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Rh of nature, while his eye catches visions from the clouds which pass over his head.

His numerous works and particularly his recently published volume of poems, "The Songs of the Soul," show him to be no idler. His spindle and distaff are ever in his hand; he spins the flax God sends, handing the threads down to his fellows on the plain. May we not weave some of them into the woof or warp of our lives?

On our return home Hon. George A. Waggoner, an old schoolmate and friend of the poet, handed me a sketch published in a Corvallis paper ten years ago. In this, Mr. Waggoner, who has written a volume that may yet add luster to Oregon lore, speaks so beautifully and kindly of Joaquin Miller as known among his associates before he attempted to write, that we obtained permission to insert the following extract:

"The first man I met among the fevered crowd was Oregon's poet—my old schoolmate—Joaquin Miller. His blue eyes sparkled with kindly greeting, and, as I took his hand, I knew by its quickening pulse and tightened clasp that he too was sharing in the excitement of the gold hunter. He was then in the first flush of manhood, with buoyant spirits, untiring energy, and among a race of hardy pioneers; the bravest of the brave. He possessed more than ordinary talent and looked forward with hope to the battle of life, expecting to reap his share of its honors and rewards. For