tion of its most important achievements. Many lesser ones which may have had as great an influence for good must go unmentioned.
Eastern club women tell us that we are especially favored in receiving the aid and co-operation of state legislators and city officials in our efforts to improve prevailing usages and correct existing abuses. They hint that it is largely due to our possession of the ballot. But we prefer, and justly, to attribute this to the native courtesy and kindness of our western man. Be he governor, mayor, legislator or private citizen, he has always responded generously to our appeals, and on every occasion he has more than seconded any effort made by the club for useful reforms.
Scenes about the Home of My Childhood
By MARY OSBORN DOUTHIT
IN the fair County of Linn is Prairie Home, the donation claim of my father and mother. 'Mid its enchanting scenes my childhood was spent. On the east, near by, is Sand Ridge. Upon its gently rolling surface is the schoolhouse, and not far away the burying ground. Just beyond, Washington Butte stands like a benign guardian of the peaceful homes and happy people clustered about its base, or spread out over the expanse of the beautiful prairie. The prairie is charmingly diversified by the woods that skirt the banks of the streams, and in spring time over its verdant landscape wind broad sloughs like ribands of silver. Back lie the hills and mountains and further beyond rise majestically five snow peaks—Mt. Hood, Mt. Jefferson and the Three Sisters. Some distance to the north is little Knox Butte, fair to look upon with its smooth round knolls and plain and wooded slopes of evergreen. To the south standing out from their sister hills are Ward's and Saddle Buttes, with faces bare and bold, but beautiful in their graceful outlines. West, across the Willamette Valley and beyond the Willamette River—pride of Oregon—stretches the Coast Range densely wooded and low, but high enough to seem a protection to the valley against Old Ocean with his threatening roar when wintry storms rage 'round him. This scene in its entirety, be it in sunshine, or when "Oregon rains are raining," or when the harvest moon shines pale and calm upon it, holds memory's eyes entranced by its loveliness and grandeur, but no other part of its sublime whole is so near and dear to us, or has left upon our hearts an impression so indelible, as the buttes. They seem to have stepped out from the mother range to make friendly overtures to the valleys and the prairie, to reach down in their gentle slopes and say to the denizens of the plain, "Come up out of the vale, and from our heights
