for their want of truth. His friend Grainger
has discharged all his obligations to the bank in
the fullest way."

"But you told me with such confidence——"

"Pray forgive me, sir, but I hope you haven't
been quoting me. It would injure me a great
deal. Wild oats must be sown somewhere,
and, as his friend says, he may be soon
married to a very desirable pairson," added Mr.
Mackenzie, falling into his Scotch accent. "I
cannot vooch for all the idle stories that float
through a settlement."

"Going to be married," repeated Mr.
Tillotson, mechanically. "Ah, at last! And
when?"

"I think he said immediately, but I cannot
be sartain. A very beautiful creatur, too."

Here Thomas à Kempis came back strongly
upon Mr. Tillotson's mind with a little commentary,
"Weary nights, weeks and months, and
nervous fever—all for this!"

THE SALMON HARVEST.

SALMON are harvested and garnered by the
savages in North-West America as we in the
civilised world reap the "golden grain" and
store it for winter use. In the Columbia river,
the salmon harvest commences early in June;
in the Fraser, east of the Cascade range of
mountains, somewhat later. The modes by
which salmon are captured by the Indians in
these immense streams are different in every
detail, and show how a slight change in the
geological features of a valley may, by altering
the character of the streams flowing through
it, change at the same time the habits, systems
of fishing, nets, canoes, and wigwams, of the
natives.

The Columbia, as it hastens on from the
bergs and floes of the Rocky Mountains to its
home in the Pacific, offers numerous impediments
to the salmon's ascent, although none of
them are insurmountable. When the summer
sun melts the snow that crowns every hill, and
fills the valleys and ravines, the mass of water
trickles in myriad currents into the larger
stream, causing the river to rise rapidly,
often thirty-five feet above its winter level.
This increase of bulk enables the fish (ascending
to spawn) to clear falls, and thread their way
through narrow tortuous channels, that would
be impassable save for this admirable provision.
Thus reduced to simple hindrances, the wily
savage turns them to good account, and during
the "run" harvests his crop of "swimming
silver."

The first salmon entering the Columbia are
taken at Chinook-point, and are said to be the
best that are caught. These fish usually find
their way to the markets of San Francisco.

This once famous fishery is situated in a snug
bay, just inside the sand-bar which renders the
entrance for vessels of any tonnage into the
river, except during the calmest weather, both
difficult and dangerous; the very bay in which
the ill-fated ship Tonquin cast anchor; on her
decks stood a terror-stricken crew and band of
adventurers—the subsequent founders of famed
Astoria. The unpretending village of wooden
houses, nestling amid the pine-trees, little better
than it was fifty year ago, is still visible to the
traveller, as the huge ocean steamers splash past
it, en route to Portland. The Indian fishermen
are gone; the pale-face and his fire-water have
done their work; a few salmon are still speared
and netted; but the grand army now pass the
outpost unmolested, and, marching on, have
nothing to stay or hinder their progress until
they reach the first rapids, called the Cascades,
about one hundred and eighty miles from the
sea.

At this point the whole river forces its way
through the Cascade range of mountains. Dashing
in headlong haste for many miles, whirling
round masses of angular rock, like small islands,
rushing through narrow channels and over vast
boulders, not even a canoe, manned by the most
skilful Indian paddles, dares risk its navigation.
On either side rise walls of rock six hundred
feet in height, on whose bare face the pine clings,
as if it sprouted from the solid stone; small
waterfalls, too numerous to count, tumble down
like lines of silver over the basaltic columns
and coloured tuffas; hence comes the name the
rapids bear, and perhaps the mountain range
—the Cascades.

The scenery of the lower Columbia, betwixt
this gap (like a Titan canal cut through the
mountains) and the flat region surrounding Fort
Vancouver, is indescribably lovely. The mighty
stream rolls on its course, after clearing the
rapids, past bold promontories a thousand feet
high, under long lines of cliff thickly clothed
with pine and cedar; the monotonous, impenetrable
foliage, like an ocean of sombre green,
here and there relieved by open grassy flower-
decked glades; thus on, by level swampy meadows
fringed with the trembling poplar, the black
birch, the willow, and vine maple, until it widens
out into a vast estuary at its mouth, inside the
sand-bar, seven miles across.

The Indian, ever ready with a legend to
account for everything, says that the river once
ran under an immense arch, which, spanning the
width of waters, formed a natural bridge, over
which was a trail that a bygone race used, and
thus spared themselves the trouble of swimming
the stream above the rapids. An earthquake,
stirred up by the Evil Spirit, shook it all down,
and thus formed the rapids—a supposition, looking
at the geological character of the sides, and
detritus scattered about in the water, far from
improbable. The bad genii thought to dam back
the salmon effectually, but made a miserable
mistake, and conferred a benefit where a punishment
was intended. The impediment, simply
hindering the salmon in its ascent, facilitates its
capture. A short time prior to the river's rising,
several tribes of Indians leave their hunting-
grounds, assemble together, and camp along
the sides of the rapids. Forgetting all old
grievances, in anticipation of the salmon harvest