Some artist has portrayed a group of children on a sunny slope among the hills, busy with the scarlet fruit and called it "The Strawberry of Memory"; such was the strawberry of that summer. One brilliant June day when all the landscape was steeped in sunshine we went some distance from home to gather a large supply. It is needless to say that we, the juvenile contingent, improved the opportunity well; and when we sat at table the following day and grandfather helped us to generous pieces of strawberry "cobbler" and grandmother poured over them rich, sweet cream, our satisfaction was complete. It is likely that if we had heard of the boy who wished for a neck as long as a giraffe so that he could taste the good things all the way down, we would have echoed the sentiment. Mentioning the giraffe, of the animal also we probably had no knowledge as books were few and menageries, none at all. No lack was felt, however, as the wild animals were numerous and interesting. The birds, rabbits and squirrels were friendly and fearless then; the birds were especially loved and it was pleasing to translate their notes into endearments for ourselves. But the rolling suns brought round the day when we must return to our native heath on Puget Sound. Right sorry were the two little "clam-diggers" to leave the little companion of delightful days, and grandparents. With a rush of tears and calling "good-bye! good-bye!" as long as we could see or hear we rode away in a wagon, beginning the long journey, full of variety, back to the settlement on Elliott Bay. Ourselves, and wagon and team purchased in the "web-foot" country, were carried down the Willamette and across the sweeping Columbia on a steamer to Monticello. There the wagon was loaded into a canoe to ascend the Cowlitz River, and we mounted the horses for a long day's ride, one of the children on the pommel of father's saddle, the other perched behind on mother's steed. The forest was so dense through which we rode for a long distance that the light of noonday became a feeble twilight, the way was a mere trail, the salal bushes on either side so tall that they brushed the feet of the little riders. The tedium of succeeding miles of this weird wilderness was beguiled by the stories, gentle warnings and encouragement from my mother. The cicadas sang as if it were evening, the dark woods looked a little fearful and I was advised to "Hold on tight and keep awake, there are bears in these woods." The trail led us to the first crossing of the Cowlitz River, where father hallooed long and loud for help to ferry us over, from a lonely house on the opposite shore, but only echo and silence returned. The deep, dark stream, sombre forest and deserted house made an eerie impression on the children. The little party boarded the ferryboat and swimming the horses, alongside crossed without delay. The next afternoon saw us nearing the crossing of the Cowlitz again at Warbass Landing.