business blocks, extended back to the hills on both sides of the valley. The low drone of the bees as they swarmed forth among the fast swelling buds in quest of the first sip of nectar, mingled with the roar of the turbulent Columbia river, and made music that soothed the tired travelers as nothing else could.

Travis Gully was impressed with the signs of plenty that were visable at every hand. By inquiry, he learned that hundreds of acres as valuable as that contained in the surrounding valley were available for homesteading. All it needed was water. He soon made the acquaintance of a professional "Locator," a human parasite that hovers around the border of all Government land. In this particular instance the "locator" was a venerable patriarch, with flowing white beard and benign countenance, who assured Gully that "He had just the place for him. It was about fifty miles back over the route he had come. Did he not remember that beautiful stretch of rolling land through which he had passed? That was the place. Thousands of acres of this fine land was now being taken up by homesteaders. He must act quickly or his opportunity would be gone." After listening to a glowing description of this paradise, Gully agreed to accompany him to see the land, which he did the following day.

There are times when it seems that fate plays into the hand of the trickster, and on this particular day nature was extremely lavish with her blessings. Never had the spring sun shone more brightly, the balmy air was laden with the elixir of good will and contentment, every soothing draught taken into the lungs spread like an intoxicant, filling the brain with dreams of success and achievements that danced just ahead, almost within reach, yet still to be striven for.

Gully, whose mind was filled with the contents of the circulars he had read, and who had seen the statements made therein, verified in the locality he had chosen to make his first stop, firmly believed in the possibilities of the land shown him, and made filing on it immediately upon his return to the town. He did not question the possibilities of irrigation or take into account its remoteness; neither did he investigate the results of past efforts put forth by others in this conquest of the desert. It was not a desert to him. The winter's snow, that had just disappeared, had left abundance of moisture in evidence. Grass was springing up in profusion, and countless wild flowers attested the fertility of the soil.

So after the necessary arrangements had been made, he came with his family, all eager to do their part in the preparation of their future home. Kind neighbors, though few there were, came with offers to help erect the house. The family was provided with shelter until such time as the structure was habitable, and they were happy under these new conditions; they who had never known a harsher fate than the demands of an exacting landlord for his annual toll, the regular routine of settling the yearly account with the trusting merchant in the nearby village, and a frugal existence through the winter on what remained of the year's yield. Oh! happy renter, there; should his yield be scant or insufficient, there was someone to appeal to for assistance, which was gladly given. The homefolks were there, and others to extend help and sympathy at the time of misfortune, but on the desert, what? A home of your own.

At last the home was completed; just two rooms, with a board roof, the outer walls adorned with tar paper held in place with laths, and when they moved in joy reigned in this primitive home. A rough board table, two benches and a cook stove, cooking utensils, still shining with the burnish of new tin, shone upon the walls just outside the kitchen door, a shelf with new tin basin and water pail were provided. The remaining room was furnished with two beds, built of scraps of lumber, the corners of the room forming one side and the head, discarded balewire, woven across, took the place of springs; three family portraits, done in crayon, a gaudy calendar of the year before, bearing the general merchandise advertisement of the faithful old merchant at home, a nickel alarm clock upon a shelf, and the home was furnished. But it was a home of their own.

CHAPTER III.

The journey of thousands of miles, the excitement of getting settled, and cool fresh breezes that swept down from the snow capped peaks of the Cascades, made sleep easy, and no thought of the morrow disturbed the rest of this emancipated renter. Morning came, and with it the bright sunshine and oppressive silence of the desert; not a dog to bark, nor a noisy fowl to break the stillness. As the sun rose from the horizon, and before it assumed its brassy glare, a mirage formed across the level plain, magnifying the humble homes of the neighboring homesteaders into palatial mansions, and the sage brush into forests, and glistening lakes with twinkling waves upon their surfaces. Travis Gully, with his family, stood awed by the magnitude of the panorama unrolled before their gaze, and looked with feverish expectancy into the vista of possibilities the future held in store for them. The sun mounted higher into the blue dome, the mirage passed, and objects assumed their normal proportions, while the faithful wife told of the hopes for good this vision foretold.

The weeks that followed, each day of which was fraught with hours of patient toil, clearing away the brush for the first spring planting, the honest father hewing a spot in the wilderness of sand and sage brush, the eager children rushing in at each stroke of the mattock, seizing the uprooted particles of brush and bearing them triumphantly away, to be placed on one of the many piles of rubbish that marked the path of this industrious toiler; the patient mother, appearing at the doorway, looking out across the miles of unchanging gray toward the far east with that indefinable expression of homesickness depicted upon her face. Of such scenes as this is the material made of which the everlasting monument, in the form of a prosperous farming district is built. Every fruit tree that grows in the far famed Northwest should be looked upon as a sprig in the laurel wreath with which to crown the brows of the sturdy homesteaders—those departed and yet to come.

At the close of each day, and after the evening meal, huge bonfires were lit in the clearing, around which the children danced gleefully, their shadows casting fantastic shapes in the background, where the gaunt and hungry coyote lurked, and at intervals mingled its voice in discordant note with their merry laughter, as if in vain endeavor to impress upon their minds the narrowness of the space that lay between their joyous anticipations and deepest gloom.

Planting time arrived with all its hopes for a bounteous yield. Each day was devoted to preparing the ground and planting. The winter just passed had afforded sufficient snow and moisture to produce perfect planting conditions, and many were the plans made for the expenditure of the proceeds of this first harvest for a good home, farming implements, and other necessities for successful farming.

The grain was sown, and the kitchen garden planted in precise rows and nicely shaped beds. A wagon load of scabrock was hauled from a dry coulee that wended its way diagonally across this vast area of sand and sage. These were used to form the border of prim walks and flower beds, each stone being placed in position and carefully embedded in the soft sand, each a cornerstone for the castle of hope, soon to be displaced by an inexorable nature, and to allow the upper structure of