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 



