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became familiar more active exhibitions were required, and the dog, perceiving his opportunity, turned the barnyard into a circus of animals.

'After his mother's death the family was subjected to several months of social isolation, during the rainy season, when Homer, just recovered from the dread disease of smallpox, was kept indoors. During these dull months he worked more assiduously at drawing than ever since for pay. Sitting at the desk, or lying prone upon the floor, it was draw, draw, draw. Fearing the effect of such intense application upon the slimsy fellow, his grandmother tried various diversions without much success. She could interest him with Indian or ghost stories, but such gave him no bodily exercise, and only set him to drawing 'how granny looked when telling ghost stories

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[Among Homer's subjects for illustration was his father, whom he pictures in various ways on the fences, barn or wherever he could find a board large enough to accommodate the scene he wished to portray. For years this habit brought about no ideas in his father's mind of future prominence for his son, but rather a feeling of irritation at being drawn as he was, and in ludicrous positions. As a result he put in considerable time in trying to develop, with the aid of a branch of hazel-bush, a more matter of fact manner of action in Homer. He had to finally give it up, however, for the latter kept on making his cartoons, often showing 'what father did when he got mad at them.' These incidents the justly proud parent has seemingly forgotten, but this article would not be complete without giving them mention, so the liberty was taken to supply the ommission.-Editor Oregon Native Son.]

"Plainly observable, even thus early, was his love of the dramatic in everything having life. Though much attracted by beautiful specimens of the animal kingdom, his chief satisfaction came from representing them in their moods. His pictures were all doing something. Horses, dogs, monkeys, chickens, ducks, pigeons, were exhibiting their peculiar characteristics, and so fitted to

the occasion as to awaken the supposition that the artist was 'en rapport' with all animated nature. A mad horse was mad all over, and an ardent dog showed it in every part, regardless of proportions.

"Homer's early method of work, if an impulsive employment may be dignified by the term method, was 'sui generis,' and probably unique, if not wonderful. Coincident with the drawing of a mad horse, was the acting by himself. The work would be arrested at times, seemingly for want of appreciation or mental image of a horse in that state of feeling, and then he took to the floor.

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After vigorously stamping, kicking, snorting and switching an improvised tail, which he held in his hand behind his back, until his feelings or fancy became satisfied, the picture was completed and referred to me with the question, 'Is that the way a mad horse looks?' 'Yes, he appears to be mad through and through.'"

When Homer approached early manhood, his father said of him:

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"We had a general merchandise store, and he had experimented enough in selling goods to know that his mind could not be tied to the business. Customers buying tobacco got it at their own price, and shopping women objected to his habit of stretching elastic tape when selling it by the yard. There was fun in such things, but no perceptible profit. He opened the store in the morning while I was at breakfast, and took his afterwards. Upon going in one morning and finding the floor. unswept I soon saw what had engaged his attention during the half hour. A magnificent carrier pigeon on

the wing, and above it in colored letters this legend: 'How glorious the flight of a bird must be.'

"Homer afterward attended the Commercial College in Portland, devoting much of his time to art; then spent a short time in a California art school, which he soon left because he was compelled to draw by scribe and rule. He was soon employed by the Portland Mercury, then by the San Francisco Chronicle, the Examiner, and finally by the New York Journal, where the genius of the unschooled Oregon boy proved him equal to the ambition of his employer.

"He works from the small hours in the afternoon until near midnight, at the New York Journal office, in the Tribune building, New York City, and after breakfast in the morning he and his two children live in the barnyard, which has a larger assortment of choice animals than his father's had. His rests, relaxation and inspiration are with his earliest idols."

A. W. Patterson

Dr. A. W. Patterson, of Eugene, Oregon, published the Western Literary Magazine, much of the material coming from his own pen. It contained a serial of some length-"The Adventures of Captain Samuel Brady," the Indian fighter of the West, the material for which was obtained from Brady's daughter, then a poor old woman living in an alley in Pittsburg. He wrote a history of the West, but this never reached circulation, being burned in the bindery. He also prepared a hand book named "Forty Principles of the English Language." His poem, "Onward." from which the following extract is taken, was published in book form in 1869. In 1873 Doctor Patterson entered into contract with A. L. Bancroft & Co., of San Francisco, California, to prepare the manuscript for a set of school readers and a speller to be known as the Pacific Coast Series. Accordingly he wrote the first three readers and the speller; but being unable to finish all by the required time, upon his suggestion, Samuel L. Simpson was employed to prepare the remaining fourth and fifth readers.

ONWARD.

Midst tangled wildwoods, or in prairie nook,
Beside the pleasant stream, or winding brook,
Mirrored with wild flower on the wavelets' breast,
Gladdening some fertile region of the West,
Where settler's cabin only late has been,
The beauteous rising village may be seen!

The curling smoke ascending through the trees-
The sounds of workmen coming on the breeze-
The clustering buildings busily rearing there-
The saw mill grating on the troubled air-
The hum of voices-the occasional song-
The shout, the laugh among the merry throng-
With all the mingling tumult on the ear,
Proclaim, indeed, that village life is here!

Silence no longer o'er the valleys broods,
Echo reverb 'rates through their solitudes;
Around is heard the ax-man's measured stroke,
And far prevails the awe of stillness broke!
The wild deer, startled, leaves the lowland brake-
Water-fowl, screaming, quit the marshy lake-
The bison bounds away with matchless might-
The wolf, dismayed, is skulking from the sight-
The Indian too-no less a wild-like race-
Resigns, though more reluctantly, the place.
Saddened in heart, with mute and steadfast gaze,
He lingers mournfully o'er the wildering maze.
See! how with wonder in his troubled eye,
He marks that spire uprising, strangely high;
Surveys the restless, creaking millwheel turn,
And strangers' curious skill with deep concern;
Around are closing in the white man's fields,
He e'en in turn, at length dominion yields!
And goes, disturbed, the early hunter too;
Following his game, he thrids the wilds anew!
Beside yon springlet where the alder grows,
His shapeless cabin unfrequented rose.
The idling savage but his casual guest,
He lived as loved the daring hunter best.
But now more distant depths of solitude
Are sought, where hum of life may not intrude;
His dogs and gun, companions of his way,
The restless Leather-Stocking of his day!

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