ing seas, a more beautiful picture could hardly be imagined: The gentle slope of our hill to the waters edge is covered with a mass of yellow brown blossoms, which at the hour give way to a soft carpet of buttercups. On the distance, across the Straits, the American shore rises in the bold outline of the Olympian Mountains, whose bases are of an intense blue, their tops white with perpetual snows. At our left as far as the eye can reach, stretches the green waters of the Sound dotted here and there with fishing boats. The air above the water is filled by white-winged gulls, lazily floating close to the surface, or sailing on another's wings high overhead. At our right the coast line of the old- and upon which we stand, curves gently, but in a distance toward Cape Flattery a very dim misty headland just discernible in the distance. The whole forms a picture of green water, blue mountains and yellow blossoms.