years he was foremost in every desperate enterprise—crossing snow-capped mountains, swollen rivers, and facing hostile Indians. When snow fell fifteen feet deep on the Florence mountain, and hundreds were penned in camp without a word from wives, children, and loved ones at home, he said: 'Boys, I will bring your letters from Lewiston.' Afoot and alone, without a trail, he crossed the mountain tops, the dangerous streams, the wintry desert of Camas Prairie, fighting back the hungry mountain wolves, and returned bending beneath his load of loving messages from home. One day he was found in defence of the weak, facing the pistol or bowie knife of the desperado; and the next day he was washing the clothes and smoothing the pillow of a sick comrade. We all loved him, but we were not men who wrote for the newspaper or magazine, and his acts of heroism and kindness were unchronicled save in the hearts of those who knew him in those times, and under those trying circumstances. He is of earth's first blood, but has seen a life of sorrow and disappointment. He has struggled with poverty and unfavorable circumstances, yet through all he has been true to his own land. He has wooed his muse, and tuned his lyre across the great waters; but he sang of his boyhood scenes, of the Pacific coast, its great rivers, mountains, and men, and has been true to them all. He poetized the grandeur of our land so nobly as to electrify all Europe,
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OREGON LITERATURE.
