them. But oh! the wonder and the beauty and the joy of it all. The swift streams, tributaries of the McKinzie, that burst, full-grown, from the mountain side, and in their short journey never, winter or summer, spring or autumn, feel the added impulse of a freshet.

At the first fall, just above where the river makes its grand leap into the circular green pool, it flows for a little space through a trough of lava so narrow that you might almost step across. For several miles to northward-for the course lies no longer toward the rising sun-the canyon widens, and the stream loiters idly, losing itself utterly at times beneath the lava bridges, and the walls on either hand are sheer five hundred feet in height.

Within five miles of the lake there is a tiny meadow where the horses may be loosed to graze, and where one may cross the river on a natural bridge, grassed and

grown over with willows and hazel. Just above is the second cataract, with a single fall of seventy-five feet that leaps from the ledge and speeds down the narrow canyon, leaving a free passageway behind its shimmering green veil, where one may cross dry-shod from bank to bank. There is yet another and more beautiful fall nearer the lake, said to be eighty feet in height, and spanned by a double rainbow when the sun is out.

But the lake itself-to have seen it once is to dream of it forever after. A lovely crystal, it lies in the lap of the mountains. Mount Jefferson and the Three Sisters keep watch above it, and Echo, that lost spirit of wandering sound, forever haunts its shores. It is a fitting birthplace for Oregon's fairest stream. And we sang for joy when we saw where the river was born.

A

MONG the numerous notices called forth by the death of Oregon's gifted bard was the following:

The death of Sam L. Simpson leaves an absolute blank in respect of the fact that we have among us no poet of merit or reputation. Singular it is that so much of poetic inspiration as we have in the splendors of nature and in the romantic suggestions of pioneer life should have found so few tongues. Men of intellect we have in plenty, as our professional and business life bears witness; but the world of artistic interests finds here few recruits or none at all. It has long been hoped that there might rise among us a mind combining enthusiasm for Oregon and her history with the insight of literary art and the gift or dramatic portrayal, and that these powers might be devoted to preservation in the forms of historic or romantic fiction the tone, color, sentiment and spirit of the older Oregon, now passing away. Thus far this hope has been vain. The atmosphere which produces the artistic mind is wanting here, as in every new country where practical affairs claim all the energies of life. The writer who shall voice the romance of Oregon must come, if at all, at a later time.

Reading this paragraph carefully between the lines one might easily get the impression that it was not so much the object of the writer to pay a just tribute to the memory of a deceased author as it was to vent a soulful scorn for the living. Too high a compliment could not well be paid the splendid genius of our departed poet; but why should even an Oregon editor of the old school so lightly prize his reputation for candid criticism as to assert that there is "an absolute blank in respect to the fact that we have among us no poet of merit or reputation."

Public opinion is not always supposed to be made up from the unsupported utterance of one individual, and before these excathedra statements are taken as the settled verdict of the state it might be well enough to invite a more numerous expression of prevailing sentiment. Otherwise, some such thing as a crabbed and long-cultivated animosity to local

talent might exert a preponderance of influence, where the decision is left wholly to a single self-elected Sir Oracle.

While loath to concede the accuracy of the views so authoratively set forth in the above quotation, I am free to confess there are many reasons why they should be essentially true and remain so. This Oregon of ours, it must be owned, is not an o'er hospitable region for "weavers of mild rhymes, or rhymes of any sort. Sam L. Simp

son

once informed me that he hai never received a dollar by way of remuneration for any of his numerous poetical offerings, except on one occasion. A man once paid him twenty dollars for a private obituary poem. This was the sum total of monetary emoluments that had, up to that date, attended his hazardous and laborious climbing of Parnassus. At one time, as I very well remember, he was particularly anxious. to convert some of the products of his genius into hard cash, for cash was the one thing he very much needed in his business. He sent two of his poems to a friend in Portland to be sold to the "West Shore." Failing in that, they were to be turned over to the "Oregonian" to be published, of course, "without money and without price." One of the poems, "The Mother's Vigil," appeared in the Daily Oregonian in a mutilated form; the other, "Sayonara," failed, for some reason or other, to meet the exacting requirements of a purblind literary taste.

Now the point sought to be got at is this: If a poet with the unquestioned genius and established reputation of Simpson must fare so badly at the hands of the newspaper fraternity, where is the encouragment for "a mind combining the enthusiasm for Oregon and her history with the insight of literary art and the gift of dramatic portrayal" to arise among us and devote those powers to the presentation of "tone, color, sentiment and spirit of the oiler Oregon,

now passing away?" The poet referred to dic his full share of this thankless work, always without reward and seldom without the fear of punishment. If a leading newspaper published some of his free-will offerings gratis, it felt that it had discharged its whole duty in the premises with enlarged, if not ruinous. prodigality.

The papers are certainly standing well within their own rights when they taboo poetry, but it looks like they were, at the same time, estopped from indulging in any very loud lamentations over hopes made vain through their own persistent contriving. The whole spirit of their policy is clearly exemplified when they tell us that they don't want poetry, that if they want poetry they know where to find it. The budding genius that could bourgeon and blossom and advance to autumnal ripening under such chilling influences as this, would, indeed, be a prodigy.

Suppose the now-famous muse of Mr. Markham (and he was once an Oregonian, I believe), had had to depend for its first encouragement upon the generosity of Oregon journalism, does any one doubt that he would still be "wasting his sweetness on the desert air?" He would have had plenty of practical reasons for believing that "The Man with the Hoe" has a comfortable time of it compared to the Webfoot poetaster. But, as has been

aptly remarked: "the world needs poets as well as potatoes, though the popular taste is largely in favor of the latter."

The Poet of the Sierras got his initial coaching in Oregon; but it was at a time when a more tolerant spirit pervaded the press. He had, however, to take his wares to a more appreciating community before his talents were justly recognized. He might have chanted his lays a lifetime in Oregon without attaining any higher reward than that passive tolerance-a sort of strained acquiesence in his demented existence. When he reached "literary London" he was quickly recognized as "that wild Byron of the unfurrowed plains." English critics were enthusiastic in his praise.

Before we can repeat the spectacle of sending a backwoods rhymster to captivate the literary centres of the old world there must be a subsidence of studied antipathy for local talent at home. The establishment of a monthly magazine devoted to the drawing out and development of the literary genius of the Coast, is a favorable omen in the right direction. That "the world of artistic interests" need not worry about finding “recruits" is sufficiently evidenced by our past history. What other state, for instance, at the same age, could boast two such lyrical geniuses as Joaquin Miller and Sam L. Simpson?

"S°

O you have become a philanthropist?" remarked Colonel Randolph, on discovering Miss Farmer, temporarily sheltered from observation behind a friendly palm, at Mrs. Natron's fete. "Don't put yourself to the trouble of denying the charge," he added, taking possession of her fan, "I have had the whole story from an authentic source."

"Oh, but I do deny it. I don't even know what a philanthropist is. Do you?"

"Well, perhaps not; though I have rather labored under the impression that any generously-inclined person who, having a larger income than he could. conveniently spend upon himself, sought to placate heaven and advertise his beneficence by investing the surplus in newsboys' retreats, shopgirls' clubrooms, free lunch counters, etc., with, maybe, a public library, or a university or two thrown in, could lay claim to the title."

"Then I am clearly not guilty. In the first place, I haven't half as much money as I want myself."

"And in the second?-that firstly presupposes a secondly, you know."

"Does it? Well, then, secondly, if I had the wealth of Croesus, or to be more modern, Rockefeller, or Carnegie, I would not give one penny of it to found institutions for the poor."

"By Jove! I half believe you mean it."

"I do."

He regarded her curiously over the top of the open fan. She was a handsome girl, tall, well-formed, with clearly modelled features, dark eyes full of intellectual fire and feeling, and an abundance of dark hair. She knew her own good points and dressed up to them. There was always a sort of subdued splendor about her that suggested regal robes. One instinctively felt that a diadem would not be out of place on that small, shapely head. Colonel Randolph found her very pleasant to behold, but he was conscious of a growing resentment as he looked. It was, according to his notion of the general fitness of things, a woman's first duty to be womanly. He had of late begun to believe her almost ideally so, and it gave him a shock to hear her emphatically declare a sentiment so distinctly unfeminine.

"Is this, then, the result of your recent excursion into the delectable regions of Reese Alley?" he asked, somewhat coldly.

"Partly, yes. At least my eyes have been opened, and I see much in a definite manner that hitherto has seemed only a vague and formless truth."

They were silent a little while. Then he said, slowly, "You have found one experience sufficient. I do not know why I should be disappointed, but-I am."

Katherine leaned toward him ever so