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 emerging suddenly in sight of a fire on the western bank, my Indians cried "Boston! Boston!" and turned the canoe ashore to give me an opportunity of speaking with a fellow countryman. He was sitting in the drizzling rain, by a large log-fire—a stalwart six foot Kentucky trapper. After long service in the American Fur Companies, among the rocky mountains, he had come down to the Willamette, accompanied by an Indian woman and his child, selected a place to build his home, made an "improvement," sold it, and was now commencing another. He entered my canoe and steered across the river to a Mr. Johnson's. "I am sorry I can't keep you," said he, "but I reckon you'll sleep better under shingles, than this stormy sky. Johnson {206} will be glad to see you. He's got a good shantee, and something for you to eat."

We soon crossed the stream, and entered the cabin of Mr. Johnson. It was a hewn log structure, about twenty feet square, with a mud chimney, hearth and fire-*place. The furniture consisted of one chair, a number of wooden benches, a rude bedstead covered with flag mats, and several sheet-iron kettles, earthen plates, knives and forks, tin pint cups, an Indian wife, and a brace of brown boys. I passed the night pleasantly with Mr. Johnson; and in the morning rose early to go to the Methodist Episcopal Mission, twelve miles above. But the old hunter detained me to breakfast; and afterwards insisted