Kadiak Islands were separated\nfrom the mainland by a very narrow channel. One day a big otter\nattempting to swim through was caught fast. He struggled until he\nwidened the Shelikoff Strait, when he swam triumphantly through. A bad\nIndian and his dog sent adrift on a big stone turned into the largest\nKadiak, on the shore of which St. Paul is located. The Kadiakers are\ndescended from the daughter of a great chief of the north, who, with\nher husband and dogs, was banished from her father\u2019s lodge.\n\nThe forest on these islands consists of a few scattered groves. The\ngrass, shrubs and mosses bathed in a perpetual fog are so brilliantly\ngreen as to dazzle the eye.\n\nThe dug-out canoe disappears here and boats of sea lion and walrus\nskins stretched over frames of drift wood lightly skim the blue waters\nof the cold sea.\n\nAs we steam along through sunshine and fog, past glaciers, mountains\nand fiords, \u201cso wide the loneliness, so lucid the air,\u201d we are reminded\nthat the Ancient Mariner sailed the blue Pacific. Now the sun drops\ninto the sea, lighting it up with a luminous glow. With a tremor and a\nsparkle the purple waves glimmer red, now shadow to a violet hue, and\nnow to a crimson blue.\n\n  \u201cTries one, tries all, and will not stay\n   But flits from opal hue to hue.\u201d\n\nThe volcanoes of Alaska! What a grand, what a wonderful panorama, as if\nyou had rubbed Aladdin\u2019s lamp. Expectation stood in awe when this giant\nupheaval was in progress. Enwrapped always in the mellow haze of white\nsmoke and blue atmosphere, the cold clouds kissing their white brows,\nthese sentinels old, like Wordsworth mountain, \u201clook familiar with\nforgotten years.\u201d\n\nThe prince of them all, Shishaldin, rises nine thousand feet, trailing\nhis white robes in the blue sea.\n\nThe seventy islands of the Aleutian chain lie along the coast for\nthousands of miles. These islands are treeless, but green with Arctic\ngrasses and mosses.\n\nAt Unalaska the Russians have a nicely built church. These Greek\nchurches have no pews, the congregation standing and kneeling during\nthe service. The priest in charge of this church speaks no English.\nThese churches all pay an annual tribute to the patriarch in Moscow.\nThis is all un-American. The Mary Lee Home, a Methodist mission, has a\nsmall school here.\n\nThe Aleuts, a kind, gentle people, suffered much at the hands of their\nRussian masters in the past. The Aleuts living in sod huts are the\nCrofters of America.\n\nThe fine flower of the fauna of Alaska is found in the valley of the\nKoyukuk River. Here tusks and bones of mastodons are found imbedded in\nthe sand banks and gravel bars.\n\nSince the discovery of gold in Alaska the Indians have saved many\nlives. Born and reared amidst these wild surroundings, where winter\nwhite and hoary stands ever at the gate of the North, wagging his\nshaggy beard, they have partaken of the very nature of their own rugged\nmountains. The long Arctic nights and the intense cold have given\nthese people hearts of steel and muscles of iron.\n\nAre you ill? Are you starving? No mountain is too high, no snow too\ndeep, but one of these heroes will climb the one or plunge undauntedly\nthrough the other to bring you succor.\n\nIn the chilly Arctic sea there lies a mysterious island, the home of\nthe ice goblin, who kicked it loose from, no one knows where, so the\nlegend runs, and towed it to its present location.\n\nIts mountains are the highest, its gorges the deepest, and its fields\nand fiords the grandest in the world.\n\nIt was a most magnificent island before the goblin stole it and dragged\nit away into the great ice fields of the North. It was clothed in rich\nverdure. Birds sang, flowers bloomed, and gay butterflies hovered over\nthem.\n\nThis was not at all to the goblin\u2019s taste, so he threw a sheet of ice\nover mountain, field and fiord. In his ice castle on the summit of the\nloftiest peak reigns the great ice goblin, sending out storms over sea\nand land, and pouring ice, snow and glaciers down over the island to\nhis heart\u2019s content.\n\nIn the Arctic region a dark cloud called the \u201cloom of the water\u201d\noverhangs where ever there is clear water.\n\nThe Arctic sea! The land of the midnight sun! What a fascinating\nsubject! What an inexhaustible field for those three happy brothers,\nthe poet, the painter and the scientist! The land of j\u00f6tums, penguins\nand ice packs. The land where night kisses morning. The realm of\nbright-haired Aurora and sable-robed Niobe.\n\nReturning along the self same route the mind never tires nor the eye\nwearies of the matchless scenery. Like a moving panorama, grand,\naustere, majestic, sublime. Here reigns Vidar, the god of silence.\n\nMagnificent fiords indent the coast. The dark mountains rise to a vast\nheight, their snow crowned peaks standing out clear and sharp against\nthe blue sky.\n\nGlaciers like huge giants clasp the mountains in their frosty arms,\nwhile their tears course down the mountain\u2019s weather-beaten cheek.\n\nHere and there a fleecy white cloud envelopes the summit of a mountain.\nA silvery thread comes creeping out over the rocks, loses itself in the\npine forest on the slopes, emerges and with a boundless sweep plunges\ninto the ocean.\n\nAll this wild scenery from base to peak stands mirrored in the\nsea-green water of the fiord.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X FAREWELL TO SKAGWAY\n\n\nAt Skagway quite a number of miners came on board, bound for home. One\nhears from them many sad tales of the Klondike. One man aboard is dying\nof consumption and scurvy, contracted in the mining region. A purse is\nbeing made up to enable him to reach his home in Toronto, Canada. He\nhopes to live to see his wife and child. An impromptu entertainment in\nthe salon netted one hundred and fifty dollars for the sick miner.\n\nAnother tale not quite so pathetic is that of Mike McCarty, of San\nFrancisco. He bought a claim and paid all the money he possessed for\nit. When he went to have the lease recorded he was told that it was not\nlegal, that the property was not his, but still belonged to the Queen.\n\u201cDamn the Quane,\u201d said Mike, \u201cI bought it and paid me money for it. The\nQuane has nothing to do with it at all.\u201d Then he was informed that some\none had sold the claim to him under false pretense and besides losing\nit he would get three months\u2019 imprisonment for insulting the Queen.\n\u201cFaith and how could I insult the Quane when I niver see her?\u201d queried\nMike. \u201cAll right,\u201d said the magistrate, \u201cyou go up for three months and\nthe claim still belongs to the Queen.\u201d \u201cDamn the Quane,\u201d said Mike,\nas he was taken away to his cell. Mr. McCarty is on his way home, a\nragged, penniless, but a wiser man.\n\nThese miners are bringing down a great deal of gold. One man who has\nmade sixty-five thousand dollars in mining is taking two children to\nSeattle to be educated.\n\nOne lady has her bustle stuffed with paper money, another her dress\nskirt interlined with five and ten dollar bills.\n\nGold may be converted into paper money in Dawson City at the rate\nof fifteen dollars per ounce. Its actual value runs from sixteen to\neighteen dollars per ounce.\n\nLiving is quite high at Dawson, owing to the long distance over\nwhich freight must be carried. Coal oil sells at seven dollars for a\nfive-gallon can, bread at fifty cents a loaf, beefsteak at two dollars\na pound, candles at one dollar each. This is an item in household\nexpenses, as during the winter months it is twilight only from eleven\no\u2019clock in the morning to two o\u2019clock in the afternoon. Candles are\nused for lights in the mines.\n\nThere is plenty of gold in Alaska, but one must go equipped to\nwithstand the winters and prepared to work his claim properly. Mining\nin Colorado and California is not mining in the Klondike. For various\nreasons mining in the Klondike is much more expensive than in either of\nthe other places. The British mounted police are very vigilant, so that\nminers lose but little by thieving.\n\nWe arrived at Juneau at eleven o\u2019clock at night. The sun having just\nset it was still daylight. Nearly the entire population was at the\nwharf, eager to learn the news of the outside world. We repaired to\nthe opera house, where we attended an impromptu political meeting.\nThe mayor presided and Judge Delany, judge of Alaska under Cleveland,\nset forth in a forcible manner the needs of Alaska. The speaker said\nthat this rapidly growing child seemed to be somewhat neglected by\nlegislators, mainly because Congress does not know her needs. \u201cFirst\nof all,\u201d said he, \u201cwe want the boundary line settled. We want every\nfoot of land called for in our treaty with Russia in 1867. Until\nthe discovery of gold in the Klondike England had never questioned\nher treaty made with Russia in 1825. But when gold is discovered up\ncomes England and plants her flags on our territory. Our government\nsent out troops and forced them back to the original line. Now let\nCongress settle it once for all. It interferes with business and\nuntil this question is settled we don\u2019t know where we are \u2018at.\u2019 Next\nwe want better school facilities. In Juneau we have two hundred and\nforty children of school age and room for only forty. This state of\nthings exists all over Alaska. If Congress will give us half as much\nattention as is bestowed on the seal we promise to ask no more. We want\nsome sort of government. We have no government and are not represented\nin Congress. Next we want more judges and more courts, instead of one\njudge and one district as now. We think that Alaska should be divided\ninto three districts.\u201d\n\nCongressmen Warner, Dazill, Payne and Hull replied in short speeches\nand the meeting adjourned just at dawn, one o\u2019clock. The opera\nhouse is lighted with electric lights and heated with a furnace. It\nhas a parquet, dress circle and boxes, and is a model from an\narchitectural point of view. The acoustic properties of the hall are\nbeyond criticism.\n\n[Illustration: STEAMER QUEEN LEAVING JUNEAU.]\n\nLeaving Juneau to carry on the struggle of leading Alaska to statehood,\nwe board our good ship, the Queen, weigh anchor, and sail away.\n\nThe upper deck is the salon, the reception hall, the library. Here we\nleave our steamer rugs and chairs. Here we come for a better view of\nthe mountains and the sea. Here we meet our friends. Here we may take\na book and, snugly ensconced, pass a quiet hour. Many of us, however,\nfound it difficult to read a single line or to enjoy our rugs and\nchairs for long at a time, for just as your companion has tucked you\nall snugly in, exclamations of surprise and delight from some other\npart of the vessel lures you away, as the ship turns her prow this way\nand that, now steaming straight ahead, as if she meant to knock that\nmountain from its seat, and now quickly changing her course, giving us\na magnificent view down a fiord.\n\nEveryone is reading, \u201cDavid Harum,\u201d and their comments are quite as\ninteresting as the book itself.\n\nSweet Sixteen--\u201cO, I do just love John and Mary, but that stupid old\nDavid is so tiresome.\u201d\n\nA critic--\u201cLiterature, indeed. Where\u2019s the plot? You couldn\u2019t find it\nwith a telescope.\u201d\n\nA judge--\u201cServed his good-for-nothing brother just right.\u201d\n\nPious looking old gentleman--\u201cGood man, David, but he lacked religion.\u201d\n\nBusiness man--\u201cToo soft hearted; ought to have kicked that idiot Timson\nout long before he did.\u201d\n\nAn old farmer lays down the book and laughs until the tears roll down\nhis weather-beaten cheeks. \u201cNow, there\u2019s a man as is a man. Knows all\nabout farmin\u2019 and tradin\u2019 horses, he, he; traded horses myself, he, he,\nhe; best book ever read, he, he, he.\u201d\n\nThe first interesting sight to greet us on our way south was a group of\nsmall rocky islands, where more than a hundred eagles were fishing. Out\nthey would fly by twos and threes, seize a fish in their talons, return\nto the rocks and proceed to eat him.\n\nFrom Dixon\u2019s Entrance to Milbank Sound lie the Alps of America, a\ndouble panorama of unbroken beauty two hundred miles in length. Green\nslopes reflected in greener waters. The shores rise perpendicularly\nfrom a thousand to fifteen hundred feet, above which snow-clad\nmountains rise as high again. Tall trees climb and cling to these rocky\nwalls like vines and cascades come gliding out from snowbanks and go\nhurrying and singing to the sea, some like delicate silver threads\nwinding down, others dashing mountain torrents.\n\n[Illustration: ALPS OF AMERICA.]\n\nLate in the evening a mist J\u00f6tun rose out of the sea and enveloped us,\nand the ship lay at anchor for several hours. The next morning the sun\nshone clear and bright. The clouds lay on the water like a veil of rare\nold lace flecked with pearls, diamonds and sapphires, caught up here\nand there by unseen hands and wreathed about the mountains\u2019 snowy brows.\n\nScene after scene of wild beauty greets the eye at every turn of the\nvessel\u2019s prow. Wild deer and fawn come down to the water\u2019s edge and\nstand gazing at our ship. We ran into a school of whales disporting\nin the water and scattered them right and left. Flock after flock\nof wild ducks skim the water, to light in yonder cove. Flock after\nflock, battalion after battalion of wild geese swing along overhead,\nled by an old commodore, giving his commands with military precision,\n\u201cHonk, honk,\u201d until the very air quivers with their joyous shouts and\ngreetings. The cormorant is your true diver. Down he goes, a ripple,\nand the water is smooth again. While you are lost in speculation as to\nwhere he will reappear up he comes in some placid spot away beyond. If\nyou guess that he will come up at your right he is sure to appear much\nfurther to your left. If you guess that he will remain under water two\nminutes he is likely to remain five. In fact he never does the thing\nyou expect of him at all, but like Thoreau\u2019s loon on Walden pond, he\u2019ll\nlead you a merry chase if you board your canoe and attempt to follow\nhim.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI WASHINGTON AND OREGON\n\n\nSeattle is now full of people on their way to Alaska, principally\ntourists, as the miners are now all coming down to rest or visit with\nrelatives and to make preparations to return to the Klondike for the\nwinter. Now that the Yukon and White Pass railroad is completed over\nthe mountains to Lake Bennett the trip thus far is made in about four\nhours which formerly required four weeks over a rough, rocky mountain\ntrail. Freight rates are much cheaper than when the Indians carried the\nfreight over at twenty-five cents per pound. Living will be cheaper in\nthe Klondike and more mines will be worked. Success or failure waits\non the mining industry as well as every other, and the man who would\nsucceed in the field must study the business thoroughly.\n\nFrom a scientific point of view Alaska is certainly a wonderful\ncountry. From the point of development and commerce it gives promise\nof becoming an important State. The possibilities in the way of\ndevelopment of its mineral resources and fisheries are incalculable.\n\nSeattle is deeply interested in the boundary question. This city\nconducts the bulk of the northwest trade to Alaska and were England\ngiven a port at Lynn canal, Seattle would feel it keenly, as would\nWashington and other Western States. Congressman Warner says we have\nnothing to concede to Great Britain in the way of territory. That we\nstand on the right of possession acquired by the Russian purchase.\nEngland is anxious indeed to lay hands on the Porcupine mining\ndistrict, which is considered as rich as the Klondike.\n\nTraveling south from Seattle, we enter the grazing and fruit-growing\ndistrict. Cattle graze on the hill-sides while the fruit farms occupy\na more level tract. The fine cherries, known as the Rocky Mountain\nvariety, are ripe now. There are three varieties; the sweet, the sour\nand the blood-red, seen in our market. The currant farms are of equal\ninterest. The currants too are ripe. Boys and girls are employed as\npickers. They enjoy the work and consider it great sport. The luscious\nfruit is placed in baskets and carried to the manager, who measures it\nand sets down the amount opposite the picker\u2019s name. The fruit is much\nlarger and juicier than in the Eastern States.\n\nPortland is the center of the hop belt. A hop field is quite as\ninteresting, from a financial point of view, as a field of broom-corn.\nIf the crop is a success it pays and pays well, but if a failure from\nblight or worm, it is likely to bankrupt the owner. So you see that\na hop ranch is an interesting speculation. The fields themselves are\nbeautiful, indeed. The varied shades of green, from the darker hues of\nthe older leaves to the delicate sea green of the new tendrils as they\nwreathe themselves about the tall poles, or twine about the wires which\nin many fields run from pole to pole, forming a beautiful green canopy\nfrom end to end of the large fields. Not the least interesting part of\nthe hop ranches are the store and dry-houses. The hops are dried by hot\nair process, and are then baled and ready for shipment. King Revelry\nholds high carnival in the hop districts when the hops are ripe.\nEveryone looks forward to this harvest with the greatest of pleasure.\nThe invalid, because he would be healed by the wonderful medicinal\nqualities of the hops; the well because he would have an outing and\nbe earning good wages at the same time; the boys and girls, because\nit is their annual festival of frolic and fun; a time of camp-fires,\nghost stories and witch tales. The real old-fashioned kind that chills\nyour blood and makes you afraid of the dark and to go to bed lest the\ngoblins get you \u201cef you don\u2019t watch out.\u201d The pickers camp in the\nfields and along the road sides. The hops are picked and placed in\ntrays. Each picker may have a tray to himself or an entire family may\nuse one tray. When the trays are full they are carried to the warehouse\nwhere they are weighed.\n\nPlank roads abound in Washington. One-half of the road is laid down in\na plank walk, which is used when the roads are muddy, so that when the\nroads dry they are ready to travel without that wearing-down process\nwhich is so trying to the nerves of both man and beast.\n\nOregon is the most important state in the Union from an Indian\u2019s point\nof view, for it was here that the first man was created. It is needless\nto say that he was a red man, and his Garden of Eden was at the foot of\nthe Cascade mountains. That was long before the bad Manitou created the\nwhite man.\n\nPortland is a larger city than Seattle. There is more wealth here\ntoo. This city is the outlet for the immense crops of wheat raised\nin southern Washington, Oregon and Idaho. The fine peaches, plums,\ncherries, currants and apples grown here find their way to eastern\nmarkets. Wood is so plentiful and cheap here that every man has his\nwood-pile. (The little coal used on the Pacific coast comes from\nAustralia.) The enterprising wood sawyer rigs a small steam saw mill on\na wagon, drives up to your door and without removing the mill from the\nwagon saws your wood while you wait.\n\nAn interesting feature of river life in Portland is the houseboat,\nmoored to the shore. Sometimes they are floated miles down the river\nto the fishing grounds. Most of them are neat one-story cottages and\nnicely painted. Nearly always there is a tiny veranda where flowers in\npots are blooming.\n\nAn aged couple lives in a tiny houseboat, painted white, which is\nmoored apart from the others. A veranda runs across the front of the\nboat and there are shelves on either side of the door. They have a fine\ncollection of geraniums and just now the entire front of their water\nhome is aglow with the blooms. Misfortune overtook these people and\nthey adopted this mode of life because of its cheapness. Another boat\nwas moored under the lea of the steep bank. Up the side of the bank a\npath led to the top, where the children have built a small pen from\ntwigs and sticks. Inside the pen are five fat ducks, a pair of bantams\nand a pig.\n\nPortland is the third wealthiest city for its size in the world.\nFrankfort on the Main takes first rank and Hartford, Conn., second. The\nclimate is delightful. In summer the average temperature is eighty,\nwith always a cool breeze blowing from the sea or the snow-capped\nmountains.\n\nThe trip up the Columbia river to the dalles is a continuous panorama\nof beautiful scenes. On each side along the densely wooded shores are\nlow green islands. Here and there barren rocks fifty to one hundred\nfeet high stand, sentinel like, while over their rugged sides pour\nwaterfalls. Ruskin says that \u201cmountains are the beginning and the end\nof all natural scenery.\u201d This wonderful river inspired Bryant\u2019s \u201cWhere\nrolls the Oregon,\u201d Oregon being the former name of this river--the\nIndian name.\n\n[Illustration: GOVERNMENT LOCKS ON THE COLUMBIA RIVER.]\n\nJames Brice paid a tribute of admiration to the superb extinct\nvolcanos, bearing snow fields and glaciers which rise out of the\nvast and somber forest on the banks of the Columbia river and the\nshores of Puget Sound. The Oregon chain of mountains from Shasta\nto Mount Tacoma is a line of extinct volcanos. A peculiar basaltic\nformation three hundred feet high stands at the gateway to the white\ncapped Cascades of the Columbia river. Here a Lorelei might sit\nenthroned and lure to death with her entrancing music, sailors and\nfishermen. The Cascades are so dangerous that the government has built\nlocks at this point, through which every boat passes on its way up or\ndown the river. The Indian legend as to the origin of the upheaval in\nthe bed of the river now called the Cascades runs in this wise: Years\nago when the earth was young, Mount Hood was the home of the Storm\nSpirit and Mt. Adams of the Fire Spirit. Across the vale that spread\nbetween them stretched a mighty bridge of stone joining peak to peak.\nOn this altar \u201cthe bridge of the gods,\u201d the Indian laid his offering\nof fish and dressed skins for Nanne the goddess of summer. These two\nspirits, Storm and Fire, both loving the fair goddess, grew jealous of\neach other and fell to fighting. A perfect gale of fire, lightning,\nsplintered trees and rocks swept the bridge, but the brave goddess\ncourageously kept her place on this strange altar. In the deep shadows\nof the rocks, a warrior who had loved her long but hopelessly, kept\nwatch. The storm waxed stronger, the altar trembled, the earth to its\nvery center shook. The young chief sprang forward and caught Nanne\nin his arms, a crash and the beautiful goddess and the brave warrior\nwere buried under the debris forever. The Columbia now goes whirling,\ntossing and dashing over that old altar and hurrying on to the sea. The\nSpirits of Storm and Fire still linger in their old haunts but never\nagain will they see the fair Nanne. The Indian invariably mixes a grain\nof truth with much that is wild, weird and strange. It was Umatilla,\nchief of the Indians at the Cascades who brought about peace between\nthe white man and his red brother. He had lost all of his children by\nthe plague except his youngest son, Black Eagle, his father called him,\nBenjamin the white man called him. Black Eagle was still a lad when an\neastern man built a little schoolhouse by the river and began teaching\nthe Indians. A warm friendship sprang up between teacher and pupil. One\nsad day Black Eagle fell ill with the plague. Old Umatilla received\nthe news that his son could not live, with all the stoicism of his\nrace, but he went away alone into the wood, returning at the dawn of\nday. When he returned Black Eagle was dying.\n\n[Illustration: RAPIDS, COLUMBIA RIVER.]\n\nSlowly the pale lids closed over the sunken eyes, a breath and the\nbrave lad had trusted his soul to the white man\u2019s God.\n\nThe broken-hearted old chief sat the long night through by the corpse\nof his son. When morning came he called the tribe together and told\nthem he wished to follow his last child to the grave, but he wanted\nthem to promise him that they would cease to war with the white man\nand seek his friendship. At first many of the warriors refused, but\nUmatilla had been a good chief, and always had given them fine presents\nat the potlatches. Consulting among themselves they finally consented.\nWhen the grave was ready, the braves laid the body of Black Eagle to\nrest. Then said the old chief: \u201cMy heart is in the grave with my son.\nBe always kind to the white man as you have promised me, and bury us\ntogether. One last look into the grave of him I loved and Umatilla too\nshall die.\u201d The next instant the gentle, kind hearted old chief dropped\nto the ground dead. Peace to his ashes. They buried him as he had\nrequested and a little later sought the teacher\u2019s friendship, asking\nhim to guide them. That year saw the end of the trouble between the\nIndians and the white race at the Dalles.\n\nThe old chief still lives in the history of his country. Umatilla is\na familiar name in Dalles City. The principal hotel bears the name of\nUmatilla.\n\nOn either side of the river farm houses, orchards and wheat fields dot\nthe landscape.\n\nSalmon fishing is the great industry on the river. The wheels along\nboth sides of the river have been having a hard time of it this\nseason from the drift wood, the high water and the big sturgeon,\nwhich sometimes get into the wheels. A big sturgeon got into a wheel\nbelonging to the Dodon Company and slipped into the bucket, but was too\nlarge to be thrown out. It was carried around and around until it was\ncut to pieces, badly damaging the wheel. Now the law expressly states,\nas this is the close season for sturgeon, that when caught they must be\nthrown back in the water. \u201cBut what is the use,\u201d inquires the _Daily\nNews_, \u201cif they are dead?\u201d\n\n[Illustration: FARM ON THE BANK OF THE COLUMBIA RIVER, BELOW THE\nDALLES, OREGON.]\n\nA visit to a salmon cannery is full of interest. As the open season for\nsalmon is from April first to August first, the buildings though large\nare mere sheds. The work is all done by Chinamen. The fish are tossed\nonto the wharf, where they are seized by the men, who carry them in and\nthrow them on to long tables, chop off their heads, dress them and hold\nthem, one fish at a time, under a stream of pure mountain water, which\npours through a faucet over the long sink. Next they are thrown onto\nanother table, where other Chinamen cut them up ready for the cans, all\nin much less time than it takes to tell about it. The tin is shipped in\nthe sheet to the canneries and the cans are made on the ground.\n\nAstoria, the Venus of America, is headquarters for the salmon fishing\non the Columbia River. Joaquin Miller described it as a town which\n\u201cclings helplessly to a humid hill side, that seems to want to glide\ninto the great bay-like river.\u201d Much of it has long ago glided into the\nriver. Usually the salmon canneries are built on the shores, but down\nhere and on toward the sea, where the river is some seven miles wide,\nthey are built on piles in mid stream. Nets are used quite as much as\nwheels in salmon fishing. Sometimes a hungry seal gets into the nets,\neating an entire \u201ccatch,\u201d and playing havoc with the net. Up toward the\nDalles on the Washington side of the river, are three springs. These\nsprings have long been considered by the Indians a veritable fountain\nof youth. Long before the coming of the white man they carried their\nsick and aged to these springs, across the \u201cBridge of the Gods.\u201d Just\nabove Dalles City lies the dalles which obstruct navigation for twelve\nmiles. Beyond this point the river is navigable two hundred miles.\nHere, too, legends play an important part.\n\nWhen the volcanoes of the northwest were blazing forth their storm\nof fire, ashes and lava, a tribe known as the Fire Fiends walked the\nearth and held high revelry in this wild country. When Mount Rainier\nhad ceased to burn the Devil called the leaders of the tribe together\none day and proposed that they follow nature\u2019s mood and live more\npeaceably, and that they quit killing and eating each other. A howl met\nthis proposal. The Devil deemed it wise just at this moment to move on,\nso off he set, a thousand Fire Fiends after him. Now his majesty could\neasily whip a score of Fiends, but he was no match for a thousand. He\nlashed his wondrous tail about and broke a great chasm in the ground.\nMany of the Fiends fell in, but the greater part leaped the rent and\ncame on. A second time the ponderous tail came down with such force\nthat a large ravine was cracked out of the rocks, the earth breaking\naway into an inland sea. The flood engulfed the Fiends to a man. The\nbed of the sea is now a prairie and the three strokes of the Devil\u2019s\ntail are plainly visible in the bed of the Columbia at the dalles.\n\nJust across the river from Dalles City on a high bluff, stands a four\nstory building, the tower in the center running two stories higher.\nThe building stands out there alone, a monument to the enterprise of\none American. He called it a shoe factory, but no machinery was ever\nput in position. After the pseudo shoe factory was completed false\nfronts of other buildings were set up and the rugged bluffs laid out in\nstreets. An imaginary bridge spanned the broad river. Electric lights,\nalso imaginary, light up this imaginary city. The pictures which this\ngenius drew of his town showed street cars running on the principal\nstreets and a busy throng of people passing to and fro. As to the shoe\nfactory, it was turning out thousands of imaginary shoes every day. Now\nthis rogue, when all was ready, carried the maps and cuts of his town\nto the east, where he sold the factory and any number of lots at a high\nfigure, making a fortune out of his paper town.\n\nFrom Dalles City across the country to Prineville in the Bunch Grass\ncountry, a distance of a hundred miles, the country is principally\nbasalt, massive and columnar, presenting many interesting geological\nfeatures. Deep gorges separate the rolling hills which are covered\nwith a soil that produces bunch grass in abundance. This same ground\nproduces fine wheat and rye. This is a good sheep country and wool is\none of the principal products.\n\nCrater Lake is haunted by witches and wizards. Ghosts, with seven\nleagued boots, hold high revelry on its shores on moonlight nights,\ncatching any living thing that comes their way and tossing it into the\ndeep waters of the lake, where the water devils drag it under.\n\n[Illustration: SCENE ON AN OREGON FARM IN THE WILLAMETTE VALLEY.]\n\nWe spent two delightful days on an Oregon farm near Hubbard, thirty\nmiles south of Portland.\n\nWe drove from Hubbard in the morning to Puddin river. The bridge was\nbeing repaired, so we walked across, our man carrying our traps. We had\njust passed Whisky hill when we met our friend Mr. Kauffman and his\ndaughter, driving down the road. We were warmly welcomed and after an\nexchange of greetings we drove back with them to their home, where we\npartook of such a dinner as only true hospitality can offer.\n\nMr. Kauffman owns three hundred acres of fine farming land. There is no\nbetter land anywhere on the Pacific coast than in this beautiful valley\nof the Willamette river. Beautiful flowers and shrubs of all sorts in\nfine contrast to the green lawn surround the house, which is painted\nwhite, as Ruskin says all houses should be when set among green trees.\nNear by is a spring of pure mountain water. In the woods pasture beyond\nthe spring pheasants fly up and away at your approach. Tall ferns nod\nand sway in the wind, while giant firs beautiful enough for the home of\na hamadryad lend an enticing shade at noontime.\n\nIf any part of an Oregon farm can be more interesting than another\nit is the orchard, where apple, peach, plum, pear and cherry trees\nvie with each other in producing perfect fruit. Grapes, too, reach\nperfection in this delightful climate. One vine in Mr. Kauffman\u2019s\nvineyard measures eighteen inches in circumference. The dryhouse where\nthe prunes are dried for market is situated on the south side of\nthe orchard. No little care and skill is required to dry this fruit\nproperly.\n\nWednesday morning we reluctantly bade good-by to our kind hostess\nand departed with Mr. Kauffman for Woodburn, where we took the train\nfor Portland. The drive of ten miles took us through a fine farming\ndistrict. Here farms may be seen in all stages of advancement from the\n\u201cslashing\u201d process, which is the first step in making a farm in this\nwooded country, to the perfect field of wheat, rye, barley or hops.\n\nArriving at Woodburn we lunched at a tidy little restaurant. The train\ncame all too soon and we regretfully bade our host farewell.\n\nThe memory of that delightful visit will linger with us as long as life\nshall last.\n\n[Illustration: ROADWAY IN OREGON.]\n\nThere are few regions in the West to-day where game is as abundant as\nin times past. Yet there are a few spots where sport of the old time\nsort may be had, and the lake district of Southern Oregon is one of\nthese. Here, deer and bear abound as in days of yore, while grouse,\nsquirrel, mallard duck and partridge are most plentiful.\n\nFort Klamath lake is a beautiful sheet of water, sixty miles long by\nthirty wide. Among the tules in the marshes the mallard is at home,\nwhile grouse and nut brown partridge by the thousands glide through\nthe grass. Fish lake speaks for itself, while the very name, Lake of\nthe Woods, carries with it an enticing invitation to partake of its\nhospitality and royal sport.\n\nTravel is an educator. It gives one a broader view of life and one soon\ncomes to realize that this great world swinging in space is a vast\nfield where millions and millions of souls are traveling each his own\nroad, all doing different things, all good, all interesting.\n\nIn our journeyings we have met many interesting people, but none more\ninteresting than Miss McFarland, whom we met on our voyage up the\nColumbia river. Miss McFarland was the first American child born in\nJuneau, Alaska.\n\nHer only playmates were Indian children. She speaks the language like\na native and was for years her father\u2019s interpreter in his mission\nwork. She has lived the greater part of her life on the Hoonah islands.\nThe Hoonah Indians are the wealthiest Indians in America. Having all\nbecome Christians they removed the last totem pole two years ago.\n\nReminiscences of Miss McFarland\u2019s childhood days among the Indians of\nAlaska would make interesting reading.\n\nThe old people as well as the children attend the mission schools. One\nday an old chief came in asking to be taught to read. He came quite\nregularly until the close of the school for the summer vacation. The\nopening of the school in the autumn saw the old man in his place, but\nhis eyes had failed. He could not see to read and was in despair. Being\nadvised to consult an optician he did so and triumphantly returned with\na pair of \u201cwhite man\u2019s eyes.\u201d\n\nUpon one occasion Miss McFarland\u2019s mother gave a Christmas dinner to\nthe old people of her mission. It is a custom of the Indians to carry\naway from the feast all of the food which has not been eaten. One old\nman had forgotten his basket, but what matter, Indian ingenuity came to\nhis aid. Stepping outside the door he removed his coat and taking off\nhis dress shirt triumphantly presented it as a substitute in which to\ncarry home his share of the good things of the feast.\n\nThese Indians believe that earthquakes are caused by an old man who\nshakes the earth. Compare this with Norse Mythology. When the gods\nhad made the unfortunate Loke fast with strong cords, a serpent was\nsuspended over him in such a manner that the venom fell into his face\ncausing him to writhe and twist so violently that the whole earth shook.\n\nWhen Miss McFarland left her home in Hoonah last fall to attend Mill\u2019s\ncollege every Indian child in the neighborhood came to say good-by.\nThey brought all sorts of presents and with many tears bade her a long\nfarewell. \u201cEdna go away?\u201d \u201cAh! Oh! Me so sorry.\u201d \u201cEdna no more come\nback?\u201d \u201cWe no more happy now Edna gone,\u201d \u201cNo more happy, Oh! Oh!\u201d \u201cEdna\nno more come back.\u201d \u201cOh, good-by, Edna, good-by.\u201d\n\nEvery Christmas brings Miss McFarland many tokens of affection from her\nformer playmates. Pin cushions, beaded slippers, baskets, rugs, beaded\nportemonnaies. Always something made with their own hands.\n\nMiss McFarland\u2019s name, through that of her parents, is indissolubly\nconnected with Indian advancement in Alaska.\n\nOne meets curious people, too, in traveling. In the parlor at the\nhotel one evening a party of tourists were discussing the point of\nextending their trip to Alaska. The yeas and nays were about equal when\nup spoke a flashily dressed little woman, \u201cWell,\u201d said she, \u201cwhat is\nthere to see when you get there?\u201d That woman belongs to the class with\nsome of our fellow passengers, both men and women who sat wrapped in\nfurs and rugs from breakfast to luncheon and from luncheon to dinner\nreading \u201cA Woman\u2019s Revenge,\u201d \u201cBlind Love,\u201d and \u201cMaude Percy\u2019s Secret,\u201d\nperfectly oblivious to the grandest scenery on the American Continent,\nscenery which every year numbers of foreigners cross continents and\nseas to behold.\n\nOne of our fellow travelers is a German physician who is spending the\nsummer on the coast. He is deeply interested in the woman question in\nAmerica. He is quite sure that American women have too much liberty.\n\u201cWhy,\u201d said he, \u201cthey manage everything. They rule the home, the\nchildren and their husbands, too. Why, madam, it is outrageous. Now\nsurely the man ought to be the head of the house and manage the\nchildren and the wife too, she belongs to him, doesn\u2019t she?\u201d\n\n\u201cNot in America,\u201d we replied, \u201cthe men are too busy, and besides they\nenjoy having their homes managed for them. Then, too, the women are too\nindependent.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is just what I say, madam, they have too much liberty, they are\ntoo independent. They go everywhere they like, do everything they like\nand ask no man nothings at all.\u201d\n\nMy German friend evidently thinks that unless this wholesale\nindependence of women is checked our country will go to destruction.\nThe war with Spain does not compare with it. I am wondering yet if our\ncritic\u2019s wife is one of those independent American women.\n\nJust below Portland on the banks of the Willamette river and connected\nwith Portland by an electric street railway stands the first capital of\nOregon, Oregon City, the stronghold of the Hudson Bay Company, which\naided England in so nearly wrenching that vast territory from the\nUnited States.\n\nThis quaint old town is rapidly taking on the marks of age. The\nwarehouse of that mighty fur company stands at the wharf, weather\nbeaten and silent. No busy throng of trappers, traders and Indians\nawaken its echoes with barter and jest. No fur loaded canoe glides\ndown the river. No camp fire smoke curls up over the dark pine tops.\n\nThe Indian with his blanket, the trapper with his snares and the\ntrader with his wares have all disappeared before the march of a newer\ncivilization. The camp fire has given place to the chimney; the blanket\nto the overcoat; the trader to the merchant and the game preserves to\nfields of waving grain.\n\nThe lonely old warehouse looks down in dignified silence on the busy\nscenes of a city full of American push and go.\n\nAll the forenoon the drowsy porter sat on his stool at the door of the\nsleeper, ever and anon peering down the aisle or scanning the features\nof the passengers.\n\nWhat could be the cause of his anxiety? Was he a detective in disguise?\nHad some one been robbed the night before? Had some one forgotten to\npay for services rendered? Had that handsome man run away with the\nbeautiful fair haired woman at his side? Visions of the meeting with an\nirate father at the next station dawned on the horizon.\n\nThe train whirled on and still the porter kept up his vigilance.\n\nIt was nearly noon when I stepped across to my own section and picked\nup my shoes. The sleepy porter was wide awake now. His face was a\nstudy. For one brief moment I was sure that he was a detective and that\nhe thought he had caught the rogue for whom he was looking.\n\n\u201cThem your shoes, Madam?\u201d said he approaching me.\n\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, Madam, I\u2019ve been waitin\u2019 here all mornin\u2019 for the owner to come\nand get \u2019em.\u201d\n\nAh, now I understood. He was responsible for the shoes and he thought\nthat they belonged to a man. Fifty cents passed into the faithful black\nhands and my porter disappeared with just a hint of a smile on his\nface.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII OFF FOR CALIFORNIA\n\n\nWe left Portland on the night train for San Francisco. I took my gull,\nthe Captain we called him, into the sleeper with me. He was asleep when\nI placed his basket under my berth, but about midnight he awoke and\nsquawked frightfully.\n\nI rang for the porter but before he arrived the Captain had awakened\nnearly every one in the car. Angry voices were heard inquiring what\nthat \u201cscreeching, screaming thing,\u201d was.\n\nAn old gentleman thrust his red night capped head out of his berth next\nto mine and angrily demanded of me where that nasty beast came from.\nWhen I politely told him he said he wished that I had had the good\nsense to leave it there. Then he said something that sounded dreadfully\nlike swear words, but being such an old gentleman I\u2019ve no doubt that my\nears deceived me.\n\nAt any rate it was something about sea gulls in general and my own\nin particular. His red flannel cap disappeared and presently I heard\nhim snoring away up in G. Now my poor gull only squawked on low C.\nAfter that the Captain traveled in the baggage car with the trunks and\npackages.\n\nTraveling south from Portland one passes farms and orchards until the\nfoot of the Sierra Nevada range is reached. Most of the farms are well\nimproved. Many of the orchards are bearing, while others are young.\n\nHere and there in the mountains are cattle ranches. These mountains are\nnot barren, rugged rocks like the Selkirks of Alaska. Here there is\nplenty of pasture to the very summit of the mountains.\n\nWolf Creek valley is one vast hay field. Up we go until the far-famed\nRogue River valley is reached. This noble valley lying in the heart of\nthe Sierras reminds one of the great Mohawk valley of New York.\n\nAshland is the center of this prosperous district. The Southern State\nNormal School is located here.\n\nThe seventh annual assembly of the Southern Oregon Chautauqua will\nconvene in Ashland in July. This assembly is always well attended.\nFarmers bring their families and camp on the grounds. The program\ncontains the names of musicians prominent on the coast. Among the\nlecturers are the names of men and women prominent in their special\nfields. Frank Beard, the noted chalk talk lecturer, will be present. So\nyou see that the wild and woolly west is not here, but has moved on to\nthe Philippines.\n\nWhen the passenger train stops at the station of Ashland a score of\nyoung fruit venders swarm on the platform, crying plums, cherries,\npeaches and raspberries at fifteen cents a box. When the train-bell\nrings fruit suddenly falls to ten cents and when the conductor cries\n\u201cAll aboard\u201d fruit takes a downward plunge to five cents a box, but the\nfruit is all so delicious that you do not feel in the least cheated\nin having paid the first price. \u201cLook here, you young rascal,\u201d said a\nnewspaper man, who travels over the road frequently to one of the young\nfruit dealers, \u201cI bought raspberries of you yesterday at five cents a\nbox.\u201d \u201cO no you didn\u2019t, mister, never sold raspberries at five cents a\nbox in my life sir, pon honor.\u201d In less than three minutes this young\nwesterner was crying \u201cNice ripe raspberries here, five cents a box.\u201d\n\u201cWhy,\u201d said I, \u201cI thought you told the gentleman that you never sold\nberries at five cents a box.\u201d \u201cNo, Madam, I didn\u2019t, pon honor,\u201d and the\nlittle rogue really looked innocent.\n\n[Illustration: CLIMBING THE SHASTA RANGE.]\n\nLeaving Ashland with three big engines we climb steadily up four\nthousand one hundred and thirty feet to the summit of the range.\n\nThe Rogue River valley spreads out below us in a grand panorama of\nwheat, oats, barley fields and orchards. Down the southern slope the\ncommercial interest centers in large saw-mills and cattle ranches.\n\nOff to the east lie the lava beds where Gen. Canby and his companions\nwere so treacherously assassinated by the Modoc Indians under the\nleadership of Captain Jack and Scar Faced Charley.\n\nCrossing the Klatmath River valley the dwelling place in early days\nof the Klatmath Indians, the engines make merry music as they puff,\npuff, puff in a sort of Rhunic rhyme to the whir of the wheels as they\ngroan and climb three thousand nine hundred feet to the summit of the\nShasta range. There is something wonderfully fascinating about mountain\nclimbing. Whether by rail over a route laid out by a skilled engineer;\non the back of a donkey over a trail just wide enough for the feet\nof the little beast, or staff in hand you go slowly up over rocks and\nbowlders, or around them, clinging to trees and shrubs for support. The\nvery fact that the train may without a moment\u2019s notice plunge through\na trestle or go plowing its way down the mountain side; the donkey\nlose his head and take a false step; the shrub break or a bowlder come\ntearing down the rock-ribbed mountain and crush your life out, thrills\nthe blood and holds the mind enthralled as a bird is held enchanted by\nthe charm of the pitiless snake.\n\nThroughout the mountains mistletoe, that mystic plant of the Druids,\nhangs from the limbs and trunks of tall trees.\n\nIt was with an arrow made from mistletoe that Hoder slew the fair\nBaldur.\n\nAll day long snow-covered Mt. Shasta has been in sight and toward\nevening we pass near it on the southern side of the range and stop at\nthe Shasta Soda Springs. The principal spring is natural soda water.\nThis is the fashionable summer resort of San Francisco people, who come\nhere to get warm, the climate of that city being so disagreeable during\nJuly and August that people are glad to leave town for the more\ngenial air of the mountains.\n\n[Illustration: THE HIGHEST TRESTLE IN THE WORLD, NEAR MUIR\u2019S PEAK,\nSHASTA RANGE.]\n\nIt certainly is odd to have people living in the heart of a great\ncity ask you during these two months if it is hot out in the country.\n\u201cOut in the country\u201d means forty or fifty miles out, where there is\nplenty of heat and sunshine. At Shasta Springs, however, the weather\nis cooler. The climate is delightful, the water refreshing and the\nstrawberries beyond compare. Boteler, known as a lover of strawberries,\nonce said of his favorite fruit: \u201cDoubtless God could have made a\nbetter berry, but doubtless God never did.\u201d\n\nJust beyond the springs stand the wonderful Castle Crags. Hidden in the\nvery depths of these lofty Crags lies a beautiful lake. This strange\nold castle of solid granite, its towers and minarets casting long\nshadows in the moonlight for centuries, is not without its historic\ninterest, though feudal baron nor chatelaine dainty ever ruled over it.\nJoaquin Miller, in the \u201cBattle of Castle Crag,\u201d tells the tale of its\nborder history.\n\nNot far away at the base of Battle Rock a bloody battle was once fought\nbetween a few whites and the Shasta Indians on one side and the Modoc\nIndians on the other.\n\n[Illustration: MOUNT SHASTA. By permission of F. LAROCHE, Photographer,\nSeattle, Washington.]\n\nThe Indians of California say that Mt. Shasta was the first part of the\nearth created. Surely it is grand enough and beautiful enough to lay\nclaim to this pre-eminence. When the waters receded the earth became\ngreen with vegetation and joyous with the song of birds, the Great\nManitou hollowed out Mt. Shasta for a wigwam. The smoke of his lodge\nfires (Shasta is an extinct volcano) was often seen pouring from the\ncone before the white man came.\n\nKmukamtchiksh is the evil spirit of the world. He punishes the wicked\nby turning them into rocks on the mountain side or putting them down\ninto the fires of Shasta.\n\nMany thousands of snows ago a terrible storm swept Mt. Shasta. Fearing\nthat his wigwam would be turned over, the Great Spirit sent his\nyoungest and fairest daughter to the crater at the top of the mountain\nto speak to the storm and command it to cease lest it blow the mountain\naway. She was told to make haste and not to put her head out lest the\nWind catch her in his powerful arms and carry her away.\n\nThe beautiful daughter hastened to the summit of the peak, but never\nhaving seen the ocean when it was lashed into a fury by the storm wind,\nshe thought to take just one peep, a fatal peep it proved. The Wind\ncaught her by her long red hair and dragged her down the mountain side\nto the timber below.\n\nAt this time the grizzly bears held in fee all the surrounding country,\neven down to the sea. In those magic days of long ago they walked\nerect, talked like men and carried clubs with which to slay their\nenemies.\n\nAt the time of the great storm a family of grizzlies was living in the\nedge of the forest just below the snow line. When the father grizzly\nreturned one day from hunting he saw a strange little creature sitting\nunder a fir tree shivering with cold. The snow gleamed and glowed where\nher beautiful hair trailed over it. He took her to his wife who was\nvery wise in the lore of the mountains. She knew who the strange child\nwas but she said nothing about it to old father grizzly, but kept the\nlittle creature and reared her with her own children.\n\nWhen the oldest grizzly son had quite grown up his mother proposed\nto him that he marry her foster daughter who had now grown to be a\nbeautiful woman.\n\nMany deer were slain by the old father grizzly and his sons for the\nmarriage feast. All the grizzly families throughout the mountains were\nbidden to the feast.\n\nWhen the guests had eaten of the deer and drank of the wine distilled\nfrom bear berries and elder berries in moonlight at the foot of Mt.\nShasta, when the feast was over, they all united and built for their\nprincess a magnificent wigwam near that of her father. This is \u201cLittle\nMt. Shasta.\u201d\n\nThe children of this strange pair were a new race,--the first Indians.\n\nNow, all this time the great spirit was ignorant of the fate of his\nbeloved daughter, but when the old mother grizzly came to die she felt\nthat she could not lie peacefully in her grave until she had restored\nthe princess to her father.\n\nInviting all the grizzlies in the forest to be present at the lodge of\nthe princess, she sent her oldest grandson wrapt in a great white cloud\nto the summit of Mt. Shasta to tell the Great Spirit where his daughter\nlived.\n\nNow when the great Manitou heard this he was so happy he ran down the\nmountain side so fast that the snow melted away under his feet. To\nthis day you can see his footprints in the lava among the rocks on the\nside of the mountain.\n\nThe grizzlies by thousands met him and standing with clubs at\n\u201cattention\u201d greeted him as he passed to the lodge of his daughter.\n\nBut when he saw the strange children and learned that this was a new\nrace he was angry and looked so savagely at the old mother grizzly that\nshe died instantly. The grizzlies now set up a dreadful wail, but he\nordered them to keep quiet and to get down on their hands and knees and\nremain so until he should return. He never returned, and to this day\nthe poor doomed grizzlies go on all fours.\n\nA wonderful feat of jugglery, but a greater was that of the Olympian\ngoddess who changed the beautiful maiden Callisto into a bear, which\nJupiter set in the heavens, and where she is to be seen every night,\nbeside her son the Little Bear.\n\nThe angry Manitou turned his strange grandchildren out of doors,\nfastened the door and carried his daughter away to his own wigwam.\n\nThe Indians to this day believe that a bear can talk if you will\nonly sit still and listen to him. The Indians will not harm a bear.\nNow for the meaning of those queer little piles of stones one sees so\nfrequently in the Shasta mountains. If an Indian is killed by a bear he\nis burned on the spot where he fell. Every Indian who passes that way\nwill fling a stone at the fated place to dispel the charm that hangs\nover it.\n\n\u201cAll that wide and savage water-shed of the Sacramento tributaries to\nthe south and west of Mt. Shasta affords good bear hunting at almost\nany season of the year--if you care to take the risks. But he is a\nvelvet-footed fellow, and often when and where you expect peace you\nwill find a grizzly. Quite often when and where you think that you are\nalone, just when you begin to be certain that there is not a single\ngrizzly bear in the mountains, when you begin to breathe the musky\nperfume of Mother Nature as she shapes out the twilight stars in her\nhair, and you start homeward, there stands your long lost bear in your\npath! And your bear stands up! And your hair stands up! And you wish\nyou had not lost him! And you wish you had not found him! And you\nstart for home! And you go the other way glad, glad to the heart if he\ndoes not come tearing after you.\u201d[1]\n\nDownward from Mt. Shasta flows the Sacramento river. For thirty miles\nit goes tumbling over bowlders and granite ledges on its way to the\nsea. In mid-summer the Sacramento ca\u00f1on is a paradise of umbrageous\nbeauty, a region of forest and groves, of leafy shrubs, delicate ferns,\nmosses and beautiful flowers, of roaring, tumbling rivers, shining\nlakelets and dancing trout streams.\n\nUp in the mountains the dewberries are ripe. They are about the size\nof currants, but farther down the slope they are larger. Blackberries\nare also plentiful, also the black raspberry, called by the Indians\nsuccotash.\n\nThe coniferous forests of the Sierra Nevada range are the most\nbeautiful in the world. Here, where the granite domes which are so\nstriking a feature of the Sierras, we find the most beautiful little\nmeadows lying on the tops of the dividing ridges or on their sloping\nsides. These meadows are all aglow with wild flowers, rank columbines,\nstately larkspur, daisies and the lovely lupines, beds of blue and\nwhite violets, many strange grasses and beautiful sedges, and the glory\nof them all, the lily.\n\nThe magnificent sunset of the mountains, the afterglow resting on their\nsummits, the many clouds of various hues, borrowing the tints of the\nrainbow,\n\n  \u201cThat glory mellower than a mist\n   Of pearl dissolved with amethyst,\u201d\n\nresting on the snowy peaks, lend an enchantment to the scene that might\nentice the elf king Oberon himself and all his crew of Pixies and Imps\nback to earth.\n\nDoubtless God might have created a more magnificent range of mountains\nthan the Sierras, but doubtless God never did.\n\n  \u201cIf thou art worn and hard beset\n   With sorrows thou wouldst forget,\n   Go to the woods and hills.\u201d\n\n   --LONGFELLOW.\n\n\u201cThere ain\u2019t nothing like fresh air and the smell of the woods. There\u2019s\nalways a smell from trees dead, or living, and the air is better where\nthe woods be.\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[1] JOAQUIN MILLER, _A Bear Hunt in the Fifties_.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII SAN FRANCISCO\n\n\nThe Pacific slope has a wonderful flora which has been but little\nstudied. Here wonderful ferns and laurels grow the whole year round.\nWith few exceptions all the plants are new and strange. One of the most\nbeautiful trees on the coast is the madrona, graceful and stately,\nits red trunk contrasting oddly with its green foliage. The dandelion\nis here but puts on such airs and graces that unless you are quite\nfamiliar with him you would never take him for the common weed he is\nat home. He grows several in a cluster on a delicate stem twelve to\nfifteen inches long. He is the pale yellow of California gold. His\nwhite head when he goes to seed is more frowsy than with us, and the\nseeds are a little different in shape, but he wings himself over onto\npeople\u2019s lawns with the agility and grace of his Illinois brother.\n\nThere are many points of interest in San Francisco and not the least\nof these is China Town, which has a population of thirty thousand\npeople. A Chinese school is a place of interest. The boys (girls are\nnot sent to school in China Town) stand at long tables running across\nthe room. The pupils all study aloud. Besides their books each pupil is\nprovided with a small camel\u2019s hair brush and a pot of ink with which he\nwrites out his lessons in the characters of his native language. The\npaper used is very red, while the ink is very black. This is a priest\u2019s\nschool and these little almond-eyed Orientals in their quaint caps and\ngowns are all studying for the priesthood. They laugh and whisper too,\nwhen the teacher\u2019s attention is engaged elsewhere, just like American\nchildren. One boy painted a Chinese character on another\u2019s face, then\nthey all laughed and the first boy wiped it angrily off. The teacher\nhad not seen it, so no one was punished. The teacher, a fine looking\nman in the native dress of his country, with a few strokes of his brush\npainted for us on red paper an advertisement of his school. Teacher and\npupils bowed a good morning as we departed.\n\n[Illustration: STREET SCENE IN CHINATOWN, SAN FRANCISCO.]\n\nAt the Christian Mission the Chinese minister, a man of much\nintelligence, greeted us cordially, asking where we were from. He\nknew where Chicago was and something about it. He was sorry that the\nservices were over and asked us to come again next Sunday at ten\no\u2019clock.\n\nThe tea house, which is the club room, is the finest oriental club\nhouse in America. The beautiful tables and chairs are all inlaid with\nmarble and pearl.\n\nThe Joss House, which is the temple, is magnificently adorned and\ndecorated. A cup of tea, which of course evaporates, is kept setting\nin front of the god, but his worshipers believe he drinks it. Lamps\nand incense are kept burning all the time to keep the evil spirits\naway. The worshipers come and go at all hours. No regular services are\nheld except at New Years and on feast days. Upon request, however, the\npriest will accompany an individual to the temple and conduct services\nfor him.\n\nThe home of an aristocratic Chinaman is full of interest to an\nAmerican. In the home in which we visited everything except the\nchairs came from China, and these looked oddly out of place against\nthe background of rich oriental draperies, and the quaint costumes of\nour hostess and her daughter. Our hostess was a large woman, but she\nproudly displayed her tiny feet, the mark of true aristocracy. She\nhobbled bravely about on these feet only four inches long and did the\nhonors of her house.\n\nWhen in exchange for the compliment of seeing these aristocratic\nfeet I quite as proudly thrust out my American ones encased in No. 6\nbroad-soled mountain climbers, the dear lady bowed and smiled, but made\nno comment. The six-year-old daughter of the house was suffering the\ntortures of having her feet bound. When the Chinese become Christians\nthey abandon this practice.\n\nIn an opium den an old smoker showed us how he smoked the fateful drug.\nHe first took a large lump of opium on a long needle and holding it in\nthe flame of a candle, burnt the poison out of it, then thrust it into\nthe cup of his long pipe, the tiny opening of which he held near the\nlighted candle, sucking the blue smoke into his lungs and exhaling it\nthrough his nostrils.\n\nIn the drug store the druggist was putting up a prescription for a sick\nChinaman who was standing near. He took down four different bottles and\ntook some roots out of each. Telling the man to make a tea of them\nhe tied them up and handed them over the counter and received his pay.\nThere were lizards and toads there also to be made into medicine.\n\nIn the jewelry store four goldsmiths were at work making rings,\nbracelets and earrings, all by hand.\n\nIn the market all sorts of fish and birds were offered for sale. A big\nfat pig roasted whole looked tempting indeed. Beans, which had been\nkept damp until they had sprouted, the sprouts an inch to two inches\nlong were ready to be made into a tempting salad. There were baskets of\ngreen watermelons the size of an orange.\n\nThis being Sunday the streets were thronged with Chinese in native\nholiday dress, who sauntered leisurely along or gathered in groups\nchatting away in their native tongue. Their long queues tied with black\nribbon hung down the back or were tucked into the side pocket of the\ntunic. Here and there an Oriental who had imbibed some of the American\nenergy hurried along dressed in the somber business suit of the\nAmerican, his closely cropped hair, mustache and American shoes making\na strange contrast to the groups on the corner.\n\nThere is no Sunday in the calendar of these almond-eyed Orientals,--the\nstores, markets and opium dens were all open.\n\nPresently the weird music of the Salvation Army broke on our ears.\nDown the street came the Chinese Salvation band, dressed in American\ncostume, the leader carrying the American flag.\n\nWhen the first Chinese came to California the Indians were very curious\nabout them. A dispute arose among them as to what country the strangers\nmight hail from, and whether or not they were Indians.\n\nThe Indians, wise as the Puritans of old, would apply the water test.\nIf the accused swam they were witches, if they drowned they were\ninnocent.\n\nOne day a party of Indians met a party of Chinamen approaching a little\nstream.\n\nThe strangers approached the bridge and started across. The Indians too\nfiled across and meeting the Chinamen in mid-stream pushed two of them\ninto the angry, spuming current below. The test was conclusive. They\ncould not swim. They were _not_ Indians.\n\nIn the fire department are exhibited two queer old engines. One was\npurchased in New York in 1849 and brought around the Horn. The other is\na hand engine a little more modern in make. These engines are carefully\nguarded and never taken out except on rare occasions.\n\nDown toward the wharf there stands a quaint old building, the\nmaterial for which was brought around Cape Horn in 1850. This was San\nFrancisco\u2019s first hotel.\n\nIn the wild days of the early history of this little adobe city,\nnestled among the dunes and sand hills, Mount Diablo looked down on\nweird scenes on the plaza in front of this old hotel. Here the famous\nvigilance committee meted out justice to rogue and outlaw alike.\n\nIn the early history of California the eighth day of July, 1846, stands\nout conspicuously. On that day the Brooklyn dropped her anchor off the\nisland of Yerba Buena, the \u201cgood herb,\u201d and flung the Stars and Stripes\nto the breeze. At noon Captain Montgomery unfurled the American flag on\nthe plaza.\n\nIn that good ship came a party of pseudo Mormons, under the leadership\nof \u201cBishop\u201d Brannan, the valiant leader of the Vigilance Society. This\ncolony of Latter Day saints brought stout hearts, keen wits, strong\narms, pluck, plenty of money and a printing press. Later they quarreled\nwith their bishop and went to law with him and thus gave up their\nscheme of Mormon colonization and made sport of Brigham Young himself\nin their tents on the beach.\n\nBut they gave to San Francisco her first newspaper pledged to eschew\nall sectarian dogmas; her first prayer meeting and her first trial by\njury. A wonderfully progressive people, those Mormons of the sand dunes.\n\nWashington Bartlett, the first alcalde of Yerba Buena, changed the name\nto San Francisco.\n\nThe name of John C. Fremont stands for California as does that of Dr.\nMarcus Whitman for Oregon.\n\nWe called on the astrologer. When our horoscopes were cast and our\nfuture told us, we bade adieu to China Town.\n\nThe Golden Gate park is a perfect bower of beauty, a fine piece of\nlandscape gardening.\n\n[Illustration: MUSEUM IN GOLDEN GATE PARK, SAN FRANCISCO.]\n\nIn the center of the park stands the Hall of Art, a handsome building\nof Egyptian architecture. From the display in the relic department\none easily reads the history of early days in California.\n\nIn the department of statuary the loveliest figure was one in the\nbeautiful carrara marble of Merope who was cast out of heaven because\nshe fell in love with a mortal.\n\nA plaster cast of the head of David after the colossal statue by\nMichael Angelo set in place in Florence in 1504, attracted much\nattention.\n\nMichael Angelo had his troubles like other mortals. When his David was\nplaced in position the mayor of Florence objected to the nose of the\nstatue, saying it was too large. Angelo, perceiving that his critic\u2019s\nposition gave him a poor light on the figure, took a handful of marble\ndust, a hammer and a chisel and climbing to the head of the statue gave\nthe nose a few taps, at the same time letting fall the dust. The mayor\nwithout changing position declared the nose perfect.\n\nThe Second Oregon had come home: Early in the morning the commanders\nwere instructed to get their men ready to march to the barracks. Ten\nminutes later the regiment was on the wharf, the men wearing the blue\nshirts, brown trousers and leggins which they wore when charging\nthrough the jungles and over the rice fields in the Philippines. The\nmascot detachment was not so easily landed.\n\n\u201cHere, Walker, take this monkey,\u201d shouted a corporal.\n\n\u201cGrab that goat quick, he is going overboard.\u201d\n\n\u201cLend me a hand here, you privates; let\u2019s get this menagerie ashore,\u201d\ncommanded the officer of the day.\n\nOrder reigned about two seconds when \u201cMonkey overboard\u201d turned order\ninto chaos. Twenty men rushed to the edge of the wharf and strenuous\nefforts were made to save the life of the little brown fellow who had\ntoppled off the gang plank. Ropes were carried from every corner of the\nwharf, but the efforts of the men were unavailing and the monkey lost\nhis life. The other monkeys, the parrots, the dogs and the goat were\nsafely landed. The goat chews tobacco and eats it too.\n\nThe Oregon band struck up \u201cHome Sweet Home\u201d in quick time and the march\nto the Presidio began.\n\nFor an hour or more a man near me had been talking in a pessimistic way\nabout the war. He said this Philippine scuffle didn\u2019t amount to much\nanyway. What did we want with their old islands, anyhow? We ought to\nreturn them. It was a violation of the constitution to keep them.\n\nTen minutes later he was saying, \u201cI can\u2019t stand it,\u201d as platoon after\nplatoon went by with decimated ranks. One platoon had left nearly every\nman in the Philippines.\n\nThere were others who \u201ccouldn\u2019t stand it.\u201d \u201cHome Sweet Home\u201d sounded\nlike a mockery. Up the street trudged these boys in blue, travel\nstained and weary, bearing the flag with holes in it, holes made by the\ndeath-winged bullets of the Filipinos. How gaunt and sick they looked.\nWar had not been play with them. Not many cheers were heard. There were\nmore \u201cGod bless you boys\u201d than \u201cHurrahs.\u201d\n\nOther bands may play better, other bands may play louder, but none ever\nplayed more effectively than the Oregon.\n\nThree big flags flung their folds to the ocean breeze as the regiment\nmarched up the street. One of them was a dazzle of blue and gold and\none bright and new, but one was the real Old Glory, torn by shot and\nshell, raveled and frayed by the Philippine winds. It was the battle\nstained, tattered emblem of our country\u2019s honor that received the\nheartiest cheers and warmest welcome. This was the flag that brought\nthe mist before the eyes and brought to the mind Decatur\u2019s noble toast.\n\u201cOur country. In her intercourse with foreign countries may she always\nbe right; but right or wrong, our country.\u201d\n\nOn stretchers borne by the ambulance corps came the sick and wounded.\nA great contrast, these war-worn soldiers, to the spick and span Sixth\nCavalry which escorted them.\n\nRight royally did the Queen of the Golden Gate welcome home Oregon\u2019s\nnoble sons.\n\nPassing the Examiner building nearly a million firecrackers which\ndecorated the building, hanging in great loops and festoons, were\nset off. In the midst of this noise some one threw out a big bouquet\nof American Beauty roses. A soldier caught them and sniffed their\nfragrance. \u201cThey\u2019re American Beauties, boys,\u201d he said and passed them\non. Up and down the line went those roses, each man burying his face in\nthem for a moment, then passing them on to his brother. When they had\npassed the rear line they were handed to the next platoon, and so they\nwent on down that battle-scarred line.\n\nThe little Filipino boy, Manuel Robels, who accompanied the boys home,\ncaught nearly every eye as he trudged along, a sawed-off Mauser rifle\nover one shoulder and an American flag over the other. Flowers were\nshowered on him too.\n\nOut at Van Ness street General Shafter sat on horseback with his staff,\nto review the troops.\n\nJust beyond the place of review a company of wee tots with military\nhats and lath guns stood at the edge of the side-walk and presented\narms. All that gallant regiment, from the colonel to the little\nFilipino boy, returned the salute of those patriotic tots.\n\nThus the noble Second regiment of the Oregon Volunteers marched out to\nthe Presidio and to Fame\u2019s eternal camping ground.\n\nThe Presidio, now the United States barracks, was established by the\nSpaniards in 1776. Little dreamed they that out of this camp would come\none hundred years later a conquering host.\n\nThe camp is delightfully located on the bay north of the city. The\ngrounds include a thousand acres. The officers\u2019 quarters are neat, cosy\ncottages. The long porches and verandas of the barracks are covered\nwith vines and roses. Rows upon rows of flowers such as only grow in\nthis moist climate decorate the walks on either side.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV CALIFORNIA FARMS AND VINEYARDS\n\n\nWhat temperament is to a man, that climate is to a country. The climate\nof California is one of the most delightful in the world.\n\nCalifornia possesses the wealth of two zones. The ocean current gives\nit a temperate climate and the mountain ranges intercepting and\nreflecting the sun\u2019s rays give California a climate distinctly her own.\n\nFine fruit farms surround San Francisco for fifty miles. Irrigation,\ncombined with a genial climate, produces the delicious fruit for which\nCalifornia is justly famed. In the vineyards the vines are pruned low,\nfrom two to four feet high. The Leland Stanford vineyard is one of the\nfinest on the coast, the low pruned vines with their dark green leaves\nand rich purple fruit making a fine contrast to the red brown soil.\n\nCalifornia produces more wine to the acre than any other country in the\nworld. The best American wines come from Sonoma county, the Asti of\nAmerica, where a thousand foothills are planted in choice wine grapes,\nand where nature supplies all the moisture necessary to perfectly ripen\nthe fruit.\n\nThe vines are planted eight feet apart, intersected by wide avenues,\ndown which the wagons pass in gathering up the boxes into which the\npickers have tossed the ripe grapes--only well ripened grapes make good\nwine. Many of these roadways are lined on either side with olives,\npalms and other semi-tropical plants.\n\nThe pickers are mostly Swiss and Italian, men of practical experience\nin their own countries. They work in groups and keep up a running fire\nof jest and fun; ever and anon a happy heart breaks out in native song.\n\nPitchers of rude crockery are scattered about filled with wine for the\nworkers.\n\nFrom San Diego to Dutch Harbor wine flows freely, but yet there is no\ndrunkenness to speak of.\n\n[Illustration: EARLY MORNING, YOSEMITE VALLEY.]\n\nThe interest in a vineyard centers in the winery and the wine cellars.\nThe grapes are first picked from the stems, then thrown into the great\ncrushers, the juice flowing away through flumes to the fermenting vats.\nAsti boasts the largest wine-tank in the world. It is dug out of the\nsoft stone which abounds in this country and lined with a thick layer\nof cement.\n\nNo less interesting is the cool, fragrant wine cellar. Here immense\ncasks made of red wood stand upright, holding some of them, thirty\ngallons of wine.\n\nWhen California was wild, the entire state was one sweet bee garden.\nWherever a bee might fly, within the confines of this virgin\nwilderness, from forest to plain, from mountain to valley, from leafy\nglen to piny slope, chalices laden with golden nectar greeted him.\n\nThose halcyon days of our humble brown friend are past. The plow and\nthe sheep have played havoc with those once beautiful gardens. Now the\nlonely bee who would his trade pursue must fly far afield.\n\nTraveling east and south from San Francisco, the fruit ranches are soon\nleft behind and we enter the wheat district. Here we find no irrigation\nditches. Every farm has a wind-mill, which pumps water for the stock\nand also for the orchard and garden. The yield of wheat is low,\naveraging only about twenty-five bushels to the acre.\n\nThis wheat is not used in the United States, being of a lower grade\nthan Minnesota and Dakota wheat. It is shipped to the eastern markets,\nChina, Japan and the Philippines.\n\nWe traveled one hundred and fifty miles through this district during\nthe harvest. The combined harvester and thresher, drawn by forty mules,\ncuts a wide swath, threshes the grain at once, sacks it and dumps it on\nthe ground ready for shipment. The wheat ripens during the dry season\nand so thoroughly that it can be threshed immediately after cutting. As\nthe farmer has no fear of rain at this time of the year, he lets the\nsacks lie in the field until he is ready to sell.\n\nThe islands of the San Joaquin river are wonderfully fertile and many\nof them are under cultivation. The uncultivated islands produce every\nyear a dense growth of bulrushes. Efforts have been made to utilize\nthese in various ways.\n\n[Illustration: WAWONA VALLEY.]\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV YOSEMITE\n\n\nLeaving the San Joaquin valley and its vast wheat fields we take the\nstage at Berenda and head direct for the snow-capped Sierras. Gold\nmines now claim attention and we stop at Grub Gulch. \u201cThe diggins\u201d\nhere are not very rich and we journey on over the low foot hills to\nKing\u2019s Gulch, where a rich quartz lode is being profitably worked by\nelectricity.\n\nThe drowse of a July noontide is in the air. Rattlesnakes wriggle\nthrough the short, dry grass. The Indians say that for every man a\nrattlesnake kills he gains a rattle. Most minds become panic stricken\nat the sight of a rattlesnake. Not so poor Lo, he slays his enemy and\ncounts his rattles.\n\nThree hundred miles southeast of San Francisco in the Sierra Nevada\nmountains lies the beautiful valley of Ahwahne, where Diana herself\nmight deign to follow the chase, for noble game roam these Arcadian\nwilds, where giant sugar pines and silver firs lend beauty to the\nlandscape.\n\nHigher up and nearer the heart of the mountains lies another lovely\nvale called the Indian\u2019s Wawona, where dwelt Naiads, Fauns and all\ntheir kindred tribe,\n\n  \u201cUpon a time, before the fairy broods\n   Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods,\n   Before King Oberon\u2019s bright diadem,\n   Scepter and mantle clasp\u2019d with dewy gem.\n   Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns\n   From rushes green and brakes and cowslipped lawns.\u201d\n\n   --KEATS.\n\nHere Jove himself treads not and forbears to hurl a thunderbolt.\n\nA bird\u2019s flight beyond this playground of the fairies, deep in the\nshady wood of the great sugar pines of Mariposa county are the giant\nSequoias, \u201cthe big trees.\u201d The Indians called them Waw Nonas, Big Trees.\n\nFive thousand years ago they struck their tiny roots deep into the soil\nof the mountains. Before Columbus was born they tossed their giant\nbranches against the mountain storms. They have seen the passing of the\nIndian and the coming of the white man.\n\n[Illustration: OLDEST LOG CABIN IN THE SEQUOIA GROVE, MARIPOSA COUNTY\nCALIFORNIA. OLD COLUMBIA IN THE FOREGROUND.]\n\nIn the \u00e6ons of past centuries there were about thirty species of this\ngenus scattered over the earth. In Asia fossilized specimens of\ncones, foliage and wood have been found. To-day there are but two\nliving specimens of these trees on earth, the _Sequoia gigantea_ and\nthe _Sequoia sempervirens_, or redwood. The former are to be found only\nin the Sierras, while the latter grows only on the Coast range, and all\nin California. The largest tree in the Sequoia grove in Mariposa county\nmeasures one hundred and eighty feet in circumference and three hundred\nand sixteen feet in height.\n\nThis, the largest tree in the world, has been named Columbia.\n\nThe YoSemite, the most wonderful of all valleys, lies hidden deep in\nthe heart of the Sierras. It detracts something from the romance of\nthe musical Spanish when one learns that YoSemite is only Spanish for\ngrizzly bear. The first white men to enter the valley were looking for\nbear, not scenery.\n\nThis wonderful valley, this marvelous gorge, \u201ctouched by a light that\nhath no name, a glory never sung,\u201d is a puzzle to geologists. It is a\ngranite-walled chasm in the very heart of the mountains. The solid rock\nwalls have split in half, one-half dropping out of sight, leaving only\nthis beautiful valley to tell the tale.\n\nDown the dark, frowning walls, which rise sheer from three to five\nthousand feet, plunge numerous waterfalls which leap two thousand feet\nat a bound. Through the valley flows the Merced river. Its water, clear\nas crystal, is full of that most delicious of all fish, mountain trout.\nA more pellucid stream does not flow on this continent. Up in the\nmountain the Merced river is a wild, roaring torrent, but through the\nvalley it flows placidly over its white pebble bed, bathing the brown\nroots of the trees that fringe its banks. The trout float lazily along,\nleaping up to catch the insects that fly over the water, or sleeping\nin quiet pools and shady nooks along the bank. Here the cook drops his\nline out of the kitchen window and hooks trout for our breakfast.\n\nThe air is fragrant with the odor of many blossoms. The murmur of\nYoSemite falls lulls one to sleep as it goes leaping down five thousand\nfeet over the granite wall to the pool below, clashing with spray the\nflowers that bloom on its banks.\n\nYoSemite is truly a valley with little suggestion of the ca\u00f1on about\nit. The Half Dome towering high above almost conceals the trench of the\nriver, and the gorge of Tenaya creek. Several thousand broad acres\nspread out in a level tract on its long narrow bottom.\n\n[Illustration: HALF DOME AND MERCED RIVER.]\n\nEl Capitan is the monarch of the world of rocks. A solid mass of\ngranite, towering skyward three-fifths of a mile, barren except for one\nlone tree, an alligator pine, one hundred and twenty-seven feet high,\ngrowing on a narrow ledge, in a niche a thousand feet above its base.\nIts rugged face, one and one-half miles across, kissed to a soft creamy\nwhiteness by the suns of summer and the snows of winter. That is El\nCapitan, the wonder of the world. The Indians call it Tutockahnulah, in\nhonor of their greatest chief.\n\nScarred and hoary, the Three Brothers stand like severe hierophants,\nlooking down into this mysterious vale.\n\nThat marvel of lakes, Mirror lake, called by the Indians Sleeping\nWater, adds beauty to this wonderful valley, so placid, so clear the\nwater that the rocky wall and every tree and shrub on its banks lie on\nthe bosom of the water as if reflected in a mirror.\n\n\u201cAloft on sky and mountain wall are God\u2019s great pictures hung.\u201d\n\nThe legend of the lovely falls called Bridal Veil runs in this wise:\n\nCenturies ago there lived in this valley one Tutockahnulah and his\ntribe. One day while out hunting, he met the spirit of the valley,\nTisayac. From that moment he knew no peace. He neglected his people and\nspent his time in dreaming of lovely Tisayac. She was fair, her skin\nwas white and the sun had kissed her hair to a golden brown. Her eyes\nreflected heaven\u2019s own blue. Her silvery speech like a bird\u2019s song led\nhim to her, but when he opened his eyes she vanished into the clouds.\n\nThe beautiful YoSemite valley being neglected by Tutockahnulah, became\na desert and a waste. When Tisayac returned she wept at the sight of\nher beloved valley. On the dome of a mighty rock she knelt and prayed\nthe Good Manitou to restore the valley. In answer to her prayer the\nGreat Spirit spread the floor of the valley with green and smiting the\nmountains broke a channel for the melting ice and snow. The waters went\nleaping down and formed a lake. The birds again sang and the flowers\nbloomed. The people returned and gave the name Tisayac to the great\nrock where she had knelt.\n\n[Illustration: MERCED RIVER, YOSEMITE VALLEY.]\n\nWhen the chief came home and learned that Tisayac had returned to the\nvalley his love grew stronger day by day. One morning he climbed to\nthe crest of a rock that towers three thousand feet above the valley\nand carved his likeness on it that his memory might live forever among\nhis people. There is to this day a face on this rock, but whether\ncarved there by the hand of man or by nature in some of her wild moods,\nremains a mystery.\n\nResting at the foot of the Bridal Veil Falls, one evening Tutockahnulah\nsaw a rainbow arching around the form of Tisayac. She beckoned him to\nfollow her. With a wild cry he sprang into the water and disappeared\nwith Tisayac. Two rainbows now instead of one tremble over the falling\nwater.\n\nAt the upper end of the valley stands a giant monolith two hundred feet\nin height, called by the Indians, Hummoo, the Lost Arrow.\n\nMany thousands of snows ago before the foot of white man had trod these\nromantic wilds there dwelt in this valley the Ahwahnes, the fairest of\nwhose daughters was Teeheeneh. Her hair, black as the raven\u2019s wing,\nunlike that of her sisters, fell in ripples below her slender waist.\nHer sun-kissed cheeks and teeth like pearls added beauty to a form\ngraceful as that of a young gazelle.\n\nKossookah, the bravest and handsomest warrior of his tribe, came a\nwooing the beautiful princess, wooed and won her.\n\nAll that delightful summer time these two, favored of the gods, rambled\nover the mountains.\n\nThe wild torrents sang of the love of Kossookah, the brave, for\nTeeneeneh, the beautiful. The river murmured it; the lonely mountains\nechoed the refrain; the very leaves of the trees whispered it; the\nplumy children of the air gossiped about it, while each sun of the\nstarry sky repeated the story.\n\nTime sped on golden wings, the mountains took on autumn tints, winter\nwas approaching. Every member of the tribe lent a hand to assist in\nbuilding a wigwam for the fair princess and her knight.\n\n[Illustration: YOSEMITE FALLS.]\n\nThe nuptials were to be celebrated with many ceremonies and a great\nfeast. Teeheeneh assisted by her companions would grind the acorns into\nflour for the wedding cakes and gather nuts, herbs and autumn leaves\nwith which to garnish and decorate the tables; while Kossookah with\nthe chosen hunters of his tribe would scale the cliffs or climb the\nwalls of the ca\u00f1on to the mountain fastness in search of game.\n\nThe primitive home is completed. Kossookah and his braves depart. At\nset of sun he will repair to the head of the YoSemite falls and report\nthe success of the hunt to Teeheeneh who would climb the rocks to the\nfoot of the falls to receive it.\n\nThe messenger was to be an arrow to which Kossookah would attach\nfeathers of the grouse. From his strong bow he would speed it far out\nthat Teeheeneh might see it, watch for its falling, recover it and read\nthe message.\n\nThe day was propitious. Seldom did an arrow miss its mark. Evening came\nand the hunters had more game than they could carry down in one trip.\n\nLong ago in another clime Plautus said, \u201cwhom the gods love die young.\u201d\n\nKossookah, proud of his success, repaired to the edge of the cliff\nbeyond the falls, prepared the arrow, set it against the string of\nbuffalo hide, stepped forward, when the cliff began to tremble and went\ndown, carrying the brave Kossookah with it.\n\nLong and lovingly did Teeheeneh wait for the signal. Night wrapped the\nmountains in gloom, but still Teeheeneh waited and wondered. Could\nKossookah be dead? Had the chase led him so far away that he could not\nreturn in time to keep his word to Teeheeneh? He might even now be\ncoming down the Indian ca\u00f1on.\n\nThis new thought lent hope, and hope wings to the flying feet of\nTeeheeneh. From rock to rock, from ledge to ledge she sped with\ntireless feet, escaping many perils she reached the foot of the cliff.\n\nFinding no trace of Kossookah she paced the sands all the long weary\nnight, hoping against hope that every hour would bring some tidings of\nher beloved.\n\nThe pain at her heart increased with the hours, as she sang in the low\nsoft voice of her race a passionate love song. The gray dawn found her\nstill pacing the sands.\n\nNow, like a deer she springs over the rocks and up the steep ascent to\nthe spot from whence the signal arrow was to wing its way to her feet.\n\n[Illustration: EL CAPITAN.]\n\nAh, there were tracks in the sand, his tracks, but her call was\nanswered only by the echo of her own sad voice. A new fracture\nmarked a recent cleavage in the rocks. Could it be, Oh, Great Spirit\ncould it be that her beloved had gone down with the rocks and perished.\nHer heart was almost stilled with agonizing fear. She faltered a moment\nonly. Gathering courage she leaned over the edge of the cliff. There,\nstilled in death, lay the form of Kossookah, in a hollow at the base of\nthe monolith.\n\nThe shock had cleared her mind. Hastily and with steady hands now she\nbuilds a signal fire on the rocky cliff. The fire by its intensity\ninterpreted in the light of Indian signal fires, calls for aid in\ndistress. Slowly the hours drag by. At last help arrives. Young\nsaplings of tamarack are lashed together, end to end, with thongs of\ndeer skin. When all is ready Teeheeneh springs forward and begs that no\nhands save hers shall touch her beloved dead. Slowly strong hands lower\nher to the side of the prostrate form of Kossookah.\n\nKissing the pale lips of the dead warrior Teeheeneh unbinds the deer\nthongs from about her own body. Silently and deftly she winds them\nabout the prostrate form of Kossookah. At a signal from Teeheeneh the\nlifeless body is drawn up. Again the improvised rope is lowered.\nTeeheeneh nervously clutches the pole, puts her foot in the rawhide\nloop and waves her hand as a signal to be drawn up.\n\nLong and silently she gazes into the once love lit eyes of her dead\nhero. Her slight body sways and trembles like a reed swept by the\nwintry wind. Still silent, she sinks quivering on the bosom of her\nbeloved. Gently they raise her, but her heart had broken and her soul\ntaken its flight.\n\nThe fateful arrow was never found. The Indians say that it was spirited\naway by Teeheeneh and Kossookah and kept by them as a memento of their\nplighted troth and the close of their life on earth.\n\nOn gossamer floats, their souls were carried, by unseen hands over the\nmountains to the Elysian Plains beyond, where there are no pitfalls and\nno broken hearts.\n\nHummoo, the Lost Arrow, still stands, a monument to the brave Kossookah.\n\n  See, \u201cIn The Heart of the Sierras,\u201d by J. M. Hutchings. Mr. Hutchings\n  lived twenty-five years in the YoSemite Valley and knows this, the\n  most beautiful, wild, and romantic spot on the American Continent, in\n  all its varying moods of summer calm and wintry storm, and writes of\n  it with a loving and sympathetic touch.\n\n[Illustration: BRIDAL VEIL FALLS AND THE THREE BROTHERS (SOLID ROCK).]\n\nOf all the beautiful places in the world for a schoolhouse, surely \u201cThe\nValley\u201d is the most beautiful. One rarely hears YoSemite on the coast.\nIt is always with a lingering caress in the voice, \u201cThe Valley.\u201d A\ndainty little white schoolhouse stands in a grove on the border of a\nglade. Here school is in session six months of every summer. The valley\nis only seven miles long and one and a half miles in width at its\nwidest point.\n\nThere are usually only five or six children of school age in the\nvalley, but in the spring and summer people come into the valley to\nspend the summer. Many camp while others live at the hotel and in\ncottages. In many instances their children have left their home school\nbefore its close, and in order to make their grades for the ensuing\nyear, attend \u201cThe Valley School.\u201d\n\nHere the student of botany may find dainty asters, tiny wild peas,\nlarkspur, monkey flowers, great ferns, the leaves two or three feet\nlong; wild poppies, delicate sunflowers, purple gilias and broad faced\nprimroses. Fiery castill\u00e8jas lend color to gray rocks and shady nooks.\n\nStately pines, silver firs and graceful tamaracks stand massy, tall\nand dark, make a landscape Mercury himself might pause to behold, no\nmatter how urgent his errand.\n\nThe Manzanita trees are now loaded with fruit. Manzanita is Spanish for\nlittle apple. The fruit of the tree is a perfect apple about the size\nof a gooseberry. Leather wood, a strange shrub naked as to leaves but\nabloom with bright yellow blossoms grows up in the mountains.\n\nFor the student of zoology there are the bears which have their dens in\nthe rocks a short distance from the school. Wild deer and lion roam the\nmountains, while trout disport themselves in the Merced river near by.\n\nThe student of astronomy may see the sun rise five times every morning,\nand the White Fire Maiden, by mortals called the moon, lights up\nYoSemite falls and the north wall of the valley long before she appears\nin the blue sea above.\n\nThe student in trigonometry will easily find a summer\u2019s work, the\ngeologist a life-time study, while the anthropologist will be\ninterested in the few Indians who inhabit the valley.\n\nThe valley is not without its early history when white man and Indian\nfought for supremacy.\n\n[Illustration: MIRROR LAKE, SLEEPING WATER.]\n\nOne of the brightest pupils in the primary class is a little Indian\ngirl. This daughter of the red man reads well and is very proud of her\naccomplishment. She learned the multiplication table before the other\nmembers of her class, but does not apply it so readily.\n\n\u201cTempus Fugit,\u201d we bid farewell to YoSemite, lovely vale, and take the\ntrail over the mountains. The hour was morning\u2019s prime.\n\nUp we go three thousand feet, mules, guides and tourists, over a\nnarrow trail that runs along the rocky ledge of the gorge. The purple\natmosphere hangs like a veil over the wild ca\u00f1on down which sweeps\nthe Merced river, dashing and sparkling over rocks, tumbling over\nprecipices or placidly flowing over its smooth rock bed.\n\nFar above a red flame swept and we caught the odor of Calypso\u2019s fire of\ncedar wood. The rising smoke mingled with the blue haze above, while\nthe fire swept on, leaving only the blackened, charred remains of the\nonce green forest to tell the tale.\n\nNaiads danced in the sunny water and once methought I heard the soft,\nlow strains of a flute played by a faun in the cool shadows of the\ntrees which overhang the river\u2019s brink.\n\nNot a faun did we see, however, but we met a fool, forsooth, a motley,\nmerry fool. This fool had a silken scarf draped about his foolish head\nto ward off the warm glances of Old Sol as he peered down the gorge to\nsee what the fool was about. He tripped lightly along, did this merry\nfool, slipping past the sturdy little mules and their riders on the\ntrail so narrow that one foot of the rider hung over the gorge below,\nso narrow in many places that one misstep of the faithful little beast\nmeant death to himself and his rider. Past the forty tourists went this\nuntiring fool, frightening the animals and alarming their riders with\nhis strange headdress.\n\nWhere were the guides? Right there saying things about the fool,\nquieting the animals and calming the fears of their riders.\n\nWhen this remarkably agile fool had reached the head of the caravan,\ndown he would drop in the shade of a tree, his feet dangling in the\ndust of the trail, his Turkish headdress fluttering in the breeze,\nagain causing the weary climbers to pause. Not every animal paused to\nlook at the fool, the older ones were wiser.\n\n[Illustration: YOSEMITE FALLS, SHOWING FLOOR OF THE VALLEY.]\n\nThe blue sky, the odor of the pines and the falling, gurgling,\nmurmuring water lent an enchantment to the air, which made us forget\nthe fool, but for a moment only. Here he came again. Untiringly he\nfollowed us to the summit of the mountains, eight thousand feet above\nthe sea, where the soft ambient soothes like a benediction, and the\nsoul uplifts in prayer.\n\nAs these high altitudes make many people ill we were advised to carry\nwith us a bit of the joyful. Arrived at the summit a dainty flask\nslipped from the folds of a lady\u2019s gown and fell to the earth with a\nthud. One of the guides picked it up and gravely presented it to the\nowner with the remark, \u201cMadam, you have lost something valuable.\u201d\n\nAs we stood looking down through the blue mist into the YoSemite below\nus--a landscape that would have delighted the heart and eye of a\nHomer--a quaint old lady who had braved the trail that she might view\nthe valley from glacial point, exclaimed:\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s lovely, ain\u2019t it? Heaven don\u2019t need to be no purtier and I don\u2019t\nreckon it is, do you? Purty name, too, but I never kin remember whether\nit\u2019s Yo-se-mite or Yu-summit.\u201d\n\nA personally conducted party arrived just ahead of us. Mr. Personally,\nas we dubbed the conductor, was a gentleman, so he informed us, of\nmany qualities. His voice was loud and commanding, he was exceedingly\nvoluble, and from the manner in which he hurried his party about I\nshould say that he was a man of much energy.\n\nHe came flying into the ladies\u2019 private boudoir regardless of the\nconfusion of shirt waists, ties, collars and riding habits that were\nflying through the air, commanding the ladies of his party to hasten to\nthe dining-room for luncheon.\n\nThat repast served, Mr. Personally Conductor ordered up the stages\nwhich were in waiting to take us down the mountains on the other side.\nAfter ordering everyone else to stand back he ordered his party to\n\u201cclimb in,\u201d which they meekly did.\n\nWe sat under a clump of silver firs thoroughly enjoying the scene\nand calm in the consciousness that as the transportation company had\ncarried us to the top of the mountains it was in duty bound to carry us\ndown, either by stage coach, mule back or by rope and tackle, over the\nrocky ledge and drop us three thousand feet to the valley below.\n\n[Illustration: SUNRISE IN YOSEMITE VALLEY.]\n\nTwo coaches were filled with \u201cpersonally conducted\u201d when the third\ndrove up to the veranda. Mr. Personally not being in sight the\ndriver requested us to take seats in the coach, as it was growing late\nand time we were off.\n\nA brilliant man of our party, a New York lawyer, had just taken a seat\nby the driver, when that remarkable conductor appeared and sprang into\nthe seat between them, pushing at Mr. Lawyer and calling lustily for\nDr. Bluker, who was a member of his party. The doctor responded and\ngrabbed our lawyer friend by the leg, attempting to pull him down.\n\nMr. Lawyer turned to Mr. Personally, saying, \u201cI don\u2019t know who you are\nsir, but--\u201d\n\n\u201cI am a gentleman, sir,\u201d hastily replied the conductor.\n\n\u201cAh,\u201d exclaimed the lawyer at this astonishing bit of news, \u201cI am\nalways glad to meet a gentleman,\u201d and at his wife\u2019s solicitation bowed\ngracefully, relinquishing the seat to Dr. Bluker, a college president\nwho for the moment might have been taken for Sitting Bull, chief of the\nSioux.\n\nAh, good people,\n\n  \u201cA chiel\u2019s amang you taking notes,\n   And, faith, he\u2019ll prent it.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA\n\n\nThe descent lay through groves of pine and cedar, beds of beautiful\nflowers, grassy glades, mountain brooks, tiny lakes, springs of ice\ncold water, and acres and acres of azaleas.\n\nIn the center of a green glade lay a big brown bowlder surrounded by\nflowers. Just under the side of this bowlder was a spring of ice cold\nwater.\n\nJust as the sun was sliding down the western horizon beyond the\nsnow-capped peaks we arrived again in Wawona valley, where the evening\nwas spent in telling stories and relating adventures.\n\n\u201cWhen in London recently,\u201d said our lawyer friend, \u201cChauncey Depew told\nthis story:\n\n\u201cAt a hotel where he was dining the waitress said to a young man, \u2018We\nhave blackberry pie, peach pie, plum pie, strawberry pie and custard\npie.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Bring me some plum pie and some peach pie, yes, and I\u2019ll take some\nblackberry pie.\u2019 As the waitress turned to fill the order the young man\ncalled her back, \u2018You may bring me some strawberry pie, too.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018What\u2019s the matter with the custard pie?\u2019 inquired she.\n\n\u201cThe next morning Mr. Depew met a young Englishman on the street, who\ncomplimented him on his speech, saying that he really liked it very,\nvery much, you know, but he would like to ask him one question, \u2018What\nwas the matter with the custard pie?\u2019\u201d\n\nWhen the laugh had subsided a young lady in a pink shirt waist leaned\nforward in her chair, and looking earnestly at the lawyer, softly\ninquired, \u201cWell, what was?\u201d\n\nIn the laugh which followed, the Englishman\u2019s stupidity was lost sight\nof in astonishment at that of the American girl.\n\n\u201cExcuse me,\u201d said a well dressed lady to me one morning at the hotel in\nWawona, \u201cI am a little hazy on my geography, but what I want to know is\nthis--if I go to Denver will I be in Colorado?\u201d\n\nAfter a week\u2019s fishing, dreaming and resting in this beautiful valley,\nwe returned to the coast.\n\nAll up and down the Pacific coast as well as the islands of the sea\nare wonderful floating gardens. These gardens are composed of kelp,\nwhich attached to the bottom and to the rocks, grows from fifty to\none hundred feet long, throwing out broad leaves and balloon-like air\nbulbs which support them. A perfect forest of broad green leaves rise\nupward, presenting a sharp contrast to the blue water in which they\ngrow. Gracefully turning with every movement of the water they are\namong the most strikingly beautiful objects of salt sea. When near the\nshore these huge plants assume an upright position and become floating\ngardens in very truth, through which vessels plow with much difficulty.\n\nThe entrance to the bay at Santa Barbara is a perfect maze of floating\nsea-weed. The leaves are covered with patches of color, representing\nparasitic animals, or plants, greens, reds, purples and yellows, a\nperfect maze of color.\n\nDelicate sea anemones looking exactly like their namesakes on land. The\nslightest noise causes them to close up, withdrawing their tentacles,\nand presently blooming out again.\n\nHere are tiny plant-like animals growing in shrub-like forms.\nWonderful jellyfish, too, fill the ocean at night with a phosphorescent\nlight.\n\nIn place of birds and insects in a sea garden we find shell animals,\ncrabs and fishes clinging to the leaves. Along comes a big octopus\nthrowing out his eight sucker-lined arms in search of food. Disturbed,\nhe throws out an inky fluid, and while you are searching the black hole\nfor him, he slips away. Yonder comes a nautilus holding his shell high\nover his head, crawling lazily along. Black-hued echini, bristling with\npins and needles which, waving to and fro, ward off their enemies. Fish\nof all sorts and sizes inhabit the sea garden. The beautiful gold and\nsilver fishes gliding in and out remind one of the birds flitting from\ntree to tree. In comes a big fish, the king of the bass, and the \u201csmall\nfry\u201d scatter right and left. At night these strange gardens are aglow\nwith phosphorescent lights.\n\nLos Angeles has been having a succession of earthquakes.\n\nThe houses in San Francisco as well as other coast towns are built to\nwithstand earthquake shocks. On this account very few brick are used.\nAn earthquake hotel is advertised. In this city, too, one may eat\nPasteurized ice-cream without fear of the deadly ptomain.\n\nAn orange, as every one knows, is a difficult fruit to eat gracefully,\nbut I\u2019ve learned how to do it in this land of the citron. A gentleman\nassured me that the only proper place to eat an orange was in the\nbathtub.\n\nUp and down the length of this coast I\u2019ve not been able to get a decent\nlemonade. Very few places serve that drink at all. Drinks there are\nplenty, but no lemonade. Now I know what those warnings mean which hang\nup in every stateroom on the steamers: \u201cPassengers strictly prohibited\nfrom getting into bed with their boots on.\u201d\n\nCalifornia is rich in stories of her early days. Just east of San\nFrancisco lies a narrow valley bordering on the bay of San Pablo. The\nfirst white man to enter this valley was one Miguel and his wife, who\nnamed it El Hambre (Hunger) valley.\n\nMiguel built an adobe hut and planted a garden. Later he started to\nSan Francisco, for supplies. Madam Miguel remained at home to tend the\ngarden. Miguel would return in three weeks and all would be well.\n\nTime passed slowly to the lonely woman. When the three weeks had\npassed Emilia packed a burro and started out on the trail which her\nhusband had taken. At night she tethered the burro and rolled in her\nblanket slept by the roadside. Dawn saw her on the trail. The third day\nher burro neighed and was answered by a donkey which proved to be that\nof Miguel. Hurrying on she found her husband lying on the roadside,\ndead. She remained there until the sun set, then covered him with a\nblanket and returned home.\n\nLater some traders wandering through the valley found her skeleton in\nthe garden. The adobe still stands in the now new town of Martinez.\n\nDick Brown, miner of Misery Hill, was a sort of recluse, who never made\nany friends among the miners of the Eldorado of the west.\n\nOne day while out prospecting, a landslide carried him down the valley\nand buried him beneath it. His body was recovered and buried, but his\nghost walked nightly at the foot of the old shaft.\n\nA lazy, seemingly good-for-nothing sort of a fellow, Wilson by name,\nbegan work in Brown\u2019s mine. It was a good mine and paid Wilson well\nuntil some one else began working it. Every morning there was evidence\nthat some one had been at work during the night.\n\nOne night Wilson loaded his rifle and waited for his nightly intruder.\nHearing a noise he started to follow it up.\n\nWhat was that on yonder tree, which glowed with a phosphorescent light?\nWilson crept nearer. There, tacked on a big tree, was a notice, \u201cD. B.\nhis mine. Hands off.\u201d\n\nA moment later the notice was gone. As he passed on he heard the water\nflowing through the sluice and the sound of a pick in the gravel. There\nstood Dick Brown. Wilson raised his rifle and fired. A yell, and the\nghost of Dick Brown came flying after him as he ran down the hill.\n\nThe next morning a pick and shovel were found by the roadside bearing\nthe initials \u201cD. B.\u201d cut on the handle of each. Wilson deserted the\nclaim, but the sluice on Misery Hill ran on for many years.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII HERE AND THERE ON THE COAST.\n\n\nLeaving San Francisco, a sail of twenty-five miles brings us to the\ngrimly fortified island of Alcatraz, the watch dog of the Golden Gate.\n\nForty miles inland lies the beautiful Napa Valley. Farm houses and\nvillages dot the landscape. Orchards, vineyards and fields of waving\ngrain heighten the natural beauty of this Rasselas Valley, rich in\ngroves of oak trees from which depend festoons of mistletoe, meadows\nand running brooks.\n\nAt the head of this valley stands Mount St. Helena, once a center of\nvolcanic action. Wasnossensky, the Russian naturalist ascended to its\nsummit in 1841, and named it in honor of his empress, leaving on the\nsummit a copper plate bearing the name of himself and his companion.\n\nThe Russians, with a view to commercial and political aggrandisement,\ndid a great deal of exploring in California in the early days of her\nhistory.\n\nBy stage we travel through the Napa Valley to the geyser fields.\nOn either hand are groves of redwood trees, cousins of the Giant\nSequoias. In the springtime the odor of the buckeye fills the delicious\nmorning air, just now the handsome eschscholtzias, commonly called the\nCalifornia poppy, brighten the meadows. Here and there lichen stained\nrocks lend a deeper tone to the landscape.\n\nThrough this valley of strange wild beauty we arrive at the Devil\u2019s\nCa\u00f1on. The nomenclature of this weird place is something audacious and\none wishes that he might change it. Here the hero of the ca\u00f1on has his\nkitchen, his soup bowl, his punch bowl, and his ink pot. In this spring\nyou might dip your pen and write tales of magic that would rival those\nof India.\n\nHere, one dreary night, a lonely discouraged miner who had lost\nhis way, sat in meditation, when presently a strangely clad figure\napproached him. The dark face wore a sinister expression, black eyes\nsparkled under villainous brows.\n\n\u201cHa, ha, ha,\u201d laughed the stranger when he discovered the miner.\n\n\u201cWhat would\u2019st thou? Riches? Sign here and they are thine, or thou\nmay\u2019st toss me into yon caldron.\u201d\n\nFlinging aside the long black cloak that enveloped his figure he stood\nforth, his scarlet robes gleaming a fiery red in the black night.\n\n\u201cSign here,\u201d and dipping his fire tipped pen into the ink pot he thrust\nit into the hand of the astonished miner, presenting a scroll of\nparchment for the signature.\n\n\u201cHa, ha, ha,\u201d came in tones diabolical, as the fortune hunter seized\nthe pen in his eager grasp. Knowing better how to wield the pick than\nthe pen he seized the scroll and--made the sign of the cross.\n\nHis Satanic Majesty gave an unearthly yell, seized the pen and scroll,\nand disappeared leaving his ink-pot behind.\n\nThe prevailing rocks are metamorphic, sandstone, silicious slates and\nserpentine. The stratification dips sharply to the bed of Pluton Creek.\n\nThere are no spouting geysers here, only bubbling springs, but springs\nof beauty and interest. Here lies one, its waters a creamy white, and\nyonder another whose waters are deeply tinged with sulphur, while\nthose of its neighbor are as black as the contents of that bottle\nthe undaunted Luther flung at the head of his Satanic Majesty on that\nmemorable day.\n\nThe waters of these springs boil over and mingle as they flow away.\nSteam jets hiss and sputter continually. Of the many strange springs,\npools and caverns, the Witch\u2019s Caldron is perhaps the most remarkable.\nA very pit of Acheron, this huge cavern in the solid rock, seventy feet\nin diameter, is filled to an unknown depth with a thick inky fluid,\nthat boils and surges incessantly. The waters of these springs, rich\nin sulphur, iron, lime and magnesia are said to rival in medicinal\nqualities those of all the famous German Spas.\n\nThe geysers are due to both chemical and volcanic action; to water\npercolating down through the fissures of the rocks until it comes in\ncontact with the heated mass of hot lava; and to water percolating\nthrough the mineral deposits.\n\nSuffice it to say that you have not seen California until you have seen\nthe Napa Valley, and taken the trail to Mount St. Helena and the geyser\nfields.\n\nThe very air of this delightful country is rife with bear stories.\nStories in which the bear quite as often as the hunter comes off\nvictor.\n\nA cowboy, newly arrived in California, went out on a bear hunt. He went\nalone. He wanted to kill a grizzly.\n\nHe soon found his bear and lassoed him, but Bruin, contrary to his\nusual custom of showing fight, took a header down a ca\u00f1on, horse and\nrider in full pursuit.\n\nUpon nearing the foot of the ravine the bear fell down. The horse fell\ndown and the man tumbled down on top of the grizzly which so frightened\nhim that when the three untangled themselves he set off up the ca\u00f1on,\nand the man let him go. Glad, glad to the heart that he was gone.\n\nAssyria had her winged bull, Lucerne has her lion, and California has\nher grizzly.\n\nThe grizzly stands for California, and only awaits some future\nThorwaldsen to perpetuate him on the walls of his own rock-ribbed ca\u00f1on.\n\nThe Indians of California were possessed of many strange superstitions\nwhen the Franciscan Fathers established missions among them.\n\nThe Fathers called it \u201cdevil worship,\u201d but to the simple childlike mind\nof these primitive people it was a sort of hero worship, and the wild\nchild worshiped on despite the Fathers.\n\nThe worship of a god known as Kooksuy was one to which the Indians held\nwith great tenacity. The monks had forbidden the worship of this deity,\nso Kooksuy had to be worshiped in secret.\n\nA lonely, unfrequented place in the mountains was chosen, and a stone\naltar was raised to Kooksuy. This consisted of a pile of flat stones\nfive or six feet in height.\n\nIt was the duty of every worshipper to toss something onto the altar as\nan act of homage. This act was called \u201cpoorish.\u201d\n\nA Kooksuy altar was a curious affair. The foundation of stone was\nfrequently hidden under a mass of beads, feathers and shells. Even\ngarments and food found their way to the throne of this strange deity.\nThus the altar continued to rise for no Indian would dare touch a\n\u201cpoorish\u201d offering.\n\nThe priests destroyed the altars and punished the worshipers, but that\ndid not destroy their faith in their god.\n\nAt the missions every Indian retired when the evening bell rang. When\nthe good alcalde made his rounds they had counted their beads and shut\ntheir eyes. Ten minutes later half a dozen dusky forms might be seen\ncreeping stealthily along in the shadows of the buildings. Arriving at\nthe chosen spot a big fire was built around which the faithful Indians\ndanced calling on their god in a series of weird whistles.\n\nKooksuy never failed to appear in the midst of the fire in the form\nof a huge white dragon, but with the destruction of his altars, the\nneglect of his worshipers and fear of the white man Kooksuy appeared\nless frequently and finally his visits ceased entirely.\n\nAccording to the Indians the Great Manitou threw up the Sierra Nevada\nrange with his own hands. Then he broke away the hills at the foot of\nthe lake and the waters drained into the sea through the Golden Gate.\n\nThe clouds rested on the water and the setting sun lit up the Golden\nGate with the glory of the sea as we steamed across the bay and bade\nadieu to the land of Pomona and her citron groves.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII WALLA WALLA VALLEY\n\n\nWalla Walla is so named from its abundant supply of water. Many little\nstreams run over the surface and many more under ground. This valley is\nnoted for the richness of its soil, which is decomposed lava, and its\nwonderful climate. This delightful climate is shorn of its harshness by\nthe magical breath of the Chinook wind.\n\nThe principal crop here is wheat. A Walla Walla ranchman never thinks\nof planting anything else. The soil is so easy of cultivation that all\nhe needs to do is to plow the ground, sow the wheat and go fishing\nuntil it is ready to harvest. Wheat brings him wealth and prosperity.\n\nEvery year one-half of a ranch is allowed to lie fallow, but an\nIllinois farmer would rotate crops instead. The fallow fields, however,\nare kept perfectly clean and free from weeds.\n\nDuring the rainy season the soil, which is rich in potash and\nphosphoric acid, stores up moisture sufficient to mature the wheat.\nOnly three pecks of wheat are sown to the acre, as the grain stools\nvery much.\n\nThe average farm contains six hundred acres, but there are many ranches\nof from a thousand to fifteen hundred acres.\n\nFor cutting the grain the old-fashioned header is used, also the\nordinary reaper and binder, but the combined harvester and thresher is\nthe king of reapers. It is drawn by from twenty-five to thirty mules,\ncuts the grain, threshes it, sacks it, and dumps it on the ground ready\nfor shipment.\n\nWheat averages from twenty to thirty bushels to the acre. Some years\nthe average is much higher. In 1898 wheat went sixty bushels to the\nacre.\n\nThe price of land runs from thirty dollars to sixty dollars per acre.\nComfortable homes and green orchards dot the landscape. The orchards,\nhowever, must be irrigated. The Blue mountains supply plenty of water\nfor this purpose.\n\nAt the experiment stations established throughout the semi-arid\nregions of the west, investigation of the excessive alkali in the soil\nis being carried on.\n\nIn many regions of California and Utah large tracts of irrigated land\nare practically non-productive because of the presence of an excess\nof alkali. Investigation has proven that this is due to excessive\nirrigation. When water is applied to the soil it brings to the surface\nwhen it rises, the salts.\n\nIn seeking a remedy for this evil the experiment stations have\ndemonstrated that in most instances crops do not require nearly so much\nwater as is usually applied to them. Working along practical lines in\nthe solution of this, to the West, great problem, the stations hope\neventually to show just what quantity of water a given crop in a given\nlocality requires.\n\nThe establishment of this truth will save much land now under ditch and\nextend the area of irrigation by demonstrating that more land can be\nsupplied with water from the available supply.\n\nIn Montana, Idaho, Washington and the semi-arid districts of other\nstates experiments are being carried on in the line of forage plants.\nIn these states success has been quite satisfactory with the cow pea,\nwhich is usually planted with oats. Red clover flourishes as well here\nas in the East.\n\nSuccess in farming depends upon a thorough knowledge of soil, climate\nand rainfall. The farmers are coming to depend upon the experiment\nstations for much of this knowledge.\n\nAgriculture was early practiced in this valley, the Walla Walla region\nproper being part of the old Oregon country. The Hudson Bay Company\nestablished posts at the junction of the Walla Walla and Columbia\nrivers, at Fort Vancouver on the Columbia river and at Fort Colville in\nthe Colville valley, north of the present city of Spokane. With these\npeople agriculture and the fur trade went hand in hand. In 1828 seven\nhundred bushels of wheat were raised at Fort Vancouver and in 1829\nseventy acres were under cultivation at Fort Colville.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX HISTORICAL REFERENCES\n\n\nJust as a Bede Bible and a \u201cquart of seed wheat\u201d saved the British\nIsles to Christianity; so \u201cthe Book\u201d and another \u201cquart of seed wheat\u201d\ncarried in by the Reverend Spalding, saved Oregon to the United States,\nnotwithstanding the Russian Bear, the British Lion and the bull of\nAlexander the VI. in which he delivered over all North America to Spain.\n\n\u201cGood old times those were when kings thrust their hands into the New\nWorld, as children do theirs into a grab bag at a fair, and drew out a\nriver four thousand miles long, or an ocean, or a tract of wild land\nten or fifteen times the size of England.\u201d\n\nThe king of Spain sold Louisiana to France for money to buy his\ndaughter a wedding present and for one brief while France had hopes of\nplanting her lilies in the Walla Walla Valley. France, however, had met\nher Waterloo in America, on the Plains of Abraham.\n\nThen came England denying the validity of the old Franco-Spanish title\nunder which we claimed the Oregon country, but the same policy that\nlost to Great Britain her thirteen colonies, lost to her this princely\ndomain.\n\nAmerican and English settlements contrasted strangely. The one emigrant\ncame with his traps and snares, the other with his plow and quart of\nseed wheat. The one came for the fortune which he might carry out of\nthe country, the other to make a home for himself and his children. So,\nthe English trapper with his snares and the Indian with his pogamoggan\nretreated before the advance of American civilization.\n\nIn 1836 Mrs. Whitman, wife of Dr. Whitman, wrote from Fort Vancouver\nthat the Hudson Bay Co. had that year four thousand bushels of wheat,\nfour thousand bushels of peas and fifteen hundred bushels of oats and\nbarley, besides many root vegetables, also poultry, cattle, hogs and\nsheep.\n\nThe metropolis of the valley is Walla Walla. It is a well-built town\nhaving a population of several thousand. Many of the stores and\nbusiness blocks are of brick. Its streets are wide. In the suburbs is a\nmilitary post, also a college established by the Congregational church\nin honor of Dr. Marcus Whitman, the well known missionary who was\nmassacred at his mission near Walla Walla in 1847. So died the brave,\npatriotic Whitman.\n\nIn 1813 England, basing her claims on Drake\u2019s discoveries, captured\nAstoria and for years kept her hands on the Oregon country, to be\nthwarted at last by one brave American.\n\nThe story of Marcus Whitman\u2019s life should be enshrined in the heart of\nevery school-boy in America.\n\nFrom the busy thriving city of Spokane, the center of the agriculture\nempire of the Pacific Coast, to Missoula along the headwaters of the\nColumbia is a most interesting journey. High above, the grim Cascades\nrear their shaggy heads. Magnificent pines lift their crested heads\nskyward. The Columbia, \u201crock-ribbed and mighty,\u201d sweeps on, now\nplacidly, now whirling and eddying, tossing its waters up in foamy\nspray, now breaking into white cascades, beautiful as Schauffhausen\non the noble Rhine. The rugged rocks along the shore are hidden by\nfestoons of grape and wild honeysuckle vines, while the bright salmon\nberry adds a touch of color.\n\nHere is a bit of western fiction, a study in evolution that would\ninterest a Haeckel. These berries falling into the water float away\ninto brown pools and shady nooks and there change into the red fish\nknown as salmon.\n\nThe gentleman who told me this wonderful tale of magic assured me that\nit was true, and that the Fish Commission had made a report of it. Like\nthe tale of the banshee, however, he had never seen it but he knew\npeople who had.\n\nScientific errors should be corrected, so I will give you the facts\nabout the salmon trout. It was that mischievous god Loke, who to escape\nthe vengeance of Thor hid himself in a cave, but when he heard the\nthundering voice of that noble god,\n\n  \u201cHe changed himself into a salmon trout\n   And leaped in a fright in the Glommen.\u201d\n\nSlippery as a salmon is a common adage in Norseland.\n\nThe most beautiful spot in this region is Lake Pend d\u2019Oreille. The\nscenery of this lovely lake rivals that of Lake George. Its blue waters\nbathe the brown feet of rugged mountains.\n\nIt is early morning on Lake Pend d\u2019Oreille; the mountain breeze,\nthe gentle swish of the water as it laps the shore, the white,\ngraceful-moving sail-boat all entice you for a day\u2019s fishing. Tired of\nthis sport you sail over and rest under the wonderful Blue Slide. The\nmountain bordering on the lake at this point has crumbled away, sending\ndown its bowlders into the lake. From the boat you look up a smooth\nincline plane two thousand feet, above which rises the precipice itself\nanother thousand feet. The slide is covered with a pale blue clay,\nwhile the precipice itself is a mixture of granite and clay tinged with\niron. Large pines grow on the very edge of the precipice.\n\nThe junction of Clear Water and the Snake rivers in Idaho is a place\nof historic interest. We are now in the country traversed by Lewis and\nClarke.\n\nThe history of the great Northwest is wonderfully fascinating. The\nhistory of no part of this great territory is more tragic than that of\nMontana. Her savage tribes, her cosmopolitan population called into\nexistence by her fur trade and mining industry, all combined to produce\nin Montana a peculiar phase of civilization, but she has beaten dirks\nand bowie knives into plowshares and now follows the gentle arts of\npeace. A magnificent mountain range, lovely valley, beautiful river\nand a delicate, graceful flower--Bitter Root. Bitter Root is the state\nflower of Montana and lends its name to the river, mountains and valley\nof its native heath, growing most luxuriantly in Bitter Root valley.\n\nThis valley is one of the most beautiful as well as the most productive\nin the state. Lying at the eastern foot of the Bitter Root Mountains\nit is shielded from the cold, west winds. The climate is fine while\nthe soil in most places is rich and deep. Timothy and clover grow\nluxuriantly. Baled hay brings from seven to ten dollars per ton at the\nrailroad station. Dairy farming and poultry raising are profitable\nindustries. Butter sells at forty cents per pound in the winter and\ntwenty cents in the summer. Eggs bring the same price. Butte, Helena\nand other mining centers supply the market for Bitter Root Valley.\n\nBitter Root orchards are immune from disease. The leas ophis has\nappeared but as yet has done no injury. Bitter Root Mountains were the\nstronghold of the Nez Perce Indians.\n\n[Illustration: ENTERING HELL GATE CA\u00d1ON.]\n\nHell Gate ca\u00f1on is one of the most picturesque in the Rocky Mountains.\nIt is wild and beautiful. Its fir-clad slopes rise thousands of feet\nhigh. A lion steals stealthily along, noiselessly as Fear herself, owl\nanswers owl from the tall trees, and soft shadows lend enchantment to\nthe light of the pale moon that hurries you along like Porphyro\u2019s poor\nguide on the eve of St. Agnes, with agues in your brain.\n\nDeer Lodge lies in a beautiful valley, sun-browned now, with just a\nhint of autumn\u2019s grays and purples.\n\nJohn Bozeman was a noted frontiersman in the early days of Montana.\nHis name is perpetuated by Bozeman\u2019s pass, Bozeman\u2019s creek and\nBozeman city, all in Gallatan valley. This valley, once the bloody\nbattle-ground of the Blackfeet, the Bannacks, the Crows and the Nez\nPerce Indians is now one of the widest known and best cultivated in the\nstate.\n\nHelena, the capital of Montana, is a thriving, prosperous city. Through\nthe Gate of the Mountains we enter a little valley called Paradise.\nLike a beautiful dream this lovely valley lies in the cold bosom of the\nrugged mountains; which, looming high above, shield it from the wintry\nblast.\n\n[Illustration: LIBERTY CAP AND OLD FORT YELLOWSTONE.]\n\nMighty ca\u00f1ons, rock-ribbed, gloomy and dark, have been gouged out of\nthe very hearts of the cold, gray mountains that pierce the blue of\nheaven. But this sun-lit vale, too fair for the abode of man, lies just\nas nature left it, blue canopied, the cool green grass and murmuring\nYellow Stone.\n\nThe Devil in a merry mood one day, coasted down the mountain at\nCinnebar, scorching blood red a wide, smooth slide that would delight\nthe daring heart of a tobogganist.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX YELLOWSTONE PARK\n\n\nThe artist may paint you a bit of sky, a little water, a few trees, and\nmayhap a bluebird or a merry brown thrush, but can he paint the gently\nmoving restless air or the storm that sweeps down the mountainside, the\nmurmur, the ripple, the roar of the river, the whir of the bluebird\u2019s\nwing as it rises to flight, or the thrush\u2019s song?\n\nIt is beyond the power of brush or pen to paint the wilderness, the\nbeauty, the weirdness, the awful grandeur of this land of Malebolge,\nsulphurous pits and boiling lakes, a fit dwelling place for Minos,\ninfernal judge; the elusive beauty of a playing geyser, the iridescent\nsparkle of the water as it leaps the rocky precipice and pours down\nthe mountain\u2019s great throat, or the diabolical scene of the famous Mud\nGeyser where,--\n\n  \u201cBellowing there groaned\n   A noise, as of a sea in tempest torn\n   By warring wings. The stormy blast of hell\n   With restless fury drives the spirits on,\n   Whirled round and dashed amain with sore annoy.\n   When arriving before the ruinous sweep,\n   There shrieks are heard, there lamentations, moans.\u201d\n\nWith horrible groanings the thick sulphurous mass is driven against the\nsides of the deep crater.\n\n  \u201cWherefore delay in such a mournful place?\n   We came within the fosses deep, that moat\n   This region comfortless, the walls appeared\n   As they were framed in iron, we had made\n   Wide circuit ere we reached the place where loud\n   The mariner (guide) vehement cried\n   \u2018Go forth, the entrance is here.\u2019\u201d\n\n   --DANTE.\n\n[Illustration: HOTEL MAMMOTH, HOT SPRINGS, YELLOWSTONE PARK.]\n\nWe had circled the Mammoth Hot Springs, down a way by a ladder we\nentered the Devil\u2019s kitchen. This is a defunct geyser. The way was\ndark and the air hot as the heat penetrated the walls from the Hot\nSprings. The water of these springs is rich in minerals, copper, iron\nand sulphur. As the water boils over and evaporates it leaves deposits\non the rims fretting them with a delicate frost work of varied and\nbeautiful hues. Cream and salmon deepening into rich shades of red,\nbrown, green and yellow.\n\nThe Cleopatra Spring is one of the most beautiful. Located on a mound\nforty feet high and covering an area of three-quarters of an acre,\nthe deep blue water, the sparkling white basin with its pale yellow\nfrost-fretted rim rivals the touch of the artist\u2019s brush.\n\nJust below the springs the broad level tract in front of the United\nStates barracks covers a treacherous burnt-out area. We were standing\non a veranda of the hotel observing the maneuvers when one of the\ncavalry horses broke through the thin crust. His rider recovered him\nand they were off before the treacherous ground gave way. A rope was\nbrought and the soldiers lowered one of their comrades, who dropped\nthirty-five feet before he struck a landing place. Investigation showed\nthe entire platte to be dangerously honeycombed.\n\nThrough the Golden Gate we enter Kingman\u2019s Pass. The stupendous walls\nof golden yellow rock rise sheer hundreds of feet high on either side.\n\nJust as we turned a point in the road such \u201cOhs\u201d and \u201cAhs\u201d as the\nRustic Falls of the Gardener River burst on our sight. The river falls\nsixty feet into a series of shallow basins of moss covered rock. To\nthe sides of the basin cling wavering ferns and delicate spray-kissed\nflowers.\n\nThe most wonderful mountain in the world stands on the shore of Beaver\nLake. A glass mountain of pure jet black glass, rising skyward in\nbasalt like columns from one hundred to two hundred and fifty feet. The\nblack glass streaked here and there with red and yellow glistens in the\nsunshine as peak and pinnacle catch, imprison and reflect the sun\u2019s\nrays.\n\nLarge blocks have become detached from time to time forming a glass\nslide into the lake. Obsidian is a species of lava. Pliny says this\nglass was first found in Ethiopia, but the only glass mountain in the\nworld stands on the shore of Beaver Lake. The Indians used this glass\nfor arrow heads and in making sharp-edged tools.\n\nThe swampy, lily-padded margin of Beaver Lake is haunted by wild\ngeese. This lake is the beaver\u2019s own. These industrious little animals\nconstructed it by damming up Green Creek for a distance of two miles.\nSome thirty dams sweep in graceful curves from side to side each having\na fall from two to six feet.\n\n[Illustration: OLD FAITHFUL GEYSER, YELLOWSTONE PARK, JUST BEFORE AN\nERUPTION.]\n\nThe geyser basins are places of unusual interest and beauty. No scene\nin the park is lovelier than these areas of bubbling pools, boiling\nlakes and steaming geysers, at sunrise, when the columns of white\nsteam, tinged to a roseate hue by the rising sun, ascending against the\nbackground of dark green pines. Presently,--\n\n  \u201cThere came o\u2019er the perturbed waves\n   Loud-crashing, terrible, a sound that made\n   Either shore tremble, as if a wind\n   Impetuous, from conflicting vapors sprung,\n   That \u2019gainst some forest driving with all his might,\n   Plucks off the branches, beats them down, and hurls\n   Afar; then, onward passing proudly sweeps\n   His whirlwind rage, while beasts and shepherds fly.\u201d\n\n   --DANTE.\n\nThus warned we moved away just as Old Faithful shot his boiling waters\nskyward.\n\n  \u201cAsk thou no more\n   Now \u2019gin rueful wailings to be heard.\n   The gloomy region shook so terribly\n   That yet with clammy dews chill my brow.\n   The sad earth gave a blast.\u201d\n\n   --DANTE.\n\nAnd steam and water shot up a column two hundred feet high. The Giant\nGeyser was playing.\n\n  \u201cWe the circle crossed\n   To the next steep, arriving at a well\n   That boiling pours itself down a foss\n   Sluiced from its source.\u201d\n\n   --DANTE.\n\nThis well is the formidable Excelsior Geyser which pours its waters\ninto the Fire Hole River.\n\n[Illustration: YELLOWSTONE LAKE.]\n\nThe Paint Pots are springs which boil incessantly their pasty clay,\nwhich boiling over hardens, building up a rim around the pot. In one\ngroup of seventeen pots are as many different colors.\n\nThe center pot is a pearl gray, while grouped about it are smaller pots\nof various shades of pink, gray, chocolate, yellow, red, lavender,\nemerald and sapphire blues and white, mortar thousands of years old\nthat would make the heart of a plasterer glad. Here is a plaster which\nwhen hardened, whether by sun or fire, never cracks.\n\nOf a somewhat different character are the chocolate jugs on the banks\nof the Fire Hole River. These springs are rich in iron. The sediment\nhardens as the water pours out, building up gradually a brown jug-like\ncone.\n\nThe Blue Mud Pot is quite as interesting as the Paint Pots. Its\ncircular basin is twenty feet in diameter. The mud is about the\nconsistency of thick plaster. This mud pot presents a beautiful picture\nas the puffs of mud burst with a thud-like noise giving off perfect\nlittle rings which recede to the sides of the crater. This spring is\nstrongly impregnated with alum. In this vicinity is a spring of pure\nalum water and several of sulphate of copper.\n\nThese springs are clear and deep, having beautiful basins, the rims of\nwhich are lined with incrustations of brilliant colors.\n\nIn a gloomy wood we came to the Devil\u2019s frying pan, a shallow, hot,\nboiling spring which sputters, sizzles and hisses equal to any\nold-time, three legged skillet, sending out sulphurous odors that would\ndelight the nostrils of Lucifer himself.\n\nHell\u2019s half acre is quite as interesting as its name. Here in times\ngone by Excelsior Geyser shook the earth.\n\nOne lovely morning we mounted to our seats in the stage coach, the\ndriver cracked his whip over the heads of the leaders, six creamy white\nhorses pricked up their ears, sprang forward at a gallop and we were\noff to the Continental Divide.\n\nWe had just crossed a glade where deer were grazing when a hail storm,\na mountain hail storm, overtook us. In five minutes the ground was\nwhite, the hail laying two inches deep, and such hail, an Illinois hail\nstorm is tame in comparison.\n\nThe horses plunged forward, the hail was left behind, and we paused on\nthe Great Divide. Down from this watershed the waters flow east and\nwest.\n\nThe lovely Lake Shoshone comes into view and presently we are standing\non its shore looking down through its blue waters. The elevation of\nthis lake is greater than that of its royal neighbor, the Yellowstone.\n\n[Illustration: CAMPING ON THE SHORE OF LAKE YELLOWSTONE.]\n\nThis most lovely of all American lakes, the Yellow Stone, is perched\nhigh in the very heart of the mountains, its blue waters lapping the\nbase of cold, snow-capped peaks, rivals in beauty the far famed Lake\nMaggiore.\n\nOn these beautiful shores fair Nausicaa with her golden ball might have\ndeigned to tread the mazes of the ball-dance.\n\nThe elevation of this lake is marvelous for its size. Drop Mount\nWashington, the highest peak in the White Mountains, into the center of\nit and the summit would be swept by a current half a mile deep.\n\nThis lake affords royal sport. Here are the most beautiful fish in the\nworld, the rainbow trout.\n\nThrough a pine-clad gorge flanked by high bluffs the impetuous\nYellowstone River makes its way until it leaps the great falls and\nplunges down three hundred and fifty feet to the ca\u00f1on below.\n\nOn the sides of the spray-washed walls grow mosses and alg\u00e6 of every\nhue of green, ochre, orange, brown, scarlet, saffron and red. On rugged\npeaks are brown eagles\u2019 nests.\n\nThe Grand Ca\u00f1on of the Yellowstone, would you describe this marvelous\ngorge, language is inadequate, words are poor.\n\nWould you paint it, on your palette place all colors yet produced by\nthe ingenuity of man. Mix them with rainbow drops. The pale faced moon\nwill lend a shade, the stars another and the sun still another as he\ndrops blood-red down through the mists of the sea. Stir and mix with\nmatchless skill until you have of colors half a hundred and shades as\nmany more. Now boldly dash the stupendous walls, castles, pinnacles,\nturrets, columns, and minarets where already they are gleaming a bright\nvermilion as they from Vulcan\u2019s fiery furnace issued long ago.\n\nWhen you have these colors fixed let Phaethon drive down the gorge in\nhis chariot of fire leaving behind the gleam and the glow of it.\n\n[Illustration: PAINT POTS ON SHORE OF YELLOWSTONE LAKE.]\n\nHere, the Sioux chiefs, crouching by their camp fires muttered their\ngriefs and their woes. Here Rain in the Face cried out in revenge,\nrevenge on the White chief with the Yellow Hair.\n\nYonder lay Sitting Bull with his three thousand warriors hidden in\ncleft and cave. Into the fateful snare dashed the White chief with his\npitiful three hundred men. Like a mountain torrent Sitting Bull and his\nbraves swept down upon that gallant band, and but one was left to tell\nthe story of the Little Big Horn, but one to tell of the gallant stand\nof Custer and his brave men.\n\nOnly two survived of all that noble band, one, Curly, the half-breed\nscout, and the other, \u201cComanche,\u201d the horse of Captain Keogh. Comanche\nwas found several miles from the battle field with seven wounds. He\nrecovered and the secretary of war detailed a soldier as his attendant.\n\nHere, too, the Crow took revenge when driven back by the white man.\nHere they peopled the boiling, hissing springs and the steaming geysers\nwith evil spirits, while beyond the mountains lay the Happy Hunting\nGround.\n\nA small remnant of this band gathered at the head of the Grand Ca\u00f1on\nand there resolved with Spartan courage to die rather than be removed\nto a distant land there to die of homesickness and longing for the blue\nsky and the breath of the sweet air of their beloved mountains.\n\nThey built a raft and set it afloat at the foot of the Upper Falls\nfeeling the peace and security that the mountains give, but they were\nrudely awakened one morning by the sharp crack of the white man\u2019s\nrifle, the soldiers were upon them. Hastily boarding their raft they\npushed it out into mid-stream. The strong current gathered the craft\ntossing it and pitching it onward on its foamy crest. The soldiers gaze\nin wonder, forgetting to fire. On, on, faster whirls that frail craft\nwhile above the wild roar of the water floats the death song.\n\nBeyond, yawns a chasm three hundred and fifty feet deep, the death\nchant is lost amidst the roar of the mighty torrent. The hardened\nsoldier shudders as that lone adventurous craft, freighted with the\nremnant of a powerful people, is gathered in the arms of that mighty\ntorrent, hurled over the brink and dashed to pieces on the cruel rocks\nbelow, where the Maid of the Mist washed white each red man\u2019s soul.\n\n[Illustration: GRAND CA\u00d1ON OF THE YELLOWSTONE.]\n\nOn June twenty-seventh last, word was telegraphed over the country\nthat a new geyser had burst forth from an old crater about fifty feet\nfrom the famous Fountain Geyser. The eruption played from two hundred\nto two hundred and fifty feet high.\n\nTired, stage tired, we were snug in comforts and blankets and\nsound asleep one night in August at the Fountain hotel, when about\ntwelve o\u2019clock gongs sounded, bells rang and porters went running\nabout pounding on the doors and crying, what seemed to our sleepy\nimagination, \u201cFire,\u201d but presently we heard distinctly the words, the\nnew geyser is playing. \u201cThe new geyser is playing,\u201d went echoing down\nthe corridors.\n\nIn ten minutes every tourist was out, in all sorts of costumes from\nblanket to full dress, either shivering on the long veranda or hurrying\ndown to the basin to see the new geyser play, and right royally he did\nit, too.\n\nUpward into the black night shot a stupendous column of water three\nhundred feet high. The porters were the first to arrive and playing\ntheir red calcium lights on the wonderful body of falling water gave us\na display of fire and water that must be seen to be appreciated. The\nnow flaming vermilion column rose steadily upward, seemingly through\nthe red glare three hundred feet, the delicate, rose colored steam\nrising much higher, swayed in the breeze, now falling, now lifting, now\nfloating away into the black night a rosy cloud.\n\nThe hotel cat hurried to the scene of action but lost his bearings and\nstood fascinated by the magic scene, the hot spray falling about him\nuntil some one picked him up and carried him out of danger.\n\nIn the reception hall of this hotel an old fashioned fireplace filled\nwith glowing pine logs sent out showers of welcoming sparks. A big\ngreen back log sang again the anthem of the wild storm-swept mountain\nforest, while outside the rain came down in torrents.\n\nThe most wonderful features of the Rocky Mountains lie within the\nconfines of Yellowstone Park. The world\u2019s oldest rocks, granite,\ngneisse and basalt are found here. Later dynamic action held sway and\nthe region became the center of mountain building on a grand scale.\nRocky beds tossed up and down. Next came the reign of Vulcan. Fire\nheld sway. Volcanic materials overflowed the region. Next came the ice\nage, when glaciers plowed down the mountain sides. Just now the\nhydrothermal agents are most active.\n\n[Illustration: GIBBON RIVER FALLS.]\n\nAfter miles of mountain climbing and five hundred more of staging in\nthe heart of the Rockies, through groves of pine firs, spruce and\ncedar, along streams and lakes bordered by aspen, willow and wild\nflowers, through glades and glens, ravines and gorges, one begins to\nget some idea of the vastness, ruggedness and grandeur of the mountains\nand the delicacy of the climate. One begins to understand how in\naverage summer temperature of sixty degrees pinks, geraniums, orchids,\nmosses, roses and lilies, alternately bathed in sunshine and snow,\nbloom on, reaching a perfection beyond that of our prairie flowers.\n\nThe mountain thistles are beautiful beyond compare. The delicate purple\nblossoms are borne on slender stems, the dainty green leaves touched\nwith white, drooping gracefully, give the plant more the appearance of\nan orchid than of the common weed it is.\n\nOver in Hayden valley roam fifty head of buffalo, all that is left of\nthat royal band, the fine for killing one of which is five hundred\ndollars. Deer and elk roam ravine and mountain side, sleek, fat\nfellows that make you glad that they are under Uncle Sam\u2019s protection.\nWe passed a group of deer in a wooded ravine, their smooth coats\nshining like satin in the sunshine as they gazed at us out of pathetic\nbrown eyes that had something of the human in them.\n\n\u201cI couldn\u2019t kill one of them innocent creatures if the law permitted\nme,\u201d said the driver, who was an old mountaineer and loved the things\nof the mountains.\n\nNow and then one sees a mountain lion. The less noble game abound also,\nthe fox, martin, beaver, woodchuck and gopher. Ground squirrels run\nabout the hotels and camps in search of food. Under our window one\nevening three of these little animals were having a tug of war over a\nbread crust. The crust at last divided, one lost his hold and the other\ntwo ran away with the spoil.\n\nThe gray squirrels are very numerous, showing little fear of the\npasser-by as they run along playing tag or race up and down the trunks\nof great trees.\n\nThe Rocky Mountain quail differs from our own in being larger and\nhaving a crest on its head.\n\nBoth Black and Cinnamon bear haunt the vicinities of the hotels and\ncamps in search of food. A big black fellow was pointed out to us one\nmorning who had stolen a ham from one of the camps the night before.\nThe ham had disappeared and there stood Bruin waiting for a chance\nto steal another. One of the men walked up to him and gave him a\nslice of bacon, which he took from his hands. When he had eaten it he\nlooked inquiringly about for more. This time the meat was hung up in\na tree. Bruin sniffed the odor, located the bacon, climbed the tree,\nknocked the meat down and came down and ate it. Then he sat down on his\nhaunches, folding his paws and looking up at his new-found friend as if\nasking for more.\n\n[Illustration: MICKY AND ANNIE ROONEY.]\n\nAt the Fountain hotel are two cubs, Micky and Anna Rooney. They are\nvery fond of sugar. When offered any food they stand up and reach out\ntheir paws for it or they will take it out of your hand.\n\nMicky is a happy rollicking fellow, but Anna is more sedate, quick of\ntemper and free in the use of her paws when angry. When offended she\nclimbs to the top of her pole and sitting down on the board nailed\nthere refuses to come down for anything less than a lump of sugar.\n\nAs these bears are still mere babies they are fed milk from a bottle.\nThey stand up, clasp the bottle in their paws and proceed to drink the\nmilk through a hole in the cork.\n\nOne evening something was wrong with Micky\u2019s bottle. While the\nattendant was fixing it Micky dropped on his haunches, folded his paws\nacross his chest, holding his head first on one side then on the other,\nlooking very wise the while. The attendant being somewhat slow, Micky\ndropped to the ground but never once took his eyes off that bottle.\nWhile Micky was waiting for his supper Anna had finished hers and was\nthrusting her paws into the pockets of the attendant in search of candy\nand sugar.\n\nAt another hotel was a Bruin and her two babies. When these youngsters\nrefused to enter the bath tub provided for them the mother would coax\nthem to the edge of the tub, push them in, hold them down and give them\na good scrub.\n\nThe National Park should be extended one hundred miles farther south to\nthe Black-Hole country. The park game descends to the Black-Hole during\nthe winter where the hunters lay in wait for it. In this way park\nbuffalo were nearly exterminated.\n\nOf the natural wonders of the world our country possesses namely:\nNiagara, Yellowstone Park, Yosemite, Grand Ca\u00f1on of the Colorado, and\nthe Glacial Coast of Alaska. The Mammoth Cave might take sixth rank,\nbut leaving it out we will not go to Europe, but to the Himalayas for\none and to the Andes for the other.\n\nThe petrified forests are equally as interesting as the geysers.\nSouthwest of Pleasant Valley is a small grove of petrified trees. Near\nHell-roaring Creek is a massive promontory, composed of conglomerates,\nand numerous beds of sandstones and shales. Throughout these strata are\nnumerous silicified remains of trees. Many of the trees are standing\nupright just as they grew.\n\nOn the northern side of Amethyst Mountain is another section of strata\nnearly two thousand feet high. The ground here is strewn with trunks\nand limbs of trees which have been petrified into a clear white agate.\nIn one place rows of tree trunks stand out on the ledge like the\ncolumns of an old ruin. Farther down the mountain side are prostrate\ntrunks fifty feet long. The strata in which these trunks are found is\ncomposed of coarse conglomerates, greenish sandstone and indurated clay.\n\nThese strata contain many vegetable and animal remains. Branches,\nroots, snakes, fishes, toads and fruits. Among these petrified objects\none finds the most beautiful crystallizations of all shades of red\nfrom the delicate rose to a deep crimson. As to the trees the woody\nstructure is in many cases well preserved.\n\nJust beyond the eastern boundary of the park lies the Hoodoo region of\nthe Shoshone Mountains. Here, in the very heart of the old Rockies the\nbanshee, ghosts and goblins of all the region round about hold high\njinks.\n\nThe scenery is wild and rough. The Goblin Mountain itself is over ten\nthousand feet high and a mile long. The storms of ages have carved the\nconglomerate breccia and volcanic rocks into the most strange, weird\nand fantastic shapes.\n\nThe vivid imagination of the Indian sees in these gigantic forms,\nbeasts, birds and reptiles. Here a couchant tiger and there the huge\nfigure of a Thunder Bird. Yonder a hungry bear sits on his haunches\nwaiting for a passing Indian. In the moonlight strange spectral shapes\nseem to pass in and out these weird labyrinths. The rocks are all\nshades and colors. Mysterious sounds in the air above add interest to\nthe most weird scene in the Rockies, a fit setting for the witch scene\nin Macbeth.\n\nIn yonder dark cavern the huge cauldron might boil and bubble as the\nfire lights up the faces of the sinister three who stir the grewsome\nmess, while around yon black bowlder stealthily steals guilty Macbeth.\n\nWhich of the grand scenes do I treasure the most? I do not know. I\ncannot tell. Each in turn holds, fascinates, and enthralls the mind.\nEach becomes in the language of Keats:\n\n  \u201cAn endless fountain of immortal drink,\n   Pouring unto us from the heaven\u2019s brink.\u201d\n\nTHE END\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBY THE SAME AUTHOR.\n\nThe Travels of a Water Drop\n\nis a volume of sketches, studies from nature. The travels and\nadventures of this particular Water Drop are so interestingly written\nthat it ought to occupy a prominent place in children\u2019s classics. Each\nsketch in the book is a gem in its way. For scientific accuracy and\nliterary beauty this little volume is recommended to nature lovers.\nCloth, small 12mo. Fifty Cents.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTranscriber\u2019s Notes:\n\nThe single footnote has been moved to the end of its chapter.\n\nIllustrations have been moved to paragraph breaks near where they are\nmentioned.\n\nPunctuation has been made consistent.\n\nVariations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in\nthe original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have\nbeen corrected.\n\nBoth Skaguay and Skagway appear in the original text, and the spelling\nSkaguay has been standardized to Skagway.\n\nBoth Wrangle and Wrangel appear in the original text, and the spelling\nWrangle has been standardized to Wrangel.\n\nBoth \u201cBlackfoot village\u201d and \u201cBlackfeet village\u201d appear in the original\ntext, and the spelling \u201cBlackfeet village\u201d has been standardized to\n\u201cBlackfoot village.\u201d","title":"A Pacific Coast Vacation","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":50866}