grander, more magnificent, but none that has to a greater degree that quiet beauty that calls forth the sweetest notes from the poet's muse.

When the wanderer views the river for the first time, coming from the sun-baked regions of the South or the dry and dusty alkaline plains of the East, the impression is one that is never to be forgotten. If he come by boat from California the latter part of May, when the sun has dried the fields and made the earth one continuous yellow blare, it seems that he is entering a fairy land. The towering hills on the one side are covered with green fir that wafts a breath of spring to the lungs, the bank is carpeted with green and the blue sky is overhead. On the other, five majestic mountains, clad with eternal snow, greet his expectant gaze. Slightly to the left Slightly to the left is Mt. St. Helens, with its symmetrical lines that first command attention. Then Mts. Adams, Jefferson and a tip of Rainier greet the eye, only to be quickly passed by, for there stands old Hood, supreme o'er all else, with his ruged sides that have endeared themselves to every lover of nature. This is the doorway to the Willamette.

Twelve miles from the mouth is Portland, the largest city in the Northwest, and the shipping point of vast quantities of wheat, flour and manufactured products to all parts of the world. Here the river is spanned by four modern bridges. In June, through melting snows, the riv er reaches such a height that it overflows. upon some of the streets, and at such times Portland is a veritable Venice. Boats of every character are brought into requisition, and the time is made a holiday. In the evening the scene is brilliant and romantic. Chinese lanterns swing from stem to stern of nearly every boat. There is the twinkling music of the mandolin and guitar, and the sounds of merry laughter as the boats glide by.

It is not alone on such occasions as these, however, that the opportunities for pleasure and recreation which the Willamette affords are taken advantage of by the people of Portland. The Portland rowing clubs hold an annual regatta with the clubs of the Northwest, the river furnishing an ideal course. In the sum

mertime a ride on the river in a launch, sail or row-boat is one of the most fascinating of pleasures. There are islands above the city where picnic parties gather for an afternoon, returning lazily with the current when the after-glow of the setting sun has cast its glamor over the distant city. Here again one hears the tinkle of music across the waters, and the occasional laugh of some light-hearted damsel whose

"Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage bell."

To such no pen could portray the beauty of the scene, or adequately express the fondness which the river inspires for itself in their hearts. The distant city, now dimly outlined in the twilight, soon sparkles with countless lights, the boats drift on and on, the laughter and music cease, and the world is left to silence.

Ascending the river from Portland we are imediately struck with the quiet and restful beauty of the landscape and the placid nature of the river which called forth the genius of Sam Simpson when he wrote the masterpiece which prefaces. this sketch. The beauty that is Willamette's is scarcely one that can be put into words other than those used by the poet. It is a beauty that does not lend itself to language or one that can adequately be depicted by the brush. It must be felt. Each one sees in its shimmering tide a charm which he cherishes as his own and which no one else may discover. Its "silver tongues" sing a different song to every ear that listens, and in its "crystal deeps" lingers a picture which no other eyes may behold. It is a river for the poet, for the artist, for the philosopher, for summer days and idleness, when one can loll upon its banks and dream quiet day dreams, and paint and read and write and dream.

But the Willamette is not altogether a placid stream. Here is one of its banks called "Elk Rock," several hundred feet high and perfectly perpendicular, where the water swirls in and out, and to which place, so the story goes, the Indians used to drive the elk in bands, compelling them to jump from the high bank into the river, where they would be at the Indians' mercy. Several miles

Far up the valley there is a place where the river, after a gay battle with the, obstructing boulders, loiters to rest. Stand-. ing upon the bridge which leaps from bank to bank in a single span, one sees the stream like a lake, lying without a ripple, environed by wood and hill. To the north it breaks into singing shallows on the gleaming gravel bars, and there a little village is situated. White towns dot the green banks here and there, and add to, rather than detract from, the beauty. So, on and up for 125 miles through the valley, which the Indians called "Wilamet" or "the place of pleasantness," and from which the river takes its name, to the source in the Cascade mountains, there is one unending vista that delights the senses and fills the im

agination with that inspiration which beauty in nature alone can give. Onward ever,

Lovely river,

Softly calling to the sea;
Time that mars us,

Maims and scars us,

Leaves no track or trench on thee!

Note 1. It is a matter of regret that the orthography of this word should have changed its nationality. The French spelling -Willamette-may be traced to the early influence of Catholic missions and those retired Hudson Bay voyageurs who settled along the lowel levels of the stream. But in spite of the doubled consonant, the name retains its liquid Indian pronunciation, to the frequent confusion of strangers, unaccustomed to the sublime indifference with which Oregonians regard arbitrary rules. The accent, therefore, is upon the Penult, with a short a. *Note 2.

Professor H. S. Lyman, in his "Indian Arabian Nights,' " which recently appeared in The Pacific Monthly, says that the Indians of the Northwest did not give a name to running water, but only to the country through which it passed.

Beside the flowing river I stood at close of day;

Beyond in silent beauty the wide-spread city lay.

The hills rose up in grandeur, enrobed in living green,

And watched like guards the city, their fair and proud young queen.

As conscious of their beauty the waves seemed to rejoice,

And in the dancing waters I heard a rippling voice:

"Through many ages, measured by man's short scale of time,

Unchanged my waves made music and song in woodland rhyme.

"No sound disturbed the stillness except the wild bird's call,

The beasts that roamed the forest, the pine cone's gentle fall;

Or, sometimes lightly floating, the Indian's rude canoe,

Which broke the wonted quiet upon the waters blue.

"At last, in swifter vessels there came a stranger race,

Unlike the dark-browed Indian, and strong, though pale of face,

They brought the blessed tidings, a Savior born for all,

And told the wondering Red men the Gospel's joyous call.

1.

P

Professor C. W. Durrette.

ROFESSOR C. W. DURRETTE, the subject of this brief sketch, is one of the leading educators of Oregon. During a residence of nearly five years in this state he has been tireless in his efforts to advance the standard of education in the common schools, and to assist, in all ways, in building up and perfecting a system of public instruction second to none in the Union.

Professor Durrette was born in Illinois and received the major part of his education in that commonwealth, later taking a special course at Tabor College in Iowa. It was in Illinois that he began his career as a teacher, though it

was in Iowa that he scored his first success and won recognition as an instructor of unusual merit and ability. In the role of educator, Professor Durrette served the public as principal and County Superintendent of Schools, both ably and well, and became a strong factor in the institute work of that state, a letcurer whose lectures were always acceptable and always in demand.

Since coming to Oregon he has taught continuously, and has been at the head of schools in Woodstock, West Oregon City and Mt. Tabor, and in all these places he stands high in the estimation of his patrons and fellow citizens, both as a man and as a teacher.

His work in the institutes has made him well and favorably known throughout the state. Where he goes once in the capacity of lecturer he is invariably invited to re

turn.

W.

one

Tall, with clear, modelled features, dark eyes and hair just touched with gray, a pleasantly-modulated speaking voice, and a dignified, deliberate manner-this is Conrad as Durrette, meets him every day. But underneath that quiet exterior there is concealed an inexhaustible store of force and activity. His capacity for work is something phenomenal, and because every moment and every movement is intelligently occupied and directed, he accomplishes more in a day than many would, with the same degree of activity, accomplish in a week. There is no noisy waste of time and energy. Though continuously engaged in teaching since coming to this state he has found time to study law, and, in 1897, took his degree in the Uni

versity of Oregon. While principal of the Woodstock school he was for a time editor of the periodical known as the Oregon Teacher's Monthly, working late and early, and leaving no smallest school room duty undone. He made the Oregon school magazine a credit to the state during his brief experience as its editorial head, but other duties seemed

to him more important and he severed. his connection with the periodical and gave all his time to school work.

As a fitting recognition of Professor Durrette's record and splendid abilities the Democratic party has made him its nominee for Superintendent of Multnomah county, Oregon, the leading county in the state.

T

HROUGH all the bitter pain and humiliation that had been her's since that dark hour two months ago, when she was surprised by the unexpected, Elise was absolutely free from any touch of resentment toward her husband. Neither, indeed, had she cherished that feeling towards the woman. Though overcome with shame and sorrow, and appalled by the horror of apparently inevitable consequences, she yet maintained an outward calm, and her love was strong and true enough to preeerve and protect her from the poison of distrust.

It was possible, it seemed, that a man might sin and go on his way unscathed, but some one must suffer for every violation of the moral law. And now she was reaping in agony of soul the result of his early transgression-she and the helpless creature whom he had wronged so thoughtlessly-that her very name and existence had perhaps slipped his memory! She was forced to face the fact that at his door must be laid the blame for this girl's swift descent from the sunlit path of virtue to the devious ways to the underworld and a subsequent career too revolting to be thought upon, but instinctively as a loving woman will, she shut her eyes. She refused to contemplate the mutilated features and clay feet of her idol. But she suffered none the less keenly. Her cheek paled and there was a haunting shadow in her eyes, but her smile was as

ready and her voice as sweet as ever when he was near. Perhaps, indeed, the knowledge of his weakness served to deepen her tenderness for him. She may have pitied him for a moral blemish for which her love forbade her to condemn him. She hated the sin, but forgave the sinner. Her pure woman's nature rose in revolt at the mere knowledge of an evil like this, and she was filled with hopelessness and horror at sight of the consequences that were, apparently, inevitable, but in the perfectness of her devotion she resolved that no shadow from the past should darken the path of him who wrought the wrong.

"He shall never know, he shall never know." The resolution repeated itself continually. And somehow the fact of her own bitter pain seemed to lessen his guilt. A sort of vicarious atonement.

What ghastly tragedies are hidden. beneath the grime and general wretchedness of places like Reese Alley, tragedies that have their beginning and cause in the bright upper world of wealth and fashion. Elise shuddered when she considered that this was but one of countless similar cases. But she was thankful for the tide of retributive justice that stranded this particular wreck upon her own coast. Perhaps, because of her early training or lack of it, duty was to her but a word without meaning. Her actions were not based upon anything that she had construed as duty. She did a thing because it appealed to her, be