No class of people or nation deserves the title, cosmopolitan, better than the Vikings. Their names mingle with the history of England, France, Russia and Italy, and in the Western Hemisphere we find them all over. To trace up the first Scandinavian that touched the shore of Washington is difficult, if not impossible. No doubt but Scandinavians made stoppings along the coast on their fishing expeditions to the north before any white man had dreamt to pin his hopes to the North Pacific. And it is probable, too, that some adventurous spirit of Viking blood had been washed with American polish, and passed as a Yankee in the Lewis and Clark expedition. It is safe to conjecture, however, that some straggler from the sea-beaten shores of Scandinavia shared the sufferings with the trappers of the Hudson Bay Company, or partook of the hardships in John Jacob Astor's expeditions for the mouth of Columbia river. These companies were made up of heterogeneous crews. The mercurial French Canadian, the acute Yankee, the jolly Englishman, the stern German, joined hands for the furfields, and it seems reasonable that some hardy Scandinavian, too, was likely to abandon his fireside, turn his back on civilization, and yield consent to a more romantic life.

A motley combine known as the Russian Fur Company had established an emporium on the Pacific coast, and a number of trading posts in the interior, ere the close of the eighteenth century, and it is authentically evidenced that Scandinavians and Finlanders constituted the minor force of the regiment of trappers and navigators. Let it suffice to say, however, that these brave adventurers regardless of genealogical type did much to sow information in the Old World of the evergreen land west of the Rocky; and suffer it to be known that the probability is that some intrepid Scandinavian sacrificed his life in search for peltry, and that his bones rest in peace beneath the green turf in the Pacific forest. This brings us to the influx of permanent settlers.

Mrs. Frederic Meyer.—One of the first white women that breathed the air of Pierce county was Mrs. Frederic Meyer, a Norwegian by birth. She left her mother's hearth in Toten while a tender bud, fresh as a rose with blooms of white and purple blushing on her cheeks. Few women are of true romantic nature, their hearts, as a rule, are attached to social affiliation around the fireside, but Mrs. Meyer figures as a typical exception. Those that have known her well speak with kind tongues, pronouncing her a model of her sex, chivalric in spirit, and brave, but warm at heart. According to reliable information obtained in Tacoma, she lit her feet on the green-trimmed shore, where the City of Destiny now looms, forty odd years ago. She was married to an estimable German.

Hood's Canal Anderson.—Hood's Canal Anderson was a peculiar composition of strange fancy. He was born in Denmark, and from childhood showed an insatiable passion for the sea, which ripened into irresistible lust. While a lad of vernal years he left his native seat to be dashed on the briny waves from port to port. He saw the crystal ice of Lofoten, the huge glaciers of Greenland, the thirsty greens of India, the foul bogs of China, the flowery vales of Japan, the rich gold fields of Australia, the teeming meadows of New Zealand. He was tossed from continent to continent, from island to island. About forty-five years ago he drifted ashore near Port Discovery, and under veil of night put wings to his feet for the forest. The fascinating aspect of the country and the aromatic sylva poured streams of delight into his soul. As he stood in the early morn, gazing around in mingled awe and admiration, he was surrounded by a red race, who, at first, gave vent to the horrible dilemma of converting his heart to ashes or treating him as a slave, but his ingenious demeanor turned their sanguinity to laughter, and Anderson became their curious jocularity which melted to favoritism. He strolled with the train of vagabonds alternately fishing and hunting up streams and canoeing the Sound. Thus ten years were dragged out of his longevity without mingling with white men.

His longing for civilization vanished little by little, and the life of celibacy settled heavily on his heart. He was a friend of the chief and an admirer of his daughter, and it took only the big canoe to seal the bargain. Anderson was rather long-headed for the red heathens, and got the best of every deal. He was now the possessor of the biggest canoe, save the royal ship, and was looked upon as independently opulent. Only a word would change his life for better or worse. Finally he took the delicate step and offered the huge dug-out in trade for the young princess, which was accepted with loud eclat.

The ban of the nuptial day was made public. The bride spared no tiptoeing to make it highly royal. First was a coat of red paint, then purple, tinged with green. A carefully administered shampoo of oil followed, then a crands of wild flowers was critically twined to her wealth of black locks with a few quills set on end in the most confused bewilderment. Of course, Anderson did not fancy the odorous coat of his intended, nor her pert of etiquette, but being as those things were incidental to the dynasty, he darted approbation with his blue eyes, thinking, "Costume is not permanent."

From this time the chivalric Dane became a leader. He piloted the royal squadron to Hood's Canal, where he squatted on a piece of land, hence the sobriquet—Hood's Canal Anderson.

He became attached to his wife, and she reciprocated with equal depth of conjugality, and shaped her costume to meet his liking, yet Uncle Sam pried into their warm nestling by passing a law to either separate or marry according to his code. Of course, Anderson had to marry his wife the second time, which he did like a loyal citizen. He took his corpulent queen, placed her in the stern of the big canoe, and paddled to Seabold, where they were united in holy ties by Harry Shafer, Uncle Sam's matrimonial agent. Anderson bears the honor of being the first white man on Puget Sound concubined to a squaw in accordance with the laws of the United States. He was industrious and elevated compared with his station, turned a wooded bit of ground to a flowery garden, and in a corner, beneath a weedy sod, he rests unsung.

Peter Friberg.—Peter Friberg, like Hood's Canal Anderson, has walked the highway of frontier trials. He was born in Sweden, but when a mere youth sought the waves. After years of trying experiences he found himself on Puget Sound, among the floating Flatheads, about the same time Anderson landed, but perchance drifted off with another flock of red skins, consequently the two contemporaries were ignorant of each other's wanderings till later years, when they accidently met and shook hands.

Peter Friberg also threw his heart to a squaw, and with her he barged along the shores making depredation on salmon and halibut, finally pinning his future to a happy point running into the bosom of the Sound, near Salmon Bay.

Martin Toftezen.—About two-and-forty years ago, a son of Norway anchored his canoe on the north side of Whidbey Island. His name has been pinned to its soil among the first on record. He was a pioneer of heart and courage—chivalrous Martin Toftezen. He had drifted around the Horn on a ship, and was tossed into the mouth of Puget Sound, where the breath of the deep calmed to a gentle zephyr, and the wings of speed flapped in disconsolation. The bark was dashed ashore by the angry billows, caused by the agitating tide, and Toftezen stood in a transport of mingled awe and perturbation. Nature was grand, enchantingly sang the ripples up the fascinating arm, and mad in grandeur reared the snow-capped peaks, flinging smiles of welcome. "Why reject the poetic landscape? Nature's sweetness will smite the blue forehead of dreary solitude." These thoughts rolled in his fancy, and up the Sound he paddled, and settled on the green tail, where he wore out his life.

Peter Andrias Peterson.—No man on the Pacific coast ever endured more hardships than the personage in question—Peter Andrias Peterson—who, about a year ago fell prey to an incidental injury, and was carried over the stream for the unknown sea beyond.

He was born in Denmark, 1828, and cast on the cold billows to struggle for himself at the age of fifteen. A few years later he stepped ashore in England, where he took a course in navigation to enable himself to cope more successfully with the foam-crest surges. He embarked a ship for India and Australia. In the latter place his mind was engrossed with exciting reports from the gold fields, and thither he flew, a fugitive of the sea. Success smiled on his brow, and wealth crowded into his hands; but riches easily won are not highly treasured. In a wildcat scheme he sunk his fortune, and before the dawn of a fresh week his thousands were in the hands of others. This catastrophe, brought about by sheer mishap, drove him back to the sea, and, in 1859, landed at Victoria, British Columbia. A buoyant spirit, though wounded with ill-luck, will soar to felicity and breathe vigor on green fields. Peterson was delighted with the verdure that greeted his vision, and took a canoe excursion around the Sound. On returning to Victoria, he was struck with the gold fever which raged desperately in the Cascades and Sound country. He compromised with his floating thoughts, bent his energy on a prospecting tour, and in two days flocked together sixteen men. In his customary adroitness he took command of the little army of gold seekers, and bore into the forest, but when two hundred and twenty-five miles from Victoria, thirteen of them lost courage and returned to the city.

Peterson and his two companions proceeded up a small stream for some days, and to their astonishment, one gray evening, fell upon four white men actively engaged in picking gold nuggets. They staked out a claim, glimpses of luck commenced to play on their cheeks, but died ere a fortnight had gone to rest in the pensive dream of growing forgetfulness. Their ration was getting low, and to save themselves from falling victims to pitiless starvation, they raked together their pelf, and returned to Victoria.

In the spring an English syndicate mustered a regiment of fresh recruits, a man of spirit and agility was wanted to head an expedition into the mountains, and Peterson was offered the responsibility, as he had already gained fame as a daring adventurer. It was suggested to seek a new field, and a guide was secured to usher them along. First, however, was to hunt up an easy pass, and to accomplish this, a knot of fourteen men, headed by Peterson, was dispatched into the wilderness. They fought their way through murky vales and climbed moss-bearded brows, the day sunk behind the horizon and night wrapped them in darkness. Thus they continued; but, alas! the guide disappears. The others rambled through treacherous woods, thoughtless of any hazard. Hours were consumed climbing over angry logs and chasing through witching dingles, but the guide was neither heard nor sighted.

The thirteen brave were lost in the forest where gloomy giants stretched into a ghastly stillness, broken only by deceiving owls sailing over their heads on disconsolate wings. For eight days they wandered without a morsel to eat; grouse and pheasant were drumming through the air, and deer gambolled in listless droves, but only to whet their keen appetite. Their fire-locks were empty like their stomachs.

After darkness comes sunshine, and to their exhileration tumbled into an unknown mining camp. They were received as friends and immediately treated to a savory table. One of the unfortunates being so greedy for the palatable viands that he rose in the night to gormandize a heap of pan-cakes, left from supper, and shortly after fell juicy feed for the grave and worms.

A new plan was formulated, two Scotchmen were sent back to Victoria for provision, and the others remained at the camp. A couple of months elapsed, and twenty-four miners halted at the gold-seeking hamlet where the unlucky retinue joined them.

The company, now numbering thirty-four, resumed their pilgrimage in an easterly direction for nearly two hundred miles. The landscape swept up into jutting brows and gray-headed peaks, and the forest fringed into a scabby shrub of hungry appearance. The change in nature cast cold currents into their souls, but soon melted into delight. A beautiful stream grated their ears, and thither they flocked.

Nature was now sweetness and grandeur, and fortune seemed to smile from every leaf and twig. The blue heaven hung over them, here and there dipped with shades of purple; the sun sent down his wealth of beams to kiss their hardy cheeks; and the clear stream was busy making music as it tumbled down jeweled precipices to swell the deep. They drank hope and aspiration from the poetic environment, and each, as a loyal soldier, embarked his assigned duty with happiness in his heart. Gold was not doubted, before a month had slipped away, the precious metal glittered in rich veins.

A frontier mining camp, in the heart of savages, is a continuous scene of sunshine and storm, of joy and despair. Precaution must be the watchword of every individual, early and late; a careless step might betray them to the altar of cruel slaughter. The book-keeper had been appointed custodian of the fire arms, who, in a thoughtless way, or to satisfy his greed, bargained the ammunition to the Indians. Oh, terror! the happy camp was turned to a lake of blood. One sad night, in the early part of winter, the savages stealthily fell upon the camp, and like thieves entered the lodges, pointed their ill-gotten fire-pieces against innocent breasts, and quenched the light within.

Peterson and two Scotchmen escaped the murderous fire, naked they ran, not dissimilar to deer over the snow, the former dashed into the river where ten thousand pug devils, sitting in its bosom, bleeded his feet, and the latter chased down the bank of the stream as in an elopement from hell. After a month of severest suffering and hardship they reached the gate of safety—Victoria—blood-stained and scraggy, hardly able to combat the icy angel of death. The gold fever had ceased to ebb through their veins. The two Scotchmen returned to their dear fatherland, and Peterson built a boat and sailed for Stillaguamish where he sleeps in peace under the green turf, three miles from Stanwood.

Fred Landstone.—In Swedish, Fredrik Landsten, a man of nomadic spirit and fine intellect, was born in Sweden, and in the spring of manhood ascended the horizon of sea-faring exploits. In 1860 he landed at San Francisco, and a year later stept ashore at Port Discovery, Washington. A score of years on the rolling brine had changed his mind for terra firma. He resorted to logging camps and saw mills, working hard until 1876, when he retired on a piece of land three miles from Poulsbo, where he still resides, slowly wearing out the balance of his years.

Charles John Chilberg (not John Charles as shown under the illustration).—White with a wealth of snowy locks, and seven-and-four scores of years hanging on his back, yet nimbly he frisks about on his beautiful farm at Pleasant Ridge, Skagit county. This aged pioneer of unusual endurance and grit, keen intellect and warm soul, was born in Halland, near Laholm, Sweden, 1813, came to America, 1846, and located in Iowa. In 1860 he visited Pike's Peak, Colorado, and in 1863 left his family again, a loving wife and children, for the West with a view to find a more congenial clime. For some time he traveled in Montana, crossed the Rocky, and came to Puget Sound, 1865. The sweet-scenting forest and the balmy heaven awakened his love for perambulation of the Pacific, from British Columbia to the Golden State. He resolved to make his future abode west of the Cascades, and in 1869 returned to Iowa to remove his family to Washington, arriving at Pleasant Ridge the following spring.

Mrs. Charles John Chilberg and three of her sons, Joseph, John H. and Charles F., came to the Pacific in the spring of 1871, and Isaac and B. A. a few months later. James P. Chilberg has climbed the horizon of pioneer adventures. In 1859 he landed in California, in 1864 traveled in Oregon, and in 1870 beheld the rippling Sound and the Washington forest. In 1872 Nelson Chilberg took a survey of the Pacific and three years subsequent his brother Andrew threw his eyes upon the mighty ocean.

Andrew Nelson.—A jolly fellow, familiarly known as Dogfish Nelson, was among the first Scandinavian pioneers. He was born in Denmark, 1832, and landed as a sailor at Port Ludlow in 1867. Like many others he was attracted by the country, and to drive away monotony took an Indian woman for wife, as white women were almost unknown on the coast at that time. Nelson has encountered many obstacles in his cruising among the red skins and fierce brutes, but always managed to play the hero. He has been industrious and convivial, and a flowery nest in Brown's Bay bespeaks his rank.

Hans Hansen, a Dane, who resides at Alki Point, near Seattle, has earned a footing among the early Scandinavian pioneers. His years on the Pacific reach pretty nigh two scores. Knut Knutson, a native of Norway, and also a resident of Alki Point, came to Puget Sound over thirty years ago, and has passed through days of sun and storm. C. E. Norager, likewise of Norse birth, places his disembarkation on the Pacific about forty years back.