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And good-bye. A genre-hopping, darkly funny novel about searching for the truth, finding yourself, and falling in love. Frankie Vega is angry. Just ask the guy whose nose she broke. And when that kid goes missing, the only person willing to help is a boy with stupidly blue eyes, a criminal record, and secrets of his own. Meg hates being alone, but her ADHD keeps pushing people away. Honest and emotionally charged, Good and Gone is the story of a teenage girl who must find her way back to herself as she grapples with the truth of what her boyfriend did to her.

Concerned at how quickly he seems to be rebounding, Lexi decides to go along for the ride. Besides, Lexi could use the distraction. The anger and bewilderment coursing through her after getting dumped by her pretentious boyfriend, Seth, has left her on edge. As Lexi, Charlie, and their neighbor Zack hit the road, Lexi recalls bits and pieces of her short-lived romance and sees, for the first time, what it truly was: a one-sided, coldhearted manipulation game. Instead, what starts off as a car ride turns into an exploration of self as each of them faces questions they have been avoiding for too long.

Like the real reason Charlie has been so withdrawn lately. What Seth stole from Lexi in the pool house. And if shattered girls can ever put themselves back together. Nazi England, Her best friend, Clementine, is not so submissive. Passionately different, Clem is outspoken, dangerous, and radical. And the regime has noticed. Jess cannot keep both her perfect life and her dearest friend, her first love.

But which can she live without? Haunting, intricate, and unforgettable, The Big Lie unflinchingly interrogates perceptions of revolution, feminism, sexuality, and protest. Jennifer E. What she is going to do is pack up her determination, her favorite Octavia Butler novels, and her Jordans, and go to summer camp.

Specifically, a cutthroat academic-decathlon-like competition for a full scholarship to Rayevich College, the only college with a Science Fiction Literature program.


Over the course of one chaotic night stranded at the Denver airport, Ryn confronts her shattered past thanks to the charm of romance, the uniqueness of strangers, and the magic of ordinary places in this stunning novel from the author of Boys of Summer. Because that one message is the last thing her best friend ever said to her before she died. But as the bizarre night continues, all Ryn can think about is that one unread text message. As moving as it is funny, The Chaos of Standing Still is a heartwarming story about the earth-shattering challenges life throws at us—and the unexpected strangers who help us along the way.

A funny and honest coming-of-age story about first love and finding yourself. Perfect for fans of Andrew Smith and Becky Albertalli. Zeus would rather be anywhere than here—Buffalo Falls—the tiny town his family moved to at the end of the school year. Zeus can hardly believe that someone like her exists, let alone seems interested in being with him. However, while Zeus is counting down the minutes until he can see her next, Rose is counting down the days until she finds out whether she will be able to leave their small town to pursue her dreams.

A harrowing and heartbreaking teen romance expertly told with a reverse timeline, Before Now is another emotionally charged novel from suspense author Norah Olson about a young couple who runs headlong into tragedy while trying to escape their complicated pasts. Eventually the mistakes and betrayals from their pasts catch up to them. Then the unthinkable becomes reality and the future is instantly unwritten. Meet Cute: Some people are destined to meet. Whether or not you believe in fate, or luck, or love at first sight, every romance has to start somewhere.

Jennifer Armentrout writes a sweet story about finding love from a missing library book, Emery Lord has a heartwarming and funny tale of two girls stuck in an airport, Dhonielle Clayton takes a thoughtful, speculate approach to pre-destined love, and Julie Murphy dreams up a fun twist on reality dating show contestants. This incredibly talented group of authors brings us a collection of stories that are at turns romantic and witty, epic and everyday, heartbreaking and real.

One of the first naturalists to observe live insects directly, Maria Sibylla Merian was also one of the first to document the metamorphosis of the butterfly. Libraries are always evolving. Stay ahead. Log In. You did not sign in correctly or your account is temporarily disabled. Exclusive video library and multimedia content. Full, searchable archives of more than , reviews and thousands of articles. Research reports, data analysis, white papers, and expert opinion.

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I have read and agree to the Terms of Use You should agree the terms and services. Create an account password and save time in the future. Get immediate access to: News, opinion, features, and breaking stories Exclusive video library and multimedia content Full, searchable archives of more than , reviews and thousands of articles Research reports, data analysis, white papers, and expert opinion. New Password Show. Beautifully told and illustrated by debut author Elizabeth Lilly, this is a heartwarming tale about belonging and being yourself.

Duck is in a pickle: his truck is stuck in the muck! But with the help of his friends, he might just be able to get it out. Fans of Dr. The winner of the Caldecott Medal, this book spawned two further adventures of Trixie and Knuffle Bunny as well as a musical. For the woods teems with predators, including a fox, an owl, and a snake — just to name a few of the creatures that would gladly see an unsuspecting mouse as a tasty snack.

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To escape their jaws, our brave protagonist invents a monstrous gruffalo, who he claims will come and protect him should any harm befall him. So what will happen when the mouse encounters a real gruffalo at the end of his journey? Oh boy! A long train must be tugged over a mountain, but the job might be more problematic than it seems. Raise your hand if you know the feeling of someone mispronouncing your name. Is your hand up?

What follows is a heartwarming story about overcoming cultural and racial differences, and staying true to yourself. It needs to: 1 appeal to parents so that they will buy the book in the first place, and 2 appeal to the young minds the story is ultimately for. And, judging by the title alone, this book neatly checks off that second task!

Once a well-loved toy rabbit, the velveteen rabbit is now a worn-out and discarded nursery item. Luckily, a magic fairy is watching out for him and takes the little rabbit to — where else? Children have loved The Very Hungry Caterpillar for decades now, in part because of its fun cardboard cut-outs that allow the child to visualise the caterpillar eating its way through a lot of food.

Of course, adults also enjoy the book for the fantasy that endless eating will allow them to transform into a beautiful butterfly. Written in beautifully-crafted hand-lettered, one such message is:. For many generations, Sesame Street has had an uncanny knack for imparting pearls of wisdom through entertaining storytelling. In a twist, this book is actually adapted from the short film of the same name! Both the film and book follow Pascal Lamorisse, a boy who comes across a red balloon on his way to school one morning. He quickly discovers that the balloon has a mind of its own — one bent on having adventures around the city of Paris.

The sole exception to this rule might be Green Eggs and Ham , in which a fussy eater is convinced to move outside his comfort zone and sample a dish of unusually colored eggs and pork. Kids will learn all about the world, their lives, and their responsibilities through the entertaining antics of Brother and Sister Bear, not to mention the wise words of Mama and Papa. When a lost penguin turns up on his doorstep, a young boy decides that the only thing to do is return him home.

So off they set on a rowboat to Antarctica, where the boy will discover that what the penguin seeks may not be found at the South Pole. The winner of multiple prestigious awards, Lost and Found was adapted as an animated short in Told over the course of a lifetime, this sweet picture book portrays the evolving relationship between a son and his mother through the lens of a lullaby she sings, promising to always love him.

The ending has been known to bring adults to tears, so be prepared with a box of tissues. When the farmer discovers Peter asleep in his ruined crops, a chase ensues. Will Peter escape in time for tea? Will the farmer be compensated for his loss of livelihood? A boy loves berries. A bear loves rhymes. Together they go on a journey to Berryland, where they can pick fruit, make friends with raspberry rabbits, ice-skate on jelly, and make rhymes all day long!

For fanciful young children, certainly nothing could be better than that. In terms of introducing young kids to the wonders of the world, this book is pretty first-rate. Doctor De Soto is a talented mouse dentist who always treats his patients with as much care as possible. But what happens when a fox arrives to get a bad tooth replaced — and, while under anesthesia, admits that he loves to eat mice?

The adventures of mischievous little monkey Curious George commence with this thrilling tale, originally published in However, far from being scared, George is excited — and wastes no time exploring his new surroundings. From trying to fly with seagulls to being arrested for an accidental call to the fire department, George is constantly getting into scrapes! Luckily, the Man in the Yellow Hat is always there to bail him out.

A brown bear is upset. With all of her belongings in cinders, she dons a paper bag dress and sets out the outwit the dragon. Is there anything more magical than childhood Christmas Eve nights, half-spent trying to sleep so that Christmas morning comes quicker — and the other half spent trying to stay awake to get a glimpse of Santa and his reindeer? The book that kicked off the bestselling Pete the Cat series, I Love My White Shoes follows the eponymous character as he walks around wearing a brand-new pair of white shoes.

But the forces of nature including a pile of strawberries and blueberries have other ideas for him, and his shoes gradually change from white to red to brown! Strega Nona is the grandmother that everyone wants to have. But when her helper tries to use her magical pasta pot himself one day, the pot overflows, proving that there is such a thing as too much pasta — especially when said pasta gets out of control and nearly buries an entire village. A sticky situation, indeed! A child and a tree: the friendship that you probably never accounted for. It never underplays grief or tries to make it less complicated than it is.

Lena is seven-years-old and excited to start painting a self-portrait. But who knew that brown could come in so many different shades? A celebration of skin color and diversity, The Colors of Us is a must-read for all young children as it shows positively how we are each beautiful in our own unique ways.

First published in , this series is beloved for more than its simple illustrations: the steadfast love and friendship between Frog and Toad has lit up the lives of millions of readers around the world. Every morning, Noi watches his dad set out on a fishing book and waits until dark for his return. One night, a storm washes a small whale up unto the shore. Noi visits the whale and begins talking to it, discovering it is a good listener.

When the father finally returns and sees this, he realizes he may have been missing something: his son is lonely. He takes the teasing on his chin and goes about life his own way, all the while maturing into a beautiful swan — much to the surprise of others. While this premise might seem vain on the surface, people everywhere should read this book to learn about the meaning of true beauty.

Let the wild rumpus start: this beloved book is now 55 years old! When Max puts on his wolf costume and starts misbehaving, he gets sent to bed without supper. But then… something magical happens. A forest appears in his room — and the adventure begins. But when he gets that cookie, he then needs a glass of milk, and then a straw, and so on. Zookeeper Amos McGee is a busy guy: from playing chess with the elephants to reading stories to the owls, his schedule is simply jam-packed.

Well, his animal friends will just have to come to him instead. Kid lit authors are always looking for subjects their readers can relate to. And what do all three-year-old children know about? Crayons, of course! Thankfully, Harold seems to be a decent artist — if other kids his age had this magical crayon, the world would be filled with misshapen dogs and seriously sub-code houses. She loves wearing polka dots and stripes together. Mismatched socks? Peanut butter and jelly burritos? An ode to positivity and acceptance, this book encourages children to see beauty in everyone.

Tall, small, light skin, dark skin, curly hair, straight hair — everything is lovely when you know where to look! Something brushed my left sleeve.

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It was the arm of a switch. Then I fell clear, hitting a cinder bank. I lost my footing, slid on my hands and knees for a dozen feet down the bank, and rolled to the bottom. I got slowly to my feet as the last cars of the freight roared by and disappeared with a twinkling of lights into the east. My palms were bleeding and full of cinders. My knees were skinned. I was dirty and hungry and aching. I sat on a pile of ties by the track, nurs ing my wounds. A form came out of the darkness. It proved to be an old man who also rode the rods. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, "I saw you jump, buddy.

Are you hurt? Just scratched. It s a city that s hard on fellows like us. But it s not only that. Do you smell the stockyards? I ve worked there. The pay ain t so bad. But you go home at night to a room on an alley.

slippy mcgee sometimes known as the butterfly man tredition classics Manual

There s not a tree. There s no grass. No birds. No mountains. It led to his story. He had come, to begin with, from northern California. He had worked in the harvests, and as he worked he could look up and see the mountains. Before him was Mount Shasta. He could put his bedroll on the ground and fall asleep under the pines. People were not packed together like sardines.

They had elbow room. A man need not sit on a Sunday looking out on a bleak alley. He could have a piece of ground, plant a garden, and work it. He might even catch a trout, or shoot a grouse or pheasant, or perhaps kill a deer. I listened for about an hour as he praised the glories of the moun tains of the West and related his experiences in them. Dawn was coming, and as it came I could see the smoke and some of the squalor of which my friend spoke. I asked what brought him to the freight yards at this hour of the morning. He said he came to catch a west-bound freight back to God s own land, back to the mountains.

Lonesomeness swept over me. I never had loved the Cascades as much as I did that early morning in the stockyards of Chicago. Never had I missed a snow capped peak as much. Never had I longed more to see a mountain meadow filled with heather and lupine and paintbrush. As dawn broke I could see smokestacks everywhere, and in the distance to the east the vague outlines of tall buildings. But there lay before me nothing higher, no ridge or hill or meadow only a great monotony of cinders, smoke, and dingy factories with chimneys pouring out a thick haze over the landscape.

The old man and I sat in silence a few moments. He said, "Do you know your Bible, son? My help cometh from the Lord who made heaven and earth. A quarter-mile down the track a freight was pulling onto the main line. Better come back with me.

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Chicago s not for us. He smiled. They ll roll you when you re asleep. Go to the Y. It s cheap and clean and they re on the level. The passing train was picking up speed. The old man was more agile than he looked. He trotted easily along the track, grabbed a handhold, and stepped lightly aboard on the bottom rung of the ladder. Climbing to the top of the boxcar, he took off his hat, and waved until he was out of sight. I watched the freight disappear into the West. That old man had moved me deeply. I recognized his type from the hobo jungles I had visited between Yakima and Chicago.

In Yakima the jungles were usually under or near one of the Northern Pacific bridges across the Yakima River. There hoboes met, contributed food to the pot, and cooked their meals. Not once was I allowed to go hungry in a jungle. I was always invited to share in whatever meal was cooking.

Some times I could contribute to the pot, other times I could not; but that made no difference. There was companionship and friendship in the jungle. I felt the jungle companionship in this old man of the stockyards. He was only a vagabond. But he was not a bum. I later realized that he had been a greater credit to his country than many of the more elite. He had made me see, in the dreary stockyards of America, some of the country s greatness kindness, sympathy, selflessness, understanding. I sat in the stockyards, watching the sun rise through the smoke and haze.

There was a smell in the air that even the touch of the sun would not cleanse. There was not a tree or shrub or blade of grass in view. The Chicago I saw that morning was not the gracious, warmhearted city I later came to know. Nor was it the Chicago that Carl Sandburg painted: Hog butcher for the world, Toolmaker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation s freight handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders. I was hungry, dead tired, homesick, broke, and bruised.

And my welcome had not been cordial. It seemed that man had built a place of desolation and had cor rupted the earth in so doing. In corrupting the earth he had corrupted himself also, and built out of soot and dirt a malodorous place of foul air and grimy landscape in which to live and work and die. Here there were no green meadows wet with morning dew to examine for tracks of deer; no forest that a boy could explore to discover for himself the various species of wild flowers, shrubs, and trees; no shoulder of granite pushing against fleecy clouds and stand ing as a reminder to man of his puny character, of his inadequacies; no trace of the odor of pine or fir in the air.

I had a great impulse to follow my vagabond friend to the West, to settle down in the valley below Mount Adams and to live under its influence. Most of my friends and all the roots I had in life were in the Yakima Valley. There would be a job and a home awaiting me, and fishing trips and mountain climbs and nights on the high shoulders of Goat Rocks.

It was a friendly place, not hard and cruel like these freight yards. People in the West were warmhearted and open-faced like my hobo friend. I would be content and happy there. Then why this compulsion to leave the valley? Why this drive, this impulse, to leave the scenes I loved? To reach for unknown stars, to seek adventure, to abandon the convenience of home? And what of pride? What would I say if I returned? That I didn t have the guts to work my way east, to work my way through law school, to live the hard way?

These were my thoughts as the freight carried my vagabond friend into the West. Law school would open in a week. There was challenge ahead. New horizons would be opened, offering still untested op portunities. My decision was spiritual. It was too late to go back. I would sleep the clock around and then return to the freight yards to catch a ride to New York City and Columbia Law School. Since that time I have often wondered whatever happened to the agile old man who befriended me in Chicago. I knew nothing much about him. But at least I have known that the mountains were im portant in shaping his kindness when he came to me through the night.

Mountains have a decent influence on men. I have never met along the trails of the high mountains a mean man, a man who would cheat and steal. Certainly most men who are raised there or who work there are as wholesome as the mountains themselves. Those who explore them on foot or horseback usually are open, friendly men. At least that has been my experience. I saw the CCC camps in the early thirties work miracles with men.

We drove to Portland together. During the six or seven hours with him I learned something of his transformation. By his own admission he had been a pretty tough, mean character when he arrived in Oregon for work in the woods. He carried a chip on his shoulder. He was itching to punch "any bird" that pushed him around. And he did. One of them was the supervisor an army officer, I believe of the camp. He had found the world hard and cruel.

There was always some guy to trim you, to do you in. You had to take care of yourself with your fists. He had learned the art on the streets of Brooklyn. When he punched the supervisor, he was given punishment what, I do not recall. That did not soften him, It was the two years in the woods that changed his character. He poured out his story on this long automobile ride. Things were different in the woods: "No use getting sore at a tree. Can t smell no garbage.

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  4. And say, mister, I sure miss those Dodgers," But it was nice to have it quiet. Now he had no chip on his shoulder. He was considerate. He was a tough guy transformed into a philosopher. He had found how great and good his country was. He was going to try to repay it for what it had done for him. The CCC had paid great dividends in citizenship of that character.

    His was not an isolated case. I heard the same story repeated again and again by supervisors of CCC camps. Jack Nelson, woodsman and philosopher whose story I will later tell , bears witness to the miracles that happened. I had puzzled many times over the reason for such a transforma tion of man by the mountains. A few summers ago an old friend, Dr.

    George Draper of New York City father of psychosomatic medicine in this country was spending a month with me at my cabin in the high Wallowas of Oregon. One night before the fire I put the question to him. He thought a while and then said, "Man is at his worst when he is pitted against his fellow man. He is at his best when pitted against nature.

    The tamarack log in the fireplace popped and threw sparks and coals against the screen as the fire roared up the chimney. The memory of my vagabond friend in the stockyards of Chicago came back to me as the doctor spoke. For the doctor too recited the words of the psalmist: "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help. Mountains can transform men, I thought. Their lofty peaks, soft shoulders, and deep ravines have some special value to man, even though he does no more than view them from a distance.

    For mountains symbolize the indomitable will, an unbending resolution, a loyalty that is eternal, and character that is unimpeachable. There are other ways too in which mountains have spiritual values. When man ventures into the wilderness, climbs the ridges, and sleeps in the forest, he comes in close communion with his Creator.

    When man pits himself against the mountain, he taps inner springs of his strength. He comes to know himself.

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    He becomes meek and humble before the Lord that made heaven and earth. For he realizes how small a part of the universe he actually is, how great are the forces that oppose him. Maybe all this is meant by West Virginia s motto, Montani Semper Liberi: mountaineers are always free men. Those were the thoughts that went through my mind after the doctor gave his answer to my question. Finally he turned to me and said, "You should write a book some day about the influence of mountains on men. If man could only get to know the mountains better, and let them become a part of him, he would lose much of his aggression.

    The struggle of man against man produces jealousy, deceit, frustration, bitterness, hate. The struggle of man against the mountains is different. Man then bows before Something that is bigger than he. When he does that, he finds serenity and humility, and dignity too. A soft, warm southwest wind was blowing over the ridges of the Cascades. Spring was coming to the Yakima Valley. I felt it in the air. It was after midnight.

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    The houses of Yakima were dark. Only the flickering street lights marked the way. We had just arrived by train from California. Father was up ahead with the suitcases, walking with giant strides. Mother came next, with a lad of a few months in her arms.

    My sister and I brought up the rear. There were strange noises among the occasional trees and shrubs that we passed. There were creepy sounds coming from the grass and from the irrigation ditch that ran along the sidewalk. I wondered if they were from snakes or lizards or the dread tarantula that I had been taught to fear in California! Maybe snakes were sticking out their forked tongues as they used to do under the steps of the house in Estrella! Maybe a tarantula would lie in wait and drop off a tree and get me when I passedl Maybe lizards in Yakima were giant lizards I And then there were the dread rattlesnakes that Mother spoke of with fear and trembling.

    Did they gulp young boys alive, like the snakes in the picture book that could swallow a whole sheep? Was the rustle in the grass the rustle of a rattler? These were alarm ing thoughts to a boy of five. I looked anxiously over my shoulder. The trees and bushes with the strange noises in them seemed to take the form of monsters with long arms.

    I ran to catch up. Why did Father walk so fast? I ran again to catch up. Father walked west from the Northern Pacific railroad station up Yakima Avenue. At Fifth Avenue he turned north, looking in the darkness for the house where our relatives, the Pettits, lived. He apparently did not have their exact address, or having it, was not able to read the house numbers in the dark. He stopped several times to arouse a household, only to find he had picked the wrong place.

    At one house he had hardly entered the yard before two great dogs came racing around opposite sides of the house, barking and snarling. I was frozen with fear. But Father did not hesitate or pause. He continued on his way, speaking to the dogs in a voice that was firm and that to the dogs as well as to me seemed to have the authority of the highest law behind it. The dogs became silen-t and trotted out to investigate us.

    They circled and sniffed me, putting their noses right into my face. I can still feel their hot, stinking breath. To me they seemed to be real demons of the darkness that had come to hold me for ransom. I wanted to scream. But the crisis was quickly passed. Father was soon back. He dismissed the dogs with ease, resumed his search, and presently found the house we wanted. A friendly door soon closed on all the strange noises and on the dangers of the outer darkness.

    This was in Father, a minister, had moved up from Califor nia for his health. We had lived at Estrella, California, which is near Paso Robles, in the hot, arid interior. The doctors recommended a cooler climate for him, so he had accepted a call to Cleveland, Wash ington. We were en route to Cleveland when we made this first visit to Yakima. Cleveland lies in Wood Gulch on the southern edge of the Simcoe Mountains, about 50 miles southwest of Yakima. In , when we lived there, it was a lively village of a hundred or more inhabitants.

    There was a church and school, a post office, stores, and boarding houses. A half-dozen miles to the south was a small settlement ap propriately called Dot. To the east three miles was Bickleton. Stretches of the Columbia, some 30 miles to the south, could be seen from the fields around Cleveland. At that point the river runs through a valley of volcanic ash, sand, and sagebrush the brush that decorates all the plains of eastern Washington and Oregon and is the state flower of Nevada. For miles or more the Columbia flows noiselessly through parched land, with only an occasional glimpse of green to break the desert monotony.

    This is the portion of the river that I first saw. It was springtime, I believe, and we were crossing on the ferry at Roosevelt, Washington. I remember an endless supply of water, moving swiftly but silently. The river was slightly murky; but from a distance it was aquamarine and sparkling. It was filled with mystery for me, because on these first crossings I saw strange flashes below its surface quick movements of salmon or steelhead or stur geon that excited me.

    Cleveland was a healthy place. It afforded relief from the heat of interior California, since the altitude was 3, feet above sea level. This plateau, stretching to the east, south, and west from Cleve land, was practically treeless. But there was a fine stand of ponderosa pine in Wood Gulch, and sprinklings of oak, willow, cottonwood, aspen, juniper, and black pine along the southern edges of the Simcoe Mountains. It was cool and relaxing in their shade. And there was a strong, bracing wind that blew from the west, carrying the coolness of Mount Adams on its wings.

    Mother always felt that Cleveland was a healthy place in other ways too. The people were the most hospitable she and Father had known. They were wheat farmers and cattlemen. Their farms were large units, running from to acres. Though the people were scattered over many square miles, they formed in spirit a compact community. They were neighborly folks.

    Perhaps that was because of their isolation and remoteness, in those horse and buggy days, from the Yakima Valley and from Goldendale, the county seat of Klickitat County, 30 miles to the west. Perhaps it was the character of the people. In time of need they came in from all points to lend a hand, whether to raise a church or a barn, move a house, put out a fire, or dig a grave.

    Some of them were small and selfish men. But Mother said that most of them were God-fearing folks honest, warmhearted, humble, and dignified. This was good, solid American stock of the kind that has made the country great. Father liked Cleveland and enjoyed ministering to its citizens. He was in his forties and seemed to have a useful life ahead of him. But before the year was out, he was carried to Portland, Oregon for an emergency operation. He never returned. He was present one day and then he was gone forever. There would never be another to lift me high in the air, to squeeze my hand and give me masculine praise.

    There were no longer any pockets I could search for nuggets of maple sugar. The step in the hallway, the laugh, the jingle of coins in the pockets these had gone as silently as the waters of the great Columbia. He never would return. At first I was not sure it was so complete. Later I was gradually convinced. There we really settled down and lived for over 20 years. Yakima is located in south-central Washington. It lies in a semi- arid valley feet above sea level - There is little rainfall; the long- term average for the valley is about eight inches annually.

    The Cas cade Mountains on the west send numerous clear, cold streams tumbling down from their snow fields, the main one being the Yakima. To the east is a vast desert plateau much of which will be irrigated by Grand Coulee Dam extending almost miles to the western foothills of the Bitterroot Mountains in Idaho. The town of Yakima is. The valley where the town is located is, indeed, a huge saucepan, somewhat narrower north-to-south than east-to- YAKIMA 23 west.

    The Yakima River comes down from the north and enters the valley through Selah Gap a pass through the hills worn down by centuries of erosion. It leaves the valley through Union Gap on the south, and from there runs 80 miles to the Columbia. This great expanse of land below Union Gap, some 20 miles wide and 80 miles long, is known as the Lower Valley.

    Both below and above Union Gap the orchards and alfalfa fields extend far to the west, until they meet the pine and fir straggling down the slopes of the Cascades. Whichever way one looks there is some reclamation project that has transformed desert land into green fields and orchards. Through the gap to the north of Yakima is the rich Selah Valley; and to the northwest through Naches Gap are the valleys of the Naches and the Tieton, which played an especially important part in my early life. Father had ridden through the Yakima Valley one summer in th early nineties.

    It was then largely a wasteland of sagebrush, jack rabbits, and rattlesnakes. There were patches of alfalfa and some fields of hops in the bottom lands; and arms of orchards were be ginning to extend out from the river. There were the white or Garry oak, cottonwood, willow, and sumac along the banks of the Yakima, But only those touches of green on the dusty sagebrush background were inviting to the eye of a Nova Scotian used to green hills and lush meadows. The Cascades, some forty miles west as the crow flies, were dark blue in the afternoon sun.

    Their shade and the eternal snows of Mount Adams and Mount Rainier were tempting invitation to those who crossed the hot, parched valley on a summer day. To the un initiated the barren foothills, which leave the cool timber to join the hot desert, were uninviting. We who lived among them and tramped them and discovered their secrets came to love them. But like the valley they encircled, those barren hills at first blush had little to offer the early traveler or settler. The valley, however, was rich in feed for cattle and sheep, even before irrigation came.

    There was knee-high grass in the Cascades. And the dreary foothills also had food for stock. And in the spring there are fresh shoots of wild flowers, of tender grasses, of wild onions and cows, and a new growth of tender leaves of the sage. Cattle were the first stock in the valley. Sheep followed; but cattle have always had a more prominent place in the economy. The soil of the valley is volcanic ash.

    It was first irrigated in the seventies, when ditches were dug to bring water to the hay and grain fields of cattlemen. It was soon learned that almost any produce will grow there if water is on the land. Clear skies during two-thirds or more of the growing season mean more than twice as much effective sunshine as New York enjoys.

    Thus, when the United States Rec lamation Service brought water down from the mountains, a desert became a garden. What was offered my father at a price as low as 50 cents an acre became worth many hundred times that amount within a decade or so. This is now a famous fruit country apples, cherries, prunes, apricots, peaches, plums, and pears. At one time the balance of the economy was in apples, some orchards having been planted as early as Lessons learned from depressions brought more diversifica tion. Sugar beets, sweet corn, asparagus, grapes, and tree fruits other than apples now assume a larger proportion.

    Hops have always been an important product of the valley. There are still cattle and sheep. But when Washington was admitted into the Union in , fruit and other direct produce of the soil began to take the lead. And so it has remained ever since. Thus the valley has had special attraction for those who love the soil. Its great productivity drew men like a magnet. In later years I saw sturdy Norsemen, refugees from the Dust Bowl where they had sweated and slaved and seen their crops parch and blow away, put their spades into the rich volcanic ash of Yakima, reach down and scoop both hands full, and stand with tears streaming down their faces, as the soft loamy soil ran through their fingers.

    The snow of the Cascades will never fail to bring life to the desert and quench its thirst and the thirst of those who toil there. This valley was the ancestral home of the Yakima Indians. Collier in The Indians of the Americas estimates that this migration took place around 13, B. This was in the late Pleistocene era, when the central plain of Alaska was free of ice. The giant beaver, the mammoth, the camel, the dire wolf, and the four-horned antelope roamed the land; some of these have come down in the legends of the Indians.

    The land in the Lower Valley west of the Yakima river is in large part within the eastern edge of their reservation. This reservation, a million and a quarter acres in size, was created by the Treaty of Marcus Whitman had been murdered by the Cayuse in near Walla Walla at his Waiilatpu Mission, the mission that was the seed ling of sturdy Whitman College. The westward push was on. Settlers had already poured into the Willamette Valley in Oregon. They were beginning to turn north through the Yakima Valley and cross the Cascades by old Indian routes to Puget Sound.

    There was un easiness in the air. Conflict between the settlers and the Indians was imminent. The Treaty of was designed to ease the strain and avoid clashes. In the four years it took for ratification of the treaty, war broke out. The Yakimas, seeing their land opened to settlement before the treaty was ratified, went on the warpath, killing and raiding. Three years of warfare followed, the United States Army in finally crushing the military might of the Yakimas and their Indian allies to the east. Then the first permanent settlers began to move in.

    But that was the end of Indian violence. In the Federal government opened a land office in the valley and homestead filings began. Today the Yakimas still own miles and miles of the rich bottom lands in the Lower Valley. They seldom operate or manage them; they are landlords, and lease to many different interests, including a cannery. There are rich ranges for stock in the mountain section of the reservation, which lies at the foot of Mount Adams. Large herds of cattle graze there. In the reserva tion is a primeval stand of virgin timber, made up principally of ponderosa pine but including Douglas fir, larch, white fir, and other conifers that total in the aggregate about four billion board feet.

    We who were raised in Yakima did not know the Indians well. Some of them lived in town, but most of them held to the reserva tion. And most of the Indian children attended the public schools in the Lower valley. Not living with them or playing with them, we felt them strangers. We only saw them on the streets and in the stores and restaurants. Yakima Susie, for years said to be no years old, was usually on a street corner in Yakima, begging money.

    I remember her best on the northwest corner of First Street and Yakima Avenue, sitting on the sidewalk with high moccasins, beaded headband or scarf, and a light blanket over her shoulders. On Saturday afternoons we children would glue pennies to strings and drag them across the walk in front of her. She would shake her fist at us or come at us fiercely, screeching horrid-sounding Indian words. Saturday nights the Indians would come into the stores for shop ping.

    They had some amusing habits. They never would place their whole order at once. They would bargain for a single article at a time, and when the bargain for that article was completed they would pay the price and leave. They would be back in a jiffy, having left the purchased article outside.