Scandinavians on the Pacific, Puget Sound

by Thomas Ostenson Stine

The ban of the nuptial day was made public. The bride spared no tiptoeing to make it highly royal. First was a coat of red paint, then purple, tinged with green. A carefully administered shampoo of oil followed, then a crands of wild flowers was critically twined to her wealth of black locks with a few quills set on end in the most confused bewilderment. Of course, Anderson did not fancy the odorous coat of his intended, nor her pert of etiquette, but being as those things were incidental to the dynasty, he darted approbation with his blue eyes, thinking, "Costume is not permanent."

From this time the chivalric Dane became a leader. He piloted the royal squadron to Hood's Canal, where he squatted on a piece of land, hence the sobriquet—Hood's Canal Anderson.

He became attached to his wife, and she reciprocated with equal depth of conjugality, and shaped her costume to meet his liking, yet Uncle Sam pried into their warm nestling by passing a law to either separate or marry according to his code. Of course, Anderson had to marry his wife the second time, which he did like a loyal citizen. He took his corpulent queen, placed her in the stern of the big canoe, and paddled to Seabold, where they were united in holy ties by Harry Shafer, Uncle Sam's matrimonial agent. Anderson bears the honor of being the first white man on Puget Sound concubined to a squaw in accordance with the laws of the United States. He was industrious and elevated compared with his station, turned a wooded bit of ground to a flowery garden, and in a corner, beneath a weedy sod, he rests unsung.

Peter Friberg.—Peter Friberg, like Hood's Canal Anderson, has walked the highway of frontier trials. He was born in Sweden, but when a mere youth sought the waves. After years of trying experiences he found himself on Puget Sound, among the floating Flatheads, about the same time Anderson landed, but perchance drifted off with another flock of red skins, consequently the two contemporaries were ignorant of each other's wanderings till later years, when they accidently met and shook hands.

Peter Friberg also threw his heart to a squaw, and with her he barged along the shores making depredation on salmon and halibut, finally pinning his future to a happy point running into the bosom of the Sound, near Salmon Bay.

Martin Toftezen.—About two-and-forty years ago, a son of Norway anchored his canoe on the north side of Whidbey Island. His name has been pinned to its soil among the first on record. He was a pioneer of heart and courage—chivalrous Martin Toftezen. He had drifted around the Horn on a ship, and was tossed into the mouth of Puget Sound, where the breath of the deep calmed to a gentle zephyr, and the wings of speed flapped in disconsolation. The bark was dashed ashore by the angry billows, caused by the agitating tide, and Toftezen stood in a transport of mingled awe and perturbation. Nature was grand, enchantingly sang the ripples up the fascinating arm, and mad in grandeur reared the snow-capped peaks, flinging smiles of welcome. "Why reject the poetic landscape? Nature's sweetness will smite the blue forehead of dreary solitude." These thoughts rolled in his fancy, and up the Sound he paddled, and settled on the green tail, where he wore out his life.

Peter Andrias Peterson.—No man on the Pacific coast ever endured more hardships than the personage in question—Peter Andrias Peterson—who, about a year ago fell prey to an incidental injury, and was carried over the stream for the unknown sea beyond.

He was born in Denmark, 1828, and cast on the cold billows to struggle for himself at the age of fifteen. A few years later he stepped ashore in England, where he took a course in navigation to enable himself to cope more successfully with the foam-crest surges. He embarked a ship for India and Australia. In the latter place his mind was engrossed with exciting reports from the gold fields, and thither he flew, a fugitive of the sea. Success smiled on his brow, and wealth crowded into his hands; but riches easily won are not highly treasured. In a wildcat scheme he sunk his fortune, and before the dawn of a fresh week his thousands were in the hands of others.

This catastrophe, brought about by sheer mishap, drove him back to the sea, and, in 1859, landed at Victoria, British Columbia. A buoyant spirit, though wounded with ill-luck, will soar to felicity and breathe vigor on green fields. Peterson was delighted with the verdure that greeted his vision, and took a canoe excursion around the Sound. On returning to Victoria, he was struck with the gold fever which raged desperately in the Cascades and Sound country. He compromised with his floating thoughts, bent his energy on a prospecting tour, and in two days flocked together sixteen men. In his customary adroitness he took command of the little army of gold seekers, and bore into the forest, but when two hundred and twenty-five miles from Victoria, thirteen of them lost courage and returned to the city.

Peterson and his two companions proceeded up a small stream for some days, and to their astonishment, one gray evening, fell upon four white men actively engaged in picking gold nuggets. They staked out a claim, glimpses of luck commenced to play on their cheeks, but died ere a fortnight had gone to rest in the pensive dream of growing forgetfulness. Their ration was getting low, and to save themselves from falling victims to pitiless starvation, they raked together their pelf, and returned to Victoria.