poorly ballasted that riding a wheel would be out of the question, while walking beside one would be no easy task.

The farther I went that day the more picturesque the canyon seemed to be. I was seldom out of sight of a cabin or a cottage, and a few miles above Niagara I passed a fair-sized hotel-all empty and deserted. Not far above the deserted hotel is a typical log-jamb that completely fills a deep gorge of solid rock through whic the river there flows. At every step between Niagara and Detroit one sees some new charm in the varied scene.

The weather remained cloudy and threatening, with occasional showers during that day and the next. But the cabins were so plentiful that I had no fear of getting caught in a storm; so I kept pushing on, and about two p. m. on the second day I reached Detroit. There I met a guide, Mr. Heideck, who gave me much reliable information about the mountain and the trails leading to it. He also told me where I would find the key to his cabin, three miles below timber-line, and invited me to go in there and camp as long as I remained in the neighborhood.

"You will find plenty of blankets," he

Scene near Niagara.

added, "but not much grub."

The trains run only to Detroit; but the road has been graded many miles farther up the river, and a good trail leads along the railroad grade.

That night I camped in a cabin about four miles beyond Detroit, and was soon drying my feet by a big fire that I built in the rusty old stove.

Next day it rained again, so I had another rest. But the rain lasted only one day, and early on the second I prepared to start once more. My sixty-five pound pack had proved to be almost too much for me. Sixty-five pounds may be a light load for a big man, but it lacked only two pounds of being half of my weight, and no reasonable man will ask a pack-horse to carry more than a quarter of his weight. I thought that if I was going to make a pack-horse of myself I ought to give myself pack-horse treatment. There seemed to be no need of my carrying blankets and provisions when I could find both at the foot of the mountain. I supposed that the provisions in Mr. Heideck's cabin would consist of a sack of flour, a few pounds of beans, and a chunk of bacon; but I can live on beans and bread indefinitely, so I did not worry on that score. I took only my camera, an extra box of plates, the outside cover of my sleeping-bag, (which I used as a changing-bag) and, as an afterthought, the two or three pounds of hardtack that I had left.

The trail was good and the pack was light, so I made good time. It would have paid me to have taken my wheel beyond Detroit, for I could easily have ridden twelve or fifteen miles. Twice in that distance the trail leaves the old railroad grade where the latter has been washed out. At those points the wheeling would have to be done by hand until the grade is reached again. The third time the trail leaves the grade is where the latter crosses the river. From there it is too steep to ride up with a load, but one could ride down without difficulty. I found plenty of cabins all along the trail, and in one of them I took refuge to escape a passing shower.

At noon I reached Peaslie's. I nad heard so often of Peaslie's that I supposed it was a stopping place where one

could get something to eat and a place to sleep if necessary. I found three cabins there with plenty of places to sleep in, but no blankets to cover with. In one was a stove to cook on, but nothing to cook; and disnes to eat from, but nothing to eat. Peaslie's, I am afraid, is a "has been." But if I had taken my wheel that would have been a splendid place to leave it; for the trail beyond there, though by no means as bad as the one to the Oregon Cave, is far from being a bicycle path. Peaslie's is sixteen miles from Detroit, and nine miles from Mt. Jefferson-that is, by the Parmelia Lake route.

By this route I left the main trail at the first cabin beyond Peaslie's, and segan at once to climb the mountains through a forest where the sun never shines. Five miles of this brought me to Mr. Heideck's cabin, where I camped though the afternoon was still young.

Never in my life have I seen as substantial and neat a log cabin as that one. It was not large; yet there was plenty of room; it's two rooms were well-furnished, but not crowded; the furniture was all home-made, but it could not have been more convenient. There was one thing about it that was not very well furnished, however; that was the larder. All I could find was a can of baking powder and enough flour to make a small batch of biscuits; so I had to put myself on short rations in order to camp there for two days. Each day I climbed the steep trail to the beautiful little Parmelia Lake, where I patiently waited, and waited in vain, for the clouds to clear away so that I might at least see Mt. Jefferson. About two o'clock in the afternoon of the second day I concluded that it would not clear up in the time I could make my hardtack last, so to save time I concluded to start back at once.

From the lake to the cabin where I had left my pack it was nineteen miles. I calculated that I could spend fifteen minutes at Mr. Heideck's cabin, and then finish the journey by half-past seven-just four miles an hour. That is not slow walking on a good road with nothing to carry; but I was feeling fresh and I was confident that I could make the trip in that time.

me and I was confident that I could make up for the loss. At half past five, by my watch, I reached the railroad grade on the Santiam. Then for the first time during the day I got a clear view of the sky, and from the color of the clouds I knew that the sun had just set. My watch, as I discovered the next day, had gone on a strike for just fiftyfive minutes; and all unknown to me had started to run again. I had calculated on having twilight until half past seven; but when I saw that the sun was down I knew that it would be dark as Egypt in an hour at most; for there was no moon and the sky was still cloudy. I shifted my pack and lengthened my steps; for there was still eight miles to walk, with the alternative of sleeping without blankets in clothes that were wet from my feet to my thighs.

I could barely see when I reached the spot where the trail first left the

The log jamb.

railroad grade; but I got through and back to the grade without difficulty. When I came to the next washout it was pitch dark, and I was compelled to grope my way through the timber guided by the sense of feeling and the light of an occasional match that I struck when I found myself at fault. Once back on the railroad grade, however, I could see the general direction it followed, and when my feet got tangled up in the ferns I knew it was time to change my course. But walking by feeling means slow progress, and I soon began to look for a cabin in which I could camp till morning. It was so dark that I could not have seen a house twenty yards away, and I undoubtedly passed several before I came to one that stood near the trail. I carefully felt my way over a broken down fence across a ditch, and through a fern o'er-grown brush heap, to the door of the cabin which I found broken down.

But the cabin contained a stove, and I fixed up the door so that it kept out some of the cold and soon had my clothes drying by a fire.

It was half past seven when I reached there and had daylight held out till that time I feel sure that I could have reached the cabin where

I left my pack, two miles farther on. I was fairly comfortable there that night. When the fire burned down the cold would wake me up; but I would rebuild the fire, get warm, and go to sleep once more. Next morning I was rather stiff and sore; but I finished my walk in half an hour. Then I cooked breakfast, picked up the rest of my pack and reached my destination, a place called Detroit, some time before the middle of the day.

HAD never met Juanita Merle. I did not know if she was long or short, blonde or brunette, sweet sixteen or crabbed forty, plump as a mountain quail or thin and angular female suffragist; yet we had become the best of friends, and daily chatted with each other on terms of marked sociability. I confess that, as the days sped by and I listened to her witty expressions and bright conversation, I found myself falling in love with her, yet I had not the least tangible idea of her personal appearance, and knew not whether her voice was soft and musical, or pitched in a high key that was harsh and disagreeable to the ear. I knew she was good natured and possessed of a keen sense of humor, for she would laugh heartily at my witty remarks, and respond with the most brilliant repartee when my darts were leveled at herself.

This may all seem enigmatical to the reader, but will assume an aspect of entire plausibility in the light of the fact that she and I were telegraph operators at widely separated stations on a Western railway. She knew as little of the young man with whom she daily chatted as I did of herself. We had each drawn an ideal picture of the personal appearance of the other, and in our frequent conversations over the wire each had in mind a face and figure to whom the remarks were addressed. I had pictured her as a bright-eyed, jolly little creature, with golden curls and silvery voice. often wondered what sort of a mental picture she had drawn of myself.

I

Upton, where I was located, was a station on the Southern Pacific Railway in the shadow of Mount Shasta in Califor

nia. The population of the town, if such it could have been called, consisted of a burly section foreman, of Milesian extraction; his wife, a red-faced, red-armed woman, who had no aspirations outside the limits of her not over-clean kitchen; four section laborers, and myself, the agent and telegraph operator. The country was, at the time of which I write, a wild one, inhabited only by Digger Indians, miners and prospectors, a few cattlemen who had leased vast tracts, the cow-boys who looked after the scattered herds, and a roving band of desperadoes under the leadership of the famous Bill Redway, who, be it remembered, was punctured by a well-directed bullet from the rifle of a Deputy United States Marshal but a short time ago, and who died with pistol in hand, cursing the shot which had laid him low.

Miss Merle was my predecessor in the position of agent and operator at Upton. She had learned the art of telegraphy in the train dispatcher's office at Sacramento, where her widowed mother resided, and when competent to assume charge of a small station had asked for and been given a position at Upton. She tired after a while of the lonely monotony of that obscure station, and asked to be sent to one less isolated from mankind, and when one day the operator at Dunsmuir, further down the line, reported that his fingers had been "pinched" while endeavoring to couple two cars, and that he must hasten to Sacramento for surgical attention, the Upton agent was telegraphically instructed to lock up her uepot, leave the key in the care of the section foreman, and proceed on a train then almost due, to Dunsmuir, and assume charge until the injured agent should return. I was at the time an "ex

tra" operator, and on the afternoon of the day on which Miss Merle left Upton I found myself sitting in her recently vacated chair for an indefinite stay at e lonely station.

My first train report had scarcely announced my presence to the operators up and down the line, ere Dunsmuir called me up. She expressed regret that her hasty change had prevented her extending to me a personal welcome to my new home, said she hoped I would find the station a pleasant one, and asked me if I would not kindly collect a number of feminine trifles which she had overlooked in her haste in packing her trunk, and send them down to her. She would be ever so much obliged, and, should opportunity present itself, would certainly reciprocate my kindness.

That was my first "meeting" with a lady who was soon destined to play a heroic part in a thrilling adventure in which I was a prominent figure.

Little by little Miss Merle and I became acquainted over the wire. We were soon holding daily conversations, then semi-daily, and then our chats became so frequent that at times jealous operators at other stations would break in on our conversation with hints that someone was mashed on some one else, and that we had better give the suffering wire a rest, and do our spooning by mail. Το these interruptions we paid but little attention, continuing our long-distance intercourse; I, as I before remarked, falling more hopelessly in love with my new friend as the days sped by, and often wondering if a reciprocal feeling was not growing at the other end of the wire. I was a young man of twenty, very susceptible to female charms, and as I was then denied even a look at a pretty face, aside from fleeting glimpses of female passengers on passing trains, I came to regard Miss Merle as my "best girl," and when her personal telegraphic signal "Ja" sounded, it was like sweetest music to my ears.

Modesty, coupled with the fear of being "guyed" had prevented me from questioning the train men regarding the personal appearance of my inamorata, but

one day, when I had orders to hold a north-bound freight until a belated overland had arrived, and the freight conductor, Jim Moore, came into my office, and sat down for a chat, I determined to sound him, and learn a little something of the idol of my dreams.

"What sort of a looking girl is that who used to hold down Upton?" I asked. He looked at me a moment in a halfquizzical, half-mischievous manner, and replied:

"Say, Fred, I've heard some of the boys on the line say that you was dead gone on that one, and I've an idea she is on your trail, too, for she made me tell her all about you while my train was lying there this morning waiting for No. 16. Did you ever see her?"

No, I had never had the pleasure of meeting Miss Merle.

"Miss Merle? You mean Mrs. Merle!" "Mean wha-a-t?"

"Mrs. Rant Merle. I thought you knew she was a widow with two kids at her mother's, down in Sacramento. I guess she's a square enough sort of a woman, but when you see her, old man, I've an idea you won't crave a second look. She's no spring chicken; forty, if she's a day, and she doesn't need a better protector than that face of hers. And a temper! Gee whiz! My hind brakeman asked her one day if that face didn't pain her, and she grabbed up a coupling-pin and let it go at him. He'd have been a dead brakey if he hadn't been a good dodger. He never sticks his head out of the caboose window now while we are at Dunsmuir, for she's got it in for him."

With a rush and a roar and a grinding of wheels the tardy passenger hurried by, and Moore hastened to his train to pull out.

How cruelly was my idol shattered. After the freight was gone I sat as i dazed, in fact, I was so absorbed in digesting the information I had gleaned from Moore that I neglected to report its departure, and the jacking-up received from the irate train dispatcher for my inattention to duty served to still further increase the ill temper into which the conductor's story had thrown me. The