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Miners' Launch.

The days are growing shorter. The sun now sets before eleven at night, leaving only a short semi-twilight. The doctor has just come in from a visit to the mission. He reports ships still arriving, and prospectors having all sorts of luck. Flour is three dollars for fifty pounds. Liquor is being sold to the natives without stint. It is against the law, but what is law without a force to back it? Dr. Sheldon Jackson is expected soon, and he is the man who will not be afraid to hunt out the rascals who are spoiling the natives. I am so nearly related to the American Indians myself that I naturally take sides with these natives. You know I was born on the Kiowa, Comanche and Wichita reservation, when those Indians were savages or nearly so, and I learned to love them before I could speak. Here and now it is the old familiar story of the white man's abuse of the redskins. It makes me indignant. We found these people confiding, generous, helpful, simple-hearted, without a shadow of treachery except as they have learned it from the whites, who are invading their homes and killing them as they will, with little or no excuse. Many of these gold-hunters that I hear of have already done more harm in a few days than the missionaries can make up for in years. I could write the history in detail, but desist. It will never all be written or told. The natives are worked up to the last point of endurance and will surely kill the whites. Whisky is doing its share of havoc, although a few of the faithful mission Indians are trying to keep the others quiet.