ting
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 "49style,"
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. I've just come from there, plumb drownded out, and
I told my wife to jump into the wagon and we should start out and see if
we couldn't find a dry day somewhere. Last fall the hay was out and
the wood was out, and the cabin leaked, and I made up my mind to try
California the first chance."

"Well, if you be a horned toad or coyote," the seeker of moisture would
reply, "then maybe you can stand it. Just keep right on by the Alabama
Settlement to Tulare and you can have my place on Big Dry Creek and
welcome. You'll be drowned there mighty seldom. The wagon spokes and
tires will rattle and tell you when you come to it."

"All right, partner, we'll swap square, you can have mine in Yamhill
and the rain thrown in. Last August a painter sharp came along one day
wanting to know the way to Willamette Falls, and I