her wealth of mines. Now the summer tourist flies across the continent in a week. From his palace window he catches glimpses of the old immigrant road, winding through alkali-sand and dust, a road that was lined with graves and wet with blood and tears.
"The Americans are mad! "cried Sir George Simpson, but it is the madness that has strung our cities from Plymouth Rock to the Philippines.
The moccasin age is past. The evanescent fur trade is over. Cavalcades of merry trappers wind over the hills and glide on the streams no more. Those daring men, more worthy than many fictitious heroes of romance, have passed with the passing of the red man. Where the little "Cadboro ' "and occasional ships from London fluttered the triangular pennon sixty years ago, the fleets of all nations come in, bearing away, like busy ants, their burdens of lumber, fish, and grain.
An interesting scene was enacted in Oregon's State House the other day, when the pioneers gathered to dedicate a portrait of the Hudson's Bay governor who befriended them on their first arrival across the plains. There was a hush, and few dry eyes, as they heard again the story of his virtues. "And now," said Oregon's foremost judge, pointing to the face that smiled benignly from the canvas, "it is to be hung in the State Capitol, where you may look at it, and show it to your children, and they to their children, and say: 4 This is the old doctor, the good doctor, Dr. John McLoughlin.' "
