From a scientific point of view Alaska is certainly a wonderful country. From the point of development and commerce it gives promise of[138] 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. 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 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 . 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 fruit is placed in baskets and carried to the manager, who measures[139] 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 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 or worm, it is likely to bankrupt the owner. So you see that a hop is an interesting . The fields themselves are beautiful, indeed. The shades of green, from the darker of the older leaves to the delicate sea green of the new tendrils as they wreathe themselves about the tall poles, or about the wires which in many fields run from pole to pole, forming a beautiful green from end to end of the large fields. Not the least interesting part of the hop are the store and dry-houses. The are dried by hot air process, and are then baled and ready for shipment. King Revelry holds high in the hop districts when the hops are ripe. Everyone looks forward to this harvest with the greatest of pleasure. The , 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[140] 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 where they are weighed.
roads 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 mountains. That was long before the bad Manitou created the white man.
Portland is a larger city than Seattle. There[141] is more wealth here too. This city is the 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 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 , 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, 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 where flowers in pots are blooming.
An 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 with the blooms. Misfortune overtook these people and they[142] 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 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 . 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 of beautiful scenes. On each side along the wooded shores are low green islands. Here and there barren rocks fifty to one hundred feet high stand, sentinel like, while over their 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 to the superb extinct volcanos, bearing snow[143] fields and which rise out of the vast and 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 basaltic formation three hundred feet high stands at the to the white capped of the Columbia river. Here a Lorelei might sit enthroned and 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 in the bed of the river now called the Cascades runs in this wise: Years ago when the earth was young, Mount was the home of the Storm Spirit and Mt. Adams of the Fire Spirit. Across the vale that spread between them stretched a 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 of fire, lightning, splintered trees[144] and rocks swept the bridge, but the brave goddess kept her place on this strange altar. In the deep shadows of the rocks, a 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 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, 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.[145] 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 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 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[146] 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, and wheat fields dot the landscape.
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 sheds. The work is all done by Chinamen. The fish are tossed onto the , 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 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 described it as a town which “clings helplessly to a humid hill side, that seems to want to into the great bay-like river.” Much of it has long ago 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 stream. Nets are[148] used quite as much as wheels in salmon fishing. Sometimes a hungry seal gets into the nets, eating an entire “catch,” and playing 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
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