Just as a Bede Bible and a “quart of seed wheat” saved the British Isles to Christianity; so “the Book” and another “quart of seed wheat” carried in by the Reverend Spalding, saved Oregon to the United States, notwithstanding the Russian Bear, the British Lion and the bull of Alexander the VI. in which he delivered over all North America to Spain.

“Good old times those were when kings thrust their hands into the New World, as children do theirs into a grab bag at a fair, and drew out a river four thousand miles long, or an ocean, or a tract of wild land ten or fifteen times the size of England.”

The king of Spain sold Louisiana to France for money to buy his daughter a wedding present and for one brief while France had hopes of planting her lilies in the Walla Walla Valley. France, however, had met her Waterloo in America, on the Plains of Abraham.

Then came England denying the validity of the old Franco-Spanish title under which we claimed the Oregon country, but the same policy that lost to Great Britain her thirteen colonies, lost to her this princely domain.

American and English settlements contrasted strangely. The one emigrant came with his traps and snares, the other with his plow and quart of seed wheat. The one came for the fortune which he might carry out of the country, the other to make a home for himself and his children. So, the English trapper with his snares and the Indian with his pogamoggan retreated before the advance of American civilization.

In 1836 Mrs. Whitman, wife of Dr. Whitman, wrote from Fort Vancouver that the Hudson Bay Co. had that year four thousand bushels of wheat, four thousand bushels of peas and fifteen hundred bushels of oats and barley, besides many root vegetables, also poultry, cattle, hogs and sheep.

The metropolis of the valley is Walla Walla. It is a well-built town having a population of several thousand. Many of the stores and business blocks are of brick. Its streets are wide. In the suburbs is a military post, also a college established by the Congregational church in honor of Dr. Marcus Whitman, the well known missionary who was massacred at his mission near Walla Walla in 1847. So died the brave, patriotic Whitman.

In 1813 England, basing her claims on Drake’s discoveries, captured Astoria and for years kept her hands on the Oregon country, to be thwarted at last by one brave American.

The story of Marcus Whitman’s life should be enshrined in the heart of every school-boy in America.

From the busy thriving city of Spokane, the center of the agriculture empire of the Pacific Coast, to Missoula along the headwaters of the Columbia is a most interesting journey. High above, the grim Cascades rear their shaggy heads. Magnificent pines lift their crested heads skyward. The Columbia, “rock-ribbed and mighty,” sweeps on, now placidly, now whirling and eddying, tossing its waters up in foamy spray, now breaking into white cascades, beautiful as Schauffhausen on the noble Rhine. The rugged rocks along the shore are hidden by festoons of grape and wild honeysuckle vines, while the bright salmon berry adds a touch of color.

Here is a bit of western fiction, a study in evolution that would interest a Haeckel. These berries falling into the water float away into brown pools and shady nooks and there change into the red fish known as salmon.

The gentleman who told me this wonderful tale of magic assured me that it was true, and that the Fish Commission had made a report of it. Like the tale of the banshee, however, he had never seen it but he knew people who had.

Scientific errors should be corrected, so I will give you the facts about the salmon trout. It was that mischievous god Loke, who to escape the vengeance of Thor hid himself in a cave, but when he heard the thundering voice of that noble god,

Slippery as a salmon is a common adage in Norseland.

The most beautiful spot in this region is Lake Pend d’Oreille. The scenery of this lovely lake rivals that of Lake George. Its blue waters bathe the brown feet of rugged mountains.

It is early morning on Lake Pend d’Oreille; the mountain breeze, the gentle swish of the water as it laps the shore, the white, graceful-moving sail-boat all entice you for a day’s fishing. Tired of this sport you sail over and rest under the wonderful Blue Slide. The mountain bordering on the lake at this point has crumbled away, sending down its bowlders into the lake. From the boat you look up a smooth incline plane two thousand feet, above which rises the precipice itself another thousand feet. The slide is covered with a pale blue clay, while the precipice itself is a mixture of granite and clay tinged with iron. Large pines grow on the very edge of the precipice.

The junction of Clear Water and the Snake rivers in Idaho is a place of historic interest. We are now in the country traversed by Lewis and Clarke.

The history of the great Northwest is wonderfully fascinating. The history of no part of this great territory is more tragic than that of Montana. Her savage tribes, her cosmopolitan population called into existence by her fur trade and mining industry, all combined to produce in Montana a peculiar phase of civilization, but she has beaten dirks and bowie knives into plowshares and now follows the gentle arts of peace. A magnificent mountain range, lovely valley, beautiful river and a delicate, graceful flower—Bitter Root. Bitter Root is the state flower of Montana and lends its name to the river, mountains and valley of its native heath, growing most luxuriantly in Bitter Root valley.

This valley is one of the most beautiful as well as the most productive in the state. Lying at the eastern foot of the Bitter Root Mountains it is shielded from the cold, west winds. The climate is fine while the soil in most places is rich and deep. Timothy and clover grow luxuriantly. Baled hay brings from seven to ten dollars per ton at the railroad station. Dairy farming and poultry raising are profitable industries. Butter sells at forty cents per pound in the winter and twenty cents in the summer. Eggs bring the same price. Butte, Helena and other mining centers supply the market for Bitter Root Valley.

Bitter Root orchards are immune from disease. The leas ophis has appeared but as yet has done no injury. Bitter Root Mountains were the stronghold of the Nez Perce Indians.

Hell Gate caÑon is one of the most picturesque in the Rocky Mountains. It is wild and beautiful. Its fir-clad slopes rise thousands of feet high. A lion steals stealthily along, noiselessly as Fear herself, owl answers owl from the tall trees, and soft shadows lend enchantment to the light of the pale moon that hurries you along like Porphyro’s poor guide on the eve of St. Agnes, with agues in your brain.

Deer Lodge lies in a beautiful valley, sun-browned now, with just a hint of autumn’s grays and purples.

John Bozeman was a noted frontiersman in the early days of Montana. His name is perpetuated by Bozeman’s pass, Bozeman’s creek and Bozeman city, all in Gallatan valley. This valley, once the bloody battle-ground of the Blackfeet, the Bannacks, the Crows and the Nez Perce Indians is now one of the widest known and best cultivated in the state.

Helena, the capital of Montana, is a thriving, prosperous city. Through the Gate of the Mountains we enter a little valley called Paradise. Like a beautiful dream this lovely valley lies in the cold bosom of the rugged mountains; which, looming high above, shield it from the wintry blast.

Mighty caÑons, rock-ribbed, gloomy and dark, have been gouged out of the very hearts of the cold, gray mountains that pierce the blue of heaven. But this sun-lit vale, too fair for the abode of man, lies just as nature left it, blue canopied, the cool green grass and murmuring Yellow Stone.

The Devil in a merry mood one day, coasted down the mountain at Cinnebar, scorching blood red a wide, smooth slide that would delight the daring heart of a tobogganist.