is shorter than the one we came by, we come out near the life-boat house, and, being invited, go in to look at it. It seems well furnished and commodious, and wo are told it is safe, but, happily, has seldom been needed. Lastly, we take a look at the fishing-tackle, with which the light-house keeper goes out to troll for salmon. Glorious sport! The great, delicious fellows, to be caught by a fly! But we, humans, need not sermonize about being taken by small bait!
Baker's Bay is not without its little history; albeit, it is nothing romantic. In 1850, a company conceived the plan of building up a city, under shelter of the cape, and expended a hundred thousand dollars, more or less, before they became aware of the fruitlessness of their undertaking. By mistake, portions of their improvements were placed on the Government Reserve, to which, of course, they could have no title. Yet, this error, although a hinderance, was not the real cause of the company's failure, which was founded in the ineligibility of the situation for a town of importance. Nothing remains of the buildings there erected, their sites being already grown over with a young forest of alders, spruce, and hemlock.
There being nothing more of interest to be seen at the cape, we take the little steamer U. S. Grant, which has run over from Astoria with the mail for the garrison, for Point Adams on the opposite side of the river. The wind has freshened, and the steamer rolls a good deal, the river here feeling the ocean-breezes very sensibly. Such is its expanse, that, although our course brings us off Chinook Point, we have but an indistinct view of it. Not as it was seventy years ago—a populous Indian village; the dwellings of white settlers are now overshadowing the ancient wigwams. Even its
