We are all comfortably seated in the “White Chariot” car, which is

constructed without canopy or covering, with seats arranged in

amphitheatre style, one above the other, facing the foot of the incline,

an excellent arrangement for affording an unobstructed view.

The signal is given, the machinery is set in motion, and quietly and

smoothly we start on our trip toward the sky.

“Those mountain peaks you see just beyond Rubio Cañon are called the

‘Rubio Amphitheatre,’” explains the guide who accompanied the car. “You

will notice that as we ascend those mountains seem to rise one after

another and follow us.” We did notice them; we were looking right at

them and couldn’t help it. It was an optical illusion that was rather

startling. We thought at first that the mountains would overtake us, but

they didn’t. “This is ‘Granite Gorge,’” continues the guide, as we enter

a great cut that rears its granite walls on

[Illustration: ECHO MOUNTAIN HOUSE AND CAR ON THE 48 PER CENT. GRADE,

MT. LOWE RAILWAY.]

either side of us and lose sight of the mountains that are chasing us.

“The workmen on this road were eight months in hewing this passage

through these rocks, and before a tie or rail was laid they had to

clamber to these rugged heights and carry their implements with them,

and much of the material used in the construction of the road, such as

water, cement, and lumber, had to be carried on the backs of burros and

on the shoulders of men. This bridge that we are now crossing is called

the MacPherson Trestle, and there is no other bridge like it in the

world. It is 200 feet long and 100 feet higher at one end than the

other. If it were not for the clouds you could obtain a good scenic view

from here.” Clouds! We had not thought of it before, so interested were

we in the talk of our guide, but we notice now that the sun is shining,

and looking up we see no vestige of a cloud in the bright, blue sky

above.

Looking again, beneath and beyond us, such a sight meets our gaze as our

eyes had never rested on before. A vast white sea of billowy vapor

overhangs the great San Gabriel Valley and hides it from our view. This

alone is worth the trip to see--an immense heaving sea of clouds, an

ocean of fleecy vapor billows that surge and roll and toss as though

seeking for a shore of sand and rock upon which to spend their restless

force. Halting at the summit of the great cable incline, we find we have

arrived at the Echo Mountain House, where we change cars, taking an

electric road called the Alpine Division of the Mt. Lowe Railway, which

extends from Echo Mountain to Mt. Lowe Springs, where “Ye Alpine Tavern”

is located.

As we board the Alpine Division observation car I again cast my eyes

over toward the San Gabriel Valley, where a few minutes before we had

beheld the battle of the clouds. What a grand transformation! The clouds

have been dispersed as though by magic, and lying spread out in the

valley 3500 feet beneath us is a panorama of such incomparable and

inconceivable beauty and loveliness that we gaze for a moment

enraptured, speechless, spellbound, dazed. They must be all looking, for

there hasn’t been a word uttered for a minute. I am feasting my eyes on

the supreme beauty of the scenery and drinking deeply at the fountain of

delight; at the same time I’m trying to count the squares in the city of

Pasadena and the orange groves that dot the valley. “It’s all there, but

it’s a good ways off,” remarks Charlie Sloane, breaking the spell of

silence. “My gracious! isn’t that fine? It beats looking across Jersey

through the crown of Billy Penn’s hat,” exclaims George Alfalfa in a

guarded tone.

The electric current is turned on, our car starts quietly off, and for

four miles we pass over the most wonderfully constructed railway in the

world. We do not go very fast--in fact, we would rather not, for taking

everything into consideration this is not very good ground for

“scorching,” and going at a gentle, easy pace lessens our chances of

being rolled a few thousand feet down the side of a mountain. Not that

any of us are afraid of being “dumped”; we didn’t come up here to be

scared, but out of curiosity to see what it is like, and the more slowly

the car moves the better able we are to see and the longer we can look

at what we do see.

This entire roadbed, hewn out of the sides of the mountain, forms a

solid granite ledge upon which the

[Illustration: MT. LOWE RAILWAY, CALIFORNIA.]

road is built, and it is always a towering wall of rock on one side and

a yawning chasm on the other. To this there is but one exception, the

“Grand Circular Bridge.” From this structure you can look from both

sides down into the depths. If you don’t want to look you can shut your

eyes.

Professor Lowe has constructed this railway at a cost of many hundred

thousand dollars to enable tourists to penetrate the heart of the Sierra

Madre Mountain, that they may form some conception of what an isolated

mountain wilderness is like. It is all here and ever-present, in

boundless, grand profusion--mountains, wilderness, isolation--an

awe-inspiring, infinite trinity of grandeur, that almost makes your head

swim and your heart stand still. Our tracks shelve the very summit of

the sloping walls of mighty cañons, and you can look down 3000 feet into

their wooded depths.

We arrive in due time at Mt. Lowe Springs, the terminus of the road, and

are 5000 feet above the level of the sea. From here we can see the

summit of Mt. Lowe, two miles away and 1000 feet above us. It is

intended to extend the tracks to this point in the near future. A bridle

path leads to it, and you can make the trip now on the back of a burro.

A pathway leads to “Inspiration Point,” half a mile away, from which it

is said magnificent views can be had. Our time is limited; we hasten to

the famous spring, drink of its ice-cold water, and then visit the

homelike, cozy club house, “Ye Alpine Tavern,” and give it a hurried

inspection.

Nestling among giant oaks and pines, it occupies a romantic and

picturesque location; in style of architecture it is attractive and

unique, being something on the order of a Swiss chalet. It is two and a

half stories in height, with ground dimensions of 40 by 80 feet;

contains 20 bed rooms, a large dining room, billiard hall, and kitchen.

It is built of granite and Oregon pine, finished in the natural color of

the wood. The design of the main hall or dining room is the most

striking feature connected with the construction of the building.

Artistically located around the room in uniform order are five cheerful

open fireplaces, in the largest of which swings a mammoth iron pot on a

huge crane. It is 7 feet high and 12 feet wide. Blocks of granite have

been placed in its corners for seats, and over the mantel above it is

the somewhat flattering but old-time hospitable inscription, “YE

ORNAMENT OF A HOUSE IS YE GUEST WHO DOTH FREQUENT IT.” On one side of

this mantel is a brick oven of ancient design; on the other side is a

receptacle of peculiar and unique construction and suspicious

appearance, which no doubt contains the liquid nourishment of the

establishment.

“I wonder what they keep in this funny-looking cupboard,” whispers

Brother Kilgore in my ear, as we were looking around in the dining room.

“Suppose we look and see,” I reply, as I attempt to open the door. “No,

you don’t; it’s fastened. I’ll see who’s got the key,” is the rejoinder

as he hurriedly walks away. Passing outside, I notice a number of the

party are getting aboard the car, and as I join them the motorman shouts

“All aboard.” “Are our people all here?” asks Manager Wyman, as he casts

his eyes over the crowd. “Brother Denniston isn’t here. I think he went

to Inspiration Point,” replies Brother Barrett. “Nor Brother Kilgore,” I

add. “He went to look for a

[Illustration: CIRCULAR BRIDGE, MT. LOWE RAILWAY, CALIFORNIA.]

man with a key.” “I’m here,” says Brother Kilgore, as he emerges from

the door of the “Tavern,” wiping his mouth in a suspicious manner; at

the same time Brother Denniston and his “company” are seen coming from

toward the “spring” and soon we are “all aboard” and “homeward bound.”

At one point on our descent three or four mountain goats are seen on the

track ahead of us, but on our approach they quickly disappear from sight

in the thicket. It is with difficulty that Brothers Sloane and Haas can

be restrained from leaping overboard and giving chase. Thirty minutes

stop at Echo Mountain gives us an opportunity of visiting the beautiful

hotel at this point, the “Echo Mountain House,” which is located on the

summit of Echo Mountain and is said to be one of the finest equipped

mountain hotels in the world. From its veranda and balcony hundreds of

visitors daily view with rapture and delight the wonderful scenery of

the San Gabriel Valley and its surroundings. A small cannon fired off on

the lawn has a startling effect, and proves that the mountain is not

misnamed. The report echoes from peak to peak and then seems to go

bounding and tumbling down the cañons and ravines, growing fainter and

fainter until it gradually dies away in the distance.

The great “World’s Fair search light,” purchased by Professor Lowe and

established on Echo Mountain, is operated nightly for the pleasure and

entertainment of visitors. The power of its light is that of 3,000,000

candles and its rays can be seen for 150 miles on the Pacific Ocean. Its

beams falling upon a newspaper 35 miles away will enable a person to

easily read it. Our time is up, and boarding the “White Chariot” we

commence our descent of the great cable incline, reaching the bottom in

safety. A photographer is on hand and “pressed the button” on the car

and contents.

On our trip to and fro to-day we passed in sight of the beautiful home

of Professor Lowe, near Pasadena, and returning I had the pleasure and

honor of meeting and conversing with him during the twenty minutes we

rode together on the Pasadena and Los Angeles Electric Railway. I was

introduced to the professor by Brother Edward Butcher, and we took a

seat together. He is a large man of fine appearance and carries himself

with the graceful mien of a brigadier-general; his eye is bright and

kind, his voice gentle and agreeable, and we are the best of friends in

a minute. “Professor,” I remarked, “there are but a very few of the

people, I warrant, who ascend that marvelous cable incline, who enjoy

the pleasure and excitement of that unequaled ride among the wild,

magnificent mountain scenery of your Alpine Division on a comfortable

trolley car, that ever give a second thought to the men who endured

hardships and risked their lives to even survey a road like that. I have

thought of this several times to-day, and would like to ask how you ever

induced men to traverse those cliffs and peaks and cañon walls, where a

mountain goat can hardly secure a footing?” “Well,” answered the

professor, “you know there are no hardships so severe they will not be

endured, no risks so great they will not be taken, if only men have a

leader to follow and are well paid for following him. Long before a

measurement was taken or a stake was driven, when the idea that such a

road were possible first entered my mind, I spent many days with only an

employed attendant my companion,

[Illustration: YE ALPINE TAVERN, MT. LOWE, CALIFORNIA.]

in making my way from Rubio Cañon to the crest of the highest peak along

the route which you traveled with so much pleasure to-day in less than

90 minutes. I headed every surveying party that went out in the interest

of the enterprise. I have personally directed all the operations that

have required engineering skill and experience; I have expended almost

one and a half millions of dollars, and my work isn’t completed yet.”

“That is an enormous sum of money to invest in a venture, or rather an

experiment, that you don’t know will pay till you try it,” I ventured to

assert, while secretly admiring the indomitable courage and spirit of

the man. “Yes, it is a great deal of money,” was the reply, and I

imagined that a sigh accompanied the words. “As a financial scheme I

believe it will be a failure. I have no hope of ever getting out of it

what money I have put in it, but to me this is only a secondary matter.

I’ve watched a vague visionary dream grow into a bright reality; I’ve

had cherished theories, condemned as insane and impracticable, converted

into substantial facts; I have solved the greatest engineering and

mechanical problems that ever taxed the brain of man; I’ve won the

hardest, toughest intellectual battle that ever was fought; I’ve had an

all-absorbing ambition gratified, and I feel that I have, in a measure,

got the worth of my money.” As the professor ceased speaking there was a

bright look in his eye and a happy expression on his countenance as

though it were a great pleasure to reflect on the great work he had

accomplished. The car was approaching his destination; he arose to go

and extended his hand. As I took it he said, “When you come again you

can extend your ride to the summit of the mountain, for I propose to

complete the work in a short time; and you must stay longer, for in your

hurried trip to-day there is much you didn’t see, and I would wish that

you could see it all; goodbye.” The car stopped and he was gone. As he

disappeared from view I said to myself, “There goes a wonderful man.”

Continuing a few blocks further we left the car and visited the Chamber

of Commerce and spent half an hour among its interesting relics and

curiosities. When we reach our train the most of our people are there,

the time for starting being almost up. We bid adieu to the kind friends

we have made while here, and who did all they could to make our short

stay a pleasant one, and at 5.00 P. M. Eastern (2.00 P. M. Pacific) we

pull out of the station at Los Angeles bound for San Francisco and the

“Golden Gate,” 482 miles away.

We are still on the Southern Pacific’s famous “Sunset Route,” which we

have followed since leaving Sierra Blanca. S. P. engine No. 1826 is

pulling us, with Engineer Charlie Hill at the throttle. She is fired by

E. Homes, who has a hard task on hand, for there are steep grades to

climb and our train is heavy. William Perkins is conducting the train;

the brakemen are J. B. Freet and F. W. Bunnell. These three gentlemen

are brothers of the “Order” and members of El Capitan Division No. 115,

of San Francisco. They are members of the entertainment committee from

that division and have been selected to run our train that they may be

able to look after our welfare. J. C. Fielding, also a member of El

Capitan Division and of the committee, is a guest on the train, along

with Brother Twist,

[Illustration: T. S. C. LOWE.]

of Golden Gate Division No. 364, of Oakland, Cal., also a member of the

committee.

Following the course of Los Angeles River as we leave the “City of

Angels” behind us, we pass for quite a distance through a fine farming

country, where hundreds of acres of barley are being gathered for hay

into great heaps and stacks.

“Brother Freet,” I ask, as we sit near the wide-open door of the baggage

compartment looking out on the fleeting landscape, “do they feed their

stock altogether on barley hay in California?” “Not entirely. What makes

you think so?” is the inquiring answer. “It looks so from the fact that

in all the arable country we have passed through since entering this

State, outside of fruit and flower culture, I have noticed no other

product than barley, with the exception of a few patches of alfalfa

grass,” I reply. “You are right,” is the response, “so far as concerns

that part of the country you have seen; although if you traverse the

State from end to end you will see comparatively little of it. There are

sections of California where abundant crops of corn are raised, but

while it has never achieved distinction as a corn producing State, it is

second to no State in the Union in its yield of wheat. The entire area

of the State of Indiana would be insufficient to cover the wheat fields

of California, which yielded last year almost 40,000,000 bushels; but

speaking of barley, cut as it is in a green state after the grain has

formed and cured for hay, it makes a valuable and nourishing food for

stock, upon which they will fatten without additional grain feed.”

Since leaving Los Angeles our course has been upward, and now as we

pass the little station of Fernando, we are close to the San Fernando

Range, 25 miles northwest of Los Angeles and over 1100 feet above it. A

tunnel one and one-quarter miles in length pierces the above-named

range, and into this we now plunge. It is a dark hole, an undesirable

place to be; our train runs slowly, and the cars become filled with

smoke and gas that is almost suffocating; we do no talking and as little

breathing as possible for an interval of ten or twelve minutes, when we

again emerge into the open air and sunshine and breathe freely once

more. We have left the scenes of agricultural industry behind us and

again enter a region of unproductive sterility and aridity. We pass

through the little town of Saugus, from which place a branch road runs

to Santa Barbara, yet the country don’t improve. We are strongly

reminded of the Colorado Desert: alkali dust, glaring sand, stunted sage

brush, and cactus on every hand. The elevation here is about 3000 feet

higher than the Colorado Desert, but the conditions seem about the same.

Midway between Saugus and Mojave we enter the western border of the

Great Mojave Desert, which we follow for several miles; here we are

treated to novel, interesting, and remarkable scenery. On the right as

far as the range of vision extends stretches the vast Mojave Desert,

with its lavish growth of magnificent giant cactus, many of them from 25

to 40 feet in height, with branched and bushy tops, from the centre of

which in many cases can be seen protruding an immense pinkish bloom.

This great desert, with its wonderful and peculiar plant life, extends,

we are told, away off hundreds of miles into Nevada and Arizona. On the

left the scenery is different. You gaze off and across the great

Antelope Valley, 80 miles in width, level as a floor and almost devoid

of tree or bush. It looks brown and barren, but we are informed it is

considered good grazing territory. The grass, though dead and dry at

certain seasons of the year, like that of the San Simon Valley in

Arizona, retains all its nutritious qualities and flavor, and stock feed

upon it with apparent relish.

Owing to unfavorable natural conditions and surroundings, it is hardly

expected that we will encounter a very extensive population, but what

few people we do meet who are residents of the country are principally

employees of the railroad company, around whose stations usually cluster

a group of snug and neat-looking cottages built by the company for the

use of the men and their families. Good water can be obtained at a

reasonable depth, and wind mills are used for pumping. Patches of ground

are irrigated and cultivated, upon which are grown flowers, fruit, and

vegetables. Our train slows up and stops for water at one of these oases

in the desert, and looking out the window I discover that it is quite a

town. A number of our people have left the train and are looking around.

Alighting from the train in front of the station I look up and see the

old familiar homelike name of Lancaster above the door. Everything bears

evidence of thrift and good living, even to an almost empty ice-cream

can that sits inside the waiting-room door, and which, with other

things, is being inspected and investigated. Time is up, “All aboard” is

shouted, we scramble on, and as the train moves off Brother Houston,

who is fast in the ice-cream can, came near being left. At Mojave,

another thrifty town of considerable size, where connections are made

with the Atlantic and Pacific Railway, our train stops to attach a

helper engine. After a delay of five minutes we resume our journey,

assisted by Engineer Cain and Fireman Curren with engine No. 1808.

As we leave Mojave it is growing dusk, and by the time we reach the

summit of the grade and stop at Tehachapi it has become quite dark. This

we all exceedingly regret, for we are now about to enter upon the most

wonderful and interesting 33 miles of road on the whole Southern Pacific

system, where we drop from an elevation of 4025 feet to that of 672.

Making the descent of 3553 feet requires an almost continual application

of the air brakes, which heats the brake shoes red hot and makes the

fire fly. We feel concerned and wish we could see. We know at one time

we are going around a sharp curve and at another time pitching down a

grade much steeper than usual, and very often we find we are doing both

at one and the same time. We look out of the window on one side and see

a towering mountain wall, so near you can touch it with your hand; we

look out on the other side, and see nothing, only a seemingly

illimitable depth, filled with darkness and uncertainty; and this is the

grand, picturesque Tehachapi Pass, whose sinuous windings, devious ways,

complex maneuvering, and bewildering curves compels the railroad to run

over top and underneath itself, forming the extraordinary famous Loop.

We had heard much of it, and we all expected to see it; our only hope

and desire now is to get safely away from it and beyond it to straight

track and level country once more. All good things must have an ending,

and bad things can’t last forever, so the novelty and excitement of our

toboggan-like mountain ride and its two hours’ suspense is over as our

train stops at Bakersfield, where another change of engines is made.

It is now past midnight in Philadelphia, 12.50 A. M.; at Bakersfield it

is only 9.50 P. M., but many of our people are retiring, for it has been

a day fraught with pleasure and excitement, wearing both on the mind and

body, and we all need rest and plenty of it to prepare us for the

approaching morrow. “Captain,” I said, as Brother Perkins came down the

curtained aisle of the “Marco,” while I was wrestling with a refractory

collar button preparing to turn in, “will you kindly give me the number

of the engine that is drawing us and the names of the engineer and

fireman? I am trying to keep a record of the engines and crews that

handle us, and I don’t wish to miss any.” “Certainly,” is the response;

“we have engine No. 1417 that runs to Mendota, 140 miles; the engineer’s

and fireman’s names are Cole; the Cole Boys we call them--good, lively

fellows.” “With two live Coles in the cab and lots of them in the

firebox, I guess we will reach Mendota on time,” came the smothered

comment in a drowsy tone from the berth of Manager Wyman.

FRIDAY, MAY 21st.

Awakened this morning about six o’clock by Mrs. S., always an early

riser, who exclaims, “Get up! get up! we’re almost there.” “Almost

where, my dear?” I sleepily inquire. “I don’t know where, but Mr.

Terry, Mr. Brown, Mr. Horner, and Mr. Springer are all up, and they say

we are nearly there,” she answers. I turn over, raise the blind, and

look out of the window. “And Mr. McDonald says we’re going to have an

early breakfast,” she adds, as she retreats down the aisle. That last

information she knows will fetch me if nothing else will, but I’m still

looking out of the window wondering where we are; thought at first we

had lost our way in the intricate descent of the Tehachapi Range, got

tangled up in the Loop, turned around, and were again entering Los

Angeles.

What magic had been at work during the night? The world outside is

teeming with verdant vegetation. Fruit-laden trees, rose-burdened

bushes, green grass, and flowers everywhere. I quickly roll out of my

berth and dress, or rather I nearly roll out of my berth while quickly

dressing, for one inconvenience of this way of living is, you’ve got to

dress and then get out of bed, watching yourself very closely that you

don’t involuntarily get out before you’re ready, for when, with one leg

in your pants and about to put the other one in, your car hits a curve,

_look out_.

The first person I meet as I enter the smoker is the conductor who is

running the train. “Good morning, captain; where are we?” I ask. “We are

entering Port Costa, 25 miles from Oakland,” he answers. “Have you time

to give me the number of your engine and the names of your crew?” I

inquire, with every-ready notebook in hand, as he was about turning

away, for the train is stopping at the station. “We left Mendota this

morning at two o’clock with engine No. 1408, Engineer Edwards, Fireman

Duran, Brakemen Owen and Todd,

[Illustration: GEORGE W. BROWN, OF THE COMMITTEE.]

and my name is Schu,” he hurriedly said as he left the car and enters

the telegraph office. In a short time Conductor Schu comes out of the

office with train orders and our train is soon on its way again.

At 10.30 A. M. Eastern (7.30 Pacific) we reach Oakland (Sixteenth

Street), where we lay for an hour and a half. It is a tedious wait. We

cannot leave the train, for we do not know at what minute it might

conclude to go, and none of us want to get left. We stroll around, first

on one side of the train and then on the other, keeping one eye on it

for fear it will get away from us and careful not to get too far out of

its reach. We can see that Oakland is a large and beautiful city, and

learn that it has a population of 60,000 inhabitants; a place where

flowers bloom on the lawns, fruits mature in the orchards, vegetables

grow in the gardens, and grains are harvested in the fields each and

every month in the year. It has mountain scenery back of it and an ocean

view in front of it; another blooming paradise where desolating storms

are unknown and frosts and snows are never seen.

Finding our train about to move we all get aboard and in a few minutes

are landed at Oakland Pier, where we wait half an hour for a boat to

convey us eight miles across the bay to San Francisco. We employ the

time in looking about the large, commodious waiting room that overlooks

the harbor. We can’t help noticing that this apartment contains

something that is never seen in a station waiting room on the

Pennsylvania Railroad system. A profusion of advertisements of all kinds

literally cover the walls, and occupying a space in the centre of the

floor is a large glass case containing a pyramid of bottles filled with

liquors of various kinds and brands, advertising the goods of a whiskey

firm down on Front Street. It is needless to say that there is a railing

around the exhibit and the door of the case is locked. One of the ticket

collectors, an active old gentleman, quick in his movements as a boy,

informs us that he has been in his present position for nineteen years;

and although seventy years old, the climate is so healthy he feels that

he is growing younger every day.

It is announced that the boat is now ready, and we “walk the plank”

leading to the deck of the “Oakland,” which is soon plowing a furrow in

the waters of the bay as she heads for the “Queen City” of the Pacific.

It is not such a boat ride as one can term “lovely”; it is not even

agreeable. A chilly gale sweeps the deck that almost lifts you off your

feet. “Golly, it’s worse than a trip from Camden to Philadelphia in

December,” exclaims Brother Goff, as he turns up the collar of his coat.

“Or one from Jersey City to New York in February,” adds Brother

McKernan, seeking refuge behind a post. The most of us retire to the

more comfortable quarters of the cabin, where we find enjoyment in

viewing from the windows the immense bay and harbor, where are anchored

hundreds of vessels of all kinds and sizes. As the “Oakland” pokes her

nose against the San Francisco dock I look at my watch; it is 9.55 A.

M., Pacific time. We have just been twenty minutes coming across. A

speed of a mile in two and a half minutes is a pretty lively gait for a

ferryboat, but we are told the “Oakland” does it every trip. Under the

escort of Brother Perkins, we are loaded into cable cars and start on

our way to Sutro Garden and Golden Gate Park.

I believe there’s hardly three squares of a level street in the whole

city of San Francisco. Such hills as we go up and such hills as we go

down we never saw in any city before. “Why, this is ten times worse than

Baltimore, and it’s bad enough, dear knows,” exclaims Mrs. Kalkman as

she catches Brother Cohee around the neck to save herself from falling

off the seat as the car shoots up an unusually steep acclivity. “Here,

here, don’t be so affectionate; Brother Kalkman and Mrs. Cohee are

looking at you,” warns Brother Cohee. “As if I’d hug you on purpose,”

she retorts, giving him a look of scorn. In many streets a horse and

wagon has never been seen; it would be impossible for a horse to draw a

wagon up those abrupt granite-paved hills. With the cable car almost on

end, we are descending one of those “shoot the chute” like declivities

extending for about three blocks, when I overhear a passenger, evidently

a resident of the neighborhood, say to Mrs. Shaw, who has “struck up” a

conversation with her, “We had a fire here in our neighborhood a short

time ago, and a driver of one of the fire engines tried to bring it down

this hill, when one of the horses fell down and the engine ran over it

and killed it, and it broke the engine all up and hurt the man; it was

just awful.” The car stops at the next corner and the woman gets off;

glancing back at the hill we have just descended her closing words,

“just awful,” strike me as being very appropriate.

A few squares further and we abandon the cable cars and take a little

steam road called the “Ferries and Cliff” Railroad that carries us to

Sutro Park and bathing pavilion, owned by Adolph Sutro, a retired

millionaire merchant of San Francisco, and to the celebrated Cliff

House, near which are the far-famed Seal Rocks. We wandered for a time

through the beautifully laid out statuary, shrubbery, and flower-adorned

grounds of Sutro, then to the great pavilion, that not only contains a

large museum of interesting relics and curiosities, but it is here that

the noted Sutro baths are located, said to be the finest equipped

artificial bathing pools in the world.

We cannot stand the temptation, and soon many of us are robed in bathing

suits and are diving, plunging, rolling, and splashing in the salt

waters of the Pacific, brought here and warmed to the proper

temperature, permitting bathing to be indulged in the entire year. It is

needless to say that we have lots of sport, and those who decline to

indulge will regret it. There are several strangers in the pool, and

Brother Sheppard has taken quite a fancy to one young fellow, whom he is

trying to learn to swim and dive. In an adjoining pool is rather a

forlorn-looking duck; it must be tame, for it is quietly swimming around

undisturbed by the noise we make. “I think it’s hungry,” says Brother

McCarty, “I wish I had some crumbs.” The creature must have heard him,

for we imagine it gave him a grateful look.

From the baths we go to the Cliff House, and from the windows of the

inclosed balcony, that almost overhangs the waves that dash and roar on

the rocks beneath, we watch with interest the monster seals that by the

hundreds climb and crawl and slip and slide over the crags that rise

from the bay, while we regale ourselves with pork and beans and coffee.

There is a strong, chilly wind blowing, and we do not tarry long on the

bluff outside that overlooks the bay and seals.

[Illustration: NEW CLIFF HOUSE AND SEAL ROCKS, SAN FRANCISCO.]

It is twenty minutes past two as we get aboard a train on the Park and

Ocean Railroad that will convey us to Golden Gate Park. We do not find

this world-famed park very different in appearance from other parks we

have seen. It is all nice--very nice; beautiful trees and plants and

shrubbery, velvety green grass and bright blooming flowers, fine

fountains and lakes of shimmering water. All this we see and enjoy, but

we have seen the like before, time and time again. Some are bold enough

to so express themselves, and it catches Brother Perkins’ ear, who

good-naturedly says, “My dear friends, there is but one Golden Gate Park

in all the world. There are 1040 acres here of as fine a park as there

is anywhere under the sun, and when we consider that 25 years ago this

was all a barren tract of drifting sand hills, that everything you see

growing has been planted and is kept alive and green and blooming by a

regular and almost constant application of water, when you remember

this, then you will feel and think that this park is a little different

from any other that you have seen.”

We had already commenced to think it was. Amongst groves of trees are

great inclosures containing native buffalo, elk, and deer, with so much

room to roam that they hardly feel the restraint of captivity. We enter

the immense aviaries, where many varieties of birds and squirrels flit

and chirp and scamper and chatter with all the freedom and unconcern of

an unlimited out-door life. As we leave this great cage with its

sprightly, vociferous occupants I hear Brother Reilly say, “McCarty has

got a ‘mash.’” I don’t quite know what it is that Brother McCarty has

got, but suppose it is some escaped animal or bird he has captured. I

turn and look, to find him surrounded by ladies of our party, who seem

to be trying to protect him from impending harm. Looking closer, I see

disappearing among the shrubbery McCarty’s “mash,” the cause of all the

trouble, and it is only the poor bedraggled duck of Sutro’s bath that

Brother McCarty had thought looked hungry, and our ladies had scared it

off. Brother Reagan would have recaptured it but for Miss Ella’s

restraining hand, and the curiosity is lost.

We are all pretty tired when at last the street cars are boarded and we

are on our way to the ferry. Some are going to return to our train,

which lies in Oakland, and some will remain in this city. Mrs. S. and

myself called on Mrs. David Chambers, who, with her son and daughter,

Willie and Effie, live on Mission Street. Years ago Mrs. Chambers and

her family were neighbors to us in West Chester, Pa. Willie, when but a

lad, was advised to try the climate of the Pacific coast for his health.

He found both health and lucrative employment. Ten years ago he sent

East for his mother and sister. We find them to-day enjoying excellent

health and nicely and comfortably fixed. We are given a warm, cordial

welcome and persuaded to spend the night with them.

In the evening after dinner Willie took me out to see the town. The

ladies declined to go, preferring to remain indoors and talk over old

times. Met Leslie Collom, a young gentleman friend of the Chambers’, but

he having other engagements could not go. Willie knows the town and I

follow where he leads. It has long been a desire with me to see San

Francisco’s

[Illustration: PARAPET, SUTRO HEIGHTS, SAN FRANCISCO.]

“_Chinatown_,” and for three hours we explore its darkness and its

mysteries. We do not attempt to go very far up and we don’t try to get

very far down--we steer about on a level; but we see enough to convince

me that Chinatown is all that it is said to be. You don’t have to ascend

into rickety, reeking lofts or descend into gloomy, foul dens to witness

their degradation, weakness, and misery; far back in dark, forbidding

alleys and bystreets, which make your flesh creep to traverse, you can

find them huddled together on benches and shelves, like chickens on a

roost, enveloped in disgusting, stupefying smoke.

On our way home we dropped into a private museum and saw one of the

rarest and most wonderful pieces of Japanese art in the world, a

realistic, life-size statue of a man carved from wood. It is claimed

that this work has been examined by learned scientific men, skilled in

anatomy and physiology, and not a line or lineament of the skin surface

of the human body has been omitted in this delicate, intricate carving.

The finger nails are there and all the fine lines that can be traced on

the inside of the hand and fingers. There are many lines on the surface

of the human body that require the aid of a magnifying glass to discern;

with the glass all these lines can be seen carved on this wonderful

piece of art. It is midnight when we get home, and, thoroughly tired, we

are soon in bed and in the land of dreams.

SATURDAY, MAY 22d.

Arose this morning about half-past six, and after breakfast, accompanied

by Leslie Collom, went to the Palace Hotel, where we met Brothers Wyman

and Layfield with their ladies. Brother Wyman had planned a trip to San

José and was expecting others of the party, but a number of them being

exhausted, worn out by an all night’s effort to explore the length,

breadth, height, and depth of Chinatown, were still in bed. The others

were too much interested in the beautiful city of Oakland and its

environments to come, for we hear the good people over there are showing

them a royal time, the municipal authorities giving them the freedom of

the city and the railway company the freedom of their lines. Finding

that no others are coming, we six board a Southern Pacific train on the

Coast Division, that extends from San Francisco to Monterey, bound for

San José, a ride of fifty miles. Mr. Collom is a very much appreciated

member of our little party, as he points out from time to time much that

interests us. As the train pulls out through the city he shows us the

church where Blanche Lamont and Minnie Williams were found murdered and

a little further on he points out the house where Durrant, the convicted

murderer had lived.

The road runs between the ocean and the bay and as we pass the station

of Ocean View a broad expanse of the Pacific greets our vision. At Baden

we get pretty close to the shore of the bay and follow it until we leave

Burlingame, a distance of about eight miles. We pass Menlo Park and Palo

Alto, when our attention is called by Mr. Collom to a group of

low-built, red-roofed, substantial-looking buildings, a short distance

from the road on our right, almost hidden from view by the trees that

cluster about them. “That,” says Mr. Collom, “is the renowned Leland

Stanford University, founded in 1885 by the multi-millionaire Leland

Stanford and his wife as a monument to the memory of their only child,

Leland, Jr., who had died a short time before. Eighty-three thousand

acres of land, valued at $20,000,000, was dedicated by a deed of trust

for the establishment of this institution. Mr. Stanford selected the

site for the location of the buildings, and the corner stone was laid in

1887, ten years ago. Last year the school register showed an enrollment

of 1100 pupils. Tuition is free, both males and females are admitted,

and the students are from all parts of America.”

As we leave Mountain View Station Mr. Collom suggests that we now give

the scenery on the left of the train our attention, at the same time

pointing out in the far distance a mountain peak, saying, “San José is

10 miles from here, and almost on a direct line with this point, and the

crest of that mountain, 30 miles away, is Mt. Hamilton, where the famous

Lick Observatory is located. It has an elevation of almost 4500 feet,

and if you only had time to go up there it is a trip worth taking.”

Leaving Santa Clara Station we pass near a large, fine park, among the

trees of which can be seen beautiful, substantial buildings. “That is

Santa Clara Female College,” said Mr. Collom.

The train now enters San José, and we alight at the station. A “Vendome”

hack is in waiting, which we enter, and are driven to that superb

hostelry, said to be one of the finest hotels in California. It is

situated in the centre of a beautiful 12-acre park, only a short

distance from the railroad station. Not having long to stay, after a few

minutes rest we bid the genial host good-day and start out for a little

walk.

“We will return by the narrow-gauge road,” says Brother Wyman, “if we

can find the station.” “A man told me a little while ago that it is only

five blocks over in this direction,” replies the Colonel, indicating

with his finger the way we should go. “Yes, the narrow-gauge road runs

through that part of the town, but I think you will find it farther than

five blocks,” remarks Mr. Collom. “Well, we want to see the town,

anyway, and we’ll take our time,” responded the Colonel. “This is a

pretty large town as well as a pretty old one, is it not, Mr. Collom?” I

ask. “Yes,” is the answer. “It was first settled when Santa Clara

Mission was founded, 120 years ago. It has now a population of about

25,000, and is the county seat of Santa Clara County, one of the richest

counties in agricultural products and fruits in the State. Because of

the wealth of fertility surrounding it San José has long been known as

the ‘Garden City’ of California.”

Sauntering along, with our eyes wide open for the sights of the town,

and keeping as much in the shade as possible, for the sun shines very

warm, we are getting all the enjoyment out of the situation possible;

but things are becoming less interesting. We are all hungry and the

ladies are becoming tired; we have already come seven blocks, and the

Colonel says, “We are nearly there; but to be sure of it I will ask this

man,” he adds, as a man leading a horse came around the corner toward

us. “My good man,” says the Colonel, “can you tell us how far it is to

the narrow-gauge railroad station from here?” “Yes, sir; ’bout five

blocks,” is the answer. “You’re sure it’s not ten?” retorts Brother

Wyman; but the man and horse, never stopping, were out of range, and the

shot missed the mark.

“I’m hungry,” exclaims Mrs. Wyman. “So am I,” I add. “I guess we can all

eat if we have a chance,” asserts Brother Wyman. “We’ll look for a

restaurant,” says the Colonel. A walk of two squares farther brings us

to the looked-for establishment, which we enter, and after partaking of

a substantial lunch, I ask the man at the desk, and I try to do it

without feeling or agitation, making just the plain, quiet inquiry,

“Will you tell us, please, how far it is to the narrow-gauge railroad

station?” “Five blocks straight ahead,” is the pleasant, quiet reply, as

he waves his hand in the direction we are to go. Not a word from one of

our party. I take a second look at the man to see if I can discover in

that pleasant countenance the least shadow of deception; it is as

innocent and guileless as the face of day.

We silently leave the place, and as we start up the street Mrs.

Layfield, taking the Colonel’s arm, gently asks, “John, are we going to

walk to San Francisco?” “Not if we can find the station,” says the

Colonel.

We enter the large store of a wine merchant to look around, and are

courteously treated by the gentlemanly proprietor, who gave the ladies

each a bottle of wine. We have come four blocks and a half since lunch

and are looking for the station, when suddenly the Colonel exclaims,

“There’s the road; I thought that last fellow was telling the truth.”

“But that’s not the road we want; that’s a trolley road,” replies

Brother Wyman. “So it is,” admits the Colonel; “but there’s a man; I’ll

ask him,” he adds, referring to a man in uniform who was leaning up

against the fence.

“For Lord’s sake,” pleads the Colonel, “will you tell us how far it is

to the narrow-gauge railroad station?” “About a square and a half,”

answers the man, smiling at the Colonel’s earnestness, “Are you sure

it’s no further than that?” asks the Colonel. “Quite sure,” is the

reply. “How soon can we get a train for San Francisco?” inquires Manager

Wyman. “In about an hour and a half. Where’re you from?” he answers and

asks at the same time. “From Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Where’s your

road go?” imitates Brother Wyman. The man laughs. “I’m unable to take

you home, for I don’t go that far,” he replies, “but I can take you

several miles and back through as fine a fruit country as you ever saw.

I am waiting to relieve the man on the car you see coming, and in a few

minutes I will be going back. The fare is only a nickel,” he adds, as a

hint that we musn’t expect to “deadhead” it.

We conclude to go, to pass the time away, for we can easily get back in

time to catch our train. So we get aboard the car, pay our nickel, and

ride for several miles to a place called the Willows, which is the

terminus of the road. Here is located an immense cherry orchard, where

the crop is being gathered and crated ready for shipment to Eastern

markets.

We are invited to help ourselves; it is half an hour before our car

starts back and we have time to accept the invitation. The ripest

cherries are the ones the packers reject, so we assisted the packers for

several minutes picking out the ripe cherries and packing them while the

packers packed the ones we didn’t pick. When we got tired of packing we

quit picking, and thanking the good people for the treat, we board the

car again and are soon spinning up the line among the apricot and cherry

orchards, the trees loaded with fruit.

Arriving at our destination, we bid our friend, the conductor, goodbye,

and in a few minutes we reach the much-inquired-for “narrow-gauge

railroad station,” where we wait half an hour for the train. We find the

track composed of three rails; and as though to demonstrate to us the

use of the third rail, a freight train comes along made up of both

narrow and broad-gauge cars. It looks odd, for it is something we had

never seen before, and as the strange combination passes down the road

the Colonel remarks, “There is nothing but what we may expect to see.”

In due time our train pulls into the station and we are soon seated in a

comfortable narrow-gauge coach and speeding toward Oakland. There are

many beautiful towns and residences located on this line, and as we draw

nearer its termination this fact becomes more noticeable, the town of

Alameda, through which we pass, possessing all the loveliness of a

fairyland with its palatial residences and magnificent lawns.

Oakland, the “Athens of the Pacific,” is reached at last, and knowing

how fascinating and grand it is and how royally our people are being

treated, I am loath to leave; but our friends on the other side await

our coming, and bidding the manager, the Colonel, and the ladies good

night, Mr. Collom and I hie away to the ferry and across the bay, nor

stop until we are seated in Mrs. Chambers’ cozy dining room, appeasing

our appetites while recounting the incidents of the day. After dinner

Willie took his mother, Mrs. Shaw, and myself out to give us a view of

the city lights from “Park Heights.” A ride on the cable cars and

several changes brought us in about forty minutes to the “Heights.”

From this high eminence we look down on a sight of unusual novelty and

grandeur. Spread out far beneath us is almost the entire city of San

Francisco, but the buildings are not visible, not one, only the millions

of bright, star-like lights that enable you to trace the streets and

mark the squares, and that twinkle and gleam from beneath like unto the

gems that beam down upon you from above. We look up, through a cloudless

atmosphere, and behold a firmament filled with brilliant, glittering

gems; we look down, and see what almost seems a reflection of what we

see above. Man, we know, is the author of all this grandeur that we see

beneath, but as to the Author of that magnificence far above we can but

speculate.

Willie sees we are growing serious and says we need a change, so he

leads us around to the entrance that admits to the scenic railway,

chutes, haunted swing, and skating rink, where for an hour we have a

world of fun; so pleased are the ladies with the toboggan and the chutes

that it is with difficulty we get them started home. We have had another

full day, and when at eleven o’clock I find myself in bed, I discover

that I am very tired. After the excitement and exertions of the day are

over, when the tension and strain of over-taxed nerves and muscles relax

and reaction comes, then you understand in its fullest measure the

meaning of the expression, “I’m tired.”

SUNDAY, MAY 23d.

Feeling that we need rest, and finding the full enjoyment of our need in

the pleasant home of Mrs. Chambers, we do not go out to-day until it is

time to leave

[Illustration: JOHN H. REAGAN, OF THE COMMITTEE.]

for the ferry, from which the boat will bear us to Oakland and to our

train, which is scheduled to leave this evening at seven o’clock.

Willie’s engagements had called him from home in the early morning. Mrs.

Chambers, Miss Effie, and Mr. Collom accompany Mrs. Shaw and myself to

Oakland and take dinner with us in the “Lafayette”; they are warm in

their praises of the comfort and luxury of our train and our enjoyable

manner of traveling.

The hour of departure is drawing near and the many friends we have made

are gathered around to see us off. Mrs. T. E. Gaither, a former

Pennsylvanian, now a resident of Oakland, presents each one of the

tourists with a bouquet of fine roses gathered from her splendid,

spacious lawn of ever-blooming sweetness. The inevitable “All aboard” is

shouted, the last hand shake is given, and our train leaves behind

another garden spot of grandeur.

So far as present indications point, our people have all made good use

of their time and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. The kind brothers, of

Golden Gate and El Capitan Divisions and the many good people of Oakland

and San Francisco who contributed so much toward our pleasure are at the

present time subjects of the warmest praise and most flattering

comments, as incidents connected with our visit are being talked over

and discussed. I hear Brother Springer telling in a pleasing and

animated manner of a visit he and some others made to the palatial

residence and grounds of Lucius Booth, Esq. “Mr. Booth gave us,” says

Brother Springer, “the freedom of his magnificent lawn and park, that

were beautified and adorned with all kinds, varieties, and colors of

plants, fruits, and flowers. We were shown by Mr. Booth what he told us

is the greatest curiosity to be found, located in his park, two strong

natural springs, only eighteen inches apart; the flow of water from each

is about equal. From one spring gurgles a stream of sulphur water,

pungent to the smell and taste, with no indications of iron in its

composition, while from the other flows a stream strongly impregnated

with iron, but with no sign of a particle of sulphur in its ingredients.

It is a puzzle to the scientific world, and naturalists pronounce it a

‘marvelous freak of nature.’”

I hear many of our people speak in the highest terms of Brother R. L.

Myers, secretary and treasurer of Golden Gate Division 364, who devoted

himself so faithfully and earnestly to the interests of our party.

Brothers Maxwell, Reagan, Waddington, and a number of others also speak

in glowing terms of the courtesy shown them by members of the Board of

Trade.

We leave Oakland at 7.40 Pacific time (10.40 Eastern), attached to a

five-car train called the “Portland Flyer,” which makes the trip from

Oakland to Portland every five days. Engine 1793, in charge of Engineer

J. Edwards, is drawing the train, which is conducted by D. H. McIntire;

the brakemen are W. J. Mitchell and H. B. Stewart. A ride of 26 miles

brings us to Port Costa, where the engine and ten cars are run on to the

ferryboat “Salina” and transported across the strait of Carquicons to

the old town of Benicia, at one time the capital of California.

The “Salina” is the largest ferryboat ever constructed, being 424 feet

long, 116 feet wide, and 18 feet deep; its capacity is forty-four cars

and an engine, regardless of size or weight. So smoothly does the

“Salina” run that there is not a tremor, jar, or motion to tell you she

is moving. Engine 1793 will run us to Davis, a distance of 77 miles.

It has grown dark, a matter we always regret, for we never get tired

watching the fleeting, ever-varying landscape. With prospects of

mountains for to-morrow, we seek our little bed.

MONDAY, MAY 24th.

Arose early this morning while it was hardly yet light, not wishing to

miss any of the grand scenery that I know we must be nearing. Very few

of our people are up, and making my way to the smoker I find the

conductor who is running the train. He is a newcomer, an entire

stranger, but I find him a very agreeable gentleman. “Where are we,

captain?” I inquire. “Well,” he answers pleasantly, “you are on the

famous Shasta Route of the Southern Pacific Railroad, bound from San

Francisco, Cal., to Portland, Ore., a distance of 772 miles. You have

traveled about 200 miles in your sleep. We left Red Bluff a short time

ago and are now approaching Redding, 260 miles from San Francisco and

over 500 from Portland.” “Where did you take charge of our train,

please, and what is the number of your engine and the names of your

crew?” I ask; “I’m trying to keep a little record of things as we go

along,” I add by way of explanation, as he looks askance at me. “I took

your train at Red Bluff; have engine 1769, Engineer J. Clark. I can’t

tell you the fireman’s name; my name is G. E. Morgan, and my brakemen

are J. Cook and J. Duncan. We take you to Ashland, a run of 206 miles.

It will be necessary for us to get a helper engine shortly, for we have

uphill work through here.”

“What stream of water is this, captain?” I ask, as I look out of the

window and see a large surging, gurgling, dashing stream of water that

seems to be rushing past at a mile a minute gait. “That is the

Sacramento River, a stream whose course you ascend for 307 miles and

cross eighteen times between Sacramento and Sisson,” he answers, rising

and leaving the car as the train slows up and stops at a station.

I follow, get off, and look around. On the right the leaping, tumultuous

waters of the Sacramento throw spray in your face as you stand and watch

them churning and foaming in resistless might as they sweep madly onward

toward the bay; on the left is the station and town of Redding. Several

of our people are up and out on the ground. We can see that the town is

a thriving business-looking place, and the station is a neat,

substantial building. Our engine is taking water and the men are loading

the tender with wood. “Why do you burn wood instead of coal in your

engines?” I ask Conductor Morgan, who is standing near. “For the sake of

economy, I suppose,” he replies. “Wood is plenty and cheap, while coal

is very scarce and expensive.”

As we continue on our way I am reminded of Conductor Morgan’s assertion

that “wood is plenty,” for we see thousands of cords piled up along the

railroad track ready for use or awaiting shipment, and all the hills and

slopes and mountain sides within our range of vision are covered with

immense forests of pine and spruce. It is wild, picturesque mountain

scenery and we all enjoy it.

Our train stops again, and looking out we see a name above the little

station door that makes us think of home. It is the beloved, familiar

Chester county name of Kennet. We notice that it is spelled with only

one “t,” but it is “Kennett,” all the same. Stepping off, I see them

attaching a helper engine and get its number, 1902.

As we start again I step on board, and entering the smoker encounter

Brakeman Cook. “I suppose we have some climbing to do,” I remark; “I see

you’ve got an extra engine.” “Yes,” he responds, “from here to Sisson is

61 miles, and in that distance we make an ascent of 2884 feet, at one

point having a grade of 168 feet to the mile.” Passing Castle Crag we

see in the distance its bald, bare bluffs and peaks of rugged, towering

granite, and nestling in the shadow of the ridge can be seen its

picturesque hotel, a resort where those needing mountain air for health,

or mountain solitude for repose or pleasure, can find a safe, secure

retreat.

From this point we catch our first glimpse of grand Mt. Shasta, 60 miles

away. We stop at Dunsmuir twenty minutes for our engines to renew their

supply of wood and water, and several passengers from the “Portland

Flyer,” taking advantage of the delay, went into a nearby hotel and got

lunch. A boy on the station platform with a large four-pound trout that

he had just caught, and which was still flapping its tail, attracts the

attention of Brothers Sloane and Haas, who want the train held four

hours while they go fishing, but the proposition is voted down. A

beautiful large lawn slopes from the Dunsmuir Hotel to the railroad, on

which tame mountain deer are browsing. Three miles from Dunsmuir we

reach Mossbrae Falls and Shasta Soda Springs. Our train stops, and with

cups, mugs, jugs, bottles, buckets, and pitchers we make a break for the

fountain. There is plenty of water there, and oh, how cold and sparkling

and invigorating it is! We drink our fill and fill our vessels and load

the train, but it would not be missed had we taken ten thousand times as

much. A roofed and stone-walled well that is inexhaustible is fed by

hundreds of little streams and rivulets and jets that flow and spurt

from the moss-covered mountain side, while here and there a spring more

powerful than the rest sends its slender column full fifty feet in the

air and then descends in a shower of mist around you.

Where is the artist that can picture the beauty of Mossbrae Falls, a

mighty mountain side covered to its summit with giant pines, terminating

at its base in a sheer wall a hundred feet in height, its face covered

and festooned with bright green moss, through which descends in a

silvery sheen of spray the outpour from a thousand gushing springs? From

here to Sisson, a distance of 25 miles, our engines have trying uphill

work. There are mountains everywhere, mountains ahead of us and

mountains behind us, mountains above us and mountains below us,

mountains to the right and mountains to the left, but they are not the

bald, bare, treeless kind, for everywhere you look, except when you cast

your eye to Shasta’s crown, you will see a magnificent growth of pines

and cedars, shrubbery and ferns. You have always to look up or else look

down. Looking up you can scarcely ever see the pine-clad summits, for

your eye rests on the top of the car window before it reaches half way

up the mountain side; looking down you are all right, if you don’t get

dizzy, for in many places you can look down upon the tops of the tallest

trees a thousand feet below.

With breath of flame and lungs of iron those powerful iron steeds puff

and cough and climb, and the long ten-car train, following their

laborious lead, winds and worms in and out and around those narrow

paths, traced and hewn in the mighty Sierra Nevada’s rugged sides by

persistent resistless Progress, ever guided, ever urged by the

indomitable will, restless perseverance, mechanical ingenuity, and

scientific skill of man. We climb and climb and worm and wind until

Sisson’s heights are reached, at an elevation of 3555 feet, and then we

rest awhile--rest to feast our eyes on Shasta’s indescribable majesty

and grandeur.

This is the nearest point the railroad runs to that gigantic mound, and

it is twelve miles on an air line from where we sit and stand to the

glistening, snow-crowned crest of that mighty monarch. Why we should so

sensibly feel his presence and he so far away is a conundrum no one

asks; we only look and feel, and silently wonder what it is we feel. It

must be awe, for that which is great, we are told, inspires awe, and

Shasta is very, very great. Fourteen thousand four hundred and forty-two

feet is the estimated height of this colossal giant that pokes his apex

in the sky. Were it possible to grade him down or slice him off to

one-half his height he would make a plateau 75 miles in circumference

and 25 miles across; but it is time to go. The manager says, “Git on,”

and bidding adieu to Shasta we “git.”

One mile from Sisson Conductor Morgan points to a little mountain

spring that wouldn’t slake the thirst of a nanny goat, and says,

“There’s the head waters of the Sacramento River, which is 307 miles

from where it empties into the bay.” The road now is making some

wonderful curves and bends to get around insurmountable heights and

across unbridgeable chasms. We have just finished a run of about eight

miles, described almost a complete S, and are only one mile and a half

from where we started. At Edgewood helper engine No. 1902 is detached,

for it is now down grade to Hornbrook, a distance of 40 miles, with a

drop at places of 170 feet to the mile.

At Hornbrook engine No. 1907 was attached to assist to Siskiyou, a

distance of 24 miles, with an ascent of 190 feet to the mile. As we

approach State Line we cross the old Portland stage trail, and at 3.03

P. M. Eastern (12.03 Pacific) time we cross the State Line and enter

Oregon, having traveled 1136 miles through the State of California. We

pass Gregory Siding, where two freight wrecks had recently occurred. The

wrecking crew are still on the ground, having evidently just put engine

No. 1503 on the track, for it is standing there as we pass, covered with

mud. We here have in view Pilot Rock, a great bare bluff that stands out

and alone like a huge sentinel guarding the gateway of the valley, and

famous in the early history of this locality as the scene of stirring

Indian warfare. Manager and Mrs. Wyman are on the engine enjoying an

unobstructed view of this marvelous mountain ride. We have just had our

last look at California scenery, for rounding a bend as we pass Pilot

Rock, the last view of majestic Shasta bursts upon our vision, reposing

in sublime and solemn grandeur 50

[Illustration: HERCULES’ PILLARS, COLUMBIA RIVER OREGON.]

miles away. Another curve, the picture fades, the curtain falls, and

exit California.

Still climbing the rugged sides of Siskiyou, and drawing nearer and

closer to its summit, our train, as though despairing of ever reaching

the top, plunges suddenly into its rocky ribs. The depths of despair can

be no darker than the gloomy obscurity of this yawning hole in the

mountain wall; for 3700 feet through “Tunnel 13” our train pierces the

heart of Siskiyou before emerging into daylight on the opposite side.

Here the summit of the grade is reached at an elevation of 4130 feet.

Leaving engine No. 1907 behind we now commence the descent of the

northern slope of the Siskiyou Mountain, amidst scenery of beauty and

grandeur. Arriving at Ashland 5.10 P. M. Eastern (2.10 P. M. Pacific)

time, a stop of twenty minutes is given and a change of engines is made.

Bidding goodbye to Conductor Morgan and his crew, who deserve our

highest praise for the able manner in which our train was handled, and

who did much toward making the trip interesting by the useful

information imparted, we speed on our way again with engine 1361 in

charge of C. C. Case and fired by Robert McCuan; Conductor Edward

Houston, Baggagemaster R. W. Jameson, Brakeman H. Ballard, who take us

to Portland, 341 miles. Leaving Ashland, we pass a number of gold mines

in operation on the rugged hillside, and swing around into Rogue River

Valley, a rich farming and fruit-growing district, producing, it is

said, some of the finest fruits grown in Oregon. A stop of a few minutes

is made at Grant’s Pass, attaching engine No. 1759 to assist up the hill

to West Fork, 47 miles. Twenty minutes is allowed at Glendale to enable

the passengers of the “Portland Flyer” and the crew to partake of lunch

at “The Hotel Glendale.” Soon after leaving Glendale we enter a wild

ravine, inclosed by towering hills covered to their summits with great

pine timber. “Mr. Jameson,” I ask of the baggagemaster, an agreeable old

gentleman, “has this wild spot a name?” “This is Cow Creek Cañon; the

stream of water you see is Cow Creek, which runs the entire length of

the cañon, 35 miles,” is the answer.

The farther we penetrate this narrow gorge the more are we impressed

with the solitude of its mighty pine-clad sides, that commence at the

creek on one hand and at the railroad on the other and rise upward in a

steep slope for over 2000 feet, covered to the very crests with giant

Oregon pines. We arrive at the little station of West Fork, the only

station in the cañon, and engine No. 1759 is detached and sidetracked.

There is gold hidden in these mighty hills, and here and there we see a

mine, the principal one, the Victoria, being located near West Fork. Two

miles north of this point we are shown where occurred in 1890 the

largest landslide ever known in the history of railroads. An immense

section of the mountain side becoming loosened, slid down into the

bottom of the cañon, burying 900 feet of the railroad to the depth of

100 feet, and damming the creek, formed a lake 60 feet deep and one mile

long. The buried track was abandoned and the road built across the creek

along the foot of the opposite sloping wall of the cañon. We can plainly

see the great mass of earth and rocks and trees that cover the buried

track, and which forms a striking instance of what might occur at any

time to roads that run through such mountain cañons. It is growing dark

as we emerge from the fastness and solitude of this Oregon wilderness,

but can easily discern that it is a change for the better, for we enter

a valley teeming with fields of waving grain and orchards of thrifty

trees. We stop at Roseburg for ten minutes, where another change of

engines is made, and when we start on our way again at 12.10 A. M.

Eastern (9.10 P. M. Pacific) time, it is quite dark.

Leaving Roseburg, we have engine No. 1355, with Engineer Montgomery at

the throttle. Having a grade for 15 miles between Drains and Cottage

Grove, we get Engineer Connelly, with engine No. 1516, as helper.

Conductor Houston and his crew continue with us to Portland.

TUESDAY, MAY 25th.

Arrived at Portland this morning at 8.00 Eastern (5.00 Pacific) time,

and after breakfast we met Morton Young, Esq., of Portland. Mr. Young is

a member of Mt. Hood Division No. 91, O. R. C., and an earnest and

enthusiastic member of the order, though not in railway service at the

present time, having been fortunate in real estate speculation and able

now to retire from active business cares. Brother Young kindly escorts a

number of our party over the East Side Electric Railway to Oregon City,

which is a pleasant ride of 14 miles. We climb the great wooden stairway

leading up to the bluffs that overlook the city and obtain a magnificent

view of all the surrounding country. Looking down upon the falls of the

Willamette River, we are impressed with the grandeur of this Niagara of

the Pacific. Descending from this alluring point of observation, we

visit the great electric plant located at the falls, deriving its power

from the waters of the Willamette and supplying Oregon City, Portland,

and all the outlying districts with light and power. From the windows of

the power house we obtain a much nearer view of the falls. The

Willamette River at this point is about half a mile in width and the

falls, in the form of a semi-circle, extend from shore to shore with an

average height of 40 feet. It is estimated that the horse-power capacity

of this great volume of leaping, dashing, roaring water is second in the

world to that of Niagara. The great power house, with walls of solid

concrete, is located on the west side of the river, just below the

falls, and has a capacity of 12,000 horse power. It is owned and

operated by the Portland General Electric Company, a corporation

organized in 1892 with a capital of $4,250,000.

We cannot remain long in one place and are unable to give this

interesting city the attention we would like, but we can see as we

traverse one of its principal thoroughfares that it is up to date in its

accommodations and improvements. We pass the Electric Hotel, and from

its appearance we are sure it is first class in every respect, and had

we the opportunity or occasion to partake of its hospitality we are

confident we would be well taken care of by the proprietors who manage

the establishment, Mr. and Mrs. W. M. Robinson. We visit the fish market

and are interested in the salmon just brought in, that range in weight

from five to fifty pounds, the streams through this part of the country

abounding with this species of fish. The ladies, intent on

[Illustration: THE COLUMBIA RIVER.]

procuring souvenirs, visit a number of the stores as we go along. On the

river banks are located numerous mills and factories. Arriving at the

point where we take the electric line for Portland and finding a car

waiting, we get aboard and start again on the delightful 14-mile trolley

ride. Among the passengers in the car is a lady whose pleasant

countenance invites confidence, and Mrs. Shaw has entered into

conversation with her. I am busy looking off across the country,

enjoying the beauty of the landscape, and have given their talk no

attention. Brother Young has just pointed out Clackamas Heights and is

now trying to show us the snow crown of Mt. Hood, but his Honor is so

mixed up with the vapory clouds that hang around the horizon that he

cannot be located. A nudge from Mrs. S. invites my attention, and as I

turn she introduces her new-found friend, Mrs. Robinson, of the Electric

Hotel, Oregon City. Mrs. Robinson is a bright conversationalist and

entertained us with some facts about the city and its surroundings.

“Do you like Oregon City?” some one asks. “I not only like it,” answers

Mrs. Robinson, “but I am proud of it. It is a town with a history. The

site of Oregon City was first located in the year 1829 by Dr. John

McLoughlin, an agent of the Hudson Bay Company, who established a

trading post here. It was here a few years later that the Methodists

built the first Protestant church erected on the Pacific slope. The

Oregon _Spectator_, the first newspaper published on the Pacific coast,

was printed here in 1846 on a press brought from the Sandwich Islands.

We have a climate,” she continued, “that never goes to extremes; we

seldom have freezing weather, and snow, if it comes, only lasts a few

hours. I have gathered roses in my yard on Christmas, for very rarely

the cold is severe enough to destroy our flowers. We have not grown so

rapidly as some of the younger cities of the Northwest, but we have all

the natural advantages and facilities to insure and encourage progress

and development. We have excellent graded schools that are well

attended, and as an evidence of the educational importance of our city,

the Willamette Valley Chautauqua Association holds its annual convention

or assembly at Gladstone Park, not far from Oregon City. These meetings

are largely attended, thousands coming from all parts of the Pacific

coast. The people will commence to gather for these meetings next week,

and I expect we will have our hands full; but here’s where I get off,”

and rising as the car stops she bids us goodday and steps off.

We have reached Portland, and after proceeding a few blocks under the

guidance of Brother Young, we leave the electric road and board a cable

car for Portland Heights, a high eminence overlooking the city and

commanding a magnificent view of all the surrounding country for many

miles. We gaze down upon three rivers, the Columbia, Willamette, and

Clackamas, and follow with our eyes their sinuous windings as their

waters gleam and glimmer in the sun. We can plainly see the hoary crests

of Mt. Adams and Saint Helens, but clouds still hovering on the eastern

horizon keep Mt. Hood hidden from our sight. With the perversity of

human nature, that is always hankering for what is beyond its reach, we

want a look at Mt. Hood. “We came up here to see it,” says Mrs.

Dougherty, “and if

[Illustration: J. P. O’BRIEN, SUPERINTENDENT RAIL LINES, OREGON RAILROAD

AND NAVIGATION COMPANY.]

it’s only a wee glimpse I want it.” So do we all, and we keep our gaze

riveted on the spot where Brother Young says it will appear, if it shows

at all.

“Mt. Hood is 70 miles away,” says Brother Young, “but on a perfectly

clear day a person from here can see it very plainly.” The clouds

showing no inclination to favor us, we descend from the Heights, get

aboard a car, and start for the station, where we arrive about 1.30 P.

M., and find the most of our people gathered there; they also have spent

a very pleasant morning taking in the sights of Portland and gathering

souvenirs.

Brothers Maxwell and Reagan, of the excursion executive committee, have

not been idle, but calling upon Superintendent J. P. O’Brien, of the

Oregon River and Navigation Company Rail Lines, have arranged for an

excursion this afternoon up the banks of the Columbia River to Cascade

Locks and return.

Getting lunch at a near-by restaurant, we are soon all ready for the

start. Our three sleepers are attached to a regular train that leaves at

2.45 P. M. “Are all our people here?” asks Manager Wyman, surveying the

crowd. “There are four or five that are absent, I believe,” answers

Secretary Maxwell, as he nips the northeast corner off a plug of

tobacco. “Sloane and Haas are not here, I know,” speaks out Brother

Terry, “for they went out with a boy in a boat to watch the salmon shoot

the falls of the Willamette and haven’t got back yet.” “Time’s up; can’t

wait; all aboard,” shouts the conductor, and away we go, bound for a

trip of 45 miles through the marvelous and unsurpassed scenery of the

Columbia River. Superintendent O’Brien is with us, his private car being

attached to the train. Chief Dispatcher E. N. Campbell, C. R. Holcomb,

Esq., and Brother M. Young also accompany the party. L. J. Hicks,

photographer, of Portland, is along in his professional capacity; we are

also accompanied by the Portland Hotel orchestra, comprised of the

following gentlemen: G. H. Parsons, J. Seltenraick, F. Boyd, William

Livinston, Prof. E. F. Fleck, who render admirable and pleasing music.

Many are the expressions of delight as we catch fleeting glimpses of the

wonderful scenery. “You will have a better view on the return trip,”

advises Mr. O’Brien, “for we will then run slow and make an occasional

stop.” Arriving at Cascade Locks, we are given twenty minutes to visit

the great locks which the Government is about completing, at a cost of

nearly $1,500,000, to enable vessels to reach the highest navigable

point of this most remarkable river.

Time is up to start on our return trip, and reaching the train we find

O. R. & N. engine No. 73 coupled to the train, with Engineer A. Curtis

and Fireman Jo. Wilson in the cab and Conductor J. A. Allison standing

near ready to move off as soon as we are ready to go. In a minute we are

all on, and the train goes slowly down the great Columbia, whose

current, always rapid, is augmented and increased twofold by the melting

snows in the mountains, and surges past in an angry, turbid torrent.

From the rushing waters of the mighty river on one side we look up on

the other side to the towering cliffs and crags and peaks that rise in

majesty and grandeur 3000 feet in the air, their summits fringed with

pines that look like ferns as they wave against the sky, while here and

there, from out those walls of rock, mountain streams gush forth, and

falling hundreds of

[Illustration: MT. ADAMS, WASHINGTON.]

[Illustration: MT. ST. HELENS, FROM PORTLAND.]

feet, their waters descend in showers of rainbow-tinted spray.

“Well,” remarks Mr. O’Brien, as he sees we are almost speechless with

rapture and delight, “that’s something you don’t see in Pennsylvania or

Jersey every day in the year.” “No,” I respond, “nor anywhere else in

the world on any day of the year.” “I really believe there is no scenery

in the whole wide world more intensely absorbing than your Columbia

River scenery, Mr. O’Brien,” says Mrs. Mattson, and the Doctor, standing

near, smiles down upon her his approval. “We will now turn our attention

to something more practical than towering mountains and leaping

waterfalls,” says Mr. O’Brien, as the train comes to a stop. “We will

show you how our salmon are coaxed out of the water.”

Leading the way, we follow him down the river bank to its edge and on to

a platform or wharf extending for several feet into the water, where a

large wheel is slowly revolving that looks something like the side wheel

of an old-fashioned ferryboat or the large overshot water wheel of an

old-time sawmill, except that it turns backward, and as the scoops or

buckets rise out of the water they bring the fish along, should any of

them be so unfortunate as to get caught. When the scoop rises to a

certain height the fish slip out into an incline trough or chute

(something like the “boys” had fun with at Sutro’s) and are dumped into

a bin under the platform. “We are not catching many at the present

time,” says the man who is operating the trap, “the river is too high

and muddy and the fish are not running very lively.” Opening a trap

door, he allows us to peer down into the bin, where we see a lot of fish

of various sizes. He kindly gave us several for our dining car, an act

we all highly appreciate.

We next stop at Multnomah Falls, where one of those mountain streams

pouring over the face of a cliff has a sheer descent of 950 feet. Here

the party is arranged in a group on a grassy slope, with the falls as

background, and photographed by Mr. Hicks. “Mr. Hicks, will all those

beautiful rainbows we see there show in the pictures you have taken?”

asks Mrs. Matthews of the photographer. “No,” replies Mr. Hicks, “that

is beyond our art. No camera will picture nor can artist paint the

gorgeous coloring and beautifully blended tints that you see in the

dashing spray of Multnomah Falls.” “I don’t know about that,” answers

Brother Mart. Houston, who is always of a practical turn of mind. “I

believe George Cope, of Chester County, could do it, for a man who can

paint the pretty spots of a trout or all the colors of autumnal foliage

and never miss a tint can come pretty close to Multnomah Falls.” “He

ought to come out here and paint it, then,” responds Brother Bob Foulon;

“for a reproduction of Multnomah Falls on canvas as we see it to-day

could not be surpassed by any painting in the world.” We all echo

Brother Foulon’s sentiments, and feel as we get aboard the train that it

has been our privilege to look upon a scene of unequaled loveliness and

grandeur.

We again stop and are photographed at the Pillar, an enormous column of

rock standing alone between the river and the railroad, upon the summit

of which is growing a great pine tree, 1000 feet in the air. We get back

to the depot about 7.30 and find McDonald has a sumptuous dinner

awaiting us, which we all

[Illustration: MULTNOMAH FALLS, OREGON.]

heartily enjoy. Mr. O’Brien and Brother Young take dinner with us, and

our people show their appreciation of the courtesy and kindness of these

gentlemen by giving them three rousing cheers. After supper Manager E.

Lyons, of the Union Depot, escorts a number of the “boys” to the

luxurious quarters of the Commercial Club, where we are royally

entertained for three hours, returning to the train about midnight.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 26th.

Everybody is astir in good time this morning, for we are soon to bid

adieu to this great city of the far Northwest, where we have been so

kindly treated and royally entertained. The warmhearted brothers of Mt.

Hood Division No. 91, O. R. C., along with the officers of the different

transportation companies, will long be remembered for their generous

manner toward us. “Views of Portland, Oregon, and the Columbia River,” a

beautiful pamphlet souvenir issued by Mt. Hood Division, was presented

to each member of our party, and is highly prized. In connection with

the pamphlet is “a ticket of welcome” of coupon form, and is quite

lengthy, but all right, the first clause of which reads, “This contract

with coupons attached entitles the holder to a hearty welcome and a

first-class reception on entering the State of Oregon, and the

courtesies of the Southern Pacific Company, the Oregon Railroad and

Navigation Company, and the Northern Pacific Railway.

R. KOEHLER, E. P. ROGERS,

General Manager S. P. A. G. P. A., S. P.

E. MCNEILL, B. CAMPBELL,

Pres. & Mgr. O. R. & N. Traffic Mgr. O. R. & N.

W. H. HULBURT, J. W. KENDRICK,

G. P. A., O. R. & N. Co. Genl. Mgr. N. P. Ry.

J. H. HANNAFORD, C. S. FEE,

Genl. Traffic Mgr. N. P. Ry. G. P. A., N. P. Ry.”

There are five clauses in the contract. The last clause reads, “The

Reception Committee will not be responsible for the loss of any diamonds

(kings and queens excepted), baggage, meals, or sleep on this run.

J. M. POORMAN, J. W. CROCKER,

Sec. & Treas. C. C.

“MT. HOOD DIVISION No. 91, O. R. C.”

There are six coupons, each reading to and fro over a line between

different points of interest, and bearing at the bottom the name of the

superintendent over whose line it reads. The whole is a nicely gotten up

affair and a valued addition to our collection of souvenirs.

We leave here at 8.45 A. M., and the hour of departure being at hand (as

is always the case), a number of our new-found friends are at hand to

see us off. All along our route we have been constantly reminding the

people who we are by a yell we give in concert, with a vim that would

drown the racket of a college football team; and now, gathered in a

bunch, we let go:--

“Who are we? O. R. C.

“Pennsylvania employé.

“Rah! rah! boom--ah!” The ladies of our party are ready and let go:--

“Who are we? Who are we?

“The wives and the daughters of the O. R. C.

“Rah! rah! boom--ah!”

And now the cooks and waiters gathered at the windows and on the

platform of the “Lafayette” let go:--

“Who are we? P. P. C.

[Illustration: ALONG THE COLUMBIA RIVER.]

“The cooks and the waiters of the O. R. C.

“Rah! rah! boom--ah!”

With all this din ringing in their ears the good people of Portland see

our train pulling away from their beautiful station. As they wave their

adieus we pass from their sight on a run of 146 miles over the Northern

Pacific Railway to Tacoma, Wash. N. P. engine No. 617 is drawing us,

managed by Engineer F. W. Bockerman and fired by H. Deam. The conductor

is Henry Buckley and the brakemen are H. Harkins and Tom Martin; Mr.

Martin is a young man from Chester County, Pennsylvania, who has come

West to seek his fortune, and has accepted the position of a brakeman

with the expectation of rising in the ranks, and we wish him success.

From Portland to Goble, 39 miles, we follow the Columbia River, which is

very high, and much of the low land is submerged. We can see buildings

surrounded by water that have been vacated, and we are reminded of the

El Paso flood. We look beyond this desolating waste of water and in the

far distance can see the glistening summits of Mt. Hood and Saint

Helens. Reaching Goble, our train is run on to the great ferry steamer

“Tacoma,” transported across the Columbia River to Kalama, and into the

State of Washington. Leaving Kalama, we pass through a fine farming

country, where agricultural industries seem to be extensively carried

on. After passing Centralia, which is a flourishing town of about 3000

inhabitants, we have a splendid view of Mt. Rainier for several miles

while we sweep across the Yelm prairie. A short stop is made at Roy to

pick up Brothers B. W. Johnson and S. H. Ewalt, of Mt. Tacoma Division

No. 249, O. R. C., who are members of committee on entertainment, and

who promise to show us the city of Tacoma after our arrival there. The

country through here seems to be rich in natural resources, for

bordering the fertile valleys can be seen heavily timbered hills and

here and there a coal mine in operation.

Arriving in Tacoma at 4.40 P. M. Eastern (1.40 P. M. Pacific), we are

immediately taken out by Brothers Johnson and Ewalt to see the town and

are joined by A. F. Haines, passenger agent of Northern Pacific Railway,

Capt. A. Thompson, of the Portland _Oregonian_, C. P. Ferry, Esq. (who

bears the distinguished title of “Duke of Tacoma”), and a member of the

Chamber of Commerce, L. Ceasar, Esq., president of Tacoma Bank and a

member of the Board of Trade. The first place we visit is the County

Court House. “This,” says Mr. Ferry, “is one of the finest buildings in

Tacoma, which, you know, is the county seat of Pierce County. We had to

have a court house and thought we would build a good one; it cost

$400,000.” We amused ourselves looking through the museum located in

this building, many of the relics and works of art having been

contributed by Mr. Ferry, who collected many of them in foreign

countries through which he has traveled. We spent half an hour in the

Court House and then entered into a street car, which took us a

much-enjoyed ride through the city to Point Defiance Park.

To form a true conception of a Washington forest one has but to visit

this wonderful park. Such majestic trees we never saw before, many of

them six and eight feet in diameter and estimated to be 300 feet in

height, great

[Illustration: C STREET, TACOMA, WASHINGTON.]

[Illustration: BRIDGE, POINT DEFIANCE PARK, TACOMA, WASHINGTON.]

pines and cedars, natural growth of the soil, and amongst them, growing

in wild profusion, great ferns six feet in height. In inclosures can be

seen deer, elk, and bear, natives of the wilds. Through this great

forest park bridle paths lead in all directions, and about 80 miles of

bicycle track is built. The park is situated on a high eminence

overlooking Puget Sound. By a series of steep paths and stairs we

descend to the beach. The sound is a great body of water with hardly a

ripple on its surface. A half hour is spent here gathering pebbles and

shells, and then we head for the smelter, half a mile up the beach.

A boathouse furnishes rowboats for those who want them, and a number

avail themselves of this opportunity to avoid a tiresome walk. Those who

walk ascend again the steps and steep pathway, and going along the

forest walk they arrive at the smelter the same time as those who rowed.

We are taken through the great hot, smoky building and shown the

treatment ore receives in all its stages from the smelter to the

crucible. This immense plant, owned and operated by the Tacoma Smelting

and Refining Company, handles gold, silver, and copper ore, and has an

annual output of over $900,000. A train of cars await us when we emerge

from the works, flat cars, fitted up with seats for the occasion; upon

these we climb, and find as we are slowly taken along the sound front

that no conveyance could afford a better view. Tacoma has 12 miles of a

water front, upon which splendid wharves, great warehouses, monster

elevators, immense saw and flour mills are built, the whole 12 miles

being lined with industries of this character.

This trip over, we return to our train and find dinner awaiting us,

after which our train is run to the steamboat landing and we are taken

aboard the “City of Kingston,” belonging to the Northern Pacific

Railway, for a trip of 28 miles to Seattle. We can hardly realize as the

boat leaves the wharf that our visit to Tacoma is over, so rapidly were

we hustled along; but we are highly pleased with the treatment we

received and feel that Tacoma is a wonderful place and her people will

make her still more wonderful by their thrift, their push, and activity.

They have our best wishes for their future progress and advancement.

The “City of Kingston” is a splendid boat and rides like a feather over

the waters of the sound, and from the expressions of delight on every

hand it is evident our people are enjoying the trip. The boat is in

charge of Engineer G. H. Lent and a gentlemanly purser, who have won the

goodwill of our party by kindly allowing us the freedom of the boat and

showing us through many of the elegantly-furnished state rooms with

which the boat is equipped. Arriving at Seattle, we are loaded in a

large cable car and taken through the city for about four miles and back

again. It is so dark we cannot see the town and can only enjoy the ride.

We are taken to the station, where we wait for half an hour for our

train to arrive, which has been sent from Tacoma to overtake us. We are

all pretty thoroughly tired out, and are glad when at about eleven

o’clock our train arrives, and we are soon making ourselves comfortable

inside. M. M. Davis, Esq., a press representative of Seattle, and

Conductor Thomas Doyle in search of an “item” gave us a short call just

after our train came over from Tacoma. Brother Reagan and “Alfalfa” are

the only ones I see as

[Illustration: LATOURELLE FALLS, OREGON.]

I leave the “refreshment corner” in the “combined” to seek repose in the

“Marco.” Our train is still standing at Seattle and the hour is close to

midnight.

THURSDAY, MAY 27th.

Getting up this morning about 7.30, I find we are crossing another

desert--at least it has that appearance. We have left Ellensburg and are

running through a dry, sandy country along the Yakima River. Here and

there we pass a ranch where plots of land under irrigation are being

cultivated, and from the fertile appearance of these irrigated tracts it

would seem that this country needs but plenty of water to make it a

blooming paradise. This much I discover by looking out the window while

waiting my turn to wash and comb, for Brothers Terry, Brown, and Horner

are ahead of me this morning. We work on the principle “first come first

served,” and all good naturedly wait when there is nothing else to do.

Completing my toilet, I go to the smoker and find the genial conductor

who is running the train, and learn that he is a member of Mt. Hood

Division No. 91; name, W. B. Hale.

“I took charge of your train at Ellensburg,” he says, on being asked the

question, “and am going with you as far as I can. We have engine No.

333, run by Engineer Brant, who will take us to Pasco, 122 miles.” “This

is a barren-looking country for stock raising,” I remark, as I see a

large drove of cattle kicking up the dust in the desert as we pass them;

“what do they live on?” “Those cattle are from away back toward the

hills, where there is plenty of ‘bunch grass’ that they feed on, and are

coming to the irrigation canal for water, or perhaps they are being

driven to the railroad station for shipment. You would be surprised at

the amount of stock shipped from North Yakima, Prosser, and Kennewick,”

is the reply. “There seems to be no trouble about growing plenty of

stuff where there is water,” I venture to assert, seeing a

verdant-looking plantation, like an oasis in the desert, a short

distance away. “Lack or scarcity of water is the only hindrance to

agricultural industry,” is the answer, “and this drawback is being

rapidly overcome by the construction of large irrigating canals by

companies formed for that purpose.”

“Breakfast is now ready in the dining car,” chimes the welcome voice of

Conductor McDonald at the open door. Several of our people had entered

the smoker during the last half hour, and all arise as one person at the

music of that well-known voice, that always brings “tidings of great

joy.” “I think Mr. McDonald has the loveliest voice, for a man,” is the

flattering remark of Mrs. Matthews as we make a break for the diner. Not

one of us but what thinks so too, but of course we know Mrs. Matthews is

thinking of the song McDonald sang to us a few evenings before.

“There’s a tramp hidden between the ice chests under this car beating

his way, I heard some one say awhile ago,” says Manager Wyman at the

breakfast table. As we finish eating the train stops at the little

station of Kiona and we all get out to see the stowaway. Sure enough

he’s there. In a narrow space between the ice chests, about 16 inches

wide, he has placed a board on the dining-car ladder which is kept

there, and crawled in on it, a place so narrow that he cannot change his

position

[Illustration: THE HOBO PASSENGER.]

[Illustration: CROSSING COLUMBIA RIVER ON THE “TACOMA.”]

or turn. We can see him all covered with dust, but he does not move, and

we are not sure that he is alive, for this Yakima dust is something

terrible and he has certainly got a dose of it. One of the dining-car

boys brought him out some bread and meat, a can of water, and a sponge

to protect his mouth and nostrils from the dust. We can see that he is

alive when these things are pushed into him, for he reaches out a hand

as far as he can to receive them. After passing Kennewick we cross the

Columbia River and are soon at Pasco, where a stop is made to change

engines. While this is being done we persuade our “mascot” to come from

beneath the car. As he crawls from his hiding place and straightens up

Brother Ristein, who has his kodak ready, takes a snap. We can see

through the ginger-colored Yakima dust on his face that he is a negro.

“What’s your name?” I ask. “John Bell, sah.” “Where do you live?” asks

Brother Matthews. “Al’bama, sah.” “Where did you get on this car?” asks

Manager Wyman. “Tacoma, sah.” “How did you get to Tacoma?” asks Brother

Dougherty. “Cargo hosses, sah.” “Where do you want to go, now?” asks

Conductor Hale. “Montana, sah.” “Well, crawl in your hole; we’re going

to start,” replies Captain Hale, and turning to Manager Wyman continues,

“We may as well allow him to keep his place, for soon as you rout him

out there will be another one ready to crawl in. It’s impossible to get

through this part of the country without being troubled with hoboes.”

We leave Pasco at 12.55 Eastern (9.45 Pacific) time with engine No. 405,

Engineer Tom Allen and Fireman W. W. Thompson, who run us to Spokane,

146 miles. Much of the country through which we are now passing is very

dry and barren-looking, but we are informed by Captain Hale that it is

considered a rich grazing district. From Lind to Sprague, a distance of

45 miles, many large herds of horses and cattle are seen. Just before

reaching Sprague we run for two miles on the border of Spring Lake, a

fine body of water that looks very refreshing after so many miles of dry

and dusty territory. We stop at Sprague a few minutes for water and

notice the place has had a very serious fire not long since.

“Captain,” I ask, addressing Brother Hale, who is near by, “what has

happened to Sprague?” “The town was nearly wiped out about a year ago by

a very bad fire,” is the reply, “and it is a great pity, for Sprague was

a pretty little place and a thriving town. It is the county seat of

Lincoln County, and had a population of about 2000. It is the

headquarters of the Idaho Division of the Northern Pacific Railway, and

the company’s machine shops and roundhouse were completely destroyed and

all those engines ruined,” and he points to where can be seen about a

dozen locomotives, burned and warped, standing on the tracks that had

been the interior of the roundhouse and shops.

Another run of 25 miles through good farming and grazing territory,

interspersed with considerable timber land, brings us to Cheney, where

we again make a short stop. Since crossing the Columbia our course has

been upward, and from an elevation at Kennewick of 350 feet we have now

reached 2300 feet. Cheney is a growing business place of 1200

inhabitants. It is nicely located on the great plateau of the Columbia

and surrounded for many miles with rich farm land and abundant timber.

[Illustration: ELEVATOR A, TACOMA, WASHINGTON.]

[Illustration: SHORE OF LAKE PEND D’OREILLE AT HOPE, IDAHO.]

Here we meet Mr. H. W. McMaster, chief dispatcher of Northern Pacific

Railway at Spokane, whom we find to be a very courteous and agreeable

gentleman. On a sidetrack near where our train stands, Mr. McMaster

shows us the largest locomotive on the Northern Pacific Railway, No.

150. Engine and tender without fuel or water weigh 106 tons; it has a

34-inch cylinder; was built in Schenectady, N. Y., since the first of

the year. They have had it but a short time but find it very

satisfactory. It is in charge of Engineer J. Bruce and is run in the

freight service between Spokane and Pasco. Mr. McMaster accompanies us

to Spokane, where we arrive at 5.20 P. M. Eastern (2.20 P. M. Pacific),

and are met at the station by Dr. E. D. Olmsted, Mayor of Spokane. We

are introduced to the Mayor by Mr. McMaster in a neat little speech. His

Honor responds in a pleasant manner, bidding us welcome and giving us

the freedom of the city. The street railway management offers us the use

and freedom of their lines so long as we wish to remain in the city. We

have but two hours here, and the municipal authorities and street

railway managers vie with one another in their efforts to show us as

much of the city as possible in the short time we will be with them. A

number of carriages are sent around and quickly loaded up, accommodating

about one-half of the party, the remainder board street cars, and we

start on a tour of the city.

Spokane is the county seat of Spokane County, with a population of about

32,000. It occupies a remarkably picturesque location on both sides of

the Spokane River, a mighty mountain torrent, the rush and roar of whose

eternal, resistless energy holds the visitors to-day spellbound and

speechless with admiration, amazement, and awe. We had looked upon, we

supposed, during the past two weeks, all varieties and degrees of

running, rushing, and falling waters, but at no time have we gazed upon

such a tumbling, seething, foaming, roaring torrent as this that now

fascinates us with its sublime grandeur and astounds us with its

terrific force.

Right through the centre of the city, with a fall of 150 feet in the

space of half a mile, this mighty torrent tears, dashing and splashing,

surging and foaming against and amongst the great rocks and boulders

that beset its course with a fury that is indescribable, and we feel as

we gaze upon this wonderful, awe-inspiring spectacle that there is no

more limit to the power of the elements than there is to the measure of

eternity. This magnificent river that never freezes runs the great

electric plant that lights the city and operates 45 miles of electric

railway. It furnishes power for numerous flour and saw mills, factories

and foundries that can be seen in operation along its banks, giving an

aspect of business activity to the place that is a pleasing

manifestation of prosperity and enterprise.

Its fine, substantial, costly church, school, municipal, and other

public buildings and superb private residences are indications that

there is wealth in Spokane. Because of the advantages and facilities of

its admirable location, surrounded by vast forests of valuable timber,

fertile agricultural valleys, rich mining districts, and the traffic of

seven railroads, we predict for Spokane a phenomenal future. It is

destined, we are sure, at an early day to be the first city of the great

Northwest. Not one of the party will ever forget our short visit to

[Illustration: SPOKANE FALLS, SPOKANE.]

[Illustration: SPOKANE, WASHINGTON.]

Spokane. Mr. McMaster took Brothers Maxwell and Reagan around with his

own team and Captain Hale took Manager Wyman. The street-car party was

under the escort of James Mendenhall, Esq., an old schoolmate of Brother

James Matthews. Mr. Mendenhall came West several years ago, located at

Spokane, and engaged in real estate business. He is now one of the

prominent citizens of the place and closely identified with the business

interests and enterprises of the city. We also met Mark Mendenhall,

Esq., a brother of James, who is a leading attorney in Spokane. No, we

will not forget the courtesy and kindness of the good people of Spokane,

and the good people of Spokane will not forget us, for they have only to

remember that on the afternoon of May 27th, 1897, street-railway traffic

was blocked for thirty minutes by a car abandoned by the Pennsylvania

Railroad conductors and kept waiting for them while they viewed the

grandeur of Spokane Falls for half an hour from the rear balcony of the

brewery.

At 7.40 P. M. Eastern (4.40 P. M. Pacific) time we are all aboard our

train once more, and with Engineer Secord at the throttle of engine No.

119 we quickly leave beautiful Spokane far in our rear. Captain Hale is

still with us, his brakeman being A. S. Harding. A hobo is discovered

lying on the truss rods of the combined car; he can be seen by looking

around the side of the car; his position seems a perilous one, but our

train makes no stop till it gets to Hope, 84 miles, so he is allowed to

remain and take his chances. For several miles we pass through

magnificent cattle ranges and fine farming lands. As we approach Hope

the road skirts the shores of Lake Pend d’Oreille for about three

miles, giving us a fine view of this beautiful body of water. We arrive

at Hope 10.00 Eastern (7.00 Pacific) time and stop twenty-five minutes

to change engines. Here a change is also made in time; it changes from

Pacific to Mountain time, one hour later than Pacific and two hours

earlier than Eastern time. Hobo No. 2 changed his position from the

truss rods of the combined car to a pile of ties when the train stopped

at Hope. He was given a lunch by one of the dining-car boys and advised

not to anchor himself in the same place again, as the position was not

only a dangerous one, but very conspicuous. When asked his name he said

it was J. W. Kelsey, that he was trying to get home, had been away for

two years, and wanted to see his mother. Hobo No. 1 lays low, for he

knows should he for a moment vacate his narrow quarters under the

“Lafayette” there would be a scramble for his place. It is growing dusk,

and through the gloom of the dying day we have counted no less than

fifteen skulking forms about the train, watching for an opportunity to

secrete themselves underneath or about the train for the purpose of

obtaining free transportation.

Bidding adieu to big-hearted, genial Captain Hale, who has been with us

for 357 miles, we leave Hope at 10.25 P. M. Eastern (8.25 P. M.

Mountain) time with N. P. engine No. 438, with Engineer Jim Bailey at

the throttle, whose fireman is John Ryan. Conductor William Gilbert has

charge of the train and his brakemen are T. S. McEachran and F. R.

Foote. This crew runs us to Helena, 297 miles. Ten miles from Hope we

cross Clark’s Fork, a branch of the Columbia River,

[Illustration: W. B. HALE, CONDUCTOR NORTHERN PACIFIC RAILWAY.]

and through the gathering darkness we can see that we have entered a

wild and rocky region, the road winding around and among mountain ranges

and snow-capped peaks, following the course of the stream we just

crossed for 60 miles.

Captain Gilbert and his brakemen are lively, interesting company, and

entertain us during the evening with anecdotes and stories of Western

life. “Are you troubled much with tramps, captain?” some one asks, as

Conductor Gilbert, during the conversation, made some allusion to the

profession. “They do not give us much real trouble,” is the reply, “yet

they are a matter of concern, for we are never without them, and need to

be constantly on guard; there is always a Wandering Willie around

somewhere, and you never know what mischief he may be up to. There are

at least a dozen on this train to-night. The trucks are full and several

on top of the cars.” This is rather startling information, and I notice

Brother Sheppard clap his hand on his right hip pocket to make sure the

“critter” is there, and Alfalfa quietly unlocks the cupboard door, where

“our artillery” is kept. I see no sign of fear on the serene countenance

of Captain Gilbert and believe we’re not in danger; yet Brothers Maxwell

and Terry start through the train to make sure the vestibule doors are

barred and step traps fastened down. At Trout Creek, a small station 48

miles from Hope, we stopped for water, and F. Hartman, roadmaster of the

Missoula and Hope Division, got aboard and went with us to Horse Plains.

It is now near midnight, and making my way from the smoker to the

“Marco” I turn in, wondering how the poor fellows who are hanging on to

the brake beams are enjoying themselves, for Bailey with the “438” is

switching them around the curves at a pretty lively rate.

FRIDAY, MAY 28th.

Our arrival in Helena at six o’clock this morning and the announcement

of an early breakfast soon has everybody astir. After breakfast we bid

adieu to jolly, whole-souled Captain Gilbert and his genial crew, and

under the escort of Assistant General Passenger Agent W. Stuart,

Assistant General Ticket Agent C. E. Dutton, and Conductor Dodds, of the

Northern Pacific Railway, and Messrs. E. Flaherty and H. D. Palmer, of

Helena Board of Trade, start out to see the town. Our time is limited,

for we are scheduled to leave at twelve o’clock, and it is impossible to

give all the interesting features of this remarkable city the attention

they deserve. Helena is a wealthy town; it is located in the centre of

one of the richest mining districts in the world; it is the capital of

Montana and the county seat of Lewis and Clarke County, with a

population of about 14,000; it is up to date in its financial,

educational, and religious institutions, and both private residences and

public buildings are models of architectural symmetry, strength, and

beauty. A military post named Fort Harrison has recently been

established here which will be one of the principal points for the

quartering of troops in the Northwest. A ride of almost three miles on

the electric line through this interesting city brings us to the Hotel

Broadwater and “Natatorium,” where the celebrated hot springs are

located. We are given the freedom of the bathing pool, which is one of

the largest and finest under cover in the world. The most of our party

take advantage of the treat, and for an hour the waters of the pool are

almost churned into foam by the sportive antics of the crowd, whose

capers afford great entertainment and amusement for those who do not

care to “get into the swim” with the rest. This place is much resorted

to by tourists, and invalids are said to be much benefited by bathing in

the waters of these hot springs, which are strongly impregnated with

sulphur, salt, and iron and heated by Nature’s process to a very

pleasant temperature.

Leaving the Natatorium we are invited to the immense brewery

establishment of Nicholas Kessler, near by, to await the coming of our

train, which is to be brought here for us, as the railroad runs within a

short distance of the place. Mr. Kessler is a former Pennsylvanian, one

of those hospitable, generous, big-hearted Pennsylvania Dutchmen, and

when he learned we hailed from his native State his pleasure was greater

than he was able to express and his generosity almost boundless. In the

fine pavilion adjoining his establishment he spread us a sumptuous lunch

and seemed aggrieved that we didn’t eat and drink all that was placed

before us, which was enough for 500 people. When at last our train comes

and we bid the old gentleman farewell there are tears in his eyes as he

tells us how happy he is that we called to see him, and that he would

never forget the Pennsylvania Railroad conductors. He accompanies us

over to the train (so do several of his men with boxes on their

shoulders), and as we steam away and leave behind us the city of Helena

and our generous-hearted new-made friends, we notice in the “refreshment

corner” of our combined car a pile of boxes bearing the trade mark of

“Nic” Kessler, and another box containing fine oranges that bears the

mark of H. S. Hepner, a merchant of Helena.

The space between the ice chests beneath the dining car is vacant; our

mascot has fled, having ridden in that uncomfortable position for 782

miles.

It is 12.55 P. M. Helena time when we leave here for Butte over the

Montana Central branch of the Great Northern Railway. We have G. N.

engine No. 458, Engineer Pete Leary, Fireman R. Hanna, Conductor M.

Sweeney, Brakemen F. W. Minshall and F. J. Chapman, who take us to

Butte, a distance of 75 miles. As a guest we have with us Trainmaster J.

W. Donovan, of the Montana Central, who will accompany us to Butte. We

find Mr. Donovan an agreeable and entertaining gentleman who tells us

much that is interesting of the country through which we are passing.

“This branch was built,” says Mr. Donovan, “for almost the sole purpose

of developing the mining interests of the country. You will see very

little of any other industry from here to Butte than mining.”

After leaving Clancy we ascend a steep grade, from which we look down

into a pretty valley that Mr. Donovan tells us is called Prickly Pear

Cañon. Passing Amazon we follow Boulder River for 12 miles as it courses

through the beautiful valley of the same name. Four miles from Amazon we

pass through Boulder and can see that it is a thriving town. “Boulder is

the county seat of Jefferson County,” says Mr. Donovan, “and has a

population of about 1200. It ranks as one of the important cities of

Montana, being in the centre of a rich mining region.”