and reaching only a comparatively short distance up the original central cone.

Where the vast sheet of water forming the lake comes from is an interesting question. There is no visible outlet, but it probably finds an underground passage leading to the waters of the Rogue River, which rises near the western base of the mountain, and to Wood River, which feeds the Klamath Lake, on the south-east.

The waters of the lake do not rise or fall, and their depth is unknown. Where the waters go to, may be surmised, but where they come from, who can tell?

The Western Land furnishes many memories of grand and striking scenes, but none awaken such feelings of solemn wonder as those of the Mystic Lake.

CHAPTER XVIII.

FROM JACKSONVILLE TO THE COLUMBIA RIVER.

Oregon forests-The Umpqua Cañon-A poultry fancier-A female hermit-Willamette Valley-Eugene City-The Three Sisters-The Mackenzie River-Oregon City-Falls of the Willamette-PortlandThe Columbia River-Scenery-The Multanomah Falls-Castle Rock -Cape Horn-The Cascades-A portage-Coffin Rock-Dalles-A Sahara-Catching salmon-Great Salmon Falls-Fish eagles-A crane story.

FROM Jacksonville to Rosebury is only about a hundred miles, and there, thank Heaven! good-bye to the old coach.

After crossing Rogue River-a splendid stream, and full of fish-we entered the Umpqua mountains. In Oregon the size of the forests is much greater than in California. The trees themselves too are larger. Firs are more numerous than pines, and the splendid madrona laurel gives the country a semi-tropical appearance. Birch, balsam, spruce, and other trees of more Northern climes grow everywhere, and the oaks spread themselves almost as grandly as in Northern California. There, they grow in groups or clumps, and preserve just so much distance between each other as allows of their full development, at the same time presenting a mass of

foliage of great beauty and fine form. A rare maple, called from its curious grain the curly' maple, is also found in Oregon. When polished, it is one of the most beautiful woods I ever saw.

The Umpqua Cañon was formerly an ill-omened pass for travellers. It is the resort of the Rogue Indians, who infest the country, and are very quarrelsome and dangerous. When an emigrant train was approaching, the Indians would send a party on in front to form an ambuscade, and others would follow the doomed. waggons into the melancholy cañon, where nothing but bleached bones would remain to tell the murderous tale to the next travellers. Numbers of little wooden crosses still point out the spot of many. a ruthless slaughter.

At one of the small farms where we stopped for dinner-or rather supper, as any meal after breakfast is always called-we were regaled on fowls (not chickens) in all sorts of disguises, but in one respect all alike— their extreme toughness. Our driver afterwards told me that the proprietor of the farm was a little mad on the subject of poultry, and that it was generally supposed he fed the fowls on sawdust instead of corn-meal. There was a story, he said, of one strong-minded hen having laid a nest-full of bureau-knobs, and that after sitting on them for three or four weeks she had hatched a complete set of drawing-room furniture.

There was certainly an immense number of aged hens running about, and each had her name-to which, by the way, she never answered-thereby causing much sorrow to the proprietor, who seemed to me to pass his time in chasing the unfortunate birds about the grounds and throwing sticks at them.

He reminded me of a strange character who lives at a place called Oak Bluffs-an old woman of ninety ―tall, crooked, and with a grim face surrounded by unkempt grizzly hair. In her youth she had been jilted by her sailor lover, whereupon she vowed to retire from the world, and has since lived alone at the above desolate dreary spot. Her dwelling is a low wooden shed, surrounded by old haystacks, and near a wood of brush and oak trees. A red cow and about a dozen hens are her only companions. To these she has given the most extraordinary names, and she sings and talks to them as if they were human beings. A graveyard is set apart for her favourites, and tombstones mark their graves.

She is called a poetess, most of her effusions being in blank verse.

Not long before our visit one of her chickens was carried off by the pip,' upon which she composed a pathetic lament, concluding with Then the Lord thought best to take her from evil to come.'

She has also written a lengthy treatise on 'Doctoring

Hens,' which with her poetry' she sells to visitors. She must have made a nice little sum by this time, as all who visit the neighbourhood go to see her.

Oregon is a grand country for sheep, and Oregon wool is celebrated for its fineness and flexibility. At one place a farmer told me he had that season sheared a Spanish merino sheep whose fleece weighed twentythree pounds.

Roseburg at last! The shrill scream of the iron horse betokened that we were once more in civilised regions; and soon after we were on our way to Portland-about two hundred miles distant by rail. Leaving Roseburg, we entered a most charming gorge, thickly clothed with dark pines, silver cedars, and magnificent laurel trees. Grand rocks, softened by mosses and clinging vines, towered far above us; and at our feet a swift, bright stream ran through groves of azaleas and golden willows. From the number of tents and waggons we passed, the greater part of the population from the adjacent villages must have been camping out in the ravine, and it certainly looked most cool and inviting. A lovely spot indeed to sojourn in, if one could only be satisfied with the delights of mountain scenery and clear blue waters dancing in the sunlight!

Following the banks of the Willamette River, we arrived at Eugene City, where the snow-clad summits of