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 " 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.”