blandest manner, and with a merry twinkle, half suppressed, in his black eyes.
"To tax me, Mr. Jo. I was not aware—I really was not aware—I believed I had paid my tax, Mr. Jo," stammered the Doctor, somewhat annoyed at the prospect of some fresh demand.
"Thar is an old ox out in my neighborhood, Doctor, and he is said to belong to you. Thar is a tax of twenty-five cents on him."
"I do not understand you, Mr. Jo. I have no cattle out in your neighborhood."
"I couldn't say how that may be, Doctor. All I do know about it, is just this. I went to old G——'s to collect the tax on his stock—and he's got a powerful lot of cattle,—and while we war a countin 'em over, he left out that old ox and said it belonged to you."
"Oh, oh, I see, Mr. Jo: yes, yes, I see! So it was Mr. G——," cried the Doctor, getting very red in the face. "I do remember now, since you bring it to my mind, that I lent Mr. G—— that steer six years ago! Here are the twenty-five cents, Mr. Jo."
The sheriff took his money, and went away laughing; while the Doctor's American friends looked quite as much annoyed as the Doctor himself, over the meanness of some of their countrymen.
The year of 1846 was one of the most exciting in the political history of Oregon. President Polk had at last given the notice required by the Joint occupation treaty, that the Oregon boundary question must be settled.
Agreeably to the promise which Dr. McLaughlin had received from the British Admiral, H.B.M. Sloop of war Modeste had arrived in the Columbia River in the month of October, 1845, and had wintered there. Much as the
