The Magic City of Puget Sound

There is an archipelago at the mouth of Puget Sound. Bounded by the main land on the east, and by islands on the north and west lies the great bay of Bellingham—land-locked and protected from all gales. Vessels habitually sail from the ocean into Bellingham Bay, paying no towage charges. Lying off the Fairhaven wharf, one sees the saw-toothed crest of the mountains, and between the range and the water the land is as level as the Kansas plains. Salmon leap high in play; occasionally the dark, human-like head of a seal rises out of the clear water. No Fairhaven boy ever throws a stone at the gulls, it matters not the natural depravity of his childish heart. The buzz of saws in nearby mills, the clang of steel bars on the wharf, the sound of carpenter’s hammers, the cries of workmen, and the hum of industry causes the air to resound. Men are felling timber, laying water pipes, and grading streets. Over a hundred new buildings, including a handsome brick hotel and many expensive business blocks, are in course of erection. The pile driver is busy building coal bunkers, and the commerce of the town has increased so greatly that it can no longer be handled on one wharf.