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2 6o McLOUGHLIN AND OLD OREGON

stealing now and then, till the seething cascades rendered the crafts useless. On one of those rafts a child was born.

Pitching their tents, the men struck into the forest to cut a wagon-road around the Cascades. It was toilsome work. The stormy season had come. Cold rains set in. High winds from the sea sucked up the Columbia, blowing down the tents at night, drenching the sleepers in their beds. Provisions gave out. On the very threshold of their Canaan the Oregon immigrants of 1843 seemed likely to perish of cold and hunger. The hardships of the entire journey seemed concentrated at the Cascades of the Columbia.

Below, at Fort Vancouver, the Canadians were busy, as usual, beating furs in the court. The dull thud of their batons kept time with snatches of song, and tilts of wit and repartee. The furs were out for their last airing, to be sorted and packed for London. Bales of beaver, bales of bear, bales of otter were dusted and folded in a certain way for their long journey to the dim old warerooms on Fenchurch Street. The barque lay in the river taking on her precious freight.

"Dose Engine say Bostons camp by Mt. Hood, der odder side," exclaimed a Canadian in from the court. " Dose Engine say women and wagons "

"Oh, nonsense, nonsense, Gabriel. You 're like Father De Smet, who roused the whole camp crying ' Indians! Indians! ' in his dreams," said Dr. McLoughlin, sticking his quill behind his ear, and holding the paper he was writing at arm's length.

"Dose Engine say "but the doctor waved him off impatiently.

"Bah! Indian bugaboo! Indian bugaboo! Don't tell me."