man from Iowa—was entirely satisfied with his new home, and was about to build a homestead on one of the sloping hill-sides of his farm, above high-water mark, from the sudden flood of the previous summer. We were also shown, at one of the farms, the fleece of a Cotswold sheep, with a staple thirteen inches in length, and glossy as silk.
There is no timber in the Walla Walla Valley except the cottonwood, birch, alder, and willow, which grow along the streams. The farmers are compelled to go to the Blue Mountains—generally a distance of fifteen miles—for timber for fencing, and lumber for building. Yet every farm is well fenced, and the farm-houses are better and neater-looking than those first erected in timbered countries, and for obvious reasons. The ugly, but substantial log-house, once erected, lasts a generation, and is tolerated from use. But where it is impossible to build such a dwelling, and where sawed lumber must be used, it is generally thought worth a little extra effort to put up something that the farmer will not want to tear down in his life-time.
A ride through the Walla Walla Valley, along the line of the stage-road, shows us the most cultivated portions, and a great deal of delightful country that is in its natural state. The face of the country is undulating—covered with grass and flowers. Fat, sleek-hided cattle feed in herds on a hundred hills. As we jog easily along over smooth roads, we enjoy the clear, bracing air, the cloudless sky, the glimpses of cultivation in wayside nooks, the flowers, the birds—the whole breezy, peaceful, harmonious landscape.
The only game which we notice is of the bird kind—prairie-hens and curlews. The latter amuse us much with their noisy, silly ways, and awkward style of run-
