284
A PEEP AT THE NORTHWEST.
I should like to spend more time here to visit the fern glades, but as "time and tide wait for no man," neither do the overland trains, and I hasten down to the ferry, cross to "east side" and board the Superior express as it moves away. The road follows up the Columbia on its left bank, and I catch frequent peeps at fine scenery both of river and mountain, but the break-neck speed at which we go jumbles all into kal- eidoscopic views.
Sixty miles are soon left behind. The mountains lower into hills and the hills into bits of rolling meadow and fresh plowed field. Rich carpetings of new grass cover the earth and early spring flowers lift their sweet faces to meet the warm kisses of the sun. Never did spring beauties look brighter than on that April morning. Never did the dawning promise of—— "The Dalles, twenty minutes for dinner." Now I shall have to let that go unfinished, for yonder are the Dalles and river rushing down through narrow lava walled channels.
On the farther bank is a cluster of Indian tepees. Involuntarily I raise my eyes to the long sloping ridge beyond, and fancy I see Winthrop, abandoned by his Indian guides, urging his horse forward, eager to reach this very place. Poor Winthrop! alas, that cruel war should claim thy young and vigorous life, an offering on thy country's altar.
From here to Celilo the river has several obstructious to navigation and in early days two portages were necessary. Now since the Northern Pacific has spanned the entire distance from lakes to ocean, the navigation company is working hard building locks to get around the rapids. Near Cellilo is another group of tepees and a number of the "noble red men," dirty and lazy looking, warming their parchment cuticles in the sunshine; while out on a rock at the
water's edge a Lo of the Nancy gender is flishing. Rolling and tumbling on a sand spit close by are a dozen or more children, whose only garments are those which nature gave them.
The canyon of Columbia hence onward is barren of scenery that would inspire an artist. But while he would lament the absence of interesting subjects, the granger's eye would kindle with quickening fire, as mile after mile of grazing hill-lands is spread in panoramic view before his sleepy vision.
Somewhat fatigued and not particularly interested in pastoral scenes, my eyelids drop and mid a humming conversation of "Spokane'"—"Lewiston"'—"fine land for wheat' and 'how to raise sheep,' I yield to the soothing charms of Morpheus.
In the ecstatic bliss of dream-land I find myself a shepherd on a thousand hills. Night has come on apace and having safely housed the Ninety and Nine I go in quest of the one lost. 'Neath a sheltering cliff I find the lamb and am fondly folding it to my breast when awakened with, "Look out Jayhawker, not so sweet, please." Thus startled back to wakening sense the hills, cliffs and lamb vanish, and I find my arms wound lovingly round a granger's neck. While apologizing, Umatilla is reached and my lost sheep hastily gathers his grip and leaves with the parting injunction to go slow with my bearish propensities, until sure the web-foots reciprocate.
At Wallula Junction the Spokane crowd leave, but those to Lewiston continue with me until in the wee hours of morning I am set down at Walla Walla,
How sweet and fresh was this, my first morning in Walla Walla. The Blue Mountains-fifteen miles away-were bathed in delicate hazy tints of blue and purple, while the sun rising beyond illumined the higher peaks, gilding each with bands of burnished gold.