BILL CROSS AND HIS BEAR. 89

of which I write, and a sailor, at that. Now,
the old pilgrims who had dared the plains
in those days of 49, when cowards did not
venture and the weak died on the way, had
not the greatest respect for the courage or
endurance of those who had reached Ore-
gon by ship. But here was this man, a
sailor by trade, settling down in the in-
terior of Oregon, and, strangely enough,
pretending to know more about everything
in general and bears in particular than
either my father or any of his boys!

He had taken up a piece of land down
in the pretty Camas Valley where the grass
grew long and strong and waved in the
wind, mobile and beautiful as the mobile
sea.

The good-natured and self-complacent
old sailor liked to watch the waving grass.
It reminded him of the sea, I reckon. He
would sometimes sit on our little porch as
_ the sun went down and tell us boys
strange, wild sea stories. He had traveled
far and seen much, as much as any man