The Squibob papers :: :: University of Virginia Library

It gives me unfeigned pleasure to inform you
that I am about to quit the gloomy and never-to-be-dried-up
sky of Oregon, and “repair without
unnecessary delay” to D—, on our borders.
Yes, Sir, I'm off; “services” no longer required
on these inclement shores — shores, which, when
you read of in Irving's “Astoria,” you naturally
wish to behold, and admire old Astor's pluck in
making establishments thereon, and which, when
you reach, you wish you hadn't, and admire still
more old Astor's good sense in breaking his establishments
up, and quitting while there was yet
time.

Rain is an exceedingly pleasant and gratifying

institution in its way, and in moderation; it causes
the grass to grow, the blossoms to flourish, and is
a positive necessity to the umbrella-maker; but
when you get to a country where it rains incessantly
twenty-six hours a day, for seventeen months
in the year, you cannot resist having the conviction
forced upon your mind that the thing is
slightly overdone. That's the case in Oregon; it
commenced raining pretty heavily on the third of
last November, and continued up to the fifteenth
of May, when it set in for a long storm, which
isn't fairly over yet. There's moisture for you.

The consequences of this awful climate are
just what might be supposed. The immense
quantity of the protoxide squirted about here
causes trees, buildings, streets, every thing, to present
a diluted and wishy-washy appearance. The
women lose their color, the men their hair, (washed
off, Sir,) and the animals, by constant exposure,
acquire scales and fins, like the natives of the
great deep. In fact, all the inhabitants of this
territory have a generally scaly appearance, and rejoice

in a peculiar smell, a combination, I should
say, of a fish-ball and a fresh mud-sucker. The
rains of Oregon beat every thing in that line I
ever beheld or conceived of. Those that fell on
Noah's ark were not more heavy; those of Nero,
Caligula, and I. Neely Johnson, not more terrible;
nor those of Lady Suffolk and Moscow longer or
stronger, which is a slightly mixed metaphor of a
very happy description. So, upon the whole, I'm
glad I'm off; yes, I am quite sure of it; and I
long to get to D—, where the people enjoy
the light of the blessed sun, and where I can enjoy
it also, and dry my things, and read Irving's
“Astoria.”

Howbeit, there are many interesting and curious
things in Oregon; many odd and entertaining
people also therein; and I have seen much
that was funny, and laughed thereat, and should
have laughed louder and longer if my mouth had
not filled with rain before I had half finished; and
I might perhaps regret leaving a country in which
I have had so much positive enjoyment, were it

not that I have chronicled all these amusing things
and peculiarities, and shall be glad to get somewhere
where I can have a dry laugh over them.
Such a thing as “dry humor” in Oregon is, of
course, a physical impossibility.

A slight history of the Oregon war, with some
incidents from the life of Pike, is now in course
of preparation, which, when finished, I will submit
to you, with the hope that it may prove entertaining
and improving to your readers. The
information, certainly, is valuable, whatever may
be the style. I inclose a short “Pome,” which
tells its own story. Set to music, (“suthin slow,
and melancholy-like,”) and accompanied by the
swinette, I should think it might be well adapted
for the parlor, the boudoir, or the concert-room.
It is a plain, unvarnished tale, not only founded
on facts, but with all three stories, and the attic,
built of those materials.

STANZAS: LINES: SONG: BALLAD.

“Among them that came up to speculate in stock and supplies.”

A OREGON LAY.

BY A SURVIVING SUFFERER OF THE WAR.

Among them that come up to speculate in stock and supplies
Was a fellow named Stuart, a man of enterprise;
He bought him a switch-tail sorrel two-year old, which hed a white face,
And he bantered all Portland, O. T., for a three-hundred yard race.

II.

Thar was a man hed a horse, which he thought her pretty fair,
She was ginerally know'd as Millard's thousand-dollar mare;
He hadn't no idea, he said, of doing any thing so rash,
But he took up Mister Stuart for two hundred dollars, cash.

III.

So every soul in Portland, O. T., went straight down to the course,
And every cent we borryed, we bet on Millard's horse;
And thar was that speckilating Stuart, with his hand upon his hip,
And two men a-following with a tin pail full of dollars and a champagne-basket full of scrip!

IV.

Wal, they measured off the ground, and the horses got a start,
And came running down right pretty, about four foot apart;

And the Millard mare had it all her own way, so every body said,
Till just as they got to the eend of the track, that are Sorrel shot suthin' like ten feet ahead!

Arter we seen that there riz a most surprising din,
And remarks like this ere followed, “Dog my everlastin skin,”
“I'll be dod-derned, and dog-gorned, and ding-blamed by Pike,”
And thar was such awful howling, and swearing, and dancing, that many old people said they never had seed the like.

VI.

And that are speckilatin Stuart, he made matters worse;
He packed the money into a hand-cart, and did'nt care a cuss,
And sweetly smiling, pulled it off, as though he didn't mind the heft,
And since then we haint paid no taxes, nor bought nothing, nor sold nothing, for I do suppose that in all Portland, O. T., there aint a single red cent left.

University of Virginia Library

7. VII. PHŒNIX ON WET WEATHER.

7. VII.
PHŒNIX ON WET WEATHER.