they might cultivate the land and become a base of supplies for the Pacific posts.
These old voyageurs had Indian wives. They had families growing up around them, born in Oregon and accustomed to its genial climate. To transport them to Canada would be not only a great expense, but a cruel exile. To separate the men from their families that was not to be thought of. These French Canadians loved their Indian wives. The children had twined about their heartstrings. By permitting them to cultivate the fertile Willamette Dr. McLoughlin could retain them under his control, while their influence on their Indian relatives would maintain continued cordiality between the races.
"What assistance will I give?" said Dr. McLoughlin. "Seed to sow, and wheat to feed yourself and family till crops come. Then I will buy your surplus grain."
One after another had settled in the valley, until now there was a prosperous colony. Jason Lee landed his party at the entrance to this settlement, whose farmhouses were scattered back to the foothills. Rude rail fences ran zigzag around the meadows. Wild roses nodded in the corners and bloomed in the wheat. The Canadians greeted the missionary with friendly welcome, opened their doors, offered their horses. He talked with them in their French patois, and could tell as many stories as they of logging on the Ottawa. They were nearly all Catholics. Jason Lee was a Protestant Nevertheless, they attended his preaching gladly, though sometimes there might be a longing for the showier Catholic forms, and chants, and candles of childhood.
Terra-cotta colored children, some darker, some fair and almost white, dressed in blue and scarlet, were sit-
