golden casements, and where contentment and happiness are the visible garments in which everything would seem to be enrobed. INDIAN WARS OF SOUTHERN OREGON. ADDRESS OF HON. WILLIAM M. COLVIG DELIVERED AT THE REUNION OF THE INDIAN WAR VETERANS, AT MEDFORD ON SATURDAY, JULY 26, 1902. I was first invited to deliver an address of welcome to the Indian war veterans, who meet here to-day; but within the past few days I was informed that an historical sketch of early days in southern Oregon, including an account of the Indian wars, would be my part in the programme of exercises. My knowledge of the subject is not very extensive. I lived in southern Oregon as early as 1852, but was only a boy, not old enough to take part in any of the stirring incidents which I remember of those days. I see before me faces that recall events long past, and which left pictures in the album of memory that time will never efface, and you will pardon me if I refer to one of those personal recollections. In 1855 my father, Dr. Wm. L. Colvig, and family lived in a log cabin on the South Umpqua River, near Canyonville. One bright, clear day in October of that year, myself and brother, on returning from a trip in the "cañon," saw standing, in an exhausted condition, a white cayuse pony before the door of our home. The horse was covered with blood. Everything seemed quiet about the place. We rushed into the house and saw a man lying on his back, full length, upon the puncheon floor. His clothing was partially removed. His body was covered with blood. Father was kneeling over him on one side and mother on the other. They were dressing his wounds. He had nine separate bullet holes in his limbs and body. Doctor Colvig had his case of surgical instruments at hand, which consisted of a butcher knife and a pair of scissors. The knife was the one we had used to cut meat when crossing the plains. Mother was preparing bandages by tearing up some of our old "hickory" shirts. Well, they patched Uncle Bill Russell--called "Long Bill" in those days--up in pretty good shape. I see him here to-day, but I don't think that he is looking for a fight with Indians. At the time of which I speak, he had been shot by the Indians about five miles from my father's house but succeeded in riding to our door. His companion, Weaver, had a close call, but escaped unhurt.