of nature, while his eye catches visions from the clouds which pass over his head.

His numerous works and particularly his recently published volume of poems, "The Songs of the Soul," show him to be no idler. His spindle and distaff are ever in his hand; he spins the flax God sends, handing the threads down to his fellows on the plain. May we not weave some of them into the woof or warp of our lives?

On our return home Hon. George A. Waggoner, an old schoolmate and friend of the poet, handed me a sketch published in a Corvallis paper ten years ago. In this, Mr. Waggoner, who has written a volume that may yet add luster to Oregon lore, speaks so beautifully and kindly of Joaquin Miller as known among his associates before he attempted to write, that we obtained permission to insert the following extract:

"The first man I met among the fevered crowd was Oregon's poet-my old schoolmate—Joaquin Miller. His blue eyes sparkled with kindly greeting, and, as I took his hand, I knew by its quickening pulse and tightened clasp that he too was sharing in the excitement of the gold hunter. He was then in the first flush of manhood, with buoyant spirits, untiring energy, and among a race of hardy pioneers; the bravest of the brave. He possessed more than ordinary talent and looked forward with hope to the battle of life, expecting to reap his share of its honors and rewards. For

years he was foremost in every desperate enterprise-crossing snow-capped mountains, swollen rivers, and facing hostile Indians. When snow fell fifteen feet deep on the Florence mountain, and hundreds were penned in camp without a word from wives, children, and loved ones at home, he said: 'Boys, I will bring your letters from Lewiston.' Afoot and alone, without a trail, he crossed the mountain tops, the dangerous streams, the wintry desert of Camas Prairie, fighting back the hungry mountain wolves, and returned bending beneath his load of loving messages from home. One day he was found in defence of the weak, facing the pistol or bowie knife of the desperado; and the next day he was washing the clothes and smoothing the pillow of a sick comrade. We all loved him, but we were not men who wrote for the newspaper or magazine, and his acts of heroism and kindness were unchronicled save in the hearts of those who knew him in those times, and under those trying circumstances. He is of earth's first blood, but has seen a life of sorrow and disappointment. He has struggled with poverty and unfavorable circumstances, yet through all he has been true to his own land. He has wooed his muse, and tuned his lyre across the great waters; but he sang of his boyhood scenes, of the Pacific coast, its great rivers, mountains, and men, and has been true to them all. He poetized the grandeur of our land so nobly as to electrify all Europe,

the swelling notes of his praise echoing and reechoing until they have reached our ears from across the Atlantic."

Joaquin Miller's complete poetical works have been abridged and published in a very neat volume of 330 pages. The poet of the Sierras has become his own censor so that he might give to the world in one volume only the cream of all that he has written; and no critic could have been more judicious and severe than he. The preface is an autobiography coupled with some of his "lessons not found in books." This is Joaquin Miller's greatest book, for in it his gentleness of manner and simplicity of style leads the reader to feel that the bard upon the Heights has in the evening of life tuned his harp in perfect accord with the sweeter, softer, gentler strains of the bird song in the land of the western sunset.

England insists on placing Joaquin Miller in the front rank of living American poets. But Joaquin Miller's life and lines can never be fully understood and appreciated without some acquaintance with Minnie Myrtle Miller, his wife, who stood unrivalled for her peculiar versatility. She could carry a gun into the mountain fastness and slay a deer, an elk, or a bear, on which to dine, or she could relapse into quietude and write a poem that showed undoubted genius, or she could appear in high social circles with a queenly grace and there entertain the rich and the princely.

MINNIE MYRTLE MILLER.

Is there something about poetic talent that renders its possessor unhappy? Is the gift fatal to the fullest enjoyment of life? Does its fervid warmth destroy the shrine whereon its fires burn, or its smallest spark scar the breast which holds it? These are questions often asked, and the lives of our poets have furnished evidence contradictory in the extreme. Those who have become intimately acquainted with many of them often pause in reading their inspiring strains to muse sadly over the wrecked hopes, and unhappy lives of those who have tuned to rhythm and set to melody the hearts of all the peoples of earth.

We candidly confess our inability at this time to summon sufficient testimony to decide these questions, but would suggest that should their affirmative be established then must the world feel additional gratitude to its songsters, to those who have followed the bent of their genius in striving to elevate and ennoble mankind while destroying their own share of its happiness. Although it may be difficult to disprove the theory somewhat prevalent that poets are restless, irritable and unhappy in their social relations with their fellows, yet it is so adverse to the generally acknowledged beneficence of the laws of nature which must control the endowment of mental powers and attributes