north by rail as far as Tacoma; there board
a fine little steamer and skim through the winding water-ways of Puget
Sound (as lovely a sheet of water as ever the sun shone on), debark at
Port Townsend, and here await the arrival of the Alaska steamer, which
makes its excursion trip monthly--at least it used to before the
Klondyke hoards deranged the time-table and the times.

If this does not satisfy you, you may take passage at San Francisco for
Port Townsend or Victoria, and connect at either port with the Alaska
boat. Those who are still unsuited had better wait a bit, when, no
doubt, other as entirely satisfactory arrangements will be made for
their especial convenience. I went by train to Tacoma. I wanted to sniff
the forest scents of Washington State, and to get a glimpse of the brave
young settlements scattered through the North-western wilderness. I
wanted to skirt the shore of the great Sounds, whose praises have been
ringing in my ears ever since I can remember--and that is a pretty long
time now.

I wanted to loaf for a while in Port Townsend, the old jumping-off
place, the monogram in the extreme northwest corner of the map of the
United States of America--at least such it was until the Alaskan annex
stretched the thing all out of shape, and planted our flag so far out in
the Pacific that San Francisco lies a little east of the centre of the
Union, and the Hawaiian islands come within our boundaries; for our
Aleutian-island arm, you know, stretches a thousand miles to the west of
Hawaii--it even chucks Asia under the chin.

But now let me offer you a stray handful of leaves from my
note-book--mere suggestions of travel.

At Portland took morning train for Tacoma, one hundred and forty-seven
miles. Swarms of people at the station, and some ominous "good-byes";
the majority talking of Alaska in a superior fashion, which implies that
they are through passengers, and they don't care who knows it. Alaska
boat left Portland two days ago; we are to catch her at Port Townsend,
and it looks as if we should crowd her. Train crosses the Columbia River
on a monster ferry; a jolly and restful half hour in the cars and out of
them.

A very hot and dusty ride through Washington State,--part of it pretty
enough and part of it by no means so. Cars full of screaming babies,
sweltering tourists, and falling cinders that sting like dumb
mosquitoes. Rather a mixed neighborhood on the rail. An effusively
amiable evangelist