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O SLEEP, Sweet Sleep! Lean downward unto me,

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And lay thy cool touch on my fevered cheek.

Lay all thy fair length close to me, and speak

Thy language, soft and drowsy as the sea

That steals up tide-lands slow and lullingly.

O Sleep, -kind Sleep! Lean down and press thy lips
On my tired eyes; let thy cool finger-tips

Still my hot temples' throb, -ay, let me be

Cradled within thy arms. And bid me think

Of clovered banks where long, still shadows creep;

Of lotus blossoms lolling on a stream;

Of tinkling brooks where thirsty cattle drink; Of drowsy poppy fields. And bid me dream

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Of her I love, O Sleep,-O gentle Sleep!

Ella Higginson.


WITH what indifference a thousand eyes
Have passed me by.

Only a stranger, whom none recognize,
Nor love, nor hate, nor envy, nor despise ;
Scarce deemed as worthy of a second glance
As yonder waves that in the sunlight dance.
With careful eye

I seek some face that will respond to mine,
Not one is here to give me friendly sign.

Yet here are hundreds, some of whom, no doubt,
Had fate ordained,

Might have been friends whom life were void without,-
Might have transfigured me and all about.

The inspiration of their lives and thought,
Who can determine what it might have wrought? -
What I had gained,

If, by some trifling change of circumstance,
We had been freed from mutual ignorance?

Who knows but yonder stranger's heart contains
Such wealth of love,

As might have eased me of a hundred pains,
And more than doubled all life's lasting gains?
Who knows but that we sometime yet shall meet,
If not on earth, where life is incomplete,

Perhaps above,

When countless ages shall have passed away,
We shall be friends who strangers are today.

Oft, as a stranger passes me, I think

What might have been,

Had fate supplied us friendship's missing link.
One word had bridged the gulf, from brink to brink,
And to a sweet companionship had led,

But somehow that one word was left unsaid;

And we have seen

Each other's faces, but we do not know

How much we lose, to pass each other so.

Robert Whitaker.

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"Now hold on tight."

The warning came just in time. We were on an empty lumbering train on our way to the wood-choppers' camp, and for nearly half an hour the little engine had been puffing and blowing as we crawled up the steep grade. At times we almost stopped, the wheels slid around on the track, and the engine emitted a series of rapid and energetic puffs. Then we would start ahead with renewed vigor. Now we had reached the summit of the grade, and all the suppressed energy seemed to be let loose at once. The train bounded ahead, and we became painfully aware of a fact that had not been apparent in our slow progress up the grade. The cars were without springs, and we jolted along in a manner that threatened to dislocate every joint in our bodies.

The track was built solely for the purpose of transporting lumber to the mill, and so little money had been expended for ballasting, that we swayed from side to side as we rounded the curves, and bounced up and down on the straight stretches.

The road was but a few miles in length, however, and we were soon standing beside the track, watching the

immense logs being loaded on the flat cars.

The trees were cut at a short distance from the track, and hauled down to the side on skids. Then by means of other skids, and by taking advantage of elevations in the ground, they were loaded on the cars.

Logs of ordinary size were loaded on flat cars, six or eight making a load, according to their diameter. But when logs of extreme length are to be transported, a truck resting on eight wheels is placed at each end, and the load of logs chained to it, the middle part being suspended in the air.

It seemed but a short time when the train was ready to start back for the mill, and then began a journey that was far more exciting and disjointing than our coming had been. The return was for the most part on the down grade, and we fairly whizzed along, holding on with both hands to avoid being snapped off as we rounded the curves.

Arrived at the mill, the logs were dumped into the log pond, beside which the track ran, and there they awaited the manipulation of the mill hands, by whom they were to be transformed into commercial commodities.

This mill depends upon the short railroad for the greater part of its supply of logs, for the forest has been cut back several miles from its present location, and the waterways are not convenient for use. But most of the mills obtain their supply of logs by water, purchasing them delivered at the mill. The woodcutter then floats his logs down the rivers that flow through the forests, and forms them into rough rafts on the sound.

It is difficult to give anything like a clear impression of the extent of this business in this northwest corner of the

United States. Mere figures convey but an inadequate idea. To the stranger that visits the State and travels from Portland to Tacoma, or sails in one of the steamers down the Sound to the boundary line, there is a confused impression of a limitless forest of great density, upon which the energy of man may be expended for centuries without any appreciable effect. Yet along this road from Portland, following the first highway that was cut through the western part of the State, there is an advance to be noted during the last few years. The lumberman has already made here a beginning on that work which. has denuded other parts of the country of the green shelter. But it is only a beginning, and it will be many years before Washington ceases to be the great lumber producing State of the Union.

It is difficult also to convey any adequate impression as to the amount of timber in Washington. Last year the mills of the State cut one and a quarter billion feet of lumber, or enough to build 500 wooden buildings as large as the new Mills Building in San Francisco. Yet working at the same rate, it would require nearly four centuries to cut all the timber now standing in the State. Were all the timber in Washington converted into lumber of the various kinds, it would suffice to build a city forty miles long

and twelve miles wide, all the buildings being four stories high, and no space being allowed for yards, gardens, or public parks. A street leading from San Francisco to New York might be lined with five-story buildings, two hundred feet deep, and there would be enough lumber left to plank the street its entire length and build wooden sidewalks on each side.

The figures are not available for a comparison with the standing timber in the other States at the present time, but the following table is compiled from the census of 1880:

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Thus we had in fourteen States lying east of the Rocky Mountains, and including all the great lumber States of the Mississippi Valley, an amount of standing timber ten years ago that was just about equal to the timber now standing in the single State of Washington. For in 1890 Clarence M. Barton, acting as special agent of the government, and taking into account the best knowledge on the subject, estimated the timber of Washington at 389,365,000,000 feet, and the cut of 1891 was 1,379,000,000. And while the amount of timber in these fourteen States is about equal to that in Washington, the total area is about twelve times as great.

The immense amount of timber is nearly all to be found in what is generally called Western Washington. The

Cascades divide the State into two unequal parts, the western comprising about 25,000 square miles, the eastern 45,000. The moist ocean breezes have caused the great growth in the western part, and at one time it was covered by a dense and almost impenetrable forest. There is comparatively little undergrowth, but the trees grow very close together. In Eastern Washington the timber is found along the eastern slopes on the Cascades, in the mountainous northern counties, and in the extreme southeast, where a spur of the Blue Mountains reaches out.

Tacoma even greater density is found. In the Olympic country, south of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and between the sound and the ocean, the density is so great as to render the country almost impenetrable, and comparatively little is known of its resources.

The timber of Washington is far more limited in its variety than in its amount. Fir and cedar predominate. The widebranching, deciduous trees are almost unknown. The dark, harsh foliage of the evergreen lends an almost monotonous tone to the landscape. Along the shores of Puget Sound and in the Olym

The timbered area of the State covers pic and Chehalis or Gray's Harbor dis

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about twenty-five million acres, and therefore the average per acre is 15,500 feet of timber. This is estimated to be about one half of what was originally there, the rest having been destroyed by fire or converted into lumber. This average includes the thinly covered. mountainous regions, however. In the Chehalis district is the "Fire Belt," so called because the humidity of the atmosphere effectually prevents any serious fire. This belt, covering 600 square miles, will average 50,000 to 60,000 feet of merchantable timber to the About the foothills of Mount VOL. XX-3.


tricts, the Douglas fir sometimes called the Oregon pine predominates, and these trees here reach a diameter of 12 to 18 feet, and trees have been measured that reached 650 feet in height,' though Professor Sargent in his report accompany

1 This statement is made in C. M. Barton's account

of the lumber interests of the State of Washington, pub

lished by the U. S. Government. He quotes Fred. G.

Plummer, of Tacoma, as having measured the trees. Mr. that 250 was the correct figure, and that he had al

Plummer, when spoken to about it, however, declared

most been hurried into a premature grave answering
queries about it from all parts of the United States.
The statement and its correction are given in order to
relieve the pressure on Mr. Plummer, somewhat.
F. I. V.

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