in the light through squares of dried deerskin set in sashes carved by the jack-knife of Jason Lee. Just now every door and window framed a group of copper faces, every eye intent on the flowing garb and satin cheeks of the strange, fair white women.
Jason Lee never talked unless he had something to say. He simply waved his hand, bade them welcome to the humble edifice that marked the beginning of the capital of Oregon and Willamette University.
The rough table, with its battered tin plates and knives and forks, had venison from the hills, bread from their own wheat crushed in the cast-iron corn-cracker. The cattle driven over the plains furnished butter and cheese and cream; glossy cups of leaves held the strawberries that reddened on every knoll.
In front of the mission a beautiful fir grove, historic now, became the Sabbath temple. Thither repaired the missionaries, with their pupils, neatly dressed in English costume. Thither came the Canadians, with their native wives and half-caste children, all in holiday garb, and gathering in the background came the dark Willamettes, picturesque, statuesque, almost classic, with their slender bows and belts of haiqua. The hymn of worship rang through the forest aisles. Under the umbrageous firs all knelt in prayer. The July zephyr fanned the drooping cheek and downcast lid. Every Indian knelt in imitation of the white men. When Jason Lee arose every eye was fixed on his flushed face and speaking glance. He spoke briefly, then, to the astonishment of all, walked hurriedly to his congregation, took Miss Pitman by the hand, and led her to the front. Daniel Lee came forward, and there, under the fragrant firs, pronounced the solemn service of the first AngloSaxon marriage on the Pacific Coast. There was a
