Agriculture and horticulture invite attention. The rolling prairies between the Rocky and the Cascades are especially adapted for the raising of cereals. Wheat yields from 50 to 75 bushels per acre, oats from 100 to 125, rye from 60 to 80. Irrigation has been practiced with wonderful success around Wenatchee. The feasibility of applying nature itself is remarkable. Here and there meander silvery streams of clear water, which are made to spread over fertile tracts of land at any time, and to any part wanted. No longing for showers to quench and sweeten the thirsty soil bothers the farmer in this section. Irrigation is so easily practiced, and the crops thus raised are so enormous, may it be grain or fruit, that the eastern agriculturist cannot conceive our natural advantages. Why linger on the hungry prairies of the east, freezing your lives out, when opportunities like these are extended to you? Here you can get a pleasant home, for a small trifle, where the air is mild and soothing, where the soil is rich and easily cultivated.
The Sound country is equally productive. Ay, inexhaustible. The Washington fruit is known the world over for quality and quantity. Magnificent orchards adorn every farm, and the smaller ranches, too, enjoy the presence of wealthy apple, pear and plum trees.
When you throw your eye upon Puget Sound, and behold the fleet of fish barges, rolling upon it's briny breast, a reminiscence of the coast of Norway steals into your soul. Cohorts of men, mostly Scandinavians, resort to the waves for subsistence. Herring and salmon throng the water in rich abundance. Shoals of the latter race along the shores, fighting their way up streams to spawn. Some become savory prey for bears, cougars and wolves, others die a respectable death, or return to their natural abode—the ocean. The halibut plays master among the smaller species, and grows fat at their diminution. He cares nothing for streams or shallow bays, but gambols friskily amidst the salty billows.
Mining Scenes on the Great Northern, near Index, Washington.
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All the gold and silver in the bowels of the earth, and all the glittering nuggets shining on her bosom did not ruffle the serenity, or affect the wonted vagrancy of the Indians. To them the forest was a nuisance and the saw mill a scarecrow. The singing brook was worthless and the rolling river valueless, save as mothers of trout. They had no love for higher aspiration, no instinct for advancement, no aim to better their condition, no foresight to provide against the pitiless influence of cold or heat, no sagacity, no frugality, no thought of tomorrow, no pile of subsistence for a rainy day or helpless age, troubled their minds. Life was to them a ceaseless dream of nothingness. Superstition was their god and pride, reason a casual stranger which rooted not in their souls.