Seattle is now full of people on their way to Alaska, principally tourists, as the miners are now all coming down to rest or visit with relatives and to make preparations to return to the Klondike for the winter. Now that the Yukon and White Pass railroad is completed over the mountains to Lake Bennett the trip thus far is made in about four hours which formerly required four weeks over a rough, rocky mountain trail. Freight rates are much cheaper than when the Indians carried the freight over at twenty-five cents per pound. Living will be cheaper in the Klondike and more mines will be worked. Success or failure waits on the mining industry as well as every other, and the man who would succeed in the field must study the business thoroughly.

From a scientific point of view Alaska is certainly a wonderful country. From the point of development and commerce it gives promise of becoming an important State. The possibilities in the way of development of its mineral resources and fisheries are incalculable.

Seattle is deeply interested in the boundary question. This city conducts the bulk of the northwest trade to Alaska and were England given a port at Lynn canal, Seattle would feel it keenly, as would Washington and other Western States. Congressman Warner says we have nothing to concede to Great Britain in the way of territory. That we stand on the right of possession acquired by the Russian purchase. England is anxious indeed to lay hands on the Porcupine mining district, which is considered as rich as the Klondike.

Traveling south from Seattle, we enter the grazing and fruit-growing district. Cattle graze on the hill-sides while the fruit farms occupy a more level tract. The fine cherries, known as the Rocky Mountain variety, are ripe now. There are three varieties; the sweet, the sour and the blood-red, seen in our market. The currant farms are of equal interest. The currants too are ripe. Boys and girls are employed as pickers. They enjoy the work and consider it great sport. The luscious fruit is placed in baskets and carried to the manager, who measures it and sets down the amount opposite the picker’s name. The fruit is much larger and juicier than in the Eastern States.

Portland is the center of the hop belt. A hop field is quite as interesting, from a financial point of view, as a field of broom-corn. If the crop is a success it pays and pays well, but if a failure from blight or worm, it is likely to bankrupt the owner. So you see that a hop ranch is an interesting speculation. The fields themselves are beautiful, indeed. The varied shades of green, from the darker hues of the older leaves to the delicate sea green of the new tendrils as they wreathe themselves about the tall poles, or twine about the wires which in many fields run from pole to pole, forming a beautiful green canopy from end to end of the large fields. Not the least interesting part of the hop ranches are the store and dry-houses. The hops are dried by hot air process, and are then baled and ready for shipment. King Revelry holds high carnival in the hop districts when the hops are ripe. Everyone looks forward to this harvest with the greatest of pleasure. The invalid, because he would be healed by the wonderful medicinal qualities of the hops; the well because he would have an outing and be earning good wages at the same time; the boys and girls, because it is their annual festival of frolic and fun; a time of camp-fires, ghost stories and witch tales. The real old-fashioned kind that chills your blood and makes you afraid of the dark and to go to bed lest the goblins get you “ef you don’t watch out.” The pickers camp in the fields and along the road sides. The hops are picked and placed in trays. Each picker may have a tray to himself or an entire family may use one tray. When the trays are full they are carried to the warehouse where they are weighed.

Plank roads abound in Washington. One-half of the road is laid down in a plank walk, which is used when the roads are muddy, so that when the roads dry they are ready to travel without that wearing-down process which is so trying to the nerves of both man and beast.

Oregon is the most important state in the Union from an Indian’s point of view, for it was here that the first man was created. It is needless to say that he was a red man, and his Garden of Eden was at the foot of the Cascade mountains. That was long before the bad Manitou created the white man.

Portland is a larger city than Seattle. There is more wealth here too. This city is the outlet for the immense crops of wheat raised in southern Washington, Oregon and Idaho. The fine peaches, plums, cherries, currants and apples grown here find their way to eastern markets. Wood is so plentiful and cheap here that every man has his wood-pile. (The little coal used on the Pacific coast comes from Australia.) The enterprising wood sawyer rigs a small steam saw mill on a wagon, drives up to your door and without removing the mill from the wagon saws your wood while you wait.

An interesting feature of river life in Portland is the houseboat, moored to the shore. Sometimes they are floated miles down the river to the fishing grounds. Most of them are neat one-story cottages and nicely painted. Nearly always there is a tiny veranda where flowers in pots are blooming.

An aged couple lives in a tiny houseboat, painted white, which is moored apart from the others. A veranda runs across the front of the boat and there are shelves on either side of the door. They have a fine collection of geraniums and just now the entire front of their water home is aglow with the blooms. Misfortune overtook these people and they adopted this mode of life because of its cheapness. Another boat was moored under the lea of the steep bank. Up the side of the bank a path led to the top, where the children have built a small pen from twigs and sticks. Inside the pen are five fat ducks, a pair of bantams and a pig.

Portland is the third wealthiest city for its size in the world. Frankfort on the Main takes first rank and Hartford, Conn., second. The climate is delightful. In summer the average temperature is eighty, with always a cool breeze blowing from the sea or the snow-capped mountains.

The trip up the Columbia river to the dalles is a continuous panorama of beautiful scenes. On each side along the densely wooded shores are low green islands. Here and there barren rocks fifty to one hundred feet high stand, sentinel like, while over their rugged sides pour waterfalls. Ruskin says that “mountains are the beginning and the end of all natural scenery.” This wonderful river inspired Bryant’s “Where rolls the Oregon,” Oregon being the former name of this river—the Indian name.

James Brice paid a tribute of admiration to the superb extinct volcanos, bearing snow fields and glaciers which rise out of the vast and somber forest on the banks of the Columbia river and the shores of Puget Sound. The Oregon chain of mountains from Shasta to Mount Tacoma is a line of extinct volcanos. A peculiar basaltic formation three hundred feet high stands at the gateway to the white capped Cascades of the Columbia river. Here a Lorelei might sit enthroned and lure to death with her entrancing music, sailors and fishermen. The Cascades are so dangerous that the government has built locks at this point, through which every boat passes on its way up or down the river. The Indian legend as to the origin of the upheaval in the bed of the river now called the Cascades runs in this wise: Years ago when the earth was young, Mount Hood was the home of the Storm Spirit and Mt. Adams of the Fire Spirit. Across the vale that spread between them stretched a mighty bridge of stone joining peak to peak. On this altar “the bridge of the gods,” the Indian laid his offering of fish and dressed skins for Nanne the goddess of summer. These two spirits, Storm and Fire, both loving the fair goddess, grew jealous of each other and fell to fighting. A perfect gale of fire, lightning, splintered trees and rocks swept the bridge, but the brave goddess courageously kept her place on this strange altar. In the deep shadows of the rocks, a warrior who had loved her long but hopelessly, kept watch. The storm waxed stronger, the altar trembled, the earth to its very center shook. The young chief sprang forward and caught Nanne in his arms, a crash and the beautiful goddess and the brave warrior were buried under the debris forever. The Columbia now goes whirling, tossing and dashing over that old altar and hurrying on to the sea. The Spirits of Storm and Fire still linger in their old haunts but never again will they see the fair Nanne. The Indian invariably mixes a grain of truth with much that is wild, weird and strange. It was Umatilla, chief of the Indians at the Cascades who brought about peace between the white man and his red brother. He had lost all of his children by the plague except his youngest son, Black Eagle, his father called him, Benjamin the white man called him. Black Eagle was still a lad when an eastern man built a little schoolhouse by the river and began teaching the Indians. A warm friendship sprang up between teacher and pupil. One sad day Black Eagle fell ill with the plague. Old Umatilla received the news that his son could not live, with all the stoicism of his race, but he went away alone into the wood, returning at the dawn of day. When he returned Black Eagle was dying.

Slowly the pale lids closed over the sunken eyes, a breath and the brave lad had trusted his soul to the white man’s God.

The broken-hearted old chief sat the long night through by the corpse of his son. When morning came he called the tribe together and told them he wished to follow his last child to the grave, but he wanted them to promise him that they would cease to war with the white man and seek his friendship. At first many of the warriors refused, but Umatilla had been a good chief, and always had given them fine presents at the potlatches. Consulting among themselves they finally consented. When the grave was ready, the braves laid the body of Black Eagle to rest. Then said the old chief: “My heart is in the grave with my son. Be always kind to the white man as you have promised me, and bury us together. One last look into the grave of him I loved and Umatilla too shall die.” The next instant the gentle, kind hearted old chief dropped to the ground dead. Peace to his ashes. They buried him as he had requested and a little later sought the teacher’s friendship, asking him to guide them. That year saw the end of the trouble between the Indians and the white race at the Dalles.

The old chief still lives in the history of his country. Umatilla is a familiar name in Dalles City. The principal hotel bears the name of Umatilla.

On either side of the river farm houses, orchards and wheat fields dot the landscape.

Salmon fishing is the great industry on the river. The wheels along both sides of the river have been having a hard time of it this season from the drift wood, the high water and the big sturgeon, which sometimes get into the wheels. A big sturgeon got into a wheel belonging to the Dodon Company and slipped into the bucket, but was too large to be thrown out. It was carried around and around until it was cut to pieces, badly damaging the wheel. Now the law expressly states, as this is the close season for sturgeon, that when caught they must be thrown back in the water. “But what is the use,” inquires the Daily News, “if they are dead?”

A visit to a salmon cannery is full of interest. As the open season for salmon is from April first to August first, the buildings though large are mere sheds. The work is all done by Chinamen. The fish are tossed onto the wharf, where they are seized by the men, who carry them in and throw them on to long tables, chop off their heads, dress them and hold them, one fish at a time, under a stream of pure mountain water, which pours through a faucet over the long sink. Next they are thrown onto another table, where other Chinamen cut them up ready for the cans, all in much less time than it takes to tell about it. The tin is shipped in the sheet to the canneries and the cans are made on the ground.

Astoria, the Venus of America, is headquarters for the salmon fishing on the Columbia River. Joaquin Miller described it as a town which “clings helplessly to a humid hill side, that seems to want to glide into the great bay-like river.” Much of it has long ago glided into the river. Usually the salmon canneries are built on the shores, but down here and on toward the sea, where the river is some seven miles wide, they are built on piles in mid stream. Nets are used quite as much as wheels in salmon fishing. Sometimes a hungry seal gets into the nets, eating an entire “catch,” and playing havoc with the net. Up toward the Dalles on the Washington side of the river, are three springs. These springs have long been considered by the Indians a veritable fountain of youth. Long before the coming of the white man they carried their sick and aged to these springs, across the “Bridge of the Gods.” Just above Dalles City lies the dalles which obstruct navigation for twelve miles. Beyond this point the river is navigable two hundred miles. Here, too, legends play an important part.

When the volcanoes of the northwest were blazing forth their storm of fire, ashes and lava, a tribe known as the Fire Fiends walked the earth and held high revelry in this wild country. When Mount Rainier had ceased to burn the Devil called the leaders of the tribe together one day and proposed that they follow nature’s mood and live more peaceably, and that they quit killing and eating each other. A howl met this proposal. The Devil deemed it wise just at this moment to move on, so off he set, a thousand Fire Fiends after him. Now his majesty could easily whip a score of Fiends, but he was no match for a thousand. He lashed his wondrous tail about and broke a great chasm in the ground. Many of the Fiends fell in, but the greater part leaped the rent and came on. A second time the ponderous tail came down with such force that a large ravine was cracked out of the rocks, the earth breaking away into an inland sea. The flood engulfed the Fiends to a man. The bed of the sea is now a prairie and the three strokes of the Devil’s tail are plainly visible in the bed of the Columbia at the dalles.

Just across the river from Dalles City on a high bluff, stands a four story building, the tower in the center running two stories higher. The building stands out there alone, a monument to the enterprise of one American. He called it a shoe factory, but no machinery was ever put in position. After the pseudo shoe factory was completed false fronts of other buildings were set up and the rugged bluffs laid out in streets. An imaginary bridge spanned the broad river. Electric lights, also imaginary, light up this imaginary city. The pictures which this genius drew of his town showed street cars running on the principal streets and a busy throng of people passing to and fro. As to the shoe factory, it was turning out thousands of imaginary shoes every day. Now this rogue, when all was ready, carried the maps and cuts of his town to the east, where he sold the factory and any number of lots at a high figure, making a fortune out of his paper town.

From Dalles City across the country to Prineville in the Bunch Grass country, a distance of a hundred miles, the country is principally basalt, massive and columnar, presenting many interesting geological features. Deep gorges separate the rolling hills which are covered with a soil that produces bunch grass in abundance. This same ground produces fine wheat and rye. This is a good sheep country and wool is one of the principal products.

Crater Lake is haunted by witches and wizards. Ghosts, with seven leagued boots, hold high revelry on its shores on moonlight nights, catching any living thing that comes their way and tossing it into the deep waters of the lake, where the water devils drag it under.

We spent two delightful days on an Oregon farm near Hubbard, thirty miles south of Portland.

We drove from Hubbard in the morning to Puddin river. The bridge was being repaired, so we walked across, our man carrying our traps. We had just passed Whisky hill when we met our friend Mr. Kauffman and his daughter, driving down the road. We were warmly welcomed and after an exchange of greetings we drove back with them to their home, where we partook of such a dinner as only true hospitality can offer.

Mr. Kauffman owns three hundred acres of fine farming land. There is no better land anywhere on the Pacific coast than in this beautiful valley of the Willamette river. Beautiful flowers and shrubs of all sorts in fine contrast to the green lawn surround the house, which is painted white, as Ruskin says all houses should be when set among green trees. Near by is a spring of pure mountain water. In the woods pasture beyond the spring pheasants fly up and away at your approach. Tall ferns nod and sway in the wind, while giant firs beautiful enough for the home of a hamadryad lend an enticing shade at noontime.

If any part of an Oregon farm can be more interesting than another it is the orchard, where apple, peach, plum, pear and cherry trees vie with each other in producing perfect fruit. Grapes, too, reach perfection in this delightful climate. One vine in Mr. Kauffman’s vineyard measures eighteen inches in circumference. The dryhouse where the prunes are dried for market is situated on the south side of the orchard. No little care and skill is required to dry this fruit properly.

Wednesday morning we reluctantly bade good-by to our kind hostess and departed with Mr. Kauffman for Woodburn, where we took the train for Portland. The drive of ten miles took us through a fine farming district. Here farms may be seen in all stages of advancement from the “slashing” process, which is the first step in making a farm in this wooded country, to the perfect field of wheat, rye, barley or hops.

Arriving at Woodburn we lunched at a tidy little restaurant. The train came all too soon and we regretfully bade our host farewell.

The memory of that delightful visit will linger with us as long as life shall last.

There are few regions in the West to-day where game is as abundant as in times past. Yet there are a few spots where sport of the old time sort may be had, and the lake district of Southern Oregon is one of these. Here, deer and bear abound as in days of yore, while grouse, squirrel, mallard duck and partridge are most plentiful.

Fort Klamath lake is a beautiful sheet of water, sixty miles long by thirty wide. Among the tules in the marshes the mallard is at home, while grouse and nut brown partridge by the thousands glide through the grass. Fish lake speaks for itself, while the very name, Lake of the Woods, carries with it an enticing invitation to partake of its hospitality and royal sport.

Travel is an educator. It gives one a broader view of life and one soon comes to realize that this great world swinging in space is a vast field where millions and millions of souls are traveling each his own road, all doing different things, all good, all interesting.

In our journeyings we have met many interesting people, but none more interesting than Miss McFarland, whom we met on our voyage up the Columbia river. Miss McFarland was the first American child born in Juneau, Alaska.

Her only playmates were Indian children. She speaks the language like a native and was for years her father’s interpreter in his mission work. She has lived the greater part of her life on the Hoonah islands. The Hoonah Indians are the wealthiest Indians in America. Having all become Christians they removed the last totem pole two years ago.

Reminiscences of Miss McFarland’s childhood days among the Indians of Alaska would make interesting reading.

The old people as well as the children attend the mission schools. One day an old chief came in asking to be taught to read. He came quite regularly until the close of the school for the summer vacation. The opening of the school in the autumn saw the old man in his place, but his eyes had failed. He could not see to read and was in despair. Being advised to consult an optician he did so and triumphantly returned with a pair of “white man’s eyes.”

Upon one occasion Miss McFarland’s mother gave a Christmas dinner to the old people of her mission. It is a custom of the Indians to carry away from the feast all of the food which has not been eaten. One old man had forgotten his basket, but what matter, Indian ingenuity came to his aid. Stepping outside the door he removed his coat and taking off his dress shirt triumphantly presented it as a substitute in which to carry home his share of the good things of the feast.

These Indians believe that earthquakes are caused by an old man who shakes the earth. Compare this with Norse Mythology. When the gods had made the unfortunate Loke fast with strong cords, a serpent was suspended over him in such a manner that the venom fell into his face causing him to writhe and twist so violently that the whole earth shook.

When Miss McFarland left her home in Hoonah last fall to attend Mill’s college every Indian child in the neighborhood came to say good-by. They brought all sorts of presents and with many tears bade her a long farewell. “Edna go away?” “Ah! Oh! Me so sorry.” “Edna no more come back?” “We no more happy now Edna gone,” “No more happy, Oh! Oh!” “Edna no more come back.” “Oh, good-by, Edna, good-by.”

Every Christmas brings Miss McFarland many tokens of affection from her former playmates. Pin cushions, beaded slippers, baskets, rugs, beaded portemonnaies. Always something made with their own hands.

Miss McFarland’s name, through that of her parents, is indissolubly connected with Indian advancement in Alaska.

One meets curious people, too, in traveling. In the parlor at the hotel one evening a party of tourists were discussing the point of extending their trip to Alaska. The yeas and nays were about equal when up spoke a flashily dressed little woman, “Well,” said she, “what is there to see when you get there?” That woman belongs to the class with some of our fellow passengers, both men and women who sat wrapped in furs and rugs from breakfast to luncheon and from luncheon to dinner reading “A Woman’s Revenge,” “Blind Love,” and “Maude Percy’s Secret,” perfectly oblivious to the grandest scenery on the American Continent, scenery which every year numbers of foreigners cross continents and seas to behold.

One of our fellow travelers is a German physician who is spending the summer on the coast. He is deeply interested in the woman question in America. He is quite sure that American women have too much liberty. “Why,” said he, “they manage everything. They rule the home, the children and their husbands, too. Why, madam, it is outrageous. Now surely the man ought to be the head of the house and manage the children and the wife too, she belongs to him, doesn’t she?”

“Not in America,” we replied, “the men are too busy, and besides they enjoy having their homes managed for them. Then, too, the women are too independent.”

“That is just what I say, madam, they have too much liberty, they are too independent. They go everywhere they like, do everything they like and ask no man nothings at all.”

My German friend evidently thinks that unless this wholesale independence of women is checked our country will go to destruction. The war with Spain does not compare with it. I am wondering yet if our critic’s wife is one of those independent American women.

Just below Portland on the banks of the Willamette river and connected with Portland by an electric street railway stands the first capital of Oregon, Oregon City, the stronghold of the Hudson Bay Company, which aided England in so nearly wrenching that vast territory from the United States.

This quaint old town is rapidly taking on the marks of age. The warehouse of that mighty fur company stands at the wharf, weather beaten and silent. No busy throng of trappers, traders and Indians awaken its echoes with barter and jest. No fur loaded canoe glides down the river. No camp fire smoke curls up over the dark pine tops.

The Indian with his blanket, the trapper with his snares and the trader with his wares have all disappeared before the march of a newer civilization. The camp fire has given place to the chimney; the blanket to the overcoat; the trader to the merchant and the game preserves to fields of waving grain.

The lonely old warehouse looks down in dignified silence on the busy scenes of a city full of American push and go.

All the forenoon the drowsy porter sat on his stool at the door of the sleeper, ever and anon peering down the aisle or scanning the features of the passengers.

What could be the cause of his anxiety? Was he a detective in disguise? Had some one been robbed the night before? Had some one forgotten to pay for services rendered? Had that handsome man run away with the beautiful fair haired woman at his side? Visions of the meeting with an irate father at the next station dawned on the horizon.

The train whirled on and still the porter kept up his vigilance.

It was nearly noon when I stepped across to my own section and picked up my shoes. The sleepy porter was wide awake now. His face was a study. For one brief moment I was sure that he was a detective and that he thought he had caught the rogue for whom he was looking.

“Them your shoes, Madam?” said he approaching me.

“Yes.”

“Why, Madam, I’ve been waitin’ here all mornin’ for the owner to come and get ’em.”

Ah, now I understood. He was responsible for the shoes and he thought that they belonged to a man. Fifty cents passed into the faithful black hands and my porter disappeared with just a hint of a smile on his face.