But, Like Every Other Happy Valley In The World, The Sunshine Of This
One Is Not Without Its Shadows.
Malarial fevers are not unknown in
some places, and untimely frosts and rains may at long intervals in
some measure disappoint the hopes of the husbandman.
Many a tale,
good-natured or otherwise, is told concerning the overflowing
abundance of the Oregon rains. Once an English traveler, as the story
goes, went to a store to make some purchases and on leaving found that
rain was falling; therefore, not liking to get wet, he stepped back to
wait till the shower was over. Seeing no signs of clearing, he soon
became impatient and inquired of the storekeeper how long he thought
the shower would be likely to last. Going to the door and looking
wisely into the gray sky and noting the direction of the wind, the
latter replied that he thought the shower would probably last about
six months, an opinion that of course disgusted the fault-finding
Briton with the "blawsted country," though in fact it is but little if
at all wetter or cloudier than his own.
No climate seems the best for everybody. Many there be who waste
their lives in a vain search for weather with which no fault may be
found, keeping themselves and their families in constant motion, like
floating seaweeds that never strike root, yielding compliance to every
current of news concerning countries yet untried, believing that
everywhere, anywhere, the sky is fairer and the grass grows greener
than where they happen to be. Before the Oregon and California
railroad was built, the overland journey between these States across
the Siskiyou Mountains in the old-fashioned emigrant wagon was a long
and tedious one. Nevertheless, every season dissatisfied climate-seekers, too wet and too dry, might be seen plodding along through the
dust in the old " 49 style," making their way one half of them from
California to Oregon, the other half from Oregon to California. The
beautiful Sisson meadows at the base of Mount Shasta were a favorite
halfway resting place, where the weary cattle were turned out for a
few days to gather strength for better climates, and it was curious to
hear those perpetual pioneers comparing notes and seeking information
around the campfires.
"Where are you from?" some Oregonian would ask.
"The Joaquin."
"It's dry there, ain't it?"
"Well, I should say so. No rain at all in summer and none to speak of
in winter, and I'm dried out. I just told my wife I was on the move
again, and I'm going to keep moving till I come to a country where it
rains once in a while, like it does in every reg'lar white man's
country; and that, I guess, will be Oregon, if the news be true."
"Yes, neighbor, you's heading in the right direction for rain," the
Oregonian would say. "Keep right on to Yamhill and you'll soon be
damp enough. It rains there more than twelve months in the year; at
least, no saying but it will.
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