Here is a bit of western fiction, a study in evolution that would interest a Haeckel. These berries falling into the water float away into brown pools and shady nooks and there change into the red fish known as salmon.
The gentleman who told me this wonderful tale of magic assured me that it was true, and that the Fish Commission had made a report of it. Like the tale of the banshee, however, he had never seen it but he knew people who had.
Scientific errors should be corrected, so I will give you the facts about the salmon trout. It was that mischievous god Loke, who to escape the vengeance of Thor hid himself in a cave, but when he heard the thundering voice of that noble god,
“He changed himself into a salmon trout
And leaped in a fright in the Glommen.”
Slippery as a salmon is a common adage in Norseland.
The most beautiful spot in this region is Lake Pend d’Oreille. The scenery of this lovely lake rivals that of Lake George. Its blue waters bathe the brown feet of rugged mountains.
It is early morning on Lake Pend d’Oreille; the mountain breeze, the gentle swish of the water as it laps the shore, the white, graceful-moving sail-boat all entice you for a day’s fishing. Tired of this sport you sail over and rest under the wonderful Blue Slide. The mountain bordering on the lake at this point has crumbled away, sending down its bowlders into the lake. From the boat you look up a smooth incline plane two thousand feet, above which rises the precipice itself another thousand feet. The slide is covered with a pale blue clay, while the precipice itself is a mixture of granite and clay tinged with iron. Large pines grow on the very edge of the precipice.
The junction of Clear Water and the Snake rivers in Idaho is a place of historic interest. We are now in the country traversed by Lewis and Clarke.
The history of the great Northwest is wonderfully fascinating. The history of no part of this great territory is more tragic than that of Montana. Her savage tribes, her cosmopolitan population called into existence by her fur trade and mining industry, all combined to produce in Montana a peculiar phase of civilization, but she has beaten dirks and bowie knives into plowshares and now follows the gentle arts of peace. A magnificent mountain range, lovely valley, beautiful river and a delicate, graceful flower—Bitter Root. Bitter Root is the state flower of Montana and lends its name to the river, mountains and valley of its native heath, growing most luxuriantly in Bitter Root valley.