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XIV

AT OLD CHAMPOEG

1839

WINTER rains followed the departure of the brigade to California, the still, steady rain of Oregon, that falls straight down. The grass revives, buds swell, moss runs rampant. One morning Dr. McLoughlin watched the sun swinging his chariot of light above Mt. Hood. "T is like the suns of Napoleon, propitious," he said. "Charlefoux! "

"Oui, oui, sire," answered the guide.

"Let us get to Champoeg before the next rain."

"Oui, oui, sire."

Sometimes in summer Dr. McLoughlin took Madame to visit Champoeg and the mission. His fleet of canoes brought beds, bedding, tea, coffee, sugar, bread, cakes and wine, a numerous suite, and a cook. He camped beside the mission, and took a lively interest in its work. "The doctor's urbanity, intelligence, and excellence of character made his visits very agreeable," say the old chronicles.

To-day he sped with only his Iroquois. At the Falls of the Willamette, where the blue sea tide came up to the foaming cataract, he made a portage. Dr. McLoughlin had a house there, two of them, holding the claim to the site of a future city that he dreamed of. Forty miles from the Columbia the shrill "Rouli % roulant, ma bottle roulant" rang over French Pra