the Neah Bay Indians have like vessels of their own, and have become, to a great extent, self-supporting and prosperous. The same policy in a modified form, but in fact the development of the same idea, was adopted by Rev. Wilbur, agent of the Yakima Indians; and these Indians, to a great extent, have given up their nomadic mode of life; they have small farms, and neat and comfortable houses; they have gardens, chickens and a large accumulation of domestic animals about them. They are prosperous, and slowly moving along the line to a higher civilization. Civilization is a slow process. It takes all the forces, moral, intellectual, educational and religious, now in successful operation, to hold the world from falling back and to move it slowly, but surely onward and upward, to a higher plane of civilization. While it is a tedious and arduous, if not an impossible task, to make a white man, in his habits and modes of life, out of an Indian, yet the descent of the white man to the modes, habits of life and appearance of an Indian, is a sadly speedy process. In a trip I made to Colville, Washington, in 1856 there came into our camp one day a person whom I supposed at first to be an Indian. He was dressed in buckskin, ornamented with fringes and beads, with a blanket over his shoulders; his hair was long and unkept, with no hat on his head and his face bronzed like that of an Indian; and he was besmeared across the forehead with red ochre, or some other kind of paint. I should judge that he was 36 years of age. At first he refused to talk, except in jargon; but after a while, when we were alone, he became more communicative, and gave me something of his history. He spoke good English. He claimed to be a graduate of one of the Eastern Colleges, and I have no doubt his claim was true. He had gotten into some difficulty in the States and had been living as an Indian for some eight years, or more. To all appearances he was an Indian; he looked like an Indian and acted like one. I was in his company for some three days, and when alone he talked to me in good English; he said he loved this wild and nomadic life, with its perfect freedom from the shams and hypocrisy of so-called civilization. He said that the hills, the mountains with their snow-crowned culminations, the dark woods, the silver thread of the stream viewed from an elevated point and fringed with green as it went leaping and rollicking to its ocean home, were to him an unwritten poem, the rythm of which he enjoyed, and the lines of which he was trying to interpret. He quoted to me from Byron the passage concerning the pleasures of the pathless woods, and from Bryant: "Where rolls the Oregon, And hears no sound, save his own dashings."