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I remember reading somewhere that everyone believes that he (or she) could write a book. If this is true about most people, it certainly was not so in my case, for although in my lifetime I have attempted many things, writing was never one of my ambitions. Then one day, to pass the time when I was convalescing after an illness, I began to scribble about some of my early experiences. I found it rather hard at first, but once started, my pencil seemed to run away with me, for the memory of one thing would recall another, and so vivid were these memories that I felt as if I were actually living that life again.

And so I went on, and, rather surprisingly, realized that I had written at least enough to fill a book; and here it is. I have had a great deal of pleasure writing it.

It is about life in the Okanagan as it was fifty years ago—I have tried to paint a picture—one might call it an impressionist picture—of the country and some of its people as seen through the eyes of a young “Cheechako.”^[1]

It covers that period, the last of the nineteenth century, that in England has been called the “Gay Nineties.” I am glad that during that time I was breathing the free and easy air of the West; that I had left London behind me; for life at that time seems to have been artificial and frivolous; a rather futile sort of existence.

True we were gay enough here; probably at times frivolous, but the life was certainly far from artificial, and I do not think it was futile. The early settlers laid very solid foundations on which the country was built, and I believe those light-hearted young Englishmen who came later, whatever their faults may have been, did, very definitely, contribute something of value to those foundations.

You may find my story somewhat rambling—my thoughts were as I wrote it; perhaps it just reflects the somewhat rambling nature of our lives at that time. But every incident I write of really happened; the characters are real people, many of them my old friends. I have sometimes given them fictitious names, lest I might unintentionally hurt the feelings of someone connected with them; but I know that if I have seen their humorous side, they certainly would not mind that themselves. Most of them are no longer here in the flesh, but I have a curious feeling that their spirits still return to those old haunts they loved so well; that they may even be able to read my remarks about them, and chuckling to themselves, think of the things they could say about me.

I have chosen as a title for this my book, “The Valley of Youth,” for even our greybeards were young in spirit; they seemed to have as fresh and buoyant an outlook on life as the most youthful among us.

I must now add a note of explanation. The manuscript of Part II was the first to be submitted to my publishers; and after reading it, they asked me to write more about myself. I had at first intended to write a story of the Okanagan, without dragging myself in at all; this did not seem to work out; but I certainly did not wish it to be an autobiography. However I assumed that publishers know more about books than I do, so I wrote Part I, “Fifty Thousand Miles,” which leads up to Part II, “The Land of My Dreams”; and I think they will be satisfied that I have now written enough—perhaps too much—about myself and my adventures. And once more I wondered at the vast store of things that for nearly sixty years had lain, buried and forgotten, in my subconsciousness, until they were drawn once more to the surface—as by the touch of a magician’s wand, by this request of my publishers. Truly the human mind is a strange and wonderful thing. One of the publisher’s readers, in his or her report, wrote, and I think I may quote—“I am sure that many interesting and colorful things must have happened to the author, which he has never told us; for instance it is not until about the end of the MS. that he tells us that he was married.” Well, I am afraid that my marriage was not very colorful: I have never been divorced or committed bigamy or any of those things that make interesting reading; I just got married, turned more or less respectable, and lived happily ever after. Certainly, after our children had grown up, my wife and I did, each year, go forth together in search of adventure; but that, as Kipling was so fond of saying, is another story, which I may tell some day.

[1]	“Cheechako”—Chinook for newcomer, a greenhorn, it holds a slight suggestion of contempt.