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trousers, "hickory "shirts, and moccasins, were cutting wheat with the reap-hook. Settlers jogged along in rude carts ironed with rawhide, hauling their deerskin sacks full of grain to the river, where it was heaped on great bateaux, big as the hull of a steamer, and paddled down to Fort Vancouver, to exchange for "black strap " molasses, dirty Hawaiian sugar, and ready-made clothing. That clothing was all of one size, made in England; said to have been cut to the measure of Dr. McLoughlin. The thrifty immigrant wives clipped off the hickory shirts that came down to the feet and over the hands and were thankful for the patches. There were no old chests from which to resurrect cloaks and dresses; the American stock was soon exhausted, and the Hudson's Bay store, not contemplating such expansion, had none to sell. Old coats were threadbare, old tent covers worn out. Members of the legislature canvassed their brethren for a coat to wear in public. The singing-master met his classes in a suit of buckskin.

"You must get looms," said Dr. McLoughlin. Two immigrants set out for the States for flocks of sheep.

Everywhere Parke and Peel were met with rude but unstinted hospitality. Men who had marked the trail to Oregon with their blood, slaughtered for them the fatted bullock and sat down to dine in their shirt-sleeves. Women ground the grain for cakes in the coffee-mill and baked it in a Dutch oven set among the coals. Brisk housewives brushed up their hearths with hazel brooms, set the table with tin cups and plates, and seated the guests in the best old-fashioned cane-bottomed hickory rocker that had banged its way across the plains.

Every picturesque feature of New England, Ohio,