I

N the early fifties the Lucky Strike Tavern was famous for the regularity with which the stage drew up at its door each day, and for the excellence of the dinner which followed soon after this event.

Five miles down the river a shrewd Quaker was making a fortune out of the ground, not by mining, but by raising vegetables and small fruits, which he sold to the company that owned the tavern and the stage.

As he cultivated his garden, he often turned up glittering yellow particles of gold; but he kept to his original plan, and also kept his money. In this he differed from many of the miners, whose wealth came so easily that they did not hesitate to spend it as quickly as it had come. They traveled for miles, to the Lucky Strike, to dine on the thrifty Quaker's fresh fruits and vegetables. On this warm July day the bill of fare was as follows:-

At no other place in California could such a dinner be offered to the hungry guests. The stage-driver was Dick James, and it was his boast that every day for four years he had pulled up his horses at the door of the Lucky Strike at exactly 11:29. He required of the company that they should keep the road in good condition, and his horses were picked from hundreds for their speed and endurance.

There were those who said that when the bridge was washed away, and Dick had been obliged to drive to the lower one, his watch showed a suspicious difference of seven minutes from the tavern clock; but it is the misfortune of all truly great men to inspire envy in those who are less talented, and as there were no passengers on that

occasion, Dick could not prove his integrity. Certain it is, that when he drew up at the tavern the hands of his big silver watch marked exactly 11:29 as usual. And so it was, day in and day out, rain or shine, until the men ceased to speak of the stage, but invariably called it "The 11:29."

At half-past ten the idlers began to assemble at the Lucky Strike; then came the miners who had business with some one they knew they should find there; and so the number grew, until at 11:25 the workers came, those who expected letters or tools, or who had come to dine at the tavern.

Thus it was on the day that came to be spoken of as "the day the 11:29 was late.” The men were having a discussion as to the size and value of some recently discovered nuggets, when suddenly some one exclaimed, "Thunder and blazes! the 11:29 is going to be late to-day, sure!"

Watches were consulted, and it was found to be twenty-eight minutes past eleven o'clock, and the stage was not in sight. Immediately all was excitement and confusion.

"Don't you see her, Tom? You've got the eyes of an Injun.

Tom shaded his eyes with his hand, and gave the road a long, searching look. Nary 11:29 on that road," was his verdict.

They weighed the probabilities of acci dents or a hold-up, and the minutes slipped away until it lacked only a quarter of twelve. Then, just as a party with horses and guns was going to the rescue, Tom announced, "I see her, but she's got a queer look to her,—looks shorter 'n ordinary."

While they are waiting at the tavern, let us go back to the stage, and learn what had happened.

At the start, in the cool early morning, everything promised a good run. were several passengers and a valuable express-box, so that Dick James had listeners for the remarks he addressed to the

favored ones, and also a pleasant sense of responsibility for the safety of the treasure, and this put him in a rare good humor. When the fog had melted away, and the air grew hot, a little breeze came up, and carried the dust away from the stage. The four horses kept on a fast trot, except where Dick allowed them to gallop, and all went well until the long slanting shadows of the morning had changed to the short ones which showed the travelers that midday was approaching, and that they were nearing the end of their journey. As horses and men were thinking of the good dinner they would have at the Lucky Strike, a turn of the road revealed a man, sharply outlined against the white dust, apparently waiting for the stage.

"Queer for a road agent to show up plain, like that," muttered Dick; but he changed lines and whip to his left hand, leaving the right free for his pistol.

The passengers, seeing his preparations, also made ready for defense, but when they had driven near enough for a distant view of the man, they were amazed to hear Dick burst into a fit of hearty laughter.

"It's the Quaker!" he exclaimed. "This will be a joke on me, if the boys hear I was afraid of a hold-up by the Quaker. Hello, Broadbrim!" he continued; "there's no seeds, nor plants, nor even orders, for you to-day. Maybe you want to send along some garden truck, though. Hand it up lively, then."

"Nay, Richard James, I have nothing to send by thee to-day. The company is owing me money, and not until it is paid will they have more of the produce of my garden.' As he spoke he went to the leaders, and unbuckled part of the har

ness.

"What's the matter?" asked the driver. "Strap twisted?"

The Quaker made no reply, but with

surprising rapidity unhitched the horses, cut the lines, and led the animals to a narrow opening in the dense undergrowth by the side of the road, saying, as he passed the astonished Dick: "Thee may tell the company that when the money which is rightfully mine is paid, I will return the beasts. Thee knows it is useless to try to take them from me by force. Drive on, or thee will be late, Richard James." And man and horses disappeared in the thick brush.

To say that Dick James was surprised is a statement that falls short of the truth. He was stupefied with amazement, and sat there with varied expressions of anger, mirth, and helplessness, following each other on his sunburnt face. Then he found relief in speech:

'The Quaker it was, after all. To think that Dick James owes his first hold-up to a broadbrimmed Quaker! He's the only man who could have done it, for he's the one man here who will not fight. He's right when he says I can't take my horses, for he's obstinate as a mule, and he won't give them up unless he is made to, and Dick James never yet fought a man who won't fight back, and never will. Those horses can't be replaced in a hurry, and the company will have to pay up and get them back, or I stop driving. I would rather be shot than to bring the 11:29 up late to the Lucky Strike, and all the boys there waiting for me." And Dick groaned as he cracked the whip over the backs of the wheelers.

They traveled well, but two horses cannot do the work of four; and so it happened that the hands of the silver watch and those of the tavern clock agreed in giving the time as thirteen minutes to twelve when the stage stopped at the Lucky Strike and the men overwhelmed Dick with questions on the day that the II:29 was late.

T

THE LITERARY

HE development of art and literature in the New Northwest, and I speak more especially of the Evergreen State, is of but recent origin. Fif teen years ago, in fact, comparatively nothing had been accomplished in this direction. The great Emerald Land was almost a wilderness then. Fifteen years is a short time, and yet within this brief period alone huge forests have been felled, and in their stead strong young cities have risen as if by magic, and in their matchless harbors, where but a few years before only the canoe of the Indian was seen, great steamships cast anchor from every portion of the globe. When the tide of immigration turned toward this new empire, every train brought its load of fortune-hunters-men eager to acquire sudden wealth.

Almost

fabulous tales are told of riches gained in a single day or hour by investments in corner-lots, which, as Whittier has said, were 'staked for sale above old Indian graves."

What a mad rush for wealth! Such a frantic struggle of tossed and tumbled humanity! As an illustration of this, when some land company had platted a new townsite or addition, and the sale of lots was to begin on a certain morning, men were known to remain all night at the company's office in order to secure the choicest locations. Shrewd investors made their thousands. Those who were forced to borrow a few dollars on their arrival in the new land often became millionaires within a year.

No one seemed to escape the feverish desire for gain. "More gold! more gold!" was the one thought on which the minds of men were concentrated, and to the accomplishment of which they bent every energy.

The Far Northwest was a vast whirlpool of speculative excitement. With this greed for gain a veritable passion, art and literature, those flowers of civilization, found no soil in which to grow. The intense materialism of the New Northwest at its early settlement did not inspire the thought that elevates mankind. There was no "literary atmosphere" in this re

gion. On the contrary, the air was filled with plots, plans, and subtle schemes, and In alien ways remote the Muse went

wandering.

We have all heard that familiar phrase, "The boom dropped." This meant a great deal to those of the Evergreen State. It meant fortunes lost, hopes shattered, and despair-even suicide. The boom dropped,— or, in other words, the growth of the country became normal, as any growth should to be healthful. For a while all were stunned at the sudden collapse of things. People found time to look about them and contemplate their surroundings. With minds diverted from speculations in corner-lots, the impressive character of the scenic beauty of the region appealed to them-many of them, at least. Nature in all of her wonderful majesty had been hidden from these people by the blinding glare of their golden idol. When that which they so worshiped had been taken away, they beheld for the first time the real glory of their cloud-capped peaks and sapphire seas. The imagination now began to assert itself, and to many eyes which had previously seen only shining dollars, the landscape took on an added beauty. Mt. Rainier, that great white pyramid of the Creator, that aweinspiring stairway to the stars, became the subject for the versifier and the artist. Paintings in oil and sketches in watercolors of this king of peaks were to be seen in the parlor and in the show-window. It is true the greater portion of these attempts in art were extravagant and ofttimes very crude, but they showed unmistakably that the spiritual qualities of the people were awakening to the beauty of their surroundings. Universities and art museums were founded, and libraries were established in the cities. Literary societies were formed in various sections for the study of the great masters of literature, and lectures on literary topics were attended with interest. A magazine was founded in the

city of Portland. It bore the title of The West Shore, and flourished for a time. It published the first writings of several Northwest authors whose names to-day are familiar to readers of current literature.

It is not to be expected that a newlysettled region such as this should so soon command special attention in the arts. We have scores of young men and women devoting themselves to art, one of whom has within the past three years gained a world-wide reputation as a cartoonist. He is an Oregonian, and his name is Homer Davenport. Other artists, having identified themselves with the country early in its settlement, yet no longer residents, are looked upon by the people as one of their own. Among the most noteworthy of these lovers of the beautiful is Mr. J. E. Stuart, whose paintings of Mount Rainier and Mount Hood, with their sunset hues and purple-mist effects, have never been excelled. Mr. W. E. Rollins is an exceptionally talented marine artist, his pictures having attracted marked attention in Eastern exhibits.

The literary pioneer of the Far Northwest, who began writing long before the "boom" days, as we term them, is Mr. Joaquin Miller, whom California now claims for her own. In 1868, Mr. Miller published, in the town of Portland, a book of verse entitled "Joaquin et al.," the first volume of poetry this region gave to the world, and of the remarkable achievements of the poet in after years the Emerald Land is justly proud.

Another of the earlier writers is Mrs. Frances Fuller Victor, who possesses a rare versatility in the various branches of literature. She has devoted much of her time to writings of an historical nature, prominent among her books being "The River of the West." She has also contributed to the magazines poems, sketches, and novelettes, and under the pen-name, "Florence Fane," she long assisted to maintain the popularity of California's magazine, The Golden Era. The late Elwood Evans may also be mentioned as a pioneer historian, and one whose writings are of inestimable value, to the State of Washington in particular. Among more recent of the literary guild who from their long residence in the Northwest will always be associated with its history, are the two

humorists, Mr. Lee Fairchild and Colonel Will Visscher. They have drifted away from the North Pacific shore, and the Evergreen State has lost two of its most versatile lights.

Those who are devoting themselves to literary pursuits, and who have won recognition, are by no means numerous. Harry T. Wells, who edited the West Shore, is the author of an excellent history of Oregon, and has written many charming descriptions of mountain scenery. Carrie Blake Morgan is a poet and short-story writer of acknowledged ability, and Batterman Lindsay is delighting lovers of fiction with her admirable studies of Western character. Mrs. Carrie Shaw Rice is the poet of childhood, many of her verses having found their way into the school text-books. Frank Carleton Teck writes finished verse for Eastern and Western journals, and gives promise of a bright future.

The foremost writer on economic and social problems is the present Governor of Washington, Hon. John R. Rogers, who has devoted a lifetime to those questions which form the political issues of the day. His writings bear evidence of ripe scholarship and wide research. Governor Rogers has an epigrammatic style of composition which distinguishes his work from that of all other of our writers on political economy. His papers in the Arena, bearing especially upon the subject of industrial freedom, have attracted wide attention and no slight discussion among those who do not agree with his views. Among his books may be mentioned, "Homes for the Homeless," "Free Land," and "The Rights of Man." He has also written a novel entitled "Looking Forward," a study of our industrial conditions, which is to appear in the near future.

An author of the New Northwest who has attained an enviable reputation throughout America, and of whom her people feel very proud, is Mrs. Ella Higginson, of Whatcom, Washington. This gifted writer has published two books, "The Land of the Snow-Pearls," and "A Forest Orchid," collections of short stories, the first containing that most exquisite tale, "The Takin'-in of Old Miss Lane," which won the prize of five hundred dollars offered by McClure's Magazine in the short-story competition. Everything from her pen