narrow-gauge railway for six miles around the magnificent rapids. At the foot of the Cascades we board a twin boat, fitted up with equal taste and comfort.

Swinging once more down stream we pass hundreds of charming spots, sixty miles of changeful beauty all the way to Portland; Multnomah Falls, a filmy veil of water falling 720 feet into a basin on the hillside and then 130 feet to the river; past the rocky walls of Cape Horn, towering up a thousand feet; past that curious freak of nature, Rooster Rock, and the palisades; past Fort Vancouver, where Grant and Sheridan were once stationed, and just at sunset leaving the Columbia, which by this time has broadened into noble dimensions, we ascend the Willamette twelve miles to Portland. And the memory of that day's journey down the lordly river will remain a gracious possession for years to come.

There is a quaint Indian legend concerning the Cascades to the effect that away back in the forgotten times there was a natural bridge across the river—the water flowing under one arch. The Great Spirit had made this bridge very beautiful for his red children; it was firm, solid earth, and covered with trees and grass. The two great giants who sat always glowering at each other from far away (Mount Adams and Mount Hood) quarreled terribly once on a time, and the sky grew black with their smoke and the earth trembled with their roaring. And in their rage and fury they began to throw great stones and huge mountain boulders at one another. This great battle lasted for days, and when the smoke and the thunderings had passed away and the sun shone peacefully again, the people came back once more. But there was no bridge there. Pieces of rock made small islands above the lost bridge, but below that the river fretted and shouted and plunged over jagged and twisted boulders for miles down the stream, throwing the spray high in air, madly spending its strength in treacherous whirlpools and deep seductive currents—ever after to be wrathful, complaining, dangerous. The stoutest warrior could not live in that terrible torrent. So the beautiful bridge was lost, destroyed in this Titan battle, but far down in the water could be seen many of the stately trees which the Great Spirit caused to remain there as a token of the bridge. These he turned to stone, and they are there even unto this day. The theory of the scientists, of course, runs counter to the pretty legend. Science usually does destroy poetry, and they tell us that a part of the mountain slid into the river, thus accounting for the remnant of a forest down in the deep water. Moreover, pieces which have been recovered show the wood to be live timber, and not petrified, as the poetic fiction has it. The Columbia has not changed in the centuries, but flows in the same channel here as when in the remote ages the lava, overflowing, cut out a course and left its pathway clear for all time. Below the lower Cascades a sea-coral formation is found, grayish in color and not very pretty, but showing conclusively its sea formation. Sandstone is also at times uncovered, showing that this was made by sea deposit before the lava flowed down upon it. This Oregon country is said to be the largest lava district in the world. The basaltic formations in the volcanic lands of Sicily and Italy are famous for their richness, and Oregon holds out the same promise for agriculture. The lava formation runs from Portland to Spokane Falls, as far north as Tacoma, and south as far as Snake river—all basaltic formation overlaid with an incomparably rich soil.

The trip from Portland by rail to "The Dalles," if the tourist should chance not to arrive in Portland by the Union Pacific line from the east, will be found charming. It is eighty-eight miles distant. Multnomah Falls is reached in thirty-two miles; Bonneville, forty-one miles, at the foot of the Cascades; five miles farther is the stupendous government lock now in process of building around the rapids; Hood river, sixty-six miles, where tourists leave for the ascent of Mount Hood. It is about forty miles through a picturesque region to the base of the mountain. Then from Hood river, an ice-cold stream, twenty-two miles into "The Dalles," where the steamer may be taken for the return trip. In this eighty-eight miles from Portland to "The Dalles" there are twelve miles of trestles and bridges. The railway follows the Columbia's brink the entire distance to within a few miles of the city. The scenery is impressively grand; the bluffs, if they may be so called, are bold promontories attaining majestic heights. One timber shute, where the logs come whizzing into the river with the velocity of a cannon-ball, is 3,328 feet long, and it is claimed a log makes the trip in twenty seconds.

While the Upper Columbia abounds in scenery of wild and picturesque beauty, the tourist must by no means neglect a trip down the lower river from Portland to Astoria and Ilwaco, and return. The facilities now offered by the Union Pacific in its splendid fleet of steamers render this a delightful excursion. On a clear day, one may enjoy at the junction of the Willamette with the Columbia a very wonderful sight—five mountain peaks are on view: St. Helens, Mt. Jefferson, Mt. Adams, Mt. Hood, and Mt. Rainier. St. Helens, queen of the Cascade Range, a fair and graceful cone. Exquisite mantling snows sweep along her shoulders toward the bristling pines. Not far from her base, the Columbia crashes through the mountains in a magnificent chasm, and Mt. Hood, the vigorous prince of the range, rises in a keen pyramid some 12,000 feet. Small villages and landing-places line the shores, almost too numerous to mention. There are, of the more important, St. Johns, St. Helens, Columbia City, Kalama, Rainier, Westport, Cathlamet, Knappa, and Astoria at the mouth, a busy place of 6,000 people. Salmon canneries there are without number. It is about 98 miles by the chart from Portland to Astoria. Across the bay is the pretty town of Ilwaco. Ft. Canby and Cape Disappointment look across to Ft. Stevens and Point Adams. From Astoria, one may drive eighteen miles to Clatsop Beach, famous for its clams, crab, and trout, and Ben Holliday's hotel. But the fullest enjoyment is obtained by making a round trip, including a lay-over at Ilwaco all night, and returning to Portland next day, and sleeping on board the boat. A railway runs from the town to the outside beach, a mile and a half distant. There is a drive twenty-five miles long up this long beach to Shoal Water Bay, which is beautiful beyond description. This district is the great supply point for oysters, heavy shipments being made as far south as San Francisco. Sea bathing, both here and at Clatsop Beach, is very fine.

The boats of the Union Pacific Ry. on the Columbia leave nothing to be desired. The "T.J. Potter," a magnificent side-wheel steamer, made her first trip in July, 1888. She is 235 feet long, 35 feet beam, and 10 feet hold, with a capacity of 600 passengers. The saloon and state-rooms are fitted with every convenience, and handsomely decorated. The "Potter" was built entirely in Portland, and the citizens naturally take great pride in the superb vessel. In August, 1888, this steamer made the run from her berth at Portland to the landing stage at Astoria in five hours and thirty-one minutes. Then there are two night passenger boats from Portland down, the ""R.R. Thompson" and the "S.G. Reed," both stern-wheelers of large size,