Rhymes of Our Valley (Classic Reprint)

Excerpt from Rhymes of Our Valley

It may be that somewhere in this wide, wide world there is a more beautiful valley than ours, but we of our valley do not think so. Out there in the Oregon country it lies, land of the Columbia, whose towering walls have been twisted and carved into moss-flecked battlements and cathedral domes. Centuries ago, if we hark to the Indian legend, the beautiful stream was spanned by a gigantic archway of stone. It was called The Bridge of the Gods. In an ill-starred moment, with a quaking of the earth, it fell and was shattered into a thousand fragments. Where it fell, the river rolls today, tumbling and sprawling over scattered bulwarks of stone. To the east of these rapids, if you look toward the South, you will see thirty miles away the snowy summit of Mount Hood in the great volcanic chain of the Cascades.

From mountain to river, enfolded in its canyon arms of Summer green, of Autumn arabesque or Winter snow, lies our valley. But yesterday it bristled with yellow pine and fir, with tamarac and cedar and chincapin, with impenetrable brush of maple, sage and willow.

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