the foot of the Cascades we board a
twin boat, fitted up with equal taste and comfort.

THE MIDDLE COLUMBIA.

Swinging once more down stream we pass hundreds of charming spots, sixty
miles of changeful beauty all the way to Portland; Multnomah Falls, a
filmy veil of water falling 720 feet into a basin on the hillside and
then 130 feet to the river; past the rocky walls of Cape Horn, towering
up a thousand feet; past that curious freak of nature, Rooster Rock, and
the palisades; past Fort Vancouver, where Grant and Sheridan were once
stationed, and just at sunset leaving the Columbia, which by this time
has broadened into noble dimensions, we ascend the Willamette twelve
miles to Portland. And the memory of that day's journey down the lordly
river will remain a gracious possession for years to come.

THE LEGEND OF THE CASCADES.

There is a quaint Indian legend concerning the Cascades to the effect
that away back in the forgotten times there was a natural bridge across
the river--the water flowing under one arch. The Great Spirit had made
this bridge very beautiful for his red children; it was firm, solid
earth, and covered with trees and grass. The two great giants who sat
always glowering at each other from far away (Mount Adams and Mount
Hood) quarreled terribly once on a time, and the sky grew black with
their smoke and the earth trembled with their roaring. And in their
rage and fury they began to throw great stones and huge mountain
boulders at one another. This great battle lasted for days, and when
the smoke and the thunderings had passed away and the sun shone
peacefully again, the people came back once more. But there was no
bridge there. Pieces of rock made small islands above the lost bridge,
but below that the river fretted and shouted and plunged over jagged
and twisted boulders for miles down the stream, throwing the spray high
in air, madly spending its strength in treacherous whirlpools and deep
seductive currents--ever after to be wrathful, complaining, dangerous.
The stoutest warrior could not live in that terrible torrent. So the
beautiful bridge was lost, destroyed in this Titan battle, but far down
in the water could be seen many of the stately trees which the Great
Spirit caused to remain there as a token of the bridge. These he turned
to stone, and they are there even unto this day. The theory of the
scientists, of course, runs counter to the pretty legend. Science
usually does destroy poetry,