ost readers. I do not vouch for it, but only say that
the narrator of the principal incidents is an old Territorial judge who
lives near the place of the Whitman tragedy, and who knew many of the
survivors, and has a large knowledge of the Indian races of the Columbia.
To his statements I add some incidents of another pioneer:

"The thieving Cayuses have made 'way with our melons again," said a young
farmer one morning, returning from the gardens of the station. "One theft
will be followed by another. I know the Cayuses. Is there no way to stop
them?"

One of the missionary fraternity was sitting quietly among the trees. It
was an August morning. The air was a living splendor, clear and warm, with
now and then a breeze that rippled the leaves like the waves of the sea.

He looked up from his book, and considered the question half-seriously,
half-humorously.

"I know how we used to prevent boys from stealing melons in the East,"
said he.

"How?"

"Put some tartar emetic in the biggest one. In the morning it would be
gone, but the boys would never come after any more melons."

The young farmer understood the remedy, and laughed.

"And," added he, "the boys didn't have much to say about melons after they
had eaten _that_ one. The subject no longer interested them. I guess the
Indians would not care for more than one melon of that kind."

"I would like to see a wah-wah of Indian thieves over a melon like that!"
said the gardener. "I declare, I and the boys will do it!"

He went to his work, laughing. That day he obtained some of the emetic
from the medical stores of the station, and plugged it into three or four
of the finest melons. Next morning he found that these melons were gone.

The following evening a tall Indian came slowly and solemnly to the
station. His face had a troubled look, and there was an air of mystery
about his gait and attitude. He stopped before one of the assistant
missionaries, drew together his blanket, and said:

"Some one here no goot. You keep a conjurer in the camp. Indian kill
conjurer. Conjurer ought die; him danger, him no goot."

The laborers gathered round the stately Indian. They all knew about the
nauseating melons, and guessed why he had come. All laughed as they heard
his solemn words. The ridicule incensed him.

"You one conjurer," he said, "he conjure melons. One moon, two moons, he
shall die."

The laborers laughed again.

"Half moon, more moons, he shall suffer--h