islands and falls, and distant views of snowy peaks. There is no trip
like it on the coast, and for a river excursion there is not its equal
in the United States.

THE ISLE OF THE DEAD.

Twelve miles below "The Dalles" there is a lonely, rugged island anchored
amid stream. It is bare, save for a white monument which rises from its
rocky breast. No living thing, no vestige of verdure, or tree, or shrub,
appears. And Captain McNulty, as he stood at the wheel and steadied the
"Queen," said:

"That monument? It's Victor Trevet's. Of course you never heard of him,
but he was a great man, all the same, here in Oregon in the old times.
Queer he was, and no mistake. Member of one of the early legislatures;
sort of a general peacemaker; everybody went to him with their troubles,
and when he said a lawsuit didn't go, it didn't, and he always stuck up
for the Indians, and always called his own kind 'dirty mean whites.' I
used to think that was put on, and maybe it was, but anyhow that's the
way he used to talk. And a hundred times he has said to me, 'John, when
I die, I want to be buried on Memaloose Isle.' That's the 'Isle of the
Dead,' which we just passed, and has been from times away back the burial
place of the Chinook Indians. It's just full of 'em. And I says to him,
'Now, Vic., it's fame your after.' 'John,' says he, 'I'll tell you: I'm
not indifferent to glory; and there's many a big gun laid away in the
cemetery that people forget in a year, and his grave's never visited
after a few turns of the wheel; but if I rest on Memaloose Isle, I'll not
be forgotten while people travel this river. And another thing: You know,
John, the dirty, mean whites stole the Indian's burial ground and built
Portland there. Everyday the papers have an account of Mr. Bigbug's