UC-NRLF 
 
SANTA CRUZ 
 
Jfrom an flDregon 
 
FROM AN OREGON 
 
 * RANCH * 
 
 BY 
 
 "KATHARINE" 
 
 Decorations by 
 J. Allen St. John 
 
 CHICAGO 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
 
 1916 
 
Copyright 
 
 A. C. McClurg & Co. 
 1905 and 1916 
 
 W. F. HALL PRINTING COMPANY, CHICAGO 
 
 
ps 
 
 353 
 
 PI 
 
 " J\/fO RNI NG and evening the hills throw ^vel- 
 J.VA come shadows; in the valleys are sun-warmed 
 gaps, while far and wide stretches a lovely landscape 
 in zvhich the tracks of animals are seen oftener than 
 those of men. Deep and undisturbed silence reigns 
 everyzvhere, only broken now and then by the murmur 
 of falling waters, the lowing of cattle, and the songs 
 of birds." 
 
 From " My Study Fire," Hamilton W. Mabie. 
 
From An Oregon 
 Ranch 
 
 'OU write, my dear Nell, that you were 
 amazed to hear we had sold our 
 comfortable city homes, bundled our 
 household possessions into a freight 
 car, and whirled off to Oregon with 
 foolish and pastoral notion of locating on 
 ranches; and thereupon you had indignantly re- 
 marked, "The whole quartet must be as mad as 
 March hares to do such a reckless thing at their time 
 of life." The allusion to lunacy may be forgiven; 
 to age, never. We may not be so young as we used 
 to be, but we are not yet quite in our dotage. Don't 
 
Jfrom an flDregon Katuft 
 
 you know, my friend, that monotony is stagnation 
 and death to the middle-aged? They need change 
 of scene, and the novelty and excitement that come 
 with it. The tonic of fresh fields and pastures new 
 is both stimulating and rejuvenating, and the Ore- 
 gon air is an intoxicant like wine pure, fresh, and 
 exhilarating. We drank it in with praise and 
 thanksgiving. 
 
 You ask if we have found our ranch. I answer, 
 Yes. Do we like it? We are delighted with it. 
 How did we find it ? It happened rather strangely. 
 Last summer, in a purely accidental way, there 
 drifted to us a little pamphlet from a real estate 
 agent, in which we learned more than we had ever 
 known of the beauties and attractions of Oregon. 
 We read of her glorious snow-capped mountains, of 
 great dim forests, of sparkling trout-laden streams, 
 of wooded hills and blossoming valleys, swiftly 
 flowing rivers, and fern-shaded springs of delicious 
 cold water gushing from rock and hillside. From 
 that hour the madness was in our blood. We said, 
 Let us act at once, and not stand shivering on the 
 brink. And so the leap into the unknown was taken, 
 landing us in a small town here in the height of the 
 rainy season. Then, "under skies that were ashen 
 and sober/' in prosy fact as well as poetic figure, 
 began the search for our new homes. It was like 
 searching for the Golden Fleece. 
 
 In response to an inquiry concerning real estate 
 
 [2] 
 
jfrom an SDregon 
 
 agents strange coincidence! the first name sug- 
 gested was one already familiar to us as the author 
 of the little book whose beguiling eloquence had led 
 us across mountains, plains, and desert to the prom- 
 ised land. Under his monitions we at once took 
 possession of the only vacant house in the town a 
 small leaky-roofed cottage in an advanced state of 
 decay unpacked a few goods, merely enough with 
 which to do "light housekeeping," while our lords 
 were searching for the new Arcadia. Day after 
 day they went forth, clad in brand-new glistening 
 rubber suits, almost as hideous as a diver's outfit, 
 we tossing old shoes after them for luck. Night 
 invariably brought them home, tired, hungry, and 
 disappointed. There was always something wrong 
 with the places they had seen: the ranches were 
 either too large or too small; not enough tillable 
 land, or too much tillable land and a scarcity of 
 timber ; either no water on the place, or a deluge of 
 it, submerging a good portion of the estate. So it 
 went on day after day, week in and week out, until 
 we began to compare ourselves to M'artin Chuzzlewit 
 and Mark Tapley in search of their Eden in the 
 Indiana swamps. 
 
 But at last, one glad day, capricious Fate, relent- 
 ing, led our brave scouts straight up the green and 
 shining hills of Paradise into the country of the 
 Pointed Firs, where in a little emerald basin they 
 found the enchanted land. The place was large 
 
 [3] 
 
JFrom an Oregon 
 
 enough to be divided into two ranches, each pro- 
 vided with both tillable and wood land. There was 
 great rejoicing, a hurrying to and fro, a hasty 
 repacking of goods, and much searching for means 
 of their transportation. It was difficult to find men 
 willing to brave the horrors of the mountain roads 
 with loaded wagons during the rainy season. But 
 after a delay of two days, three men with teams 
 reluctantly consented to come to our rescue, which 
 they did, but bringing no tarpaulin or any kind of 
 protection for our goods. We had one outfit of our 
 own; and when the four wagons pulled out, Mary 
 and I could not but look a bit regretfully after our 
 household treasures, exposed to both rain and mud 
 during a drive of twenty miles. Owing to the 
 almost impassable condition of the roads, only light 
 loads could be taken; consequently eight long days 
 were spent in this herculean task. 
 
 The men drove up one day and back the next, 
 passing the intervening night in the old deserted 
 home. Finally came the glad morning of our 
 release from the leaky, dismal, and now plundered 
 cottage. The last load was vanishing down the 
 street. At the door stood our newly acquired surrey 
 a second-hand one, a queer looking old thing, not 
 unlike a palanquin on wheels. It was loaded to the 
 guards. As we stowed ourselves away within its 
 gloomy interior, the school children, at the risk of 
 tardy marks, halted to witness the imposing start, 
 
 [4] 
 
Jfrom 
 
 nudging one another and giggling furtively at the 
 remarkable equipage and its load. 
 
 We started out, with Tom holding the reins and 
 a yard of breakfast bacon, while his knees clasped 
 a five-gallon can of kerosene. Bert was clinging 
 desperately to a cuckoo clock, a sugar-cured ham, 
 and a huge sheaf of rose cuttings. He sat so em- 
 bowered in green leaves that he resembled a May 
 Queen. Mary breathed heavily under the burden 
 of eight pounds of creamery butter and a kerosene 
 lamp with a very large shade a most aggressive 
 thing, with javelin-like points. Forming a sort of 
 barricade in front of me were piled a dozen loaves 
 of baker's bread, four boxes of shredded wheat bis- 
 cuit, and two roasted chickens. Add to these things 
 three umbrellas, two satchels, a lunch basket, and a 
 horse collar, and do you wonder the children gig- 
 gled ? Why that horse collar was with us remains a 
 dark mystery to this day. 
 
 As we left the village, a dense fog prevailed, for 
 which we were rather grateful, as it proved an 
 effective screen for our disreputable exit. We were 
 hoping it might lift later, as we knew there were 
 fine views of Mount Hood, Mount Jefferson, and 
 the Three Sisters en route; but instead of dissipat- 
 ing, it gradually thickened, until we were enveloped 
 in a heavy gray vapor, giving us a strange sense of 
 isolation. All landmarks vanished; the world 
 slipped away; we seemed afloat on a "wide, wide 
 
 [5] 
 
JFrom an 2Dtegon IRatut) 
 
 sea." We could see absolutely nothing except our 
 patient toiling horses, and occasionally the dim out- 
 lines of an old rail fence. Upon a fence post we 
 saw, like a lone sentry, a great brown owl, as 
 motionless and rigid as if cast in bronze. Once from 
 a near-by field came the clear voice of a meadow 
 lark. Strangely sweet were those divine notes float- 
 ing up from that misty obscurity. 
 
 We had started out in the morning quite hilarious ; 
 but as the difficulties and dangers of the road 
 increased, our talk grew desultory, and at last we 
 rode in grim silence. The mud seemed bottomless, 
 and the never-ending hills were so steep as to appear 
 almost perpendicular. With locked wheels we slid 
 down their precipitous sides, only to crawl up others 
 that seemed steeper still, lurching into yawning 
 chuck holes with such violence that the kerosene 
 splashed and the green bower swayed from side to 
 side. At such times Mary's lamp shade showed its 
 evil nature. Glancing her way, I saw that it was 
 useless to protest against its murderous attacks. 
 Her feet were planted on the horse collar, her lips 
 closed with Napoleonic firmness, her hat jammed 
 over one eye, the other blazing with a high resolve 
 to carry that lamp shade to its goal though her every 
 living friend and relative should fall by the wayside. 
 As we advanced, the woods grew denser, the road 
 curving around narrow mountain ledges, above deep, 
 dark canyons, where, crowding close, tier upon tier, 
 
 [6] 
 
jFrom an Oregon 
 
 in watchful guardianship, stood the somber sentinel 
 firs. A slip of a foot or two, and we would have 
 been hurled into the bottomless pit. A native Ore- 
 gonian may pursue his serpentine way nonchalantly 
 on the edge of these craters, but to a tenderfoot they 
 bring pimples of gooseflesh, as night brings out the 
 stars. For miles our advance seemed characterized 
 by a succession of shudders. Twice did we ford 
 mountain streams swollen by recent rains until they 
 had become tumbling, boiling cataracts, with cur- 
 rents dangerously swift. These streams had rocky 
 beds, and our old ark quivered and creaked on its 
 stormy passage through them. As the foaming 
 waves leaped for us, I shut my eyes, doubled up my 
 toes, and thought that at last the end had come. 
 When the rush of water ceased, I felt rather than 
 saw that we were scrambling up the opposite bank, 
 and, opening my eyes, saw the dripping horses once 
 more upon terra firma. 
 
 I am sorry to take leave of you in the fog and 
 gloom of the forest, with night coming on. But the 
 night of this day is coming also, and with it comes 
 Tom, striding down our woodsy hill like a hardy 
 Norseman, upon his shoulder his shining axe gleam- 
 ing as did "Excalibur" of old. That he is raven- 
 ously hungry goes without saying. So I must lay 
 aside my pen and prepare our evening meal. 
 
 [7] 
 
iHE drizzling rain which began falling 
 as we left the ford continued well, I 
 believe it continued until the following 
 June. Crawling up the toilsome ascent, 
 we suddenly entered a veritable Black Forest, a 
 vast impenetrable solitude. Like woodland specters, 
 the fir trees crept out of the gloom, standing 
 in military ranks by the roadside, as if curious 
 to note what manner of ghosts were these, lumbering 
 in their strange craft up through the long green 
 aisles. When halting, as we often did, to rest our 
 tired horses, the silence was absolute. One would 
 not think a great forest could be so breathlessly still. 
 Could there anywhere be noise and tumult? Had 
 not the eternal silence fallen upon the whole world, 
 and we alone escaped the universal doom? It was 
 an uncanny hush, with something of foreboding in it. 
 
 [8] 
 
jftom an Dregott 
 
 A sort of unreasoning terror seized me, and I 
 suddenly remembered stories we had been told of 
 the cougar, the coyote, and the wildcat sometimes 
 seen in this green wilderness. You may be sure that 
 I fell a- thinking of them. Were they fond, I won- 
 dered, of roasted chicken and shredded wheat? Had 
 they yet caught the scent of the bacon? That very 
 instant lithe furry forms with glowing eyes might 
 be crouching in the dark boughs above us, ready to 
 leap upon our defenseless heads, or soft padded feet 
 might be stealthily creeping over the thick velvety 
 moss to attack us from below. Awed by that vast 
 immensity, we rode on in silence, and not one living 
 thing did we see or hear, not even the whir of wings. 
 Looking backward now from the safe shelter of 
 these four walls, I wish something had at least 
 growled, just to lend a touch of interest to my narra- 
 tive. The forest folk may have watched us from 
 behind that leafy screen, but if so, they gave no 
 hint of it. After a time we turned into a dim sketchy 
 road of twilight gloom, made gloomier by the riotous 
 undergrowth. Low-hanging boughs raked the sur- 
 rey top, and long green fingers reached in at the 
 sides, snatching maliciously at the lace-befrilled 
 lamp shade. It was a " no thoroughfare " sort of 
 place, but as we bumped along over stumps and 
 poles, we were glad to learn that the agony would be 
 brief. And so it proved, as we presently entered a 
 wide lane, and with sighs of relief beheld open 
 
 [9] 
 
JFrom an Oregon Kancft 
 
 cleared spaces, with a very small house, a larger 
 barn, and sheds innumerable. After passing several 
 such places, we suddenly plunged down a steep 
 declivity with a roaring torrent at its base, but 
 stoutly bridged blessed be the saints! Up one 
 more rise, and the horses were stopped before a 
 rickety paling fence, the driver remarking, " Now, 
 if our lady of the loaves and fishes will glance up 
 the heights, she will behold her future home." 
 
 High upon a steep hillside we saw, through slant- 
 ing rain and the fast-gathering shadows of night, 
 a very tall house of two stories, grim, gaunt, un- 
 painted, frowning down inhospitably upon us. It 
 looked to be the fitting abode of hobgoblins, war- 
 locks, and witches, plainly saying, "Abandon hope, 
 all ye who enter here." Half dead with the fatigue 
 and cramped positions of our long ride, we could 
 scarcely stand after crawling from the ambulance. 
 An infirm gate, lashed to its moorings with a bit of 
 rope, fell as we passed through. Going up the 
 muddy gulch leading to the house, I noticed five 
 ugly, narrow, curtainless windows glaring at us, and 
 I noted also the absence of a front porch. As in a 
 vision, I saw the home we had left, with its wide 
 shining windows, broad Colonial porch, and round 
 white pillars. A painful lump rose in my throat, 
 and just then and there came my first and last touch 
 of homesickness. 
 
 Steps of rough slabs led up to the front entrance 
 
Jftom 3n Dregon IRancfj 
 
 of the house; the steps were presumably six in num- 
 ber originally, but now the two lower ones were 
 missing. As a final note of desolation, upon one 
 of these steps stood a rusty tin can, holding a 
 wretched, sodden, dead geranium. While these 
 observations were being made, Tom was struggling 
 with a refractory key in a broken lock, which finally 
 yielded. The door flew open; he entered the new 
 home, roaring in tremendous tones 
 
 "I've reached the land of corn and wine, 
 And all its treasures freely mine, 
 
 O Beulah land, sweet Beulah land ! " 
 
 Following him, we found it dark as pitch in 
 " Beulah Land," with an atmosphere strongly 
 tainted by mice and mould, with a lingering dash 
 of bacon. The soloist groped his way through 
 darkness to the fireplace, touching with a match 
 some kindlings and wood previously arranged 
 therein. Then came a hopeful snapping and crack- 
 ling of lively pine. The footlights flashed up, one 
 bright little blaze followed another, until soon 
 golden flames were dancing and leaping up the 
 black throat of the wide old chimney. Oh, the 
 glory and comfort of it! Surely nothing else in 
 this world is quite so cheery and inspiring as an 
 open wood fire. As its genial warmth began to 
 pervade the room, now brightly illuminated from 
 floor to ceiling, the discomforts of the day and the 
 
Jfrom 3n flDregon Rancft 
 
 gloom of the night were soon forgotten. As the 
 shadows lifted from our hearts, the pangs of hunger 
 began to assert themselves, and the new house- 
 keepers set to work. 
 
 On a previous visit Bert had made a lucky find 
 of an old iron teakettle. This he now brought in, 
 filled with fresh spring water, and placed it on a bed 
 of glowing coals; then he went with Tom to feed 
 and comfort the tired horses. Directly in front of 
 the fire was the only vacant space in the room, the 
 rest being filled with crated furniture and boxes. 
 One of the latter was shoved into the open space 
 and utilized for a table, a newspaper covering its 
 surface instead of damask. A candle stuck in a 
 vaseline bottle, placed upon a white napkin, served 
 as a centerpiece. The contents of the lunch basket 
 were transferred to the table, and the repast was 
 ready, with the exception of the Java and Mocha 
 combine, which was soon made, as the kettle was 
 already singing merrily. We had hoped a cricket 
 hidden away in the hearth might "join the kettle" 
 in a duet of welcome; but if one was there, he 
 remained obstinately mute. As only two chairs 
 were obtainable, the male members of the party were 
 seated at the banquet upon a pile of fir wood and 
 bark. Never was a meal eaten with better relish. 
 There was no time for after-dinner talk, as sleeping 
 arrangements were to be made, bedding to be 
 searched for and unpacked a formidable task 
 
 [12] 
 
JFtom an SDregott 
 
 amid such chaos. Bert and Mary, groaning and 
 perspiring, succeeded in putting up a bedstead in 
 an adjoining room, surrounded by a confused mix- 
 ture of things suggestive of the reserve stock of a 
 department store. Scorning the luxury of a bed- 
 stead, we hastily tumbled springs, mattress, and 
 bedding upon the floor, and were ready for the 
 "sweet restorer." 
 
 But alas for human hopes! Just as our heads 
 touched the pillows we were startled by the most ter- 
 rific barking, shrieking, yelping, and howling that 
 ever mortal heard. 
 
 "Tom, what under the sun is that?" 
 " A pack of hounds on the warpath, that's what." 
 On came the clamor, "nearer, clearer, deadlier 
 than before," when suddenly the whole crew of bed- 
 lamites dashed under our house. Bert called out, 
 "They've treed us the first dash, Tom!" There 
 they were, snapping, snarling, gnashing their teeth, 
 thumping and bumping against the very boards 
 upon which we were lying. 
 
 "Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then." Armed 
 with her threescore years and the iron poker, pro- 
 ceeding to the door, which she opened fully two 
 inches, she said in calm but firm tones, " You dogs, 
 go home, every last one of you ! Go home, I say ! 
 Go ! " Then a voice was heard from the department 
 store, saying softly, "Yes, kind, good doggies, do 
 go." And they did go, giving me the surprise of 
 
 [13] 
 
jfrom 3n SDregott Kane!) 
 
 my life. The instant my brave words were heard, 
 the racket ceased, and they came tumbling out from 
 under the house, and went scampering off in the 
 darkness as if fiends were at their heels. A human 
 voice from a house long deserted must have shaken 
 their nerves. Tom, however, saw things in a dif- 
 ferent light, for, as I closed the door with a trium- 
 phant bang, he remarked, " Rather a doubtful com- 
 pliment to your charms ! " There were no more 
 disturbing sounds during the remainder of the night, 
 and we slept until the morning was far advanced. 
 
 Breakfast hastily prepared and eaten, a little 
 leisure and the light of day gave us an opportunity 
 to inspect our new home. The room we were occu- 
 pying had at least one favorable feature it was 
 very large. A high ceiling of wood was painted an 
 ugly dull brown, the other woodwork in two shades 
 of brown. The artist designing the wall paper must 
 have been either color-blind or color-mad. Soiled 
 and defaced, the paper was torn off in some places, 
 in others it hung in long, fluttering, mildewed strips. 
 There were four gloomy doors, and four high, nar- 
 row windows, criss-crossed by many panes all 
 dreary enough, surely. For consolation we looked 
 to the wide old fireplace of stone, piled high with 
 blazing logs, shining for us as shines a beacon light 
 to the drowning mariner. The adjoining room was 
 of comfortable dimensions woodwork blue as the 
 sky; walls embellished with trailing blue roses; three 
 
jfrom an 2Dregon 
 
 windows, five panes of glass missing, for which oil- 
 cloth was substituted. At the two side windows 
 hung remnants of Nottingham lace curtains, stained 
 by rain and yellowed by time. As we touched them, 
 fragments fell at our feet, like the decaying wed- 
 ding finery of Miss Havisham. In a closet connected 
 with the room we found a mouse-eaten volume of 
 the "Lives of Eminent Women," and a stuffed 
 China pheasant, with one eye gone, as well as the 
 larger part of its feathers a sorry-looking object. 
 The dining room was small and extremely dark, 
 depressing wall paper and paint increasing the 
 gloom. Beyond was a kitchen, big enough to fur- 
 nish forth a feast for a company of dragoons. Ex- 
 tending the whole length of kitchen and dining room 
 was a porch as wide as the platform of a railway 
 station; while on the opposite side of the dining 
 room was another, of less alarming proportions. 
 The architectural marvel of the house was that the 
 entrance to the second floor was from the outside 
 instead of the inside. 
 
IADIES and gentlemen," cried Tom, 
 we are now about to attempt the 
 bold feat of reaching the second floor 
 of the house of the Ranch of the 
 Pointed Firs. Having myself once successfully 
 made the ascent of the architectural Matterhorn 
 leading to that region, I am prepared by that expe- 
 rience to act as your guide. First, allow me to 
 inquire, are you all wearing shoes with hobnails and 
 cleats? Very good. The ladies will need alpen- 
 stocks," handing us each a bedslat. His glance just 
 then falling upon a coil of rope used during the 
 process of moving, his face lighted with the sudden 
 thought of further absurdity. 
 
 " That the exploit upon which we are embarking 
 is a perilous one, I will not deny. To guard against 
 accidents and possible loss of life, it is necessary 
 that we should be firmly bound one to another with 
 
 [16] 
 
Jfrom 9in 2Dre0on Rancft 
 
 this rope. Reverend Chadband, allow me to begin 
 with you," deftly twining the cord around the waist 
 of Bert, whose clerical title had been suggested by 
 his having recently donned a very old and dilapi- 
 dated Prince Albert coat. 
 
 Our self -constituted guide, having gravely bound 
 us together and tied the rope about his own person, 
 looked us over with gratified pride. 
 
 "We are now, I think, in proper climbing trim. 
 An X-ray worn as a miner's lamp would prove serv- 
 iceable, but may be dispensed with. Forward, 
 march ! " 
 
 We filed out on a long narrow porch, the surface 
 of which had a thick slippery coating, caused by 
 continual rains. It was as slippery as if both greased 
 and soaped. An iron rake leaning against the wall 
 gave to our careful leader another inspiration. Pass- 
 ing it to Bert, he remarked, "If our esteemed 
 brother, will insert the iron teeth of this implement 
 in the girdle of the rear lady, giving it a secure 
 twist, it may be of invaluable service to us when the 
 actual ascent begins." The "brother" complied 
 with cheerful alacrity, especially as to the "secure 
 twist." 
 
 At the end of the porch a door opened into a dark 
 closet. Directly opposite was an extremely narrow 
 stairway, almost as nearly perpendicular as a fire- 
 escape, with sides roughly boarded up. It was as 
 dark as Erebus, with not a ray of light except a 
 
JFrom an SDregon 
 
 faint glimmer from above. Looking up this black 
 funnel, Tom's elaborate preparations seemed less 
 preposterous. He now called out, " Brother Chad- 
 band, is the hoisting apparatus in position?" 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir," was the unclerical response. 
 
 "Very well; now, ladies, cling bravely to the 
 rope. Plant your alpenstocks firmly with each 
 advancing step. Be cool, be calm. Keep your eyes 
 fixed upon the summit, and don't look back." 
 
 Strictly obeying instructions, we had scarcely got 
 under way before our guide halted. " Perhaps, if 
 the ladies feel up to it, a bit of yodeling might 
 relieve the tedium of the ascent and add much to 
 its realism." 
 
 As the ladies were now laughing hysterically, they 
 were hardly "up to it." The ever-willing Chad- 
 band, however, was equal to the emergency. An 
 oily voice was heard saying, " I myself, carnal vessel 
 that I am, will essay a few joyful notes unto these 
 hills." Whereupon arose a sound of lamentation 
 not unlike the lonely howling of a distant wolf, 
 broken at intervals by a shrill war whoop. By 
 steady pulling from above and violent shoving from 
 below, we were finally landed in a heap upon the 
 floor, in the center of a big, garret-like room, dimly 
 lighted by one small, dusty, cobwebby window. 
 While being released from bondage, our guide 
 remarked, as he glanced around, "We are now in 
 the Cave of the Winds, a locality rarely visited by 
 
 [18] 
 
Jfrom 3n ffl)re0on 
 
 the ordinary tourist ; those glittering stalactites above 
 our heads are Nature's own formation/ 5 It was a 
 true statement, the stalactites being long rows of 
 yellow seed corn strung on wires. A couple of 
 bottomless chairs, a few joints of rusty stovepipe, 
 and an old scythe with a broken blade, hanging over 
 one of the rafters, completed the attractions. 
 
 We were very eager for a glimpse of the adjoin- 
 ing apartment, as we had been told it was built and 
 had been used exclusively as a ball room. Just think 
 of it we were about to visit our own private ball 
 room ! Do you wonder that our hearts swelled with 
 pride as we entered that hall of many past festivi- 
 ties? It certainly was spacious twenty feet wide 
 and thirty long, with a truly beautiful smooth floor. 
 It was rather cheerful, too, lighted by four windows. 
 An immense alder stood so near the eastern windows 
 that its leafless branches trailed across their panes. 
 A rosebush had climbed half-way up its trunk and 
 was swinging gracefully from its boughs, still fresh 
 and green. From the west we looked straight into 
 the encircling arms of a glorious big fir tree. 
 
 Between two of the windows was a slightly ele- 
 vated platform, upon which stood a nail keg, which 
 we inferred had been used as a seat for the long-ago 
 musician, as an empty violin case still leaned pathet- 
 ically against it. Here were also an iron bootjack 
 and a perforated tin lantern, suggestive of tight wet 
 boots and dark nights. The room was simply 
 
 [19] 
 
JFrom 3n 2Dre0on 
 
 boarded up, with no ceiling, but merely rafters and 
 shingles overhead. Starting from the musician's 
 stand, were rough board seats extending around the 
 room, supported by blocks of wood. Shallow boxes 
 were nailed to the walls, each containing a small 
 kerosene lamp. Near one of the windows hung a 
 long narrow mirror, framed in cheap red, now 
 badly scratched and marred. Lying beneath this 
 was a set of quilting frames, which gave us the idea 
 that a quilting party sometimes preceded the dance. 
 In one corner of the room was a pile of abandoned 
 rubbish fragments of an old loom, and many 
 broken and disabled farming implements. Tom, 
 delving among these relics, suddenly shouted, 
 " Hello ! I've found the ' Entailed Hat.' It wasn't 
 buried with that old duffer, after all." He certainly 
 had unearthed the most antiquated specimen of head- 
 gear ever seen outside the walls of a museum a 
 faded brown beaver, with wide brim and high bell- 
 shaped crown, which he was jamming in here and 
 bulging out there, with a view to restoring its orig- 
 inal shape. " It's been a dandy in its day," he com- 
 mented, as he smoothed its frowsy surface, "and 
 it's not a bad tile yet. I don't know but I might 
 wear it myself on Sundays, walking about in the 
 holy calm, looking over my possessions. How do I 
 look, Bert?" he asked, having donned it and pulled 
 it well down over his ears. 
 
 " Well, if I must answer, I should say you look a 
 
 [20] 
 
Jfrom 3n Dregon Kancft 
 
 composite of Guy Fawkes, Puritan father, and Buf- 
 falo Bill, with perhaps just a dash of Oregon 
 farmer," replied the reverend joker. 
 
 While this by-play was going on, I had been 
 trying to burnish the old mirror's cloudy surface, 
 finding the bluish haze was there to stay. I thought 
 of the antique mirror of which Hawthorne tells us, 
 that hung in the old Province House the one old 
 Esther Dudley so often stood before, leaning upon 
 her gold-headed staff, seeing pass across its blurred 
 surface in shadowy procession the pomp and pagean- 
 try of the past. As the others came up, I said, 
 
 " We have a real treasure here ! " 
 
 " It looks it," said one. 
 
 " I find it is an enchanted mirror ; it possesses 
 magical properties, and if one stood here at just the 
 right hour she would see crossing its dim surface 
 the shades of all the dead and gone revelers this old 
 room has ever known." 
 
 "Do you reckon, if a fellow should come up here 
 about the witching hour of twelve in the dark of the 
 moon, with a rabbit's foot in each hand " 
 
 "Hush, foolish scoffer! Even now they come " 
 
 "Well, they're in a mighty big hurry. You tell 
 'em we ain't fixed up at all ; that we are sleeping on 
 the floor, and " 
 
 "Behold, a great, swarthy, athletic young moun- 
 taineer, tall and straight as his native pines " 
 
 " Gee whiz ! Must be a hundred feet high ! " 
 
 [21] 
 
Jfrom an Oregon Kancft 
 
 " Don't interrupt, please ; remember, there were 
 giants in those days. They quickly pass. But what 
 strange figures are these stealthily gliding through 
 the gray shadows?" 
 
 "Injins, I'll bet you! Are they togged up in 
 fringed buckskin and moccasins, with a lot of dan- 
 glin' beads and feather fixin's ? " 
 
 " Alas ! Shocked by your skepticism, they recede. 
 Ah! they are gone!" 
 
 " Good ! Let the old spooks go ! Say, let's try a 
 waltz ; this old floor is a daisy." And then, the spirit 
 of folly being in full possession, if you could have 
 looked through the windows of this old garret, you 
 would have seen four elderly figures half veiled in 
 dust gliding and whirling up and down the long 
 room, while the rain rattled like hail upon the 
 shingles. We thought we did it fairly well, with 
 the exception, as Tom said, of "breathin' a little 
 'ard, like the young recruit at the 'angin' of Danny 
 Deever." 
 
 " Now for a schottische ! " he cried, as he began 
 whistling " Pop Goes the Weasel." 
 
 "Oh, Tom, that's too awfully plebeian!" 
 
 "Plebeian? That's just where you're wrong. 
 The 'shortish' was mighty popular in airly days." 
 
 The cuckoo below, just then chiming out the noon 
 hour, nipped this discussion, and quickly restored 
 our lost sanity. 
 
 " Twelve o'clock ! " said Mary, excitedly. " Who 
 
 [22] 
 
Jftom an 2Dre0ott 
 
 could have thought we had idled away a whole hour 
 in this idiotic fashion? I truly believe, if we had 
 been caught at this nonsense, we would all have been 
 clapped into straight jackets and carted off to the 
 madhouse ! " 
 
 Tom rushed across the room to the corner of 
 odds and ends, and hung the old hat on the top of 
 a hoe handle, hurriedly remarking, " Mr. Milburn, 
 revered though invisible shade, I return your valu- 
 able inheritance, thanking you kindly for its loan. 
 The inaugural ball is now over. Lights will be 
 turned off at once. Follow me fly!" And he 
 dashed through the Cave of the Winds, and dropped 
 into the hole in the floor, shouting back through the 
 darkness, " Shoot the chute everybody ! " 
 
 Prosaic duties were awaiting us below. The men 
 hurried off in search of fuel just then one of our 
 most crying needs. We busied ourselves with prep- 
 arations for cooking our first dinner by a fireplace. 
 Potatoes were buried in the ashes, and then covered 
 with a nice warm blanket of coals. Onions were 
 given the same treatment, after being partially 
 peeled and wrapped in white tissue paper. Fiery 
 coals were raked out to make a hot-box for the 
 teakettle. A row of fine apples was placed on the 
 hearth at proper distance from the heat. Then the 
 perspiring cooks rushed to the door for air and to 
 cool their blistered faces. We agreed that cooking 
 by an open fire was interesting as a new experience, 
 
 [23] 
 
JFrom 3n flDregon 
 
 but that in time it might pall upon one. In a sur- 
 prisingly short time, however, the apples turned a 
 golden brown, plumped up and burst open, their 
 escaping juices bubbling into white foam. " Done ! " 
 said the experts, as they were placed in a dish and 
 given a liberal powdering of sugar. Then, with 
 well bandaged hand, and face shielded by the dust- 
 pan, one of the brave pioneers volunteered to ex- 
 hume the potatoes. They were found, like the 
 apples, to be roasted to the queen's taste, were taken 
 by the assistant chef and carefully folded in a nap- 
 kin, while the red-eyed explorer probed the next 
 mound. This proved to be less satisfactory; the 
 onions were yielding but slowly to their doom. 
 More coals were added. Thin slices of ham were 
 laid across the bars of the wire toaster and broiled 
 beautifully, coffee was made, and the dry goods box 
 given a real table cloth in honor of the occasion. 
 At each plate was a spray of buckthorn a lovely, 
 dark, waxen leaf, in color and shape like holly. 
 
 When the onions did give in, they did it hand- 
 somely. Upon removing their wrappers, we found 
 a soft, pulpy mass, which, when seasoned and but- 
 tered, was delicious. The gentlemen pronounced 
 the dinner good enough to satisfy the most epicurean 
 taste. We bowed our burning heads in acknowledg- 
 ment of the compliment. We couldn't blush; our 
 crimson faces could take no deeper tint. 
 
 After three days of this underground cooking we 
 
 [24] 
 
jfrom an fl)re0on 
 
 struck. But one loaf of bread remained, and we 
 were much too amateurish to attempt bread-baking 
 over the coals or under them ; so we said decisively, 
 "Tomorrow morning that range goes up or we go 
 out." 
 
F you have tears, prepare to shed them 
 now, as you listen to a tale of woe ris- 
 ing with the blue mists from the fir-clad 
 hills of Oregon. You will remember 
 that the burned and blistered cooks of the fireplace 
 had rebelled; that the edict had gone forth that 
 the kitchen range should go up at once, as but one 
 loaf of bread remained in sight and now, alas! 
 even that had vanished. You will hardly believe 
 that Pandora was hidden away within the interior 
 of that innocent-looking range! The very instant 
 violent hands were laid upon it, that malignant god- 
 dess raised the lid of her direful box, and such a 
 swarm of undreamed-of troubles buzzed about us! 
 In the first place, the stove had been left by the 
 teamsters on the dining room porch instead of the 
 kitchen porch. It was impossible now to carry it 
 through the former room, which was packed solidly 
 
 [26] 
 
jfrom 3tt Dre0on 
 
 from floor to ceiling with boxes and crated goods. 
 To take it around the house, on a muddy, slippery 
 hillside, looked an impossibility. 
 
 To add to the general wretchedness of things, the 
 weather had changed in the night; the rain had 
 turned to sleet, and now snow was falling, freezing 
 as it fell. After much scheming the ponderous stove 
 was finally zigzagged off the porch and placed upon 
 wooden rollers, immediately sinking fathoms deep 
 in mud. In spite of all lifting, pushing, and prying, 
 it sat there as firmly fixed as the Rock of Gibraltar. 
 A new propeller was devised ; then, after wobbling a 
 little, it lurched forward a foot or two. Thinking to 
 give a light touch to the scene, I cried joyously 
 
 " She starts, she moves, she seems to feel 
 The thrill of life along her keel ! " 
 
 Then two pairs of eyes were lifted, from which 
 flashed murder in the first degree. It seems that 
 poetry doesn't always find favor with the sterner 
 sex. By pluck and perseverance the monster was 
 finally located where it should have been placed when 
 taken from the wagon. The range was wide, the 
 door narrow. That the one would never go through 
 the other, Mary and I both saw at a glance a 
 knowledge gained by the men only after making 
 careful measurements. The door was taken off its 
 hinges. More measurements, but still no go; now 
 
 [27] 
 
Jftom an SDtegon 
 
 the door frame itself must be taken out and all 
 the time the weather was growing colder, the sleet 
 thicker. 
 
 "Got to tear the whole end of the house out," 
 growled Tom, "to get this blasted old man-of-war 
 in here; I always said that it was a fool notion to 
 bring it!" Of course he was the one who insisted 
 upon bringing it; but I have learned there is a time 
 to keep silence. Can you believe that even after the 
 taking out of the door frame that stubborn thing 
 wouldn't go in? The only hope left was in the re- 
 moving of a projecting plate, strongly riveted with 
 bolts a task for John L. Sullivan. But Tom was 
 mad now ; " his strength was as the strength of ten. " 
 With chisel and monkey wrench he bore down upon 
 the offending obstacle and literally tore it out by the 
 roots. Lidless, doorless, and backless, like a shorn 
 Samson, the stove then went quietly enough to its 
 fate. After the pipe was jointed and poked out 
 through a hole in the roof (there being no chimney), 
 it became apparent that some one must climb up there 
 and wire it in position a dangerous undertaking, 
 the roofs of Oregon houses being as steep as tobog- 
 gan slides, and this one just now glazed with sleet. 
 Bert believed he could do the trick by nailing wooden 
 cleats for each advancing step. There being no 
 ladder on the premises, a table, surmounted by a 
 barrel, was placed at the edge of the porch. The 
 daring adventurer, armed with hatchet, nails, and a 
 
 [28] 
 
Jftom 3n SDregon 
 
 coil of wire, mounted this pedestal, observing that 
 he felt quite like a performing elephant. After vio- 
 lent struggling and some vigorous boosting, he was 
 safely landed on the porch roof. Crossing it gin- 
 gerly, he called down, " Now send up your lumber/' 
 which went up with the caution, " Nail 'em on firm, 
 old chap; you're in ticklish business." 
 
 It certainly was "ticklish." That almost per- 
 pendicular roof, covered with sleet, shone like a 
 glacier. We begged him to give it up and come 
 down ; but he was too plucky for that, as was testified 
 by the grim declaration, "We build the ladder by 
 which we rise," as with much hammering of nails 
 and crackling of ice he slowly toiled to the summit. 
 At the extreme end of the building stood what we 
 called the " Leaning Tower of Pisa." How he was 
 to cross that long stretch of roof, we couldn't see. 
 This problem he immediately solved by sitting 
 astride the comb of the roof and jumping himself 
 along, in a series of kangaroo leaps a moving spec- 
 tacle, as seen upon the sharp ridge of a snowy cliff: 
 that dark, distorted figure, half crawling, half leap- 
 ing, followed by the funereal folds of a trailing 
 Prince Albert coat. 
 
 Tom, unable to restrain his delight, called out, 
 with true showman eloquence, "The greatest free 
 open-air entertainment ever seen upon the Pacific 
 Slope! Professor Clutch-'em-Tight, the world- 
 renowned bareback rider, crossing the Alps upon his 
 
 [29] 
 
Jftom an SDtegon Kancft 
 
 famous Iceland steed, ' Razor-back/ which never 
 until this hour felt the restraining hand of man. 
 Fifty cents and a quarter of a dollar admits you to 
 the big tent. Hurry up, everybody ! " 
 
 The " Professor," ignoring this harangue, gal- 
 loped solemnly on to his goal. The " tower " being 
 then some feet below him, a few descending steps 
 were made. Standing upon this icy slope, the wiring 
 was done, much to the satisfaction of his ground 
 floor assistant, who, feeling that the worst of the 
 work was about over, and himself safe on terra fir ma } 
 was now in buoyant spirits, singing in tones loud 
 enough to have been heard on the top of Mount 
 Hood 
 
 " High in the belfry the old sexton stands, 
 Grasping a wire in his thin bony hands." 
 
 "The troubadour is most flattering, especially as 
 to thin, bony hands; but I would suggest that he 
 leave off that bellowing and go inside and start up 
 his old furnace." 
 
 " ' I do make all convenient haste, my lord,' " he 
 called, as he came bustling into the kitchen. " That 
 old Santa Claus on the roof, in the heel-cracker coat, 
 is advising me to fire up," he said to us, cramming 
 in fuel and striking matches. " I'll have this thing 
 going like a house afire in about a minute. You can 
 start your biscuit now ; and, say, open a can of maple 
 syrup, and we'll have a high jinks of a time." 
 
 [30] 
 
Jfrom an Oregon Kancft 
 
 And we had it too; for no sooner was the fire 
 started than smoke began pouring out from every 
 crack and crevice of that stove, even from the front 
 draught. It filled the house and rolled in billowy 
 masses from open doors and broken windows. We 
 were sure that nothing like it had been seen since 
 the burning of Chicago. The operator, dumb with 
 amazement, was dimly seen through the haze pranc- 
 ing round and round the stove like a whirling der- 
 vish, opening and closing draughts, slamming doors 
 and lids, jamming in more fuel and striking more 
 matches, but all to no purpose. Each and every 
 effort ended in smoke. Bert, having returned to 
 earth, stood gasping in the door. 
 
 " I thought you hadn't fired her ; no smoke at all 
 Above." 
 
 "You didn't expect this blamed old sarcophagus 
 to smoke at both ends, did you ? " And then the flood 
 gates of wrath opened. His listeners will never 
 again doubt the existence of the emotional Mr. Bow- 
 ser. There was absolutely no draught. It was 
 found that the projecting pipe aloft was not of suffi- 
 cient height; for it must be substituted one of those 
 tall smokestacks, and there was no hope of fire until 
 this could be done. This discovery would not have 
 meant much in the old home, where the desired stack 
 could have been ordered from a hardware store and 
 put in place within the hour ; but here it meant a drive 
 of forty miles to and from the little town we had left, 
 
 [31] 
 
JFrom an Oregon 
 
 at a season of the year when roads were at their 
 worst. 
 
 It was decided that the trip should be made the 
 following day, there being no advantage in postpone- 
 ment, with ravenous appetites calling for bread 
 where no bread could be had. We were told that the 
 coming trip was the only one that would be made 
 until the next spring, and were advised to keep that 
 fact before us in the making up of our memoranda 
 a mighty task for women accustomed to the or- 
 dering of daily supplies, with the telephone at hand 
 to rectify errors or omissions. Our entire evening 
 was devoted to this work, and I am proud to say that 
 only one item was forgotten, but that the important 
 one of eggs an omission which was rued in sack- 
 cloth and ashes for weeks to come. When the four 
 long lists were finished and folded, the " alarm " was 
 wound and set at four o'clock, whereupon a universal 
 groan was heard. Instantly our spirits fell to zero, 
 and there remained. 
 
 Promptly at the time appointed, that clock opened 
 up for business. I think it must have awakened 
 every sleeper between the two oceans. We had never 
 known it to work so vigorously. Whether Tom had, 
 in winding it, given an extra turn or two, or some- 
 thing vital had given way inside, will probably never 
 be known. While the horses were being fed and 
 harnessed by the fitful light of a lantern, our third 
 breadless meal was prepared. We had crackers, 
 
 [32] 
 
jFrom 3n Oregon Hancft 
 
 fortunately, and " before-daylight " appetites are 
 easily satisfied. 
 
 Our wretched pilgrims had been long on their way 
 ere the dawn climbed over our green hills. The day 
 was very dark and cloudy. Early in the afternoon 
 rain began falling. By six o'clock darkness fell like 
 a pall upon us no moon, no stars, no ray of light. 
 Even then we began listening for the sound of 
 wheels, though we had been told not to expect the 
 wanderers before eight o'clock. We put lamps in 
 the windows, drew up the blinds, piled high with logs 
 the old fireplace, hoping the illumination might make 
 a little path of radiance through the forest's gloom. 
 For us this was an uncanny experience. Outside, 
 no "social watchfires" gleamed from neighborly 
 windows ; in fact, there were no windows only the 
 blackness of night. Within the old house were two 
 lone, listening women. From the " ball room " above 
 came a flying touch of phantom feet and a faint 
 swish of ghostly skirts, as plainly heard as the 
 scurrying of mice among the packing boxes. High 
 up among the pines a lonely night bird screamed; 
 while upon the window sills fell the steady drip, drip, 
 drip of the rain, as if some wandering spirit of the 
 night were rapping out for us a message. 
 
 Not until ten o'clock did we hear the welcome 
 rumble of wheels over the little bridge at the foot 
 of the hill. Then came a loud " Whoo-whoo," a sort 
 of mountain call we have learned here. How quickly 
 
 [33] 
 
JFrom an flDregon 
 
 we flew to the door and gave an answering call, all 
 our fears forgotten! As that wagon-load of mer- 
 chandise had to be carried in, it was midnight before 
 we sat at supper, listening to a detailed account of 
 the vexations and mishaps of the day. About dusk 
 the travelers had found themselves " stuck fast in the 
 mud/' working vainly a whole hour with rails and 
 poles to lift those wheels out of a bog. Fortunately 
 a Good Samaritan came along with a team of big 
 Clydesdale horses, which he hitched to the wagon, 
 yanking it out in a jiffy. Tom said he could have 
 fallen upon the big necks of the horses and blubbered 
 for joy. Just then night swooped down; and from 
 that time until they reached home, one had to walk in 
 advance with the lantern. 
 
 Thus endeth the story of the putting up of a 
 kitchen range in the Ranch of the Pointed Firs. 
 
 P. S. Among the merchandise .were found five 
 kinds of bread. 
 
HAVE been thinking, dear Nell, that 
 my letters have shown you only the 
 somber side of our ranch life. When 
 you think of us in our new Oregon 
 home, you probably imagine a dreary, 
 grim old house, perched high on a hillside ; only that, 
 and nothing more. You know nothing of the beauty 
 of our surroundings, nothing of the semicircle of 
 towering hills clad from base to summit with the 
 living green of fir trees, seen from our front win- 
 dows and separated from us by only a very narrow 
 glen the latter as green and fresh in January as 
 are our lawns at home in May. Curving and wind- 
 ing through this little valley, with a tracery of green 
 trees and leafless ones, is the loveliest mountain 
 stream that ever the sun shone on in summertime 
 a dreamily murmuring rivulet ; in winter a rushing, 
 roaring torrent. Then it comes rollicking and roy- 
 
 [35] 
 
Jfrom 3n flDregon 
 
 stering through our little glen, like some mad 
 bacchanalian half crazed by mountain vintage, plung- 
 ing over rocky terraces, leaping mossy logs, whisking 
 around curves, surging and eddying against ferny 
 banks, clutching in its white arms dead limbs and 
 branches, held one instant, hurled broadcast the next, 
 as vaulting over them with a tossing of green billows 
 and flying spray it reels stormily on, bent upon still 
 madder pranks. 
 
 You may be inclined to call this ranting, and per- 
 haps think it inspired by this same mountain vintage ; 
 but you have never seen the mountain streams of 
 Oregon. Ours seemed so wild and elfish that we im- 
 mediately christened it "Deer Leap." When we 
 came here, a high, strong bridge spanned it. In one 
 of these recent night carousals that bridge was lifted 
 bodily and borne away, and no plank of it was ever 
 seen again. One day last winter, after heavy rains, 
 Deer Leap was tearing and plunging down from the 
 hills, floating a mighty drift of logs, stumps, boards, 
 and such debris, when, seeing Mary and me watch- 
 ing from the bank, in sudden fury he hurled the 
 whole mass at us, and there it remains to this day a 
 monument to his madcap play. 
 
 In summertime, when canopied by green leaves 
 and swinging vines, with birds singing glad halle- 
 lujahs above it, and the elusive speckled trout dart- 
 ing through it, then indeed is our brook a thing of 
 beauty and a joy forever. However, it is but one of 
 
 [36] 
 
jfrom 3n flDregon Kancft 
 
 the many charms of this old place. We have lovely 
 springs of pure soft water. One of these, high upon 
 the hill back of the house, gushing from a rocky 
 ledge beneath a clump of pines, comes tumbling 
 down in a mossy fern-shaded rill, to slip beneath the 
 shadows of a near-by alder and creep into an ugly 
 wooden spout, and thence be carried to a still uglier 
 wooden trough stationed at the end of the kitchen 
 porch. 
 
 Upon our arrival here, a well-mannered stream of 
 water about two inches in diameter was flowing from 
 this spout; but one morning after the rains I heard 
 Tom exclaim, as he stepped out on the porch, " Great 
 Scott ! isn't this getting a little bit too gay ? " I looked 
 out, and, lo ! a stream of water as thick as the stove 
 pipe was gushing from that spout and dashing half- 
 way across the porch. Tom had to construct a sort 
 of breakwater of boards in front of it, in doing 
 which he was half drowned, shouting at me through 
 the roar of the breakers, "Life may seem extinct, 
 but don't give up till you've rolled me over a barrel ! " 
 Not being familiar with the habits of mountain 
 springs, this " rampage " surprised us ; but we after- 
 ward learned that they are as much given to " ram- 
 pagin' " as was Mrs. Joe Gargery herself. 
 
 Lower down the hill, at one side of the front 
 lawn, under a giant alder, another spring pours from 
 the cavern-like side of a big rock, and goes dancing 
 away over a stony path to lose itself in the green 
 
 [37] 
 
Jfrorn an Oregon Kancft 
 
 pasture lands below. Upon the massive rock over- 
 hanging this spring we might have carved 
 
 "The mountain air 
 In winter is not clearer, nor the dew 
 That shines on mountain blossoms." 
 
 The water of this spring is most delicious, icy- 
 cold and pure ; " the more you drink, the more you 
 want." Here, too, are growing wonderful ferns 
 long feathery fronds, just such as we buy of the flo- 
 rists at home, who call them " Boston ferns." Here 
 they are found growing wild, three or four feet high 
 a reckless profusion of them in all moist shady 
 places. Think of this, and groan, the next time you 
 pay a dollar for a little stingy one six inches high ! 
 The moss about this spring is exquisite, as if woven 
 by fairy fingers, of tiny velvety ferns. In fact, the 
 Oregon moss is wonderful; it covers trees, stumps, 
 rocks, fences, and even the roofs of houses. Tom 
 says the moss business is overdone here ; but I like it. 
 
 At one side of the lawn is a large orchard, bearing 
 fine apples, pears, peaches, plums, prunes, and cher- 
 ries ; and winding through this bower of lusciousness 
 is a little path leading to the garden a pretty place, 
 all embowered by trees, giving it that touch of seclu- 
 sion so dear to the heart of the gardener. Just 
 above the garden is another spring, hidden away in 
 a tangle of greenery. Back of the house is a pre- 
 
 [38] 
 
Jftom 3n SDregon 
 
 cipitous hill, crowned with fir, laurel, and young oak 
 trees, the latter draped with pendent fringes of sil- 
 very moss, in fine contrast with the green of the firs ; 
 while straggling down toward the house are trees of 
 various kinds, clumps of bushes, and tall brown 
 ferns, with a perfect network of dewberry vines cov- 
 ering the ground and forming a snare for the foot of 
 the unwary. Here, too, is fine old oak with mistletoe 
 growing in its branches. Oh, the joy of having 
 that lovely mistletoe growing right in one's own 
 dooryard ! 
 
 " The mistletoe hung in the castle hall, 
 The holly branch shone on the old oak wall ! " 
 
 We shall use buckthorn for holly, and when the 
 blessed Yuletide comes round, this old rancho shall 
 blossom as the rose. 
 
 Across the rear of the yard, half-way up the hill- 
 side, are the remains of an old fence, which we shall 
 remove, except one portion of it, which is formed by 
 a fallen log. This must have been one of the mon- 
 archs of the forest. It is seventy-five feet long, and 
 so thick that when Tom stands on one side of it and 
 I on the other, we are not visible to each other. In 
 winter it is a mossy, lifeless thing; but in summer 
 vines clamber over it, running along the top and fes- 
 tooning its sides; chattering squirrels play over it, 
 and tuneful birds meet there for choir rehearsals. 
 
 [39] 
 
Jfrom an Dregott IRancft 
 
 Our woodland is truly a " forest primeval," as wild 
 as an African jungle. From a hilltop beyond Deer 
 Leap, when the skies are clear, we can plainly see 
 Mount Jefferson, Mount Hood, and the Three Sis- 
 ters, yes, and Mary's Peak. Why it is called that I 
 don't know, when it has its pretty Indian name, 
 " Chintimini." 
 
 I have now indifferently sketched for you, dear 
 Nell, a few of the more pronounced attractions of 
 this old place; but, believe me, it has hundreds of 
 minor though no less witching ones. Nature in mak- 
 ing this mountain region dealt out grandeur and 
 beauty with a lavish hand. I cannot say as much for 
 man's work, for surely here are the ugliest buildings 
 that ever blotted and disfigured a landscape. Rickety, 
 weather-beaten, and boarded up and down, they are 
 so irredeemably ugly that one longs to sweep them 
 off the face of the earth. There are two buildings, 
 however, made of logs, that I would spare, as they 
 seem to fit in with their rugged surroundings. One 
 is a big, wide, roomy barn ; the other a " root house." 
 I had never seen or heard of such a thing before, and 
 inquiring of the lord of the manor what it was for, 
 I was told that " it was a place to root in when you 
 feel like it" an evasive reply which proved to me 
 that he knew no more about it than I did. This 
 building, hidden by climbing vines and green moss, 
 is picturesque as an old ruin ; only it is no ruin it 
 is good for a century yet. 
 
 [40] 
 
JFrom 3n flDregott Uancft 
 
 The fences on the place are of rails, which would 
 be all right and appropriate if only they were good 
 rails ; but, alas ! the storms and stress of the seasons 
 have borne so heavily upon them that they have 
 mostly given up trying to be fences, and have lain 
 down in discouraged and straggling heaps along the 
 boundary lines. We are told that this ranch was well 
 kept up by its former owners when they were living 
 here, but since then has been sadly misused and 
 abused by tenants. It now, I fancy, resembles the 
 " abandoned farms "of the East. At first these un- 
 sightly things worried us ; but soon there came to us 
 a reproving voice from the everlasting hills, saying, 
 " Oh, you poor anxious atoms away down there in 
 the glen, fretting your small souls because of an 
 inartistic cowshed, forgetting God's beauty all 
 around and above you. Are you not ashamed?" 
 We were ashamed, and these things at least are no 
 longer " a speck in our sunshine." 
 
 Many of our eastern friends have written us that 
 the Oregon rains must be terrible, the many gray 
 days pressing heavily upon us poor mortals cooped 
 up in our little mountain home. But this sympathy 
 is not altogether called for. In the first place, the 
 rains here don't come with a wind that wraps your 
 skirts about you like a winding sheet and turns your 
 umbrella inside out. They fall straight down from 
 the heavens, in a decent, unhurrying way. Having 
 six months to do it in, there is no occasion for haste 
 
 [41] 
 
Jftom an 2Dce0on Rancft 
 
 or bluster. As to wet days being depressing here, 
 they are not half so much so as in a city where one 
 sees only wet muddy pavements and a black sea of 
 bobbing umbrellas. Now, as this happens to be a 
 rainy day, let me describe it to you. In the old stone 
 fireplace pitchy pine knots are blazing like campaign 
 torches, filling the big room with a ruddy glow. 
 Outside are gray skies, falling rain, and sodden 
 earth ; but from a window here by my desk, I see the 
 wet leaves of the orchard trees ablaze with color, and 
 through this vista, just below, an old fence over- 
 grown with blackberry and wild rose bushes ; beyond 
 it, a narrow strip of gray stubble land, splotched with 
 the brown of dead ferns and weeds; skirting its 
 farthest side is the fringing foliage of the brook, a 
 mass of tender green, yellow, and russet; and back 
 of all this, the mighty hills, an unbroken wall of dark 
 green, splashed with the scarlet and gold of autumn, 
 and just now enmeshed in purple mists. 
 
 While writing the last sentence or two, Nature's 
 scene shifter must have been busy; for now, as I 
 look, a thin gauzy veil of mist stretches straight 
 across these heights. Through this shadowy screen 
 the hills seem remote, the trees vague and spectral; 
 the vivid hues of autumn have faded to the late after- 
 glow of a summer sunset. These hills are my joy 
 and my despair. I could cry with vexation when I 
 try to picture them to others. Such fleeting and 
 changeful beauty should be sketched only by the 
 
Jfrom an SDregon 
 
 hand of a master. I knew this all the time, but fools, 
 you know, rush in where angels fear to tread, and I 
 did so want to show you something of this outdoor 
 beauty, that you might at least partially understand 
 why we are not depressed in gloomy weather. 
 
 As to being "cooped up" in this little mountain 
 place, I should think we were rather less cramped for 
 room than those friends who write us from city 
 houses and "flats." We have our own broad do- 
 mains, besides free range of the whole of the Coast 
 Mountains, for here are no " no trespassing " signs 
 for the unarmed intruder. Here, too, we are free 
 from "the tyranny of clothes." If one feels a sud- 
 den longing for a walk in the fresh air, no careful 
 street toilet need be made in fear of critical eyes, as 
 in a city, where, Thoreau says, " the houses are so ar- 
 ranged, in lanes and fronting one another, that every 
 traveler has to run the gantlet, and every man, 
 woman, and child gets a lick at him." Here, with 
 rubber overshoes added to the indoor toilet and a 
 shawl thrown over the head, one is equipped for the 
 woods and fields, no eye beholding save those of the 
 beasts of the fields and the fowls of the air ; and their 
 eyes are kind, not critical. One year of this free life 
 in the Oregon hills, untrammeled by conventionali- 
 ties, is better than " fifty years of Europe," and when 
 I leave these glorious solitudes it will be to enter 
 "that low green tent whose curtain never outward 
 swings." 
 
 [43] 
 
N my last letter, Nell, I tried to picture 
 ,to you some of the beauties surround- 
 ing our new Oregon home; but I do 
 assure you that it was only the preface 
 to this wonderful Nature-book of the 
 hills. I would like to tell you more of them; but as 
 man cannot live by scenery alone, and as you particu- 
 larly want details of our early experiences here, not 
 only the lights but the shadows, I shall have to go 
 back again to those memorable days of January when 
 we first came here. Green fir seen upon the hills is ad- 
 mirable ; but green fir in the kitchen range is abomi- 
 nable, especially after being soaked by rain for three 
 months. When first put into the stove, bolstered up 
 with plenty of pine kindlings, it would blaze rather 
 hopefully, until the moss had burned off and the 
 kindlings had vanished, when with sighing and sob- 
 bing it would shed a few rainy tears, turn black, and 
 
 [44] 
 
JFtom an SDtegon 
 
 all would be over. The most of our packing boxes 
 were demolished in efforts to set the fir wood on fire, 
 but all in vain ; it simply would not burn, and we had 
 to go back to cooking by the fireplace. There we did 
 fairly well, with a liberal supply of bark, the latter 
 burning well here, but of no use in the range. While 
 in this slough of despond, a man came one day to 
 hang wall paper for us. Hearing our lamentations, 
 he suggested drying the wood in the oven before 
 using it. Long may that man live and prosper ! The 
 curing process helped wonderfully only now the 
 wood was too combustible; it burned out in a jiffy. 
 We would fill the stove full, leave it fifteen minutes, 
 come back to it, and not a vestige of fire would be 
 left. We soon learned that the stove must never be 
 left alone; one must stand there, with hand on the 
 throttle, like the engineer of a locomotive. 
 
 The demand for fuel was always greater than the 
 supply, though the oven was kept filled with it from 
 January to May, except on baking days. Sometimes 
 we would close the oven door, forgetting it until re- 
 minded by a great crackling, when, flinging the door 
 open, flames would rush out in our faces, and every 
 stick of the fuel would be found ablaze. I wonder 
 we didn't blow the stove up and burn the house 
 down ! Though we didn't know enough to bake our 
 wood without being told, we found out one thing for 
 ourselves, and that was that when the wood was 
 heated a pitch oozed from it that stuck to the fingers 
 
 [45] 
 
4Ftom 3n Dregon 
 
 and burned like hot sealing wax. Even after learn- 
 ing this fact, we kept forgetting it, and hurriedly 
 reaching into the oven to seize a stick, we would 
 shriek and dance around like Sioux Indians. All 
 winter long our hands were blistered and seared. 
 Once on the hand, the stuff stuck like a fiery adhesive 
 plaster, and not all the waters of " great Neptune's 
 ocean " could wash it off. 
 
 Again our man of experience came to the rescue, 
 telling us first to soak our hands in kerosene and then 
 wash them a helpful though not fragrant remedy. 
 We learned other things from our new guide, philos- 
 opher, and friend : first, that the wood we were using 
 was "dozy" (we had ourselves observed that it was 
 somnolently inclined); secondly, that if our "men 
 folks " would cut or saw down a big tree, we would 
 find that the heart of it would make a roaring fire. 
 Now, we had suspicions that neither of our "men 
 folks " had ever felled a tree, which suspicions were 
 strengthened by their great activity in collecting 
 bark, fallen limbs, and other woodland debris, and 
 palming it off on us as something rather choice ; but 
 Mary and I, pining for the heart of that big tree, 
 harped so long about it that at last the fagot gather- 
 ers were spurred to action. At least we judged 
 something was about to happen from a conversation 
 in the woodhouse, overheard by us, which ran some- 
 what as follows : 
 
 "Ever file one?" 
 
 [46] 
 
JFrom 3n Oregon Kancfi 
 
 "No; did you?" 
 
 " No. What the dickens shall we do ? " 
 
 " Do ? We'll just file her, that's what." 
 
 Whereupon began terrible rasping, grating, 
 screeching noises, which continued until the perpe- 
 trators were summoned to dinner. During the meal 
 we were told they had been filing a saw. Though 
 painfully aware of the fact, Mary innocently ex- 
 claimed, 
 
 "Filing a saw! I didn't suppose either of you 
 knew how." 
 
 " Know how to file a saw ! " exclaimed Bert. 
 " Why, I've filed 'em, I may say, from infancy up." 
 
 " Yes," chimed in his shameless associate, " and if 
 I had a dollar for every one I've filed, I'd ask nothing 
 of J. Pierpont Morgan." Scornful silence on the 
 part of their auditors. 
 
 Soon after dinner there came a rapping at the 
 kitchen door, and there we found the unblushing 
 prevaricators, on their shoulders a saw about four 
 yards long, one carrying an axe, the other an old 
 tin pail half full of iron wedges. 
 
 "Whither away?" was asked. 
 
 " We are going, ladies, to hold ' communion with 
 Nature in her visible forms/ ' 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, we are going to draw near to Na- 
 ture's heart, as it were, and rive out a chunk of it to 
 satisfy your insatiate cravings." 
 
 [471 
 
JFrom an 2Dregon 
 
 We were then told that if we would glance up 
 Mount Nebo about twilight we would behold a novel 
 and interesting scene. 
 
 " Suppose neither of you ever happened to see a 
 tree snaked out of the woods, did you ? " 
 
 " I've seen 'em from infancy up ! " 
 
 " Yes, and if I had a dollar for " But our hear- 
 ers had gone to rejoin the horses, which stood near, 
 literally wreathed in log chains. 
 
 The cavalcade had not long been gone, before the 
 rain poured down as if the bottom had dropped out 
 of the water tanks above. We pitied our men folks 
 then, and their poor horses too, through that long 
 afternoon. Sure enough, about dark, " silently down 
 from the mountain's crown a great procession 
 swept," but, look as we might, we could see nothing 
 being " snaked." 
 
 Passing the house, those misguided men looked so 
 miserably wet and bedraggled that we considerately 
 refrained from commenting on "the novel and in- 
 teresting scene." 
 
 After supper, when the inner man had been re- 
 freshed and the outer one was basking in the genial 
 heat of an open fire, the story all came out. It seems 
 they had found a fine tree six feet through, and 
 thinking they might as well " git a-plenty while they 
 were gittin'," they had tackled it. " Good ! Saw it 
 down, saw it down ! " But they never got half-way 
 through the bark, because, as Bert explained, " Every 
 
 [48] 
 
JFrom 3n Oregon Kancft 
 
 time I pulled on the saw Tom pulled against me." 
 
 " Yes," retorted Tom, " and what did you do when 
 I pulled?" 
 
 " Well, old man, I said to myself, ' You don't get 
 the better of me/ so I just braced my feet and pulled 
 too." 
 
 " If you two men oughtn't to be in an asylum for 
 the feeble-minded! The idea of standing in a 
 drenching rain this whole afternoon, trying to pull 
 a saw away from each other ! " 
 
 " But, Mary, we didn't pull the saw all the after- 
 noon ; when we found we had struck a lignum vitae 
 instead of a fir tree, we gave it up. But we've got 
 you some dandy wood ; we will bring it down in the 
 morning." 
 
 "Snake it down?" 
 
 "I hardly know what do you think, Bert?" 
 
 "Better not," said that gentleman, frowning 
 thoughtfully. " Your team is a little bit too light." 
 
 The next morning I saw them unloading their pre- 
 cious fuel a preponderance of bark, and a few 
 small mossy poles, about such as one uses to support 
 aspiring lima beans. I called Mary to come and 
 see the " dandy wood." 
 
 " It's just what I expected ! " she cried indignantly. 
 " Snake it down ! I guess not, unless they had poked 
 those little sticks through the links of the chain." 
 
 " But, Mary, they could have bunched them like 
 cheese straws, you know." 
 
 [49] 
 
JFrom 3n SDregon 
 
 Then we got to laughing, and fancying all sorts of 
 nonsensical things. 
 
 " Wouldn't these mossy little twigs be lovely stand- 
 ing about the room in vases, burning like those 
 Chinese incense tapers ? " 
 
 " Yes ; or, cut in short lengths and tied with baby 
 ribbon, they would make stunning favors for a 
 green luncheon." 
 
 " And nothing could be better if we were going to 
 banquet the Modern Woodmen." 
 
 In the fun of conjuring up ludicrous uses for our 
 new wood, we quite forgot that it was not the most 
 desirable for fuel. There is nothing like a good 
 laugh to float one over difficult places. 
 
 Well, we never got our big tree until summer. 
 Then the men were told by a wise Nestor of the 
 hills that by boring holes in these large trees and 
 firing them from the inside, they could soon burn 
 them down. They eagerly pounced upon that idea, 
 and since then we have had excellent wood. 
 
 Our souls were tried not only by fire, but by flour. 
 Not that the flour was poor, for we ate good bread 
 made of the same kind in the little town where we 
 stopped when we first arrived. But the women there 
 assured us that we would have much trouble with it 
 until we learned how to handle it; and they were 
 right. This flour was made from what is here called 
 " soft wheat." Put it on the kneading board, and it 
 would spread over it like batter on a griddle and stick 
 
 [50] 
 
Jfrom 3n 2Dre0on 
 
 there like glue. Try to remedy this by adding flour 
 to make a stiffer dough, and it would crack open 
 while baking and come out of the oven as hard as a 
 baseball. As to cutting it, you could as easily slice a 
 slab of wood. No, it must be mixed soft, and must 
 not lie motionless an instant on the board, or it had 
 to be scraped up with a knife. We remembered hear- 
 ing that Boston bakers pound the board with the 
 dough, instead of kneading it, and this method we 
 adopted, though it required the alertness and dex- 
 terity of an East India juggler. We would clutch the 
 mass, raise it high toward heaven with one hand, 
 with the other dash flour on the board, then bring 
 down the dough, swift as lightning snatch it up 
 again, dash on more flour, whack it down again, and 
 so continue to the bitter end. I tell you, Nell, when 
 bread was mixed in the Ranch of the Pointed Firs 
 the china rattled and the earth trembled. 
 
 Mixing was not the only trouble; the bread 
 wouldn't rise after it was mixed, though swathed and 
 swaddled in wrappings until it assumed such pro- 
 portions that we had to call upon the men to carry it 
 to the fireplace, where it much resembled an enor- 
 mous hassock cosily placed in expectation of a call 
 from some Brobdingnagian of the hills. When the 
 time came to make it into loaves, one would natu- 
 rally expect to find some slight recognition of these 
 warm attentions ; but no there it was, as inert and 
 unresponsive as a mixture of Portland cement or 
 
Jfrom an Oregon JRancft 
 
 putty ; and when baked it had a crust as thick as fir 
 bark and as hard. 
 
 One day while moulding it into loaves, I thought, 
 " I'll just use some of this for biscuit, and give this 
 family a surprise ; " and I did. First, the loaves were 
 baked, and put out on the table, where they looked as 
 if they had just been exhumed from the ovens of 
 Pompeii. Then, with beating heart, I placed my 
 great venture in the oven. After twenty minutes of 
 thrilling suspense the door was cautiously opened. 
 The loaves seemed dried instead of baked, and were 
 about half their original size. Just as I was debating 
 in my mind whether it would not be nobler to burn 
 them and thus end all, the men came in and Tom's 
 eye was arrested by my layout. " Hello ! Look at 
 Katharine's geological exhibit four big round 
 boulders. And what might these little jokers be? 
 Geodes? No, they can't be geodes; not the right 
 color. What would you call them, Bert?" 
 
 Scrutinizing them carefully, Bert thought they 
 " might be a sort of ammunition." 
 
 " Not shells," said Tom, hitting them a resounding 
 whack with a carving knife ; " they 're too solid, and 
 there is no fuse to 'em. Might be paper weights." 
 
 Wiping tears from my eyes with my pitchy fingers, 
 hermetically sealing one, I looked up with the other 
 and said, 
 
 " ' You are pleased to be merry, gentlemen/ " 
 
 " Come, Bert, we've got to fly. When Katharine 
 
 [52] 
 
JFrom 3n 2Dregon Kancft 
 
 begins to talk like Shakespeare, she's mad; but 
 I'll just take one of these things out to the wood- 
 house and bust it open and see if I can find out what 
 it's made of." 
 
 We wrestled with this flour for six long months. 
 While the bread improved some, it was never good. 
 One day the groceryman gave Tom a different kind 
 of flour, saying he had ordered it specially for " new- 
 comers/' as they all complained of the other. When 
 I learned that this too was Oregon flour, I had small 
 hope of it; but, to my surprise, it made light, soft, 
 tender bread, which was eaten with praise and 
 thanksgiving. 
 
k ID you ever try, dear Nell, to conduct 
 culinary operations without either milk 
 or eggs? We had five weeks of this 
 experience, while wrestling with the 
 problems of fuel and flour of which you 
 have been told. Our nearest neighbors lived a mile 
 away, and, besides, they had no milk to spare ; con- 
 sequently "after-dinner" coffee was in vogue here 
 at every meal. The hill hens had suspended business 
 for the winter, and, having forgotten to order eggs 
 when that last trip to market was made, we had now 
 to suffer the penalty. Having neither milk nor eggs, 
 our cuisine showed a painful dearth of such delica- 
 cies as custards, omelets, puddings, etc. This we 
 could have borne without complaint; but as nearly 
 all vegetables, to be palatable, require either milk or 
 cream, the lack of these articles was a real hardship. 
 Then, too, being so far from the markets, we could 
 
 [54] 
 
jFrom an fiDregon Kancft 
 
 get no fresh meats. We had smoked ham and break- 
 fast bacon only these and nothing more. The first, 
 unaccompanied by eggs, we soon tired of, especially 
 as it happened to be salt as brine, tough, and hard ; 
 the bacon was good enough, but I defy any one to 
 face it three times a day for five weeks and not loathe 
 it. But few vegetables were brought out to the 
 ranch, the wagons being so heavily loaded with other 
 thjngs. We supposed they could be bought in the 
 neighborhood ; but here again we were disappointed. 
 
 The farmers had disposed of their surplus stock 
 earlier in the season, reserving only sufficient for 
 their own use ; and it was not long until our supply 
 was reduced to apples and potatoes. I see that I 
 have made a vegetable of the apple, but that's no 
 worse than calling potatoes " spuds," as people do 
 here. You may be sure that members of this family 
 suffered nothing from apprehensions of gout. How 
 often, when looking through our empty cupboard, 
 did we think sorrowfully and sympathetically of 
 Dame Hubbard's dog! 
 
 At breakfast, while munching adamantine bread, 
 bacon, and " spuds/' we were apt to have tormenting 
 visions of hot griddle cakes and maple syrup, or of 
 juicy porterhouse steaks, and eggs variously served. 
 At dinner, with the breakfast menu repeated, some 
 one was sure to ask, " How would you like a good 
 big slice of rare roast beef, with nicely browned 
 sweet potatoes?" "Yes, or scalloped oysters, or 
 
 [55] 
 
jFrom 3n flDregon 
 
 chicken pie, and a nice, crisp, cool salad?" and so 
 on down through an imaginary bill of fare. 
 
 Lest you wonder why we didn't " go to town " and 
 renew our supplies, let me remind you of the im- 
 passable condition of the roads. For weeks during 
 the late winter never a team was seen passing. 
 Finally, when almost the " last herring smoked upon 
 the coals/' two hungry men arose in desperation, 
 declaring they would at least find some cows and 
 chickens. In the chill dawn of the following morn- 
 ing, in a pouring rain, they started on their mission. 
 They were gone until five o'clock in the evening ; then 
 the now familiar mountain cry, "Whoo-whoo," 
 came echoing through the woods. As I opened the 
 door, Tom shouted, " Katharine, run out in the road 
 and head off these cows ! " 
 
 I knew by the tone and the voice that this was a 
 "hurry-up" call; so, throwing the omnipresent 
 shawl over my head, I dashed out of the house, and, 
 as self-preservation is the first law of life, snatched 
 up a pole that was propping up the limb of a peach 
 tree, then flew down the path and out of the gate into 
 the middle of the road, and, standing there in mud 
 and rain, looked the field over. Away down the hill, 
 in the road, stood the horses and wagon ; in the latter 
 I discerned several chicken coops, from which pro- 
 truded long feathered necks, with red-combed 
 squawking heads. The pasture bars were down, and 
 standing near them was Tom. A little higher up the 
 
 [56] 
 
JFrom 3n ffl)tegon 
 
 hill a road branches off, and there Bert was sta^ 
 tioned. Coming full-tilt toward me were three big, 
 wild-eyed galloping cows, with two very young-look- 
 ing, spindle-shanked calves. I admit I was scared; 
 but remembering my great-grandsires who fought 
 in the Revolution, I raised the pole high in air, like a 
 flagstaff, and stood firm. On came the bovine bri- 
 gade until within a few rods of me, when suddenly 
 they halted, tossed up their heads, and stared at me. 
 I hardly believe they thought I was' alive ; perhaps 
 they mistook me for the statue of " Liberty enlight- 
 ening the World." We stood there looking at each 
 other, until Tom yelled, "Well, why don't you do 
 something? We haven't had a bite to eat since 
 breakfast." Now, I knew no more than the man in 
 the moon what to do ; but just then one of the cows, 
 one with awful threatening horns, began pawing up 
 the mud, so I called back, " I think this big spotted 
 one is cross ! " " Cross nothing ! She's gentle as a 
 lamb," Tom answered. She's an old cow, I thought, 
 the mother of the other two. Then she must be the 
 grandmother of these calves, and it would be rather 
 disrespectful to pounce upon the old lady with this 
 pole. So I just continued to " hold her with my glit- 
 tering eye." Again Tom roared, " She won't hurt 
 you, I tell you ; she's just scared and rattled ! " 
 
 It did not seem to me that the grandmother was 
 scared. She had now advanced several paces, and 
 was not only throwing mud, but had lowered her 
 
 [57] 
 
jfrom an SDregon Bmtcft 
 
 head and was shaking her horns at me in a way quite 
 disconcerting. That she was "rattled" seemed 
 plausible; certainly her manners were not reposeful. 
 Thinking I must do something, I pounded the road 
 a little with my pole, throwing some mud myself. At 
 this the enemy moved forward in solid phalanx, the 
 younger cows now shaking their horns also ; where- 
 upon, forgetting my valorous ancestors of the Revo- 
 lution, I drew a trifle nearer the rail fence, and, again 
 raising my standard high in air, said in a hoarse, loud 
 voice, " Huey, cows ! Huey there ! " 
 
 No effect whatever, except upon the man down the 
 road. " Coin' to stand all night lookin' at 'em ? " he 
 yelled. " Why don't you close in on 'em ? " 
 
 " Close in on 'em, indeed ! That's all very well, 
 sir, from your point of view, at the tail end of this 
 caravan," I thought; "but up here the outlook is dif- 
 ferent, facing these three steaming monsters, with 
 six threatening horns and twice as many eager 
 hoofs;" and I remarked softly to myself, "I won't 
 do it." 
 
 On the grassy embankment at the roadside, quite 
 near me, stood one of those grotesque Noah's-ark 
 calves. " I '11 just close in on you, my young friend : 
 you will likely turn and run back down the road, 
 where I trust your perspiring relatives may follow 
 you. I knew better than to jump at the creature with 
 my big pole; so, trailing it behind me, I advanced 
 cautiously, with one hand extended, saying in sweet 
 
 [58] 
 
4From an 2Dte0on 
 
 tones, "Pretty little calfie" a piece of the basest 
 flattery when applied to the sorry-looking object be- 
 fore me. One step more forward and what did that 
 ungentle idiot do but give a wild snort, leap like a 
 deer, whirl square about, and plunge through the rail 
 fence not through, either, for it stuck fast between 
 the rails, bawling at the top of its voice. Mercy, Nell, 
 you ought to have seen grandma then ! She ploughed 
 across that muddy road, scrambled up the green 
 bank, and, standing before the prisoner at the bar, 
 literally tore up the sod. Both daughters charged 
 after her, all bellowing, all pawing sod ; and even the 
 other calf, that wasn't in the affair at all, added his 
 wailings, while away down the road the scared chick- 
 ens squawked louder than ever. 
 
 Seeing the ruin I had wrought, I climbed to the top 
 of the fence, ready to drop on the other side if future 
 developments should make it necessary. Up the road 
 came both men running, and I thought, "Now, 
 Katharine, you'll catch it ! " But, to my great sur- 
 prise, not one solitary word did they utter, not even 
 to each other. Half starved, soaked through and 
 through with misery, they seemed dumbly desperate. 
 Rain trickled in streams from their rubber coats and 
 hats ; their boots were muddy to the tops, mud was on 
 their faces and in their hair, as, silent and grim, with 
 stoical fortitude they pulled and tugged at that 
 vicious little centipede of a calf. Tom had seized it 
 by its tail and hind feet, while Bert had climbed the 
 
 [59] 
 
Jftom 3n S)re0on Kancft 
 
 fence and gathered up its sprawling front legs, and 
 together they were folding it over like an omelet, 
 poking and pulling it sideways through the fence. 
 At last the sufferer was released, but only to be in- 
 stantly seized again by both men, who, clasping it 
 in a damp embrace, bore it off down the hill, with 
 all those bellowing bovines at their heels. As that 
 solemn procession filed away, I had a haunting sense 
 of having seen something like it in the sculptured 
 frieze of some great public building. I watched 
 until their burden was safely shoved into fields 
 Elysian, the cows all walking in after it, and then 
 three bars were put up only three, a piece of care- 
 lessness which led to future trouble. I was pained to 
 observe the other calf still walking around outside 
 the fence. 
 
 Thinking I had done about all the good I could, I 
 was going to retire quietly from the scene, when Tom 
 called out, " Drop that pole and come and help catch 
 this other calf." A hungry man is seldom a polite 
 one. Obeying orders, I advanced unarmed down the 
 hill. I saw at a glance that their plan was to sur- 
 round and capture the calf where it stood, in a fence 
 corner. I have a quick discernment of field tactics 
 inherited, most likely. The unsuspecting victim 
 was gazing longingly through the fence at its mother, 
 not noticing the environing forces; but just as we 
 were about to close in upon it, it looked up, and, see- 
 ing three frightful ogres with arms outstretched, 
 
 [60] 
 
JFrom 3n 2Dregon Rancft 
 
 gave a terrified leap through the cordon and went 
 flying up the branch road. " The dun deer's hide to 
 fleeter foot was never tied." Away we all went in 
 hot pursuit. Not being much of a sprinter myself, 
 I was soon left far in the wake. Suddenly the pur- 
 sued, descrying a big pile of brush by the roadside 
 and mistaking it for a rock of refuge, turned aside 
 and dashed into it, and there, lacerated by thorns and 
 briers, it began to roar. Hearing a bellowing and a 
 thundering of hoofs behind me, I glanced back, and 
 saw tearing up the road every last one of those in- 
 furiated cows. A steep hill slopes down to one side 
 of the road; and up this height dashed the now pole- 
 less daughter of the Revolution, where, climbing 
 high among the roots of a giant upturned fir tree, she 
 surveyed the scene. 
 
 Just then a strange thing happened. I saw, as 
 plainly as I now see this paper, the stage of a theater 
 in a far distant city, and standing out upon a jutting 
 cliff the tall picturesque figure of Meg Merrilies. 
 Beyond, through trees and rocks, was a faint glimpse 
 of a sullen sea; while immediately below her was a 
 dark narrow glen lit up by gypsy campfires. Though 
 at the time this seemed strange, I now see that the 
 outlook from my lofty perch very naturally recalled 
 this half-forgotten scene. Night was now coming 
 on; low-lying mists upon the meadow gave to it in 
 that half-light a look of the sea; all about me were 
 the same dark hills, and below was just such a little 
 
 [61] 
 
jFrom an flDregon 
 
 glen as I had seen in my vision. There were no rocks 
 and no campfires, but, instead, a big brush pile, teem- 
 ing with life, a confused jumble of rubber coats, 
 hoofs, and horns, and in its center the struggling calf 
 sinking deeper at every lunge. Clawing over it were 
 its would-be captors ; on the outskirts those roaring 
 bedlamites tossing the brush with hoofs. and horns. 
 Dead ferns and wild blackberry vines clinging to her 
 horns, the aged one looked a dangerous Nemesis 
 and was, too, for she had to be beaten back with 
 brush. Doubtless Thomas would now have been 
 glad of my pole. Finally the pitfall yielded up its 
 victim, which was carried to a low place in the fence, 
 and gently dropped into the fold. As soon as its 
 voice was hushed, that concord of sweet sounds died 
 away, the cows became submissive and were easily 
 driven back into the meadow, and once again sweet 
 peace descended on the Ranch of the Pointed Firs. 
 
JSI the morning following the "round- 
 up" of our new cows, while breakfast 
 was being prepared, Tom sallied forth 
 with a bright new tin pail to do the 
 milking. The cook, while striving to 
 feel hopeful of the result, had secret misgivings, 
 doubting very much whether the gentleman had ever 
 milked a cow, as we had never before owned one; 
 knowing, also, that if such were the case he never 
 would admit it, and, if doubts were expressed, he 
 would at once begin to talk about that summer he 
 " worked for Uncle Jim/' It seems that when a lad 
 of twelve he spent one summer on his uncle's farm; 
 and if he then did all the things he now thinks he 
 did, he must have been a marvel of boyish industry 
 and activity. Those seem to have been the red letter 
 days of his life; perhaps there budded then a love of 
 country life that eventually led to the possession 
 
 [63] 
 
Jfrom an 2Dregon 
 
 of this mountain home. He has talked of that 
 blessed summer all through the years, and I must 
 confess there have been times in my life when those 
 reminiscences seemed a burden and a weariness. 
 Now, when he reverts to the subject, I can't help 
 thinking of the never-ending regrets of Mrs. Blim- 
 ber "that she had not known Cicero, and talked 
 with him in his retirement at Tusculum, beautiful 
 Tusculum." Rather than risk the revival of this 
 Arcadian dream, I pretended to believe that Tom 
 could milk. 
 
 After an absence of about an hour he came in, and 
 from where I stood I could see nothing in the pail. 
 
 "Haven't you milked?" 
 
 " Sure ! " he answered, waving the pail before me. 
 
 " Good gracious ! Is that all ? " 
 
 "Of course. How much did you expect ? " 
 
 "Well, I should think two cows ought to give 
 more than a pint of milk." 
 
 "No; this is just about right when the calves are 
 with them." 
 
 In a day or two stalls were made for those vora- 
 cious calves, and they were put on half -rations. Then 
 I ventured to remark, "Now you will get milk 
 galore." 
 
 " Well, yes ; I ought to get a little more." The in- 
 crease, however, was scarcely noticeable, \vhich he 
 explained by saying the cows wouldn't " give down " 
 "they never do when first separated from their 
 
Jfrom an 2Dre0on 
 
 calves." I believed this to be a bit of suddenly in- 
 spired fiction to cover his own shortcomings, but 
 managed to hold my peace. I kept hoping and wait- 
 ing for several days, and then one morning when he 
 appeared with the usual quart, I quite forgot myself, 
 and blazed forth with, "Tom Graham, I don't be- 
 lieve you know how to milk ! " 
 
 You should have seen his look of indignant sur- 
 prise! It was equal to Sairey Gamp's when the 
 existence of her beloved Mrs. Harris was doubted. 
 
 " Know how ? I guess you forget that summer I 
 worked for Uncle Jim ! " 
 
 " No ; I have never been allowed to forget it. I 
 suppose you milked a dozen cows then, night and 
 morning, didn't you ? " 
 
 "No, ma'am, I didn't; I milked five." 
 
 "If you did, it was so long ago that you have for- 
 gotten the art." 
 
 "No, milking is like swimming; the accomplish- 
 ment, once acquired, is never forgotten." Presently 
 he added thoughtfully, " Speaking just now of Uncle 
 Jim reminds me and I had forgotten to tell you 
 about it that I was down in the field the other 
 morning, when suddenly out rang the clear notes of 
 a bird, the same that I heard a thousand times that 
 summer, tilting and lilting from the tops of the tall 
 rosin weeds. Here I found him poised on a branch 
 of vine maple ; but it was the very same bird, and for 
 about a minute I was a straw-hatted, barefoot boy, 
 
 [65] 
 
JFrom an 2Dre0on Xtatufc 
 
 going for the cows in Uncle Jim's pasture, wading 
 through tall slough grass higher than my head. I 
 could almost hear it rustling and feel the rushes 
 crawling under my bare feet with a sort of squeaking 
 sound, and all about me were those chipper little 
 birds swaying upon the rosin weeds, singing as if to 
 split their throats. I tell you, it is worth coming to 
 Oregon just to hear and see that bird again." 
 
 This boyhood bird, so strangely reappearing in 
 Tom's later life, seemed to afford him such genuine 
 pleasure that I decided to accept it as a flag of truce, 
 and suspend hostilities over the problem of the cows. 
 In about another week the novice mastered the art 
 of milking, the cows suddenly began to " give down," 
 and from that time on we had abundance of milk. 
 
 Mary assured me they had had about the same 
 experience at their place. I have not told you that 
 Bert took possession of their new home the day after 
 the late "round-up." Following the last load of 
 goods was Bert, leading the big spotted cow more 
 correctly speaking, the big spotted cow leading Bert. 
 Not quite liking her tricks and manners, I was glad 
 to learn that she was his property and not ours. She 
 had already acquired the name of Medusa. It came, 
 Bert said, as an inspiration; watching me standing 
 motionless so long, facing her, he believed I had been 
 turned into stone. 
 
 The cows had no special names ; all alike had been 
 called " bossy." Now, surely a good cow is entitled 
 
 [66] 
 
Jfrom an flDregon 
 
 to the distinction of a name. Anyway, we believe in 
 naming them, and everything else on the place that 
 is alive. We fancy, in our isolation, that with names 
 they seem more human and companionable. We see 
 so few people up here in the woods that we have to 
 talk a good deal to the animals, lest we forget the 
 habit of speech and all become mutes. So our two 
 cows were named Dolly Varden and Maud Muller; 
 but after a long acquaintance with Maud, we found 
 she was not the guileless, rustic beauty she appeared. 
 She was tricky, a schemer, and rather unprincipled, 
 opening gates and barn doors with her horns, helping 
 herself to provender at unseasonable hours, or, if at- 
 tracted by the waving of feathery carrot and green 
 turnip tops beyond a fence, she simply threw off the 
 upper rails, and leaped over the remaining ones, as 
 though she supposed those things were planted for 
 her especial use, but through some oversight her at- 
 tention had not been called to them. Owing to these 
 characteristics, we felt obliged to change her name 
 to Becky Sharp. The calves are known as Buttercup 
 and Trilby, if you please and you needn't laugh! 
 You are thinking of the muddy little wretches that 
 arrived here that rainy night ; but you must remem- 
 ber this is written at a later date, and those calves 
 grew in beauty with the springtime, and when June 
 came they were as lovely as her roses. Such win- 
 some, witching things you never saw; and if only 
 Rosa Bonheur were alive, and I could have her do 
 
Jfrom an aDregon Bancft 
 
 them in oil (for nothing), I'd send you their pictures 
 as proof that this description is no flattery. 
 
 But I seem to have drifted far from my subject, 
 and must go back and tell you of my first butter-mak- 
 ing. For several days cream had been accumulating ; 
 and at last came a morning when there was enough 
 for churning. A pleasurable excitement seized me, 
 and I was all eagerness to begin the work. I had 
 never in my life made a pound of butter, but you 
 know there is a certain charm connected with every 
 new experience although at this later date my 
 ardor has considerably diminished. After breakfast, 
 I found our ranchmen had an errand at a sawmill 
 back in the mountains. Mary was going with them, 
 and I was urged to go too ; but that churn was draw- 
 ing me like a lodestone not for worlds would I 
 have left it. I had learned that a part of the road 
 they were going over ran along a narrow ridge on 
 either side of which was a deep canyon, a sort of 
 Scylla and Charybdis affair ; and having a horror of 
 such a road, I made that my excuse for not going, 
 not mentioning the churning, intending to surprise 
 them agreeably on their return, both families being 
 quite destitute of butter. 
 
 As soon as they were fairly off, I rushed for the 
 churn a barrel-shaped revolving affair, which, it 
 seemed to me while lugging it in, ought to have been 
 built on rollers or at least on casters. Then came the 
 treasured can of cream, the butter bowl, ladle, mould, 
 
 [68] 
 
Jfrom 3n 2Dregon Kandb 
 
 oiled paper, long-handled spoon, jar of salt, ther- 
 mometer, teakettle of hot water, and two pamphlets 
 on the art of butter-making. One of the latter had 
 come with the churn, giving full instructions; the 
 other, equally explicit, was from a state agricultural 
 college. I sat down to consult these authorities. 
 
 " First scald the churn." Easy enough ! I poured 
 in the boiling water, and began whirling the crank 
 with great enthusiasm, when out popped the cork 
 with a noise like the report of a Winchester, followed 
 by a revolving stream of hot water and steam. The 
 operator, though scared and trembling, stuck to her 
 post, knowing the thing must be stopped, and stopped 
 with the nozzle-end up, though several revolutions 
 were made before this could be accomplished. The 
 cork had blown to the other side of the room ; but I 
 dared not leave my post to get it I felt sure that if 
 the churn were released it would turn over and begin 
 spouting again. It was plain the mountain must go 
 to Mahomet; so, pushing the sputtering and pulsat- 
 ing machine across the floor, I reached and replaced 
 the cork, hooked the churn back in its place, and then 
 paused to consider thankful indeed that my pre- 
 cious cream was not in the machine when the explo- 
 sion occurred. 
 
 Turning again to my butter lore, I read : " Remove 
 cork at intervals to allow escape of steam." In my 
 eagerness to get down to business, I had overlooked 
 that detail. Well, the cork had removed itself, and 
 
 [69] 
 
4Ftom an SDregon 
 
 that part of the affair was over; so I proceeded to 
 mop up the overflow, looking ruefully at my new 
 wall paper. 
 
 The next step was the heating of the cream, which 
 my authorities said must be tested with the thermom- 
 eter. Then came the proudest moment of my life. I 
 felt, perhaps, as does a great scientist, shut up in his 
 laboratory, engaged in some wonderful chemical ex- 
 periment that may startle a waiting world. Slowly 
 the temperature of the cream rose to 62^. I could 
 not understand its slowness mine having risen to 
 at least 150 in the same time. The critical moment 
 had arrived. The rich Jersey cream was poured into 
 the churn, the lid clamped down, the cork pounded 
 in with the potato masher. The operator, seated, 
 with book in hand, now read : " Eighty revolutions 
 per minute the proper rate of speed." To a lady of 
 quiet habits that seemed " the pace that kills," but at 
 it I went with might and main, whirling the crank so 
 fast I couldn't count ; it might have been eight hun- 
 dred instead of eighty times per minute. Anyway, I 
 got scared, thinking a hot-box might be the next 
 feature; so I slowed down to perhaps eight revolu- 
 tions a minute. 
 
 More comfortable now, I looked at the churning 
 equipment, thinking all butter makers should have a 
 dairy room where such things could be kept, and not 
 need to be collected from the four quarters of the 
 globe when wanted. I rather fancied I'd like such 
 
 [70] 
 
Jftom an 2Dtegon 
 
 a one as Queen Victoria had at Balmoral Castle; 
 but that seemed almost too aspiring. I then fell 
 back on Mrs. Peyser's, as described by George Eliot : 
 " The dairy was certainly worth looking at. A scene 
 to sicken for in hot and dusty streets such coolness, 
 such purity, such fresh fragrance of new-pressed 
 cheese, of firm butter, of wooden vessels per- 
 petually bathed in pure water; such soft coloring of 
 red earthenware and creamy surfaces, brown wood 
 and polished tin, gray limestone and rich orange 
 rust on the iron weights and hooks and hinges/' 
 Then, naturally, I fell a- thinking of the bewitching 
 Hetty of the rose-petal cheeks, the round dimpled 
 arms and pretty hands tossing and patting the but- 
 ter, losing myself in the tragical story of that young 
 life until recalled to consciousness by a queer slush- 
 ing about of the cream in my own churn. Looking 
 in the glass at the top of the churn, I was terrified to 
 see that it was quite clear, and the book said, when 
 that occurred, " STOP," in letters about the size of 
 those seen at railroad crossings. 
 
 Trembling with the fear that all was lost, I nerv- 
 ously removed the lid, glanced in, and, lo ! there was 
 the butter, just as predicted by the sages, "golden 
 globules half the size of a kernel of wheat." Oh, 
 the pride of Miss McBride, as she drew off the but- 
 termilk, rinsing the butter three times in pure spring 
 water, scalding and cooling the bowl, taking out that 
 mass of golden glory, sprinkling salt over it, and 
 
 [71] 
 
jfrom an SDtegott 
 
 then trying desperately to " work it," like one to the 
 manner born. 
 
 My instructions were, after the first working, to 
 set it aside for five hours ; this seemed a cruel delay, 
 but, mine " not to reason why," I was about to obey 
 orders, when it occurred to me that in my excite- 
 ment I had forgotten to taste it. And then I had a 
 surprise and shock I am not likely to forget. As 
 the flavor reached my palate, I recoiled and stood 
 aghast. How could anything so beautiful possibly 
 taste so vile ? It surely had not absorbed the odors 
 of cookery, as the cream had been kept out in the 
 pure air. Yet there it was a bad-tasting, ill-smell- 
 ing lump of yellow hypocrisy. At first I thought 
 I'd carry it up the yard to a thicket of salmon bushes 
 so dense no human being could penetrate it, hurl the 
 mass of iniquity into its most secret fastnesses, then 
 hurry back and remove all traces of the late struggle 
 before the " return of the natives," and never tell a 
 living soul about it. But I soon saw that scheme 
 would never work. Tom had been as proud as 
 Punch over that cream ; he would miss it, and expla- 
 nations would be called for. So I sat down, and 
 mused drearily upon the Wandering Willies' return 
 and the horrible surprise awaiting them. 
 
 [72] 
 
(AVING recovered somewhat from the 
 partial anaesthesia that had come upon 
 me from inhaling the fumes of my 
 astonishing butter, I was seated before 
 the fireplace trying to recover myself, 
 when the excursionists rushed in, jubilant over the 
 picturesque scenery of their drive. 
 
 " Oh, but you missed a good thing by not going 
 with us ! " they exclaimed. 
 
 " I am not so sure of that," retorted the angel of 
 the hearth. 
 
 "We've had the time of our lives!" 
 " So have I," I tranquilly replied. 
 " What doing trout-fishing ? " 
 "Just compose yourselves and I'll show you/' 
 Then I went out and brought in the butter. As the 
 napkin was lifted, disclosing that mass of golden 
 
 [73] 
 
JFtom an SDtegon 
 
 deception, there arose a universal chorus of delight 
 and admiration. 
 
 "What lovely butter!" cried Mary. "Did you 
 really make it yourself?" 
 
 " Why, you're a butter maker indeed ! " exclaimed 
 Tom. "We're proud of you!" 
 
 My knowledge of the baleful aftermath kept me 
 reasonably calm under this shower of compliments. 
 "Now you must all come out in the dining room 
 and sample it," I said. 
 
 Supplied with forks, each took a generous dose. 
 Then they glared at each other, dismay and disgust 
 upon every countenance. 
 
 "Shades of the mighty!" cried Tom. "What 
 flavoring did you use sage, parsley, bergamot, or 
 wild onions?" 
 
 " Seems more like paregoric or linseed oil," sput- 
 tered Bert. 
 
 Mary I suppose through sympathy for me 
 said nothing, but I observed that she was drinking 
 water copiously. 
 
 "Are you sure, Katharine, that you didn't use 
 Epsom or Rochelle salts in this stuff?" 
 
 " No, Tom ; the salt used was the right brand." 
 
 "Well, what the dickens does ail it?" 
 
 No one being able to diagnose the case, we all sat 
 down around that diabolical bowl and held a sort of 
 round table talk. The pronounced herby flavor 
 suggesting the pasture, the men remembered that 
 
 [74] 
 
jfrom an Oregon 
 
 quantities of mint grew there ; also dandelion, dock, 
 English yarrow, sorrel, and similar things. Of 
 course, the cows had eaten them, and this was the 
 direful result. During this conference it became 
 known that everyone had noticed a peculiar tang to 
 the milk, but, through loyalty to the cows, none had 
 spoken of it. 
 
 "And now, fellow citizens/ 7 said Tom, "what 
 disposition are we to make of this delectable pot- 
 pourri ? " 
 
 "Well, Bert will take a part of it, and" 
 
 " Not by a good deal ! " interrupted that gentle- 
 man, hastily. 
 
 " It was your own proposal ! " 
 
 "Yes, but you must remember that was before 
 taking." 
 
 " Very well, sir," I replied with wounded dignity, 
 "the product of our dairy is not forced upon our 
 friends." 
 
 " For which praise God, from whom all blessings 
 flow!" retorted that irreverent individual. 
 
 " Well, then, this butter must be sold." 
 
 " Katharine, you are beside yourself ; much churn- 
 ing hath made you mad! Are you so lacking in 
 moral principle as to sell what you yourself cannot 
 eat?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; I am. I fancy Oregonians are accus- 
 tomed to this flavor in early spring butter and rather 
 like it." 
 
 [751 
 
jFtom an Oregon 
 
 " You'll never catch me in the busy marts of men 
 with this stuff for sale." 
 
 "Of course, not as our own; it must be disposed 
 of anonymously or under a nom de plume. You 
 take it to the metropolis, lay in your grocery sup- 
 plies, then say quite innocently, ' Oh, by the way, a 
 lady sent in some butter with me; came near for- 
 getting it.' Produce it, and then fly for your life." 
 
 " But those men know all the butter makers of 
 the country, and that groceryman will ask, ' Whose 
 butter is this ? ' " 
 
 " Then look him square in the eye and say, ' Mrs. 
 Jacob Ruggles's butter/ Whereupon he will frown 
 reflectively, saying, ' Ruggles, Ruggles I can't re- 
 call any Ruggles up your way.' Tell him they are 
 newcomers from the Kentucky bluegrass region." 
 
 "Oh, what a tangled web we weave, 
 When first we practise to deceive," 
 
 sighed Mary. 
 
 " That's so, Mary ; we're getting tangled in a 
 labyrinth of lies. Let's try a new tack. How would 
 this do? You remember, Katharine, that set of old 
 tin candle-moulds that I raked out from under the 
 porch? Well, say we melt this stuff, mould it in 
 those things, make Roman candles of it, and then 
 throw them on the market about the Fourth of July. 
 I'm sure they'll go off with a boom." 
 
 [76] 
 
Jfrom an SDregon Kancft 
 
 With this brilliant suggestion the conference 
 broke up. 
 
 And now you have our first experience in butter- 
 making. The surprise was never eaten; Tom used 
 it for axle grease to my lasting humiliation. Two 
 or three weeks later the butter suddenly became 
 sweet and delicious. Then I knew the joy of the 
 Ancient Mariner when the dead albatross fell from 
 his neck. 
 
 But it occurs to me that in your eastern home you 
 will be in the swirl of holiday festivities when this 
 rigmarole reaches you, and will scarcely have time 
 to read it. Up here in the Oregon hills there is none 
 of that " Christmas feel in the air" that Riley speaks 
 of, and we can hardly realize that the event is but 
 three days off. Thinking of it one cannot help long- 
 ing a little for brilliantly illuminated streets and 
 stores, spectacular show windows, the hurrying and 
 jostling throng of Christmas shoppers, the bundle- 
 laden crowds of the streets and trolley cars, the art 
 exhibits, theaters, concerts, and the fine Christmas 
 music of the churches. What would I not give to 
 hear once again the deep rolling waves of harmony 
 from a big pipe organ, thrilling and uplifting the 
 soul ! But perhaps most of all just at this time we 
 miss our dear old fun-loving friends, dropping in 
 at all hours, brimming over with bright talk of secret 
 plans and projects. Here we have none of that com- 
 panionship. You will think it incredible when I tell 
 
 [77] 
 
JFtom an fflHegott 
 
 you that since last July I have not spoken to a woman 
 nor a man, either, except the occasional work- 
 men we have employed always, of course, except- 
 ing the other two members of our quartet. The 
 most of our near neighbors are men " keeping bach- 
 elor's hall" interested, I suppose, in their own 
 problems of life, with no time for visiting. Do you 
 wonder that we talk to our dumb friends, the 
 animals ? 
 
 We were pleased when one night last week the 
 weather suddenly turned cold, freezing the ground 
 slightly. The next morning the air was cool, crisp, 
 and delightfully exhilarating, much like our weather 
 at home only, of course, not so cold. Every 
 blade of grass, bush, twig, and tree had a covering 
 of hoar frost; even the fir trees were decked in 
 white robes for the coming Christmas carnival. 
 Later in the day the sun turned on his flashlight, 
 showering all with diamond dust as a finishing 
 touch. Such purity, such whiteness and glitter! 
 Our little hill-guarded glen was for two whole days 
 a veritable fairyland, and we were grateful for the 
 usual holiday setting, though the festivities were 
 lacking. But on Saturday evening dull leaden 
 clouds came up from the sea, and an hour later we 
 groaned in spirit as the rain poured heavily upon 
 the roof. Sunday morning we found all our frosty 
 splendor vanished; the firs were in their sober 
 every-day gowns, with misty veils flying about their 
 
 [78] 
 
JFrom an Oregon Rmufi 
 
 heads, while down from the hills floated a tearful 
 Miserere. Perhaps, having shown a foolish pride 
 in their snowy vestments, Dame Nature had as a 
 punishment folded them away and condemned the 
 firs to the " wearing of the green " again, with ban- 
 ishment from the Santa Claus pageant. 
 
 That evening', as the rain tinkled against the win- 
 dow panes, Tom said, " This isn't very Christmasy, 
 but let's read the old " Carol " again, just for luck." 
 
 For many years, at this season, it has been our 
 custom to read aloud Dickens's " Christmas Carol," 
 just to get in tune with the spirit of the blessed Yule- 
 tide; now, looking through our bookshelves, it was 
 not to be found probably loaned to some one in the 
 old home and thus left behind. So even that pleas- 
 ure was denied us. 
 
 This afternoon we went up into the forest in 
 search of Christmas decorations. Cloudy and dark 
 outside, inside the woods we found the duskiness 
 of twilight a restful solitude, solemn and still. 
 Underneath our feet was a carpet of emerald moss, 
 soft and velvety; overhead, a canopy of green so 
 dense that not even a passing cloud could peer 
 through it. All around us were the graceful, mo- 
 tionless fronds of the magnificent sword fern, and 
 pretty autumn-tinted climbing and trailing vines. 
 Truly, the groves were not only God's first temples, 
 but his best, truest, and holiest always. We felt 
 loath to leave such a peaceful sanctuary, loitering 
 
 [79] 
 
Jfrom an 2Dregon 
 
 along in its cool moist gloom, selecting our wood- 
 land treasures with perplexity because of their be- 
 wildering profusion and perfection. 
 
 As we came out of the forest, just in its edge we 
 scared up a flock of mountain quail. A whir of 
 wings, a flash of jaunty topknots, and they were 
 gone. A bushy-tailed squirrel frisked along the top 
 rail of the fence. A saucy blue jay scolded us from 
 the silvery moss of a young oak a fine setting for 
 his military jacket. As we found it raining briskly 
 out in the open, we took a short cut home, along 
 the crest of a very high hill. We arrived none too 
 soon, for as we entered the shelter of the porch a 
 deluge descended, and all the evening it has rained 
 steadily and drearily. Ordinarily I don't much mind 
 it; but just now I long for the old-time biting, nip- 
 ping cold, for crunching snow, and merry jingling 
 sleigh bells. Don't think that I am homesick ; I am 
 not, but I'd like to be with you all for the next two 
 weeks, and then fly straight back to my beloved hills 
 of Oregon. 
 
OU must not rashly infer, from the close 
 of my last letter, that we were envel- 
 oped in a pall of homesickness on the 
 occasion of our first Christmas on a 
 ranch. It is true that the day was not the maddest, 
 merriest one of all the year for us, and perhaps a 
 knowledge of the privations here may heighten 
 appreciation of the fullness of your own holiday 
 season. So up goes the curtain for the Christmas 
 scene at the Ranch of the Pointed Firs. 
 
 First, you must know that, as is usual here in win- 
 ter, the roads are bottomless. Turkey, cranberries, 
 mince pie ingredients, Christmas remembrances, all 
 such essentials, are twenty miles away, and as un- 
 attainable as if in Darkest Africa. Neither friend 
 nor stranger could be hoped for within our gates. 
 The decoration of the old house in recognition of 
 the day seemed the only pleasure left us; and for 
 
 [81] 
 
Jfrom an SDregon 
 
 this, Nature stood at our very door offering a wealth 
 of greenery. Every evil has its good, and this is one 
 of Oregon's compensations for her deplorable roads. 
 Bert and Mary were to spend Christmas with us. 
 The day before, early in the morning, they appeared 
 upon the scene with an old sled drawn through the 
 mud, laden with choice branches of arbor vitae and 
 mistletoe; the driver walking, lines in hand, the 
 lady crouching in the green jungle like a wood- 
 nymph. This contribution was added to our collec- 
 tion; then with scissors and baskets, Mary and I 
 took a turn along an old rail fence where wild roses 
 grow luxuriantly, cutting and filling our baskets 
 with the long brown stems, each bearing clusters of 
 scarlet rose-apples just the tint of holly berries. You 
 who are accustomed to the low-growing wild rose 
 of the East will accuse me of romancing when I tell 
 you that those bushes were much higher than our 
 heads. In the summer the fences are hidden by 
 them. When showered by thousands of pink blooms, 
 their beauty and perfume beguile one into the belief 
 that these old lanes lead straight to Paradise. Alice 
 Gary should have lived here; you remember she 
 wrote 
 
 " And if my eyes all flowers but one must lose, 
 Our wild sweet-brier would be the one to choose." 
 
 Bringing our seed treasures home, and judiciously 
 mingling them with the dark green of the buck- 
 
 183] 
 
JFrom Sin SDregon 
 
 thorn, a species of holly was evolved rivaling if not 
 surpassing the original. The transformation began 
 in our main living room. The ugly wall paper and 
 paint we found here have vanished, and we have 
 sage green walls, with white woodwork except about 
 the old fireplace, which is of black enamel. The 
 mantel we banked high with our "Oregon holly," 
 with statuettes of "Diana" and "The Wrestlers" 
 half concealed among the leaves. Just below the 
 mantel was placed a long narrow picture in black 
 and white a fur-enveloped Santa Claus, with 
 frisky reindeer dashing through a snowy moonlit 
 forest (set in black) holly gleaming above, and 
 the fire below flanked on one side by the brass fire 
 utensils, on the other by a brass umbrella stand over- 
 flowing with holly branches. The doors and low 
 bookcases were crowned with holly; bunches of it 
 tied with scarlet ribbon were hung above pictures, 
 and vases and rose bowls were filled. The windows 
 were embowered with ferns. An immense bunch 
 of mistletoe suspended by white satin ribbon swung 
 from the center of the room not the stiff, dry, 
 crackly kind of other days, but gathered that morn- 
 ing fresh from the oaks, and white with berries. 
 
 The artists next advanced upon the dining room 
 which, being very dark, is the dungeon of this 
 house, white paint and yellow ingrain paper strug- 
 gling bravely to lighten the gloom. We made a 
 frieze of arbor vitae around the room, just above 
 
JFrom an 2Dte0on 
 
 the picture moulding, about two feet in width a 
 task not at all difficult, as we could tack the branches 
 to the wall undismayed by fear of falling plaster, 
 for, for some inscrutable reason, plaster is not much 
 used here. In place of it we have cheesecloth tacked 
 to the board wall ; and upon this the paper is pasted. 
 It seems queer, but looks well, and one can drive a 
 nail into it without having a man sound the wall 
 with a hammer in an effort to find the studding. 
 
 Upon each end of our sideboard stood a red jar- 
 diniere containing a small Christmas tree; between 
 them was a punch bowl filled with the sweeping 
 fronds of the sword fern; and shining amid this 
 greenery was a hydra-headed brass candlestick, with 
 red candles. The table was then formally laid for 
 the coming banquet. A centerpiece being in order, 
 and lacking a green jardiniere, we took a wire basket 
 used for frying croquettes and lined it with moss 
 the exquisite kind that seems woven of minia- 
 ture ferns green side out of course, and well 
 pushed through, concealing the wires. In this we 
 planted our loveliest little fir tree. Red berries were 
 strung and festooned through its lower branches, 
 the upper ones embellished with tiny red candles left 
 over from previous decorations at our eastern home. 
 Placing this centerpiece upon a round mirror in the 
 center of the table, we rested from our labors by 
 the old stone fireplace, the one and only interior 
 jewel of this mountain home. 
 
 [84] 
 
Jfrom 3n 2Dre0on 
 
 Sitting that evening by our fireside, watching the 
 flare and flicker of the flames, we saw passing the 
 long procession of dead and gone Christmases 
 which, viewed in retrospect, bring only sadness. 
 Through filmy azure smoke came dear shadowy 
 faces, looking back from the misty borderlands of 
 "That Undiscovered Country" faces one dare 
 not recall even in memory lest that long-smoulder- 
 ing pain in the heart blaze up again with all its old- 
 time fierceness. Listening to the rain and the noisy 
 fall of waters from the hillside spring, with the loud 
 roaring of the mountain brook dashing through our 
 little glen, I felt as never before the pathos of those 
 lines in " In Memoriam " 
 
 "We live within the stranger's land, 
 And strangely falls our Christmas eve." 
 
 The next morning, while waiting for Tom to 
 come to breakfast, I stepped out on the porch to 
 see how Christmas really looked in "the stranger's 
 land." The scene, though not particularly enliven- 
 ing, might easily have been worse. High up in one 
 corner of the yard was a melancholy tangle of sal- 
 mon bushes, skirted on two sides by an old mossy 
 paling fence and leafless trees; struggling down 
 from this were clumps of wet brown ferns, gaunt 
 mullein stalks, and frowzy-headed thistles; a gray 
 alder was bending over a mossy spring at the end 
 
 [85] 
 
JFtom an Oregon Kancft 
 
 of the porch, rainy tears trickling through its bare 
 branches and splashing into the waters beneath. 
 Farther away were dark ploughed fields; above 
 them, gray mists rolling stormily through the hills ; 
 and grayer than all else, "that inverted bowl they 
 call the sky," its rim resting upon the green coronet 
 of encircling hills. This might seem a gloomy pic- 
 ture; in reality, it was one of tender and shadowy 
 beauty. The sublimity and picturesqueness of Ore- 
 gon scenery triumph over the worst of weather. 
 Just then I recalled a few snowless Christmases at 
 home dull skies, frozen ground, icy winds blowing 
 a gale, and only streets and houses to be seen. I 
 could not but think how infinitely better was this 
 wilder landscape, with its mingled green and gray- 
 ness shut in by the gray bowl above ; and then and 
 there I gave thanks to our Heavenly Pilot for 
 leading us into this wonderful "land o' glamour." 
 
 When we first came here the scenes and sounds 
 impressed me as vaguely familiar almost as if I 
 had lived here in some forgotten time long past. I 
 had a haunting sense of its being some part of my 
 life's tangle; but such a hopeless snarl it seemed, that 
 I had about concluded to call it a vagary of the 
 imagination, when one day Bert came in, saying, 
 " The torrent roars in the vale ; blue mists rise in the 
 hills; dark clouds rest upon the head of Mount 
 Nebo." These sentences, as soon as heard, solved 
 
 [86] 
 
Jftom 3n 2Dre0on 
 
 my mental perplexities. We were living again in 
 Ossian's land, where in early girlhood I had dwelt 
 in fancy while turning the fascinating pages of an 
 old black-and-gold Russia leather copy of Ossian's 
 poems. Bert's words were like a searchlight turned 
 upon the darkened past. The rosy skies of youth 
 flashed up; in that luminous atmosphere floated 
 many changeful pictures. The blue sea was there, 
 with Fingal's black bounding ships with their white 
 sails; warlike hosts with shining shields and spears, 
 their "red eyes rolling on the foe." There too 
 were the ghosts of Arden, " with stars dim twinkling 
 through their forms." Mountains too were there, 
 and rocks, caves, woods, pines, bearded oaks, and 
 foaming torrents. Only the most unimaginative 
 could live in Oregon and not hark back to Ossian. 
 Hear how well he describes our own mountain eyrie : 
 " The rain beats hard ; the strength of the mountain 
 streams comes roaring down the hills." " The blue 
 stream roars in the vale ; the thistle shakes there its 
 lonely head ; the moss whistles in the wind." " Au- 
 tumn is dark on the mountains; gray mists rest in 
 the hills." "A green field in the bosom of hills." 
 " Rain gathers round the head of Cromla ; the stars 
 of the north shake heads of fire through the flying 
 mists of heaven." Now, if you want to know just 
 what Oregon is like, read Ossian. We are a little 
 short, it is true, of kings, warriors, bards, harps, 
 and ghosts ; but all the rest is here. 
 
JFrom 3n SDtegou 
 
 But I am straying from my subject. Breakfast 
 over, the Plymouth Rock fowl safely landed in the 
 oven, the plum pudding steaming, vegetables pre- 
 pared for cooking, feeling then that what Mrs. Car- 
 lyle calls "The Cares of Bread" were off my mind 
 for a time, I said, " Tom, let's go now and open our 
 Christmas packages." We had no gifts for each 
 other, owing to the condition of the roads that we 
 must travel to get them; but many boxes and pack- 
 ages from un forgetting friends at home had arrived 
 the previous week, and been kept inviolate, as is our 
 custom, until Christmas day. Very soon we were 
 cutting cords and untying ribbons, with exclama- 
 tions of delight and surprise as the various tokens 
 of loving remembrance came to light rainbow 
 scarfs as filmy as mist, late fichus, fancy aprons, 
 exquisite doilies, chatelaine bags, cushion covers, 
 books, magazines, pictures, calendars, and all such 
 things. One would need to live a whole year in 
 the solitude of the woods to understand my pleasure 
 in again seeing novel and up-to-date things from the 
 great world "that roars and frets in the distance." 
 
 One little gift was rather funny; and though it 
 seems ungracious, I can't resist telling you about it. 
 It was marked "From Christine" a Swedish girl 
 who lived with us many years a bright, cheerful, 
 lovable girl ; and I wish to goodness she was flying 
 about my kitchen this blessed minute, singing those 
 queer old Scandinavian songs with a voice as clear 
 
 [88] 
 
Jfrom 3n SDregon 
 
 and sweet as a lark's. Though Christine can sing 
 like a bird, she certainly is not an art connoisseur. 
 Her gift was an offering in burnt wood, represent- 
 ing a large unhappy looking lady with a badly 
 swollen cheek and painfully protruding eyes. I had 
 hardly sufficient courage to look at it, but, well 
 knowing poor Christine's pleasure in sending it, re- 
 solved to bear it as best I could. With shuddering 
 tenderness I lifted it to the mantel. "Tom, look 
 at Christine's gift for us both, she said." He 
 stood awhile before it, then turned away saying, 
 "You can have it all!" 
 
 The burnt-wood figure was but a forerunner of 
 worse to follow. Being a woman, Nell, you can 
 understand the significance of the next thing un- 
 earthed a black knit shoulder shawl with a purple 
 border. 
 
 " Oh, Tom ! " I cried, " for mercy's sake, look at 
 this!" 
 
 "Well, what about it?" 
 
 "What about it? Why, don't you know it's the 
 very first shaft from Old Age's quiver? It means 
 that my sear and yellow days have come ; that 
 
 ' The Bird of Time has but a little way 
 To flutter and the bird is on the wing/ " 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! " 
 
 "Well, don't I know, Tom? I've been giving 
 things like this to old ladies all my life." 
 
 [89] 
 
jFtom an SDregon 
 
 "And now your chickens have come home to 
 roost, and the iron has entered your own soul ! Who 
 sent it?" 
 
 "Your Aunt Sarah, with this package for you 
 and here's a note in which she says, 'You speak, 
 Katharine, of living in a box-house. Now, I hardly 
 know what that means, but it sounds cold and must 
 be draughty; so I send you this little cape, hoping 
 you may find in it agreeable warmth/ ' 
 
 Agreeable warmth! If ever a woman lived who 
 found agreeable warmth in her first black-and- 
 purple shoulder shawl, history has failed to men- 
 tion her. 
 
 " What's this thing ? " now came inquiringly from 
 Tom, as he held up a bib-shaped scarlet felt affair. 
 
 "Mercy! I don't know, but perhaps this note 
 will explain." 
 
 "Yes, here it is. 'I have been feeling anxious 
 about Thomas, working as he does in the rain. Do, 
 please, see that he wears the chest protector I send. 
 One can't be too careful of one's health at his time 
 of life.'" 
 
 " Now, madam, you added that last line ! " 
 
 " No, sir, here it is in black and white ; read for 
 yourself." 
 
 Just then a couple of umbrellas passed the win- 
 dow; the shawl was jerked from my hand and 
 wrapped round the " life-saver," and both were hur- 
 riedly tucked behind a sofa pillow, as Tom whis- 
 
 [90] 
 
Jfrom 3n Oregon Kancft 
 
 pered, " Katharine, don't say a word about these 
 things until we hear how they came out" 
 
 After Bert and Mary had come in and the little 
 confusion of their arrival had subsided, and they 
 had carefully looked over our Christmas exhibit, 
 Bert's roving eyes fell upon Christine's gift. 
 
 " Hello ! where did you get the lumpy- jawed, 
 frog-eyed lady?" 
 
 "You are most intolerably rude, Mr. Stanhope, 
 so harshly to criticize a work of art found in the 
 home of your hostess." 
 
 "Art! did you say, Katharine? Well, if that 
 sort of art is rampant in the world just now, then 
 I am mighty glad I've taken to the woods." 
 
 Scorning further talk with this degenerate son of 
 the hills, I turned to hear of Mary's presents, listen- 
 ing eagerly, almost despairingly, as she ran over a 
 most acceptable list. Thinking she had glided by a 
 pair of slippers with suspicious haste, I asked what 
 kind they were. 
 
 " Oh, just common ones." 
 
 "Felt?" 
 
 "No, cloth." 
 
 "Lined with fur?" 
 
 " No, lamb's wool," answered Bert, with a man's 
 blundering frankness. 
 
 Smothering my joy, I exclaimed sympathetically, 
 "What a shame! Those are real old ladies' slip- 
 pers." 
 
JFtom an 2Dregon 
 
 " Too bad ! Too bad ! " came hypocritically from 
 Tom, poking the fire to conceal his delight. 
 
 "Yes, they gave me a shock," admitted the suf- 
 ferer. "Of course, I knew those woolen monstrosi- 
 ties were lying in wait for me somewhere along the 
 years, but I hardly expected them to bounce out just 
 yet." 
 
 "Come, Bert, walk up to the confessional!" 
 
 "Oh, I've nothing scary; old age has drawn no 
 bead on me ; " and he rattled off an inoffensive list. 
 
 Revenge is sweet, and now his wife said sweetly, 
 "Bert, you quite forgot to mention those flannel 
 pajamas your sister sent you." 
 
 "Flannel!" shrieked Tom. "Outrageous! 
 Red?" 
 
 " No, sir, not red. Moonlight on the lake, 
 stitched with old gold." 
 
 "But flannel! Why, Bert, that's a gift for an 
 octogenarian, for lean and slippered age 'sans 
 teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.' ' : 
 
 "Go on," wailed his victim, "pour vitriol in my 
 wounds." 
 
 " No, my decrepit flannel-scourged brother, I can't 
 consistently do that, because, you see, we've some 
 woolly woes of our own to bear," dragging them 
 from their lair and waving them aloft as he sang 
 
 "Lift up your eyes, desponding freemen, 
 Fling to the wind your needless fears ! " 
 
 [92] 
 
Jfrom an flOtegon Hancft 
 
 When Mary's eyes fell upon the black-and-purple 
 disturber of the peace, her glee struck me as little 
 short of fiendish. I hate to see such malevolence in 
 a woman ; though she said tenderly enough, " What 
 a shame, Katharine ! I thought only real old ladies 
 wore such things ! " 
 
 " Oh, you did ? Which only shows, madam, that 
 you are living back in the Oregon hills; no doubt, 
 young girls are now wearing these at their coming- 
 out parties." 
 
 Meantime Tom had donned the scarlet bib, and a 
 voice was saying, " Well, I don't know how you feel, 
 but that thing would be gall and wormwood to me." 
 
 "Think so, Bert? It is balm of Gilead compared 
 with the note that came from the hand that dealt 
 the blow." 
 
 Being all in the same boat, we grew rather jolly 
 over it, and began laughingly to picture Christmases 
 to come, when we should sit around this fireplace 
 surrounded by such heart-rending tokens of affec- 
 tion as bottles of liniment, porous plasters, hot water 
 bottles, stout canes with arched necks, spectacle 
 cases, red flannel nightcaps, earmuffs, and woolen 
 scarfs and nubias to wind about our neuralgic heads. 
 Of course, old people wouldn't be supposed to care 
 for works of fiction, and they would send us " Pil- 
 grim's Progress" in very large type, "No Cross, 
 No Crown," " Fox's Book of Martyrs," " Stepping 
 Heavenward," and similarly consoling literature. 
 
 [93] 
 
JFrom 3tt SDregon 
 
 At dinner-time the heavens grew black, the rain 
 was pouring in torrents, and Mary and I were glad 
 that we had previously arranged for lighting the 
 dining room. With candles and lamps blazing, 
 radiating cheerfulness, our decorations showed up 
 finely. The " Plymouth Rock/' occupying a posi- 
 tion of honor, tried hard to look as big as a turkey ; 
 we stood by him loyally, praising his appearance 
 and reviling turkey. When the time for dessert 
 arrived and the steaming plum pudding was brought 
 in, wreathed with real holly taken from our Christ- 
 mas boxes, if any longings for mince pie were felt 
 they were bravely repressed. That pudding was 
 good, if I do say it; and the guests spoke up quite 
 boldly, declaring that "Mrs. Bob Cratchit" never 
 achieved a greater success. I forgot to mention the 
 gift of a fruit cake, which was added to our menu, 
 and a more delicious one had never been trans- 
 ported by overland express. Of course we couldn't 
 have ice cream in an iceless land, but we could and 
 did have whipped cream and damson preserves, 
 which everybody said "was enough sight better." 
 So, with a little bravado, our Christmas dinner 
 passed off very well. 
 
 T94] 
 
it now, Nell, to be my duty 
 to give you our experience in the egg 
 and poultry business. You may re- 
 member that the day our cows came 
 to their new home several coops of chickens were 
 brought with them; also that this occurred soon 
 after we had moved here, when we were mud-bound 
 in these hills, with nothing to eat but bacon and 
 " spuds," not having seen an egg for weeks. Well, 
 the following morning, bright and early, those coops 
 were thrown open, their unhappy prisoners flutter- 
 ing out to freedom with a mighty clamor; and as 
 they went crowing and cackling about the old log 
 barn, their owners thought it the sweetest music 
 ever heard. All day long I could think of nothing 
 but those blessed hens, and the various ways of cook- 
 ing eggs. For supper that night I had planned such 
 an omelet as the world has scarcely seen; and for 
 
 [95] 
 
jFrom 3n ffl)regon 
 
 the next day, ham and eggs for breakfast, custard 
 pie for dinner, and deviled eggs for supper. That 
 seemed the longest day I had ever known ; but finally 
 the clock struck five. 
 
 " Come, Tom, it's time to gather the eggs/' I said, 
 as I handed him a peach basket nicely lined with 
 paper. 
 
 "At Uncle Jim's we always gathered them in 
 our hats," he murmured reminiscently, as he 
 marched off with it. During his absence I got out 
 the long-unused Dover eggbeater and two bowls of 
 large size, put the skillet on the stove, and stood 
 ready for the fray. After some anxious waiting, in 
 walked the gentleman with the basket bottom-side 
 up, and never an egg in it. I stood in speechless 
 amazement, looking at that empty basket, until Tom 
 cried 
 
 " Give sorrow words ; the grief that does not speak 
 Whispers the o'er-f raught heart and bids it break." 
 
 "Well, let it break! that would be better than 
 slow starvation!" 
 
 "You are disappointed now, aren't you, Kath- 
 arine?" 
 
 "Of course I am, and I'm hungry, and I thought 
 it was a hen's business to lay eggs ; and as we have 
 forty-eight of them " 
 
 "You thought," he interrupted, "that we would 
 get forty-eight eggs, did you ? " 
 
 [96] 
 
jFrom an 2Dre0on IRancfi 
 
 I'll just tell you in confidence, Nell, that I had 
 thought of forty-eight in my most sanguine mo- 
 ments; but now, under the amused looks of my 
 inquisitor, I snapped out, "Of course not; I'm not 
 so much of an innocent as to expect to leap from 
 nothing to such sudden affluence ; but I did look for 
 two dozen eggs or so and it was not at all unrea- 
 sonable, with all that mob of hens ! " 
 
 "Come to think of it," meekly answered the 
 bearer of the eggless basket, " I have heard that hens 
 never lay just at first, upon making a change of loca- 
 tion;" adding consolingly, "but I guess we'll get 
 a half-dozen or so tomorrow." 
 
 Several more days passed, and still there was no 
 offering from the poultry yard. I then ventured to 
 ask, "Tom, do you think you feed the chickens 
 enough ? " 
 
 "Feed them enough? They look as if suffering 
 from goiter; their crops are puffed out like toy 
 balloons." 
 
 " Then perhaps you feed them too much." 
 
 ''' There you go now ! " 
 
 " Well, I read today that hens should forage for 
 a part of their living." 
 
 "But if they won't forage, what then? These 
 chickens just stand on tiptoe round the granary, with 
 their eyes fastened on the door, and never budge 
 from there until it is time to waddle off to bed." 
 
 A depressing silence followed this declaration; it 
 
 [97] 
 
Jfrom an ffl)regon Kancft 
 
 certainly seemed a most baffling problem. After 
 deep thought the lady remarked : " I've just been 
 wondering, Tom, whether you really know how to 
 hunt hens' nests." 
 
 "Good gracious, Katharine! I should think 
 almost any man of average sense could, if he would 
 bring the weight of his intellect to bear upon it, 
 hunt hens' nests ! " 
 
 " You know that I mean find nests ! " 
 
 "I can find these all right, having made them 
 myself." 
 
 "Oh! have you made some nests?" 
 
 "Have I? I've put up so many boxes the barn 
 looks like a post office." 
 
 " Yes ; but the article I read today said that hens 
 liked secluded places for nests." 
 
 "All right! I am fully prepared for the cloister- 
 loving sisters. I've made nests under the mangers 
 and in old barrels standing in dark corners, one in 
 an old copper boiler, two choice ones in a disabled 
 feed box all that mortal man can do has been 
 done, and now ' Serene I fold my hands and wait.' ' 
 
 But this persistent woman wasn't quite so serene. 
 That night, when the gentleman was about to go 
 through the usual form of looking for eggs, she 
 remarked sagely, "It is more than likely those 
 hens have hidden their nests ; the article I read today 
 says they often hide them, and I believe I'll go with 
 you and help search for them." 
 
 [98] 
 
Jfrom an Oregon Kancft 
 
 "It's no use, and it's awfully muddy; but if noth- 
 ing else will satisfy you, come on; only do leave 
 that confounded basket I'm sick of the sight 
 of it." 
 
 Permission being thus graciously tendered, with 
 becoming humility I followed my Chesterfieldian 
 guide into the domains of chickendom. Then the 
 still-hunt began. We searched high and low ; inside, 
 outside, and under the barn ; looking through all the 
 sheds, in clumps of ferns, and in the low bushes 
 along the fence; peering into hollow logs and 
 stumps as gravely and anxiously as if searching for 
 the treasures of Captain Kidd. 
 
 Though our quest was fruitless, I learned that 
 there are worse things in life than hunting for 
 eggs on an Oregon ranch. Those old logs and 
 stumps mantled in pretty green moss gave out an 
 agreeable damp woodsy smell; the wet fir boughs 
 exhaled a pleasant perfume; and just before us 
 rushed the noisy little brook, its clear waters flash- 
 ing through the tawny tassels of alders and over- 
 hanging willows decked with downy gray-green 
 catkins, charming prophecies of swift-coming 
 spring. And suddenly we came upon spring her- 
 self, in the guise of a little tree covered with delicate 
 white pendent blossoms. In almost breathless ex- 
 citement we broke off some of the pretty branches, 
 the first wild blooms we had gathered in Oregon. 
 It was to us then a beautiful stranger; we have 
 
 [99] 
 
4From 3n SDregon 
 
 since learned that it was the Indian peach tree. In 
 summertime its branches are laden with perfectly 
 formed though very tiny peaches; they look hard 
 and forbidding, and lacking the courage of the 
 aborigines, we have not tasted them. 
 
 Returning eggless to the house, Tom remarked 
 resignedly, " Bert's folks are in the same boat ; that's 
 some comfort ! " 
 
 "No, they are not; they have had three eggs. 
 Mary told me so today." 
 
 "Great Scott! I wonder Bert didn't fire off a 
 twenty-four-pounder after such an event!" 
 
 The report of those three eggs came to Tom like 
 the explosion of a bomb in our camp. He declared 
 fiercely that something must be done at once to stim- 
 ulate the industry of our poultry yard. 
 
 " Let's make them a hot mash," I suggested ; " the 
 article I read today advised it." 
 
 "Great earth, Katharine! If you will kindly 
 refrain from any further mention of 'that article/ 
 I'll make 'em a hot mash every hour in the day and 
 every day in the year." 
 
 " It's just possible that you would overdo it," re- 
 torted the aggrieved lady. 
 
 The next morning I prepared the "hot mash," a 
 terrible mess of corn meal and bacon, and while I 
 was deluging it with cayenne pepper the man of the 
 house entered, and with that phenomenal memory 
 of his remarked that " Uncle Jim's folks " used black 
 
 [100] 
 
JFrom an flDregon 
 
 pepper ; so we put in both. Then rummaging among 
 various condiments, he exclaimed : " Paprika ! 
 That's hot stuff ! We'll give 'em a dose. Mustard, 
 stimulating and inspiring! Three tablespoonfuls 
 will be about right. Ginger ! Now we've struck it ! 
 our hens lack ginger. Curry powder! What 
 think you of that, Katharine?" 
 
 " It may be the one thing needful." 
 
 " All right, in it goes ! " 
 
 Liberally salted and stirred, the dish was pro- 
 nounced fit for the gods. With the mixture in one 
 hand, a dish of cold boiled potatoes in the other, the 
 experimenter then advanced hopefully upon his 
 victims. 
 
 Returning after a brief absence, he was asked, 
 "How did those feathered frauds like their break- 
 fast?" 
 
 " Oh, fine ; they would eat live coals, I guess all 
 but Mrs. Gummidge" a name he had given to a 
 fussy, complaining old hen in a rusty black gown. 
 " I first deferentially offered her the potatoes ; she 
 advanced, mournfully, slowly drew up one foot, 
 turned her head sideways, glared at them for one 
 awful moment, and then turned scornfully away." 
 
 " Why didn't you try her with the hot Scotch ? " 
 
 " I did ; she took one nip, and walked off gloomily 
 among the weeds." 
 
 "Well, you see, Tom, down at Yarmouth Mrs. 
 Gummidge ate marine food, and she isn't quite used 
 
 [101] 
 
Jfrom an SDregon Jftancfc 
 
 to mountain fare yet. I really think the poor old 
 thing is homesick/' 
 
 A few days later he came in, shouting jubilantly, 
 "Hurrah for Graham's celebrated Poultry Tonic! 
 Allow me, madam, to present you with the first 
 product of our poultry yard." 
 
 "Oh, Tom, an egg! How lovely! Isn't it 
 white?" 
 
 " Yes, and uncommon large, don't you think?" 
 " It is very large, and such a perfect oval ! " 
 "I am inclined to think it's a double-yolker," he 
 answered, eying it hungrily. 
 
 " Alas, Tom ! the egg is but one, and we are two." 
 A momentary struggle with self; then he said 
 grandly, " You cook it and eat it, Katharine." 
 
 The offered sacrifice I regard as the noblest im- 
 pulse of Thomas Graham's life, and I do hope that 
 his recording angel made a note of it. I was not 
 quite selfish enough to take advantage of his mag- 
 nanimity, and yet was so lacking of the stuff of 
 which heroes are made that I could not sit calmly 
 by and see him eat the precious egg alone. So it was 
 regretfully laid away until another should be found. 
 After three more days of suspense, Tom came in, 
 saying, "What do you think of this insolence?" 
 handing me an egg no larger than a quail's. 
 
 That little egg instantly evoked from memory a 
 picture of the garden of " The House of the Seven 
 Gables," and stalking about in it, " with the dignity 
 
 [102] 
 
Jftom an Dregon 
 
 of interminable descent," a grotesque little chanti- 
 cleer, followed by his two little wives " and the one 
 chicken of the world." 
 
 I asked Tom if he thought it possible we had be- 
 come the owners of one of the Pyncheon fowls. 
 
 " I don't remember them." 
 
 " Yes, you do ; the heirloom of the Pyncheon fam- 
 ily" mentioning some of their characteristics. 
 
 "Oh, yes! Now I know; according to tradition, 
 they were once the size of turkeys, but had sort of 
 petered out, like the family, until they became no 
 larger than pigeons. I fancy the three venerable 
 ancestors having died of old age, the youngest and 
 sole survivor of that aristocratic race, finding it dull 
 alone in the old garden, with perhaps a scarcity of 
 snails about Maule's well, started out to see the 
 world, and has been led by kindly fate to the Ranch 
 of the Pointed Firs, and that we now own that re- 
 markable chicken, * that looked small enough to still 
 be in the egg, and at the same time sufficiently old, 
 withered, wizened, and experienced to have been the 
 founder of an antiquated race.' ' : 
 
 We were so entertained by this notion that our 
 disappointment was half forgotten, though Tom did 
 say, " The eggs of those ancient fowls were famous 
 for rare delicacy of flavor ; and you might cook the 
 two tonight, if in the flavor of the one you could 
 find compensation for the size of the other." 
 
 " Which I couldn't, so we'll just bide a wee." 
 
 [103] 
 
Jfrorn an SHegott Kancfj 
 
 The very next day our impatience was rewarded 
 by another egg of normal size. We ate the two with 
 cannibalistic ferocity, and looked longingly at the 
 shells. 
 
 Being a truthful chronicler, I cannot say that 
 after this the eggs poured in in great abundance. 
 That was our first experience of owning chickens, 
 and also our first experience of a scarcity of eggs. 
 Before embarking upon this enterprise, while gloat- 
 ing over the pages of poultry catalogues, we had 
 visions at least I had of sending baskets, and 
 even tubs, of eggs to the market. Alas, for human 
 hopes, even in the magical land of Oregon ! 
 
k Y recent valuable experience with poul- 
 try having taught me how to wrestle 
 successfully with an egg famine, I next 
 proceeded to the more complex and at 
 the same time more interesting prob- 
 lems of hatching and raising young chickens. After 
 our appetite for eggs had been appeased, it seemed 
 high time that some of those hens should be getting 
 down to business in another fashion. It was late in 
 the season ; the early spring flowers had bloomed and 
 faded ; orchard trees were blossoming, birds singing 
 and nest-building ; and here were our feathered folk, 
 wandering over hill and dale, chasing yellow butter- 
 flies and young grasshoppers, scratching up earth- 
 worms and garden seeds with cheerful zeal, talking 
 and gossiping among themselves, evidently so in love 
 with sunshine and freedom, that not one of them had 
 the slightest notion of going into solitary confine- 
 
JFrom an HDregott 
 
 ment for three long, stupid weeks. It seemed just 
 possible that they belonged to some biddies' club, 
 were "new-era" dames, and had permanently re- 
 tired from the hatching business ; perhaps they were 
 saying to each other, "If these carnivorous people 
 want spring chickens, let them buy an incubator and 
 hatch them. Let none look to us for early broilers 
 we are emancipated females." 
 
 One day I was out raking the yard when Tom, 
 coming up the walk, said : " Brace yourself for 
 painful news. This very day two hens belonging 
 to those shameless Stanhopes were set or sat 
 which would you say ? " 
 
 Two fowls, dusting themselves under a rose bush 
 near us, apparently overheard this talk ; one of them 
 sprang up and really did seem to say, quite sharply, 
 "What's that?" 
 
 " I said, madam," answered Tom, " that the Stan- 
 hopes have two hens set ; and I ask, ' Why stand ye 
 here all the day idle ? ' You are a Plymouth dame, 
 and should have the Plymouth conscience." 
 
 This speech aroused the ire of the recumbent 
 Susan Nipper, who scrambled to her feet and began 
 a furious scratching, indignantly hurling dead leaves 
 and gravel toward the speaker, who said in retalia- 
 tion, "As for you, Mistress Nipper, the guillotine 
 will get you if you don't watch out ! " 
 
 Whether or not our hens were influenced by this 
 talk will probably never be definitely known, but a 
 
 [106] 
 
Jftom 3n 2Dre0on 
 
 couple of weeks later the setting craze broke out 
 among them, raging as fiercely as the Egyptian 
 plague. Clucking hens were everywhere, some set- 
 ting in the most ludicrous places, others in their 
 proper boxes, often two and sometimes even three 
 on the same nest. The non-setters persisted in de- 
 positing their eggs with the setters, which resulted 
 in noisy vituperations, with scratchings from sharp 
 claws and jabbings from vicious beaks. At this the 
 chanticleers, under pretense of stilling the tempest, 
 but secretly glad of the racket and of the chance to 
 show off their oratorical gifts, would begin a terrific 
 harangue, which often terminated in a combat be- 
 tween themselves. The tumult and confusion were 
 like a madhouse. 
 
 Meanwhile the demand for eggs grew strenuous. 
 We could not get half enough to supply the emer- 
 gency call. Everywhere were hens setting on noth- 
 ing. One in the woodhouse, with imbecile credulity, 
 was placidly brooding a broken doorknob. I have 
 often heard the remark, " No more sense than a set- 
 ting hen;" now I see the force of it. Out of pity 
 for their needs, I urged Tom to " take to the hills " 
 for supplies. Busy with other work, he was not 
 eager for such an outing. 
 
 " But, Tom," I insisted, " my prophetic soul warns 
 me that this is the tide in our affairs, which taken at 
 the flood will lead on to fortune." 
 
 " And my prophetic soul warns me that you are a 
 
Jfrom an SDregott 
 
 false Cassandra and a persistent one; but if you will 
 bring me that detestable basket, I'll go and see what 
 I can do." 
 
 Soon I had the satisfaction of seeing him jog 
 away on his quiet old Rosinante, in quest of the 
 golden nest eggs of our future fortune. Returning 
 about dark with a full basket, obtained with diffi- 
 culty from various sources, he hastened to visit the 
 home of each feathered recluse and furnish it with 
 supplies; after which this good Samaritan sank in 
 exhaustion upon a convenient log, and, fanning him- 
 self with his hat, declared that he could have passed 
 through the horrors of the French Revolution with 
 less physical and mental wear and tear than he had 
 suffered with this siege of " settin' hens." 
 
 I sometimes think Thomas is given to exaggera- 
 tion, especially when fatigued. 
 
 This was only the beginning of trouble. Two 
 obstinate hens were holding the fort in one barrel; 
 neither would give up. With great sagacity, as I 
 thought, I advised putting another barrel there with 
 a nest in it, and the removal of Miss Flite thereto. 
 " You know, her brain is a little muddled," I added, 
 " and she won't know one barrel from the other." 
 
 "Don't fool yourself!" was the ominous reply, 
 as my plans we're being executed. 
 
 The next morning he came in, saying, " Just as I 
 expected! Both those hens are again on the same 
 nest." 
 
 [108] 
 
jFtom an SDtegon 
 
 After due deliberation, the oracle thought it quite 
 probable that Miss Flite was the original owner of 
 the nest, and was holding it by right of discovery. 
 "Why not try Mrs. Pardiggle on the other?" 
 " It's no use, she won't stay ; but I'll chuck her in." 
 And he was right ; she would have none of it, but 
 flounced out in high dudgeon as often as put in. 
 Tom then fell back on "common sense" and his 
 mythical experience at " Uncle Jim's," placing a par- 
 tition in the barrel with a nest on each side of it 
 an arrangement which seemed satisfactory to both 
 parties. All went well for about a week, when it 
 was found that the straw had sunk below the parti- 
 tion, and, the avoirdupois of Mrs. Pardiggle being 
 the greater, the eggs had all rolled into her nest. She 
 was sitting on twenty-six, while poor Miss Flite had 
 none; but as the latter seemed blissfully unconscious 
 of any deficit, while the former, owing to her 
 voluminous foliage, could easily cover all the eggs, 
 we thought it best to leave their tranquillity undis- 
 turbed. 
 
 Thirteen chickens were the result of this co-opera- 
 tive incubation. Tom happened to be at the barn 
 when the triumphant Pardiggle, with loud maternal 
 duckings, sailed out of it with the entire brood of 
 fledglings at her heels. It seemed to him that a light 
 suddenly shone in upon the befogged intellect of 
 Miss Flite; for, screaming maniacally, she dashed 
 from her compartment and flew into the midst of 
 
 [109] 
 
JFtom an flDtegon 
 
 the brood, making frantic efforts to secure a fair 
 division of the spoils. 
 
 "I hope you gave her some of them," I said to 
 Tom when he had finished his narration. 
 
 "Yes, six; though feeling that I was foolishly 
 sentimental in doing it." 
 
 "No, Tom, it was right and just a merited re- 
 ward for twenty-one days of inefficient faithfulness." 
 
 I am grieved to relate that Mrs. P., with unscru- 
 pulous pertinacity, through bribes and blandish- 
 ments, lured all those chickens back except two, 
 which Miss Flite continued "to have and to hold" 
 until they grew into a beautiful and independent 
 young pullethood. 
 
 If it surprises you that our mania for names is 
 carried into poultrydom, just observe fowls closely 
 for a time, and you will discover that not only are 
 they possessed of marked individuality, but also of 
 many of the characteristics of people you have 
 known. For instance, a dapper glossy black hen 
 had a topknot like a high silk hat, and grotesquely 
 long wing feathers resembling a frock coat, which 
 gave her such a look of masquerading in male attire 
 that " Dr. Mary Walker " seemed the only possible 
 name for her. "The Doctor" is an impulsive, self- 
 willed creature. Observing her friends going, one 
 by one, "into the silence," she apparently reasoned 
 that the social whirl was over, that it would proba- 
 bly be dull in the yard for a time, and so concluded 
 
 [no] 
 
4From an SDregon 
 
 to go into the setting business herself. Looking the 
 quarters over, she found a desirable flat ; and though 
 the rooms were all taken, she arrogantly ousted a 
 timid, dark-complexioned tenant of Spanish descent, 
 taking immediate possession of her home, her goods 
 and chattels. The evicted one hung about her old 
 home, lamenting bitterly; and though frequent 
 efforts were made to reinstate her, all were futile. 
 No matter how often or how violent "The Doc- 
 tor's " removal, an hour later she would be found 
 back in the same place. Losing patience at last, Tom 
 said in disgust: "Well, stay there, then, you 
 confounded old trespasser! You look ridiculous 
 enough, perched up there, with your hat on and your 
 coat-tails hanging over that box. You have just 
 taken this up as a fad, and you'll mighty soon be 
 sick of it." 
 
 If "The Doctor" heard, she made no sign, but 
 continued to gaze steadfastly toward the Pacific 
 Ocean, and never turned a feather. Having won 
 the battle, she settled down to business in a resolute 
 way; and we thought that perhaps, after all, she 
 wasn't so flighty as she looked. 
 
 A week later Tom said, " You can't guess whom 
 I saw in the woods today." 
 
 "Robin Hood?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Friar Tuck?" 
 
 " No ; one more guess and you're out." 
 
JFrom an SDregon 
 
 After deep thought I hazarded, "Countess Irma 
 and her little wood-carver." 
 
 "Oh, you're away off! It was Dr. Mary 
 Walker." 
 
 " Good gracious ! What was she doing away up 
 there?" 
 
 " Sauntering along the brook, with a gay bevy of 
 friends, picking up pebbles and grasses, seemingly 
 quite care-free and joyous." 
 
 After this she was seen every day stalking over 
 the fields. Great was our surprise when we found 
 she really had hatched seven chickens. But having 
 hatched them, she apparently didn't want them, or 
 know what to do with them. She just stood in a 
 far corner of the coop and eyed them gloomily, mak- 
 ing no effort to feed, amuse, or instruct them. She 
 evidently never told them a word about hawks, and 
 the very first day they were allowed to go out for 
 exercise two were carried off, and the next day an- 
 other; the following morning she came straight to 
 the house with the remaining four, threw them on 
 my hands, walked off among the tall ferns, and 
 never came back to them. The little dew-bedrag- 
 gled things stood in a shivering huddle, peeping for 
 their mother, until my nerves could no longer endure 
 it. I brought them in, fed, and wrapped them up 
 warmly; but still came those anxious cries, shrill 
 and incessant. Then I remembered that Thoreau 
 says, " Little chickens taken from the hen and put in 
 
 [112] 
 
JFtom 3n Dregon 
 
 a basket of cotton will often peep till they die ; but if 
 you will put in a book, or anything heavy, which 
 will press down the cotton and feel like the hen, they 
 will go to sleep directly." Looking around for a 
 weight that would " feel like the hen," an inspiration 
 seized me. I took the fluffy feather duster, warmed 
 it slightly, and placed it over them, and was instantly 
 rewarded by hearing a soft, gentle twittering " the 
 low beginnings of content," which soon ended in 
 perfect quiet. In the hush that followed, I blessed 
 the " Recluse of Walden " for the happy hint which 
 had floated to me across the years. 
 
 After that, whenever an ailing chicken was 
 brought to me for treatment, I usually clapped the 
 duster over it and let nature take its course. Some- 
 times, it is true, when I lifted the duster to take a 
 look at the patient, the patient was dead ; but then it 
 was quiet, and that's something. I feel a great pride 
 in being the discoverer of the feather-duster mother, 
 and am quite sure that no other poultry preserve in 
 the United States has as yet realized its possibilities. 
 
 That evening I advised Tom to look around for 
 " Dr. Mary Walker," as I feared she had met with 
 some mishap. Returning later, he said: "Your 
 fears were groundless. When I closed the door of 
 the chicken house, I glanced over the inmates, and, 
 lo and behold, in the front row of the dress circle 
 sat her Majesty 'wrapped in the solitude of her own 
 originality/ She seemed quite at peace with herself 
 
4From an Oregon Katuft 
 
 and the world. If she had been on the ground floor, 
 I believe I would have slapped her." 
 
 It proved to be a clear case of desertion; finding 
 the duties of motherhood irksome, she had shaken 
 them off, leaving her children to me to bring up, as 
 Mrs. Joe Gargery brought up Pip, "by hand." 
 
BOUT the time our poultry colony was 
 fairly established in the " settin' " busi- 
 ness, a smiling little sheep herder of the 
 hills handed me a note from Mary. It 
 was certainly unique a sheet of pale 
 gray notepaper daintily folded, and pinned to- 
 gether by a white feather crossing it diagonally. 
 Fastened near the top of the inside page was a 
 picture of a row of cunning little chickens just 
 merging from the shell, cut perhaps from some ad- 
 vertisement; and just beneath the following poetic 
 outburst : 
 
 " To the Hermitage hasten to tea, 
 
 And delay not to fix, 
 You're wanted just for to see 
 Our brand-new chicks." 
 
 "How humiliating, with ours still in the shell!" 
 said Tom. " We started neck and neck in this race, 
 
Jfrom an Oregon 
 
 and they beat us with eggs, and now come under the 
 wire two weeks ahead with young chickens. No 
 wonder they have 'dropped into poetry' though 
 that second line does seem a bit superfluous, don't 
 you think?" 
 
 "Yes; they must have needed a rhyme for 
 'chicks/ as they well know that to 'fix* is with us a 
 lost art." 
 
 "Thank heaven it is!" fervently responded the 
 gentleman, turning down the hem of his overalls as 
 a slight concession to the usages of polite society. 
 The housekeeper, noting the half -pint of oats which 
 rolled out on the floor, was calmly ignored, as in his 
 best circus tones he announced himself ready " for 
 the great, free, moral, and spectacular exhibition 
 of the recently incubated." A half-hour later, in 
 comfortable negligee, we were seated at the social 
 board of our successful competitors in the poultry 
 art. 
 
 What topics, think you, are discussed " over the 
 tea cups" in the hills? Dinner parties, luncheons, 
 receptions, last night's drama ? Not at all ; nothing 
 so giddy as that. Nor do we discourse of art, music, 
 literature, and such hackneyed themes. No; the 
 agricultural mind soars not so far above the soil. 
 The flow of soul usually begins with chickens and 
 eggs ; the subject of butter is then tactfully brought 
 forward, which naturally suggests cows; cows sug- 
 gesting pasture, it is then but a step to crops in gen- 
 
 [116] 
 
Jfrorn an 2Dre0on iRatufi 
 
 eral and "vetch" in particular. Lives there a man 
 with soul so dead that he does not expatiate upon the 
 wonderful properties of "vetch" ? If such there 
 be, he is not a resident of the hill country. Until we 
 came here, I had never heard the word spoken ; and 
 now these new landed proprietors talk of it from 
 the rising to the setting of the sun. 
 
 On the evening of which I write, the talk began, 
 as usual, with fowls, dwelling chiefly upon the 
 idiosyncrasies of the setting hen. We spoke of her 
 illogical persistence and her general absurdities. 
 Especially did we deplore her combativeness, Bert 
 holding up a pair of battle-scarred hands as proof 
 that his recent triumphs had not been wholly free 
 from sanguinary features. Presently he went out 
 and gathered a hatful of his "brand-new chicks" 
 fluffy, velvety little balls of yellow and black, soft 
 grays, and creamy browns. The exhibitor remarked 
 boastfully, "This is only a small line of samples. 
 I have in stock twenty-five of these valuable birds." 
 
 " And they are all right for a starter," said Tom, 
 patronizingly, " but if you will drop in at the Pointed 
 Fir Hatchery in a couple of weeks, we will show 
 you about twenty-five hundred of them." 
 
 I grieve to note the habit of exaggeration grow- 
 ing upon Thomas. Possibly two hundred were 
 hatched, but to raise them after hatching ay, 
 there's the rub. Watchful sparrow hawks swooped 
 down upon them by day; at night bloodthirsty 
 
4From 3n 2Dregon Kancft 
 
 prowlers of the forest crept stealthily forth to claim 
 their share; of the survivors, many suffered from 
 disease, not only the newly fledged, but quite a 
 number of the older ones, which were what Tom 
 called a lot of " scrubs." These were bought, dur- 
 ing the rainy season, of accessible and accommodat- 
 ing ranchmen, who naturally did not part with their 
 best. 
 
 Finding Tom one day gravely stirring some sort 
 of mixture on the stove, I asked, "What in the 
 world is that?" 
 
 "This, madam, is lard and cayenne pepper a 
 dose designed for a sick hen." 
 
 " How do you know she is sick ? " 
 
 "If you saw a hen moping around, humped up 
 like this, and catching her breath so " graphically 
 illustrating "you would conclude that she wasn't 
 enjoying the best of health, wouldn't you?" 
 
 " I'd think she had the blues, at least. What does 
 ail her?" 
 
 "That I can't tell you." 
 
 " Who suggested that mixture ? " 
 
 " This mixture was used with unparalleled success 
 at my Uncle Jim's." 
 
 " Oh ! As a remedy for what ? " 
 
 "Don't ask so many questions. I don't know 
 what it was given for, and I don't care ; it's the only 
 chicken remedy I wot of, and when one of ours 
 seems indisposed she's going to get a dose of it." 
 
 [118] 
 
jFrom an Oregon Kancft 
 
 With this defiant declaration the gentleman went 
 out to visit his patient, while I looked up a bulletin 
 on poultry from our agricultural college. I was 
 appalled to learn of the diseases chicken flesh is heir 
 to. It seemed that if we succeeded in saving even 
 one, it would be as a brand snatched from the burn- 
 ing. In my pursuit of information I had just 
 stumbled upon a poser as the doctor returned. 
 
 "Tom, has a hen a nose?" 
 
 " Heavens, Katharine ! how should I know ? Not 
 a noticeable one, I guess ; at least, not one that she 
 can turn up. Why?" 
 
 "Because this book speaks of a hen's nostrils, 
 which implies a nose, don't you think? It says 
 sometimes a slight incrustation forms over them, 
 which should be gently removed by their caretaker." 
 
 " Yes well, I can tell you right now that it will 
 be an exceedingly frigid day when this caretaker 
 gently removes it." 
 
 Oh, it is so wearing, this trying to instil scientific 
 knowledge into the mind of one who absorbs so 
 little ! Sustained, however, by an earnest desire for 
 his enlightenment, I began again timidly 
 
 " If this patient of yours should happen to be suf- 
 fering from lung trouble, you should give her a 
 soothing drink." 
 
 " Soothing fiddlesticks ! " 
 
 " I thought you approved of the teachings of the 
 agricultural college ? " 
 
 [119] 
 
Jftom an flDregon 
 
 " Well, isn't warm melted lard a soothing drink? " 
 
 "I have never tried it as a beverage, but with 
 cayenne pepper added, it might, I should think, ex- 
 coriate even the well-seasoned throat of the terrible 
 Mrs. Quilp. Didn't it strangle her ? " 
 
 " It did, Katharine ; but it also aroused her from 
 her apathy and that is a point gained." 
 
 To my surprise, after taking a few doses that fowl 
 really did regain her health and spirits. During the 
 summer the invigorating cordial was frequently ad- 
 ministered, with varying results. Patients with 
 strong constitutions survived it, others died ; but the 
 doctor's faith in the efficacy of the remedy remained 
 unshaken. 
 
 He had several baffling cases; for instance, there 
 was a hen that looked perfectly well and ate raven- 
 ously. When wheat was thrown out, she would 
 start for it on the run, but would soon begin to 
 wobble like an exhausted top, and would fall over, 
 perhaps several times, before reaching the goal, 
 often landing there on her back, when she would 
 turn on her side and gobble wheat as deftly as the 
 well ones. She was soon placed in a private sani- 
 tarium, and her meals were carried to her until 
 death came to her relief. I pronounced this case 
 epilepsy; though Tom said it was a clear case of 
 locomotor ataxia, and that not even the wise ones of 
 the agricultural college could have saved her. 
 
 We had one frightfully small chicken with an ab- 
 
 [120] 
 
jfrom an SDregon Kancf) 
 
 normally large head ; it could walk a very little in a 
 stiff and awful way, but couldn't stand at all and 
 maintain its equilibrium, except with its feet very 
 wide apart and its bill poked in the ground as an 
 extra brace. In this case the physician's diagnosis 
 was "dropsy of the brain." It did look like it. As 
 the bantling couldn't keep within even hailing dis- 
 tance of its mother, it was brought to the house for 
 the rest cure. Here it was never at ease unless it 
 could find a crevice of the kitchen floor and insert its 
 bill in it; then with closed eyes it would stand very 
 still for many minutes, a painful and gruesome look- 
 ing object. Very often the professional gaze turned 
 thoughtfully toward it, and I well knew the gentle- 
 man was wondering whether or not the malady 
 could be reached by lard and pepper. I was glad 
 when kindly death interposed and saved the poor 
 little sufferer from Graham's Great Elixir. 
 
 During the summer Tom, not being quite satisfied 
 with " scrubs," bought some better chickens. Among 
 them was one which caused him great trouble for a 
 time. It was a fine thoroughbred Plymouth Rock, 
 called by his former owner " Captain Jack." The 
 Captain, for some reason known only to himself, 
 objected to the early hours kept by our mountain 
 flock, and firmly refused to enter the dormitory with 
 them at sunset. It may have been that he had an 
 affair of honor arranged with some hostile member 
 of an outlying camp; or, being town bred, he may 
 
 [121] 
 
JFtom an SDregon 
 
 have been waiting for curfew to ring. Of course 
 we could only guess at the motives which prompted 
 his erratic conduct. But we did know that if he 
 were left at large he would surely fall a victim to 
 some lynx-eyed assassin of the hills; consequently 
 Tom had to stay with him until he voluntarily 
 walked into the chicken house. 
 
 "Let him go in when he gets ready," I sug- 
 gested, "and close the door later." 
 
 " He would never get ready, Katharine ; he would 
 hide away in some tree, and that would be the end 
 of his earthly career. You must not forget that he 
 cost me three big silver dollars." 
 
 It was a solemn and impressive spectacle as seen 
 in the gloaming those two weird shadowy figures 
 moving slowly and silently through the tall weeds 
 and dog's fennel, the Captain a few paces in ad- 
 vance, showing no perturbation, though well he 
 knew " a frightful fiend did close behind him tread." 
 Occasionally he would pause to snatch a belated bug 
 or an unwary grasshopper, or with assumed non- 
 chalance stop before some little bush, scratch about 
 its roots, then stand on tiptoe, and examine each 
 leaf as carefully as if he were engaged in the study 
 of botany. All this time Tom, with the same 
 affected carelessness, would be sauntering near, 
 pausing as the Captain paused, just as if he were 
 taking an evening stroll and had by the merest acci- 
 dent fallen in with the military gentleman, but 
 
 [122] 
 
Jfrom an S)te0on Kancfe 
 
 always keeping on the off-side and unobtrusively 
 guiding the wanderer's steps bedward. When at 
 last the wayward one entered the building, the door 
 would bang behind him with such force as to shake 
 the whole crazy structure. These evening rambles 
 were continued for a couple of weeks, when sud- 
 denly it seemed to dawn upon the Captain that sun- 
 set was practically the sounding of "taps," in the 
 hills, whereupon he turned in with the others, and 
 gave his guardian no further trouble. 
 
XIV 
 
 "VHIS, Nell, is the loveliest of May morn- 
 ings, the sky as blue as a robin's egg. 
 
 " There's a rustle of leaves in the tall 
 
 forest trees, 
 And the brook sings a lullaby sweet." 
 
 For two hours I have been at work in the garden, 
 weeding onion, radish, and lettuce beds. Though 
 this sounds prosaic, it was really idyllic. I had 
 started upon my errand with but little enthusiasm, 
 being tired from churning eighty revolutions per 
 minute but after my first glimpse of the glory of 
 the orchard I couldn't hurry fast enough to that 
 bower of pink-and-white beauty lying on the sunlit 
 hillside in all the dewy freshness of the early morn- 
 ing. As I reached it, it seemed to me nothing in the 
 wide world could be sweeter. The air, so soft and 
 pure, was filled with the delicate perfume of pear, 
 
Jftom 3n JDregott 
 
 plum, and apple blossoms ; shadow and shine rippled 
 through the tall grass; swaying upon and flashing 
 through the flowery branches were plump robins with 
 satiny vests of orange, the bluest of bluejays with 
 drum-major topknots, and a shining host of wild 
 canaries. A big pear tree seemed alive and fluttering 
 with these canaries 1 little shimmering knots of gold 
 among the white blossoms. They came here in 
 swarms last spring, though earlier, when the peach 
 trees were blooming. I remember that Tom called 
 me to come out and see a " yellow peach tree." He 
 thought there were a hundred or more birds on one 
 tree. 
 
 Such a flurry, flutter, and twitter as there was up 
 among those pink blossoms! Such a multitude of 
 little yellow birds we had never before seen. We 
 were as excited as two children. They stayed but a 
 day or two in such numbers, though many remained 
 throughout the summer. 
 
 I suppose this is another party of tourists stopping 
 over with us today, thinking they have reached Para- 
 dise ; and it is little wonder, for it is like it. 
 
 I too longed to stay there " and just be glad," but 
 the vegetables were calling me from below to hurry 
 along and deliver them from the deadly snares of 
 their enemies the coiling snake grass, wire grass, 
 smartweed, dog's fennel, and all their myriad foes. 
 Reluctantly leaving the flowery kingdom, with glit- 
 tering blade of steel I walked down into the valley 
 
JFtom an Oregon 
 
 of distress and began dealing death and destruction 
 right and left. Yet even as I did it I felt a kind of 
 pity for the innocent little trespassers. 
 
 I wish you could see this dear old ranch garden 
 so quiet and secluded, hedged about by green grow- 
 ing wild things, like a lonely little island. Across 
 one side is an old paling fence, at least so tradition 
 tells us, for if it still is there it is lost to sight and 
 serves only as a support for vines and brambles. 
 There the blackberry trails its flowery sprays, and 
 the wild gourd runs like a creature alive, holding up 
 its slender stems of green, tipped with fragrant 
 starry white blossoms, such as we never saw until 
 we came to Oregon. The farmers call it a pest ; if 
 so, it is a most bewitching one. Here too are hazel 
 bushes not like ours, but small trees ; and wild rose 
 and salmon bushes. The latter I am quite sure you 
 have never seen. Their blossoms are beautiful, like 
 pink hollyhocks in miniature. The humming birds 
 love them; two burnished beauties were hovering 
 above them when I entered the garden different 
 from any we have before seen, making the queerest 
 roaring sounds, not unlike those of a wild animal. 
 You won't believe this, nor did I until I had traced 
 the incongruous sounds to them. It seemed prepos- 
 terous to suppose that such dainty bits of iridescence 
 would roar like that ; but they did, for I caught them 
 in the very act. 
 
 Alders and willows grow about my Eden, and wild 
 
JFrom 3n Oregon 
 
 plum and crab apple trees are snowy with bloom and 
 faintly sweet; underneath these is a tangle of low 
 bushes, wild flowers, tall weeds, and vines. Through 
 this wall of green came a pleasant sound of bubbling 
 waters, gushing from the roots of a group of alders 
 just above me, a pure little rill of it sliding down the 
 hillside, under bending briers, tall grasses, and nod- 
 ding rushes. 
 
 Who wouldn't enjoy weeding in such a glorified 
 nook, hearing the music of rustling leaves, falling 
 waters, and a chorus of bird voices, a " choir invis- 
 ible " hidden away in those green temples ! 
 
 In the early morning the birds seem almost deliri- 
 ously happy, singing with a "fine, careless rapture," 
 as if from mere joy of living. In the evening their 
 notes, though very sweet, are more subdued and 
 plaintive, just hinting of unrest. Is it from weari- 
 ness or is it anxiety ? Whatever the cause, it is too 
 elusive to be interpreted by my dull senses. 
 
 I am ashamed that I know so little about birds, not 
 even the names of half that we see here; and yet I 
 love them beyond rubies and pearls. 
 
 As I crouched there, working, and thinking of 
 these things, I suddenly heard a familiar bird voice, 
 and looking up I saw perched upon a curving willow 
 wand a little wood wren that comes many times each 
 day to the porch for crumbs. If I am not in sight, he 
 lights on the railing and calls persistently until I ap- 
 pear. He has become quite fearless, hopping so near 
 
JFrom 3n 2Dre0on Batufr 
 
 that I could reach him with my hand. A most lov- 
 able bird is little " Hop o' My Thumb," as Tom calls 
 him. He introduced himself to us early last winter, 
 and now we are intimate friends. 
 
 After a time I found the sun was shining down 
 hot, and I was glad when the last of the onions were 
 freed from their tormentors. They stood in long 
 straight ranks, like little soldiers, and I think they 
 saluted me as a conquering hero. I glanced at the 
 parsley bed, and could see the little crinkly newcom- 
 ers looking up through dog's fennel, gasping for 
 breath ; but so was I, and hence had to ignore their 
 mute appeal. While I know of no more fascinating 
 work than weeding a garden, the stooping position 
 makes it hard. If the beds were only placed up high, 
 like counters, with light rattan seats running round 
 them, the work would be ideal. I'll have that kind 
 some day, when my long-overdue ship sails into the 
 harbor. To rest and escape the heat, I recrossed the 
 raging Tiber, went again up in the orchard, sat down 
 under an apple tree, threw off my sunbonnet and 
 with it "the cares that infest the day," and gave 
 myself up to the spell of that world of bloom and 
 beauty. 
 
 "The blossoms drifted at my feet, 
 The orchard birds sang clear ; " 
 
 and softly now, in the later morning, their notes 
 blended deliciously with the low murmur of leaves, 
 
jfrom 3n SDregon 
 
 rippling waters, and the faint tinkling of sheep bells 
 down the leafy lane. The grass all about me was 
 thickly studded with wild flowers ; everywhere little 
 tongues of flame were darting up through the green, 
 from some queer plant new to me; patches of tall 
 buttercups were waving in the sunshine like cloth of 
 gold; white honeysuckles and purple and lavender 
 fleurs-de-lis were all about me. Above them was a 
 canopy of pink and white; around were the mighty 
 hills spiked with the eternal green of the jagged fir 
 trees, and over all was the arching blue of heaven. 
 
 Into my heart stole that peace which passeth un- 
 derstanding, with a tide of thanksgiving toward the 
 all-loving Father, who gives to his poor tired chil- 
 dren such glimpses of glory and beauty as they travel 
 the long briery road stretching out from life's dawn 
 to life's dusk. Then I pitied all the denizens of great 
 cities imprisoned in brick and stone, so far away 
 from these blessed hills of Oregon, where there's 
 "room to turn round in, to breathe, and be free." 
 At such times the world seems remote and unreal. 
 No sound from it pierces our leafy barricade. No 
 clanging bells, no whistles, no shrieking engines, no 
 brass bands nor throbbing drums, invade this sweet 
 peacefulness. 
 
 We grow almost conceited, living in this vast soli- 
 tude, half believing that we are the only inhabitants 
 of the earth, that the machinery of the universe is 
 kept oiled and running just for us until the mail 
 
 [129] 
 
JFrom an 2Dre0on 
 
 arrives, sometimes once a week, but oftener once in 
 two weeks ; then, as we unfurl the manifold pages of 
 the metropolitan papers, we learn that there are 
 others that the classes and the masses are still go- 
 ing up and down the world, toiling and suffering and 
 dying. I suppose that when we received a daily mail 
 this sort of thing came in smaller doses, and we be- 
 came hardened to it ; but coming now en masse, as it 
 does, the whole flood of it poured upon us at once, it 
 is depressing and awful, the gruesome stories echoing 
 sadly through our hearts even in this far-off lotus 
 land " in which it seems always afternoon." 
 
is a breathlessly hot day in early 
 June, and I am all alone in the deep fir 
 forest, the others having gone " to 
 town" for supplies even Mary, who 
 likes to take an occasional peep over the 
 rim of this big green bowl in which we dwell, to see 
 the people outside, note the style of their hats and 
 gowns, watch the "cars come in," hear the engines 
 whistle, and all that sort of thing. She begged me 
 to go, but I, thinking of the long dusty road, espe- 
 cially that portion of it winding above those dizzy 
 and dangerous canyons, felt that I would rather stay 
 in my little old box-house under the cool shadows 
 of the pointed firs. Once in a while I enjoy being 
 quite alone for a whole day. It must be the hermit 
 strain in my blood, inherited from dead and gone 
 ancestors, who probably ate roots and herbs, dressed 
 in skins, and lived in caves. 
 
JFrom 3n SDregon 
 
 The travelers set out for the giddy world just at 
 sunrise, and as I stood at the gate to see them off, 
 Mary looked at me quite sorrowfully, and Tom said, 
 r ' You have a long day before you, Katharine ; what 
 will you do when we are gone ? " 
 
 " Do ? Nothing at all, sir ; I shall wander about at 
 my own sweet will 
 
 'As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean/ 
 
 This promises to be one of the best days of my life." 
 
 " You'll not be quite so gay, my lady, when night 
 swoops down on you in this spook-haunted wood- 
 land." 
 
 "Night swoops up, not down, in the hills, 
 Thomas, and there are no spooks in this enchanted 
 wilderness." 
 
 "Good-bye!" Bert called out as they started. 
 " Don't get desperate and hang yourself in a fir tree 
 while we are away ! " 
 
 I watched them driving down the leafy lane until 
 a bend in the road was reached, when Mary looked 
 back ; then 
 
 "A hand like a whitewood blossom 
 She lifted, and waved, and passed." 
 
 I can't help smiling at this conceit, for Mary's hands 
 and my own, after a year and more of ranch life, are 
 
in texture and color hardly like whitewood blossoms, 
 to say the least. 
 
 The forsaken house looked very quiet as I turned 
 back to the walk leading to the door. That walk, 
 which when we arrived here in the cold drizzle of a 
 winter evening seemed only a narrow muddy gulch 
 fringed with dead bushes, surprised and gladdened 
 us, when spring came, by the wealth of bloom which 
 leaped to light along its borders. 
 
 This is quite an old ranch, one that has had many 
 different owners, some of whom must have been real 
 flower lovers. Wherever they are today, I wish this 
 rose-scented breeze might carry to them our grateful 
 benedictions. 
 
 Of late years the place was often without a tenant. 
 At such times, we are told, the sheep and goats of 
 neighboring ranches roamed over it at will, leaving 
 destruction in their wake; that any plant life sur- 
 vived their ravages seems strange, and yet we were 
 constantly being surprised by some old-timer strug- 
 gling through the sod. Bert made the first discov- 
 ery, and we all hurried to see the circle of little sharp 
 bayonets piercing the earth, which a few weeks later, 
 by their green ribbons and yellow frowsy heads, pro- 
 claimed themselves daffodils. These gave us hope of 
 more to follow, and after that we fairly haunted the 
 margin of that walk; presently our vigilance was 
 rewarded by seeing delicate pink fingers pushing 
 aside the matted grass and clover, in an effort to gain 
 
 [133] 
 
Jftom an 2Dregon Kane!) 
 
 the sunlight and startle newcomers by the collossal 
 size and beauty of the Oregon peony. Soon fol- 
 lowed the tall queenly iris, gowned in white, yellow, 
 and pale blue ; then came snowballs and lovely jon- 
 quils, with the spicy clove pink, fragrant with the 
 precious memories of my dear mother's old-time 
 flower garden. 
 
 June showered upon us the most exquisite roses 
 soft delicate pink ones, like a " bride full of blushes," 
 and pure white, with the mossiest of buds and stems ; 
 big velvety crimson ones, too, almost as fine as 
 jacqueminots. 
 
 About this time we began to suspect that we had 
 unwittingly become the possessors of another Vale 
 of Cashmere, and would not have been greatly sur- 
 prised by the sudden appearance of temples, grottos, 
 and fountains in our estate. 
 
 Though these things did not materialize, there 
 came a sudden rush of herbs anise, dill, thyme, 
 summer savory, and sweet basil, in company with 
 that venerable plant known as "old man," which I 
 am sure you must have met in childhood. 
 
 One day I heard Tom exclaim, "Hello, my old- 
 time friend ! I thought you belonged in this clique ; 
 I've been looking for you these many days. Kath- 
 arine, did you ever see any ' live forever ' ? " 
 
 "Yes, plenty of it about the time the morning 
 stars first sang together." 
 
 " Well, do come and see this ! It looks just as it 
 
Jftom an 2Dregon Kancft 
 
 did a hundred years ago. Dear me! how it does 
 bring back my summer at Uncle Jim's ! " 
 
 " Did they have it there ? " I inadvertently asked. 
 
 "Did they? Well, I should say they did! My 
 bare feet were always hot with stone bruises, which 
 my aunt Sarah poulticed with these cool pulpy leaves ; 
 sometimes she put with them " 
 
 Foreseeing a torrent of reminiscences, I hastily re- 
 marked, " We don't need poultices now ; but the stuff 
 looks nourishing I wonder how it would do for 
 greens?" 
 
 This happened in our starvation days. 
 
 "Let's try a dash at it, Katharine; the Chinese 
 eat plantain, and this looks a mighty sight more 
 fattening." 
 
 Our culinary works were reticent on the subject 
 of "live forever" ; otherwise, goaded on by hunger, 
 I should probably have stewed a little just for sauce. 
 
 Sheltering this benefactor of bruised boyish feet 
 was a very bushy tree, with a curious leaf, which we 
 watched anxiously until early May, when it suddenly 
 hung out hundreds of long drooping racemes, much 
 like locust blooms, only of bright canary color. 
 Flashing in the sunlight, it was like a shower of gold, 
 and worth " coming miles to see." We now think it 
 a Scotch laburnum. 
 
 Here, too, was the wreck of a honeysuckle, care- 
 fully staked about, hinting of something choice; but 
 the omnivorous Angora (goat, not cat) had reached 
 
 [135] 
 
jFtom 3n Oregon Kancf) 
 
 over the barricade and eaten it off almost to the 
 ground. Tom dug about its roots, enriched the soil, 
 and encouraged it with a trellis, which it gratefully 
 climbed and now covers luxuriantly, though it has 
 not yet seen fit to reward him with a blossom. Un- 
 der one of the windows were the remains of an Eng- 
 lish ivy; given special treatment, today its dark 
 glossy leaves cover the lower part of the house and 
 peep inquisitively in at the window. Loitering along 
 the walls, gathering roses, now blooming in perfec- 
 tion, all these things seemed very old-fashioned and 
 sweet, lying so quietly under the soft shadows of the 
 early morning. I realized to the full that 
 
 "There's no price set on the lavish summer, 
 June may be had by the poorest comer." 
 
 If there were a price, an Oregon June in the hills 
 would " come high," I am sure, and that would bar 
 us out. After filling the rose bowls, I went to the 
 garden for white carnations; coming back through 
 the tall grasses of the orchard, I gathered many 
 strange varieties of the airy, fairy things, waving 
 now in a slender vase near me, looking as fine and 
 delicate as spun glass. 
 
 After the breakfast work was done, looking about 
 for more worlds to conquer, I thought of the wild 
 strawberries ripening on the hillside ; a dish of them 
 would pleasantly surprise the home-comers, and 
 
jFrom an 2Dtegon 
 
 Sheila would be charmed by such an excursion. 
 Sheila is our Scotch shepherd dog, given me a year 
 ago by a genuine dog lover, a kind girl friend of the 
 hills. When she came to us, she was a woolly little 
 thing, like a soft fluffy ball of chenille; now she is a 
 graceful, light-footed creature, with a small pointed 
 head, and honest eyes of clear gray, just matching 
 her coat; she looks the true-born patrician, and is 
 one. Having no dog friends, she has to depend upon 
 us for society, and we talk to her about everything, 
 and rather think she understands. I said, " Sheila, 
 would you like to go up on Mount Nebo ? " She was 
 on her feet in an instant, eyes dancing, plumy tail 
 waving, as she took the basket in her white teeth and 
 went proudly cavorting up the hillside. After reach- 
 ing the delectable land and delivering the basket 
 reluctantly, she hurried away to inspect various sur- 
 rounding mole hills and gopher hills, entertaining, 
 perhaps, a secret hope of scaring up a " Chiny," all of 
 which was so wildly exciting that she had frequently 
 to dash back and poke her little pointed face up in 
 my sunbonnet, as much as to say, " Isn't this a high 
 old time that we are having ?" 
 
 The berries were plentiful, though very small. 
 They lie so close to the ground that Bert always 
 speaks of digging them. The filling of my basket 
 was a work of time; when it was accomplished, that 
 hillside was as hot as a fiery furnace. Gasping for 
 breath, I hurried to the shade of a mighty fir one 
 
 [137] 
 
JFrom 
 
 that Tom calls the guardian of the ranch, as it stands 
 not far from the summit of Mount Nebo. It was 
 deliciously cool there, and as it seemed an agreeable 
 place in which to perform a disagreeable task, I 
 poured the berries out on the grass and began the 
 tedious process of stemming them, under the watch- 
 ful supervision of the gray huntress, who, wearying 
 of the pursuit of the ever-vanishing " Chiny," had 
 come up panting and thrown herself down to watch 
 beside me. 
 
 It was glorious away up there, high above the work 
 and worry of the world. Before me was that solemn 
 crescent of dark green hills, towering so high that 
 I sometimes think those topmost firs must brush 
 against the walls of the unseen city. Half-way 
 down, smoke, blue as the sea, curled up from the 
 invisible cabin of a bachelor woodsman. " What can 
 the man be cooking this hot day?" I asked myself. 
 Far below lay the quiet glen dotted with trees and 
 patches of waving grain shade here, shine there; 
 birds flying up and over, singing as they flew. Near 
 us in the grass were tall wand-like lavender blossoms, 
 with French pinks of many colors, and the white 
 parasols of the wild parsnip bobbing everywhere; 
 bees were lazily droning, and yellow butterflies drift- 
 ing like rose petals through the air. 
 
 "Oh, Sheila, isn't it beautiful this great round 
 earth, that swings in the smile of God!" I cried to 
 my companion. 
 
jfrom an Oregon 
 
 The plumy tail lashed the grass acquiescently. 
 " I do wish that you could talk, Sheila," I added. 
 
 Then the wistful gray eyes looked up; the small 
 pointed head lifted, tilted anxiously, trying so hard 
 to understand that I hastened to say, " Never mind, 
 my mute little Highland Princess; you are faithful 
 and true, and far more companionable than many 
 who can talk." Understanding the tone of approval, 
 a hot little tongue forgivingly caressed my berry- 
 stained hand. 
 
 So long did we linger in that cool retreat that I 
 was horrified to hear the clock strike twelve as we 
 entered the house. "Too bad! The half of my 
 lovely day gone like a tale that is told," I cried re- 
 morsefully. Looking at the big black range, I 
 thought, " Allah be praised ! I don't have to fire you 
 up and cook dinner." That alone was joy enough 
 for a whole day to be able to check off one meal 
 from the 1095 of them looming up yearly before 
 every servantless housekeeper. A slice of smooth 
 cool curd, with a dash of nutmeg and powdered 
 sugar, deluged with thick Jersey cream, made a 
 luncheon good enough for royalty itself. My pre- 
 cious berries I saved to delight and refresh the 
 wanderers on their return. 
 
XVI 
 
 "OU must not think that ranch life con- 
 sists chiefly of trout-fishing and straw- 
 berry-picking, with long intervals of 
 rest under blossoming trees. Some 
 friends judging from their letters seem to have 
 an idea that living as we do in this out-of-the-way 
 place, free from social duties, our days are days of 
 elegant leisure, and life just one long holiday. There- 
 fore, to prove to you that we are not being " carried 
 to the skies on flowery beds of ease," I must tell you 
 something of the " demnition grind " of this new life. 
 Be it known, then, that here it is impossible to ob- 
 tain house help even for a day the few women 
 living in the hills having more work in their own 
 homes than they are able to do. 
 
 We were warned of this before coming up here, 
 and were advised to be sure to bring with us a wash- 
 ing machine. I well remember that dreary purchase ! 
 
 [140] 
 
Jfrom an Dre0on 
 
 Outside there was a drizzling rain; inside an inter- 
 ested salesman dragging from its dusty lair the un- 
 gainly monster, cheerfully extolling its many merits 
 and possibilities a panegyric lost upon one at least 
 of his hearers, who, with a feeling of sadness almost 
 akin to pain, looked at the ugly thing, standing on 
 four straddling stilts, seeing only a succession of blue 
 Mondays and gray skies through an atmosphere of 
 steaming suds. Prospective wash days, however, 
 held no terror for Tom; he rose to the occasion 
 grandly, declaring with much animation that he be- 
 lieved he would rather like the novelty of the thing 
 that it would be his pride and pleasure " to make 
 the wheels go round." But after one or two experi- 
 ences his enthusiasm drifted away like an ebbing 
 tide; and I soon learned that if there was any one 
 day upon which farm work pressed more heavily 
 than another, that day was Monday ; though the gen- 
 tleman was always very sorry his own work was so 
 crowding hoping that the next Monday he would 
 be " able to grasp the helm." It seems strange, but 
 even at this late day his work continues to " crowd " 
 on Monday, though it always seems to ease up a little 
 toward the middle of the week. 
 
 You will remember that the rainy season was on 
 when we came here; consequently the drying of 
 clothes was a problem, and to hang them on the line, 
 stretched across a hillside as steep as the roof of a 
 house, required the dexterity of a mountain climber. 
 
JFrom an flDregon 
 
 The ground, covered with soft decaying leaves, was 
 as slippery as if soaped. To keep one's feet one must 
 cling to the line with one hand while hanging clothes 
 with the other ; and very often they were still swing- 
 ing there, dripping wet, when the next Monday 
 dawned. I having written to a friend about these 
 difficulties, she wrote back: "Make your laundry 
 work light; put away your table linen, use plate 
 doilies and paper napkins." Telling Mary of this 
 advice, she said, "The lady has forgotten that we 
 are agriculturists. Now just fancy these men, clad 
 in blue jeans and cowhides, confronting a doily of 
 Mexican drawn work ! " It was rather absurd ; but 
 still the advice was not quite lost, and the result was 
 that some of our long cloths were cut into luncheon 
 cloths, exactly fitting the top of the table ; with a wide 
 hem on the four sides they looked reasonably well, 
 and saved much labor. Emboldened by this success, 
 the Japanese napkin was then introduced not with- 
 out protest, however, as Tom remarked, " I 'd much 
 prefer a paper bag to this thing ! " 
 
 " You would find it harsh, Thomas, and rather un- 
 yielding," replied his determined spouse. 
 
 "Now isn't that a dandy affair for the use of a 
 robust farmer?" he continued, holding out a hand 
 with the delicate paper squeezed into a tight little 
 wad that would scarcely have filled a thimble. It 
 certainly did look small, but there was no relenting 
 in the heart of the washerwoman. 
 
jFtom an fl)regon 
 
 When we visited each other, linen napkins were 
 brought forth for custom's sake though it was 
 tacitly understood that they were not to be used, 
 and we women never forgot. I have often been 
 moved almost to tears to see how promptly and 
 carefully Mary laid hers aside. 
 
 Sometimes one or the other of the men, forgetting 
 the unwritten law, would shake out his napkin with 
 the old-time flourish, whereupon his hostess was apt 
 suddenly to lose her vivacity, becoming abstracted to 
 the neglect of her duties. In spite of her best efforts, 
 her eyes would fix themselves upon that square of 
 linen, until the offender, hypnotized into conscious- 
 ness of his breach of etiquette, refolded and laid it 
 far beyond the reach of temptation. The feast over, 
 behold Mary and me, with smiles "childlike and 
 bland," " gathering our sheaves," still in their origi- 
 nal folds, calmly speculating upon the length of time 
 that, with care and vigilance, they might be safely 
 withheld from the laundry. Free use of them was 
 permitted, however, on holidays and anniversaries. 
 It was really refreshing then to note the reckless 
 abandon with which they were flung to the breeze. 
 As all " habits gather by unseen degrees," Mary and 
 I have now about persuaded ourselves that the use of 
 linen napkins between the beginning of the rainy sea- 
 son and the singing of the bluebirds is really "bad 
 form"! 
 
 While discussing our household problems, I must 
 
 [143] 
 
JFrom 3n 2Dregon Kancfi 
 
 tell you about the care of milk, which is hardly the 
 pleasant pastime once pictured by my imagination 
 such a never-ending straining, skimming, and wash- 
 ing of pails and cans ! 
 
 Unfortunately we had bought cans much too large 
 for our needs which is only one among many of 
 the mistakes of our inexperience. Having been told 
 by the books that " deep setting " was desirable, we 
 went in for it and we've got it; the washing of 
 one of these tall tin cans is like reaching into the 
 depths of the great tun of Heidelberg. 
 
 There was no milk house on the place when we 
 came, and no cellar they seem not to have cellars 
 in Oregon and as the weather grew warm the milk 
 soured, and the heart of Martha was troubled. After 
 worrying along for a time, one morning Tom said, 
 " I've an inspiration, Katharine ! This day thou 
 shalt behold a milk house ! " 
 
 After several hours had passed I was called to 
 come out and view the edifice. I sallied forth and 
 found one of our largest packing boxes placed under 
 the shade of a big alder, directly over the little spring 
 rivulet, with a wooden trough inside, through which 
 ran the water in which the cans were to stand. Half 
 the top of the box was hinged to fold back; but as it 
 was found that the mistress of the manse was unable 
 to reach the cans, even when standing on a chair, the 
 architect was obliged to hinge the upper half of one 
 side to let down instead of lift up. Four poles driven 
 
 1 144 ] 
 
jFrom 3n S)re0on Kancfc 
 
 into the ground supported an old porch awning 
 which served as a canopy for this masterpiece. 
 
 Rather primitive it was, although, as Tom said, 
 " It beats nothing." It truly did, and I was grateful 
 for it though not long before I had visions of a 
 picturesque stone milk house, overgrown with Eng- 
 lish ivy, myself walking about in the cool interior, 
 directing my dairy maids, somewhat after the man- 
 ner of the vigorous Mrs. Poyser. When I have an 
 errand at this sylvan shrine, I have only to walk 
 across a long porch, go down three steps, descend a 
 steep little hill, turn a sharp angle, and I am there. 
 Then I lift up the altar cloth, pull hard a leather strap 
 hooked over a nail, turn the side door down, fold 
 back the upper one, reach in and drag out those mon- 
 strous cans, each dripping with water. The thing is 
 not magnificent, but 't will serve ; at any rate, it keeps 
 our milk cool and sweet. 
 
 You perhaps have read that little story, " Twenty 
 Miles from a Lemon." Now we are twenty miles 
 from a loaf of bread, which is worse. One can live 
 without lemons, but not without the staff of life; 
 consequently one must bake, though the heavens fall, 
 twice or three times each week. Furthermore, we 
 have learned here that it will not do to buy the 
 roasted and ground coffee, as at home ; having to be 
 bought in such large quantities, sufficient to last for 
 weeks, it soon loses both its strength and its aroma. 
 An old coffee mill nailed to the side of the wood- 
 
JFrom an Oregon 
 
 house conveyed to us the hint that people living so far 
 from town usually ground their own coffee. There- 
 upon we bought a new mill and a supply of the green 
 berry, which must be roasted twice each week and 
 ground twice daily. 
 
 Having neither electricity nor gas lights, we had 
 to fall back upon the fragrant kerosene ; and dreary 
 enough it seemed at first, Tom declaring a good 
 healthy lightning bug would be quite as satisfactory. 
 For a time the care of those lamps seemed a burden 
 greater than I could bear, but now, though it has not 
 fallen from me, and never will, I fear, I have become 
 resigned to the task as a part of the price one must 
 pay for the " freedom of the hills." And yet I do 
 feel the revival of the coffee mill and the lamp as a 
 retrogression. 
 
 While I am becoming accustomed to the absence 
 of gas for illuminating purposes, I bitterly deplore 
 the loss of my gas range; the heat of a monstrous 
 wood range in summertime, in a kitchen blessed with 
 but one window, is beyond description. I honestly 
 believe that if one out searching for Hades should 
 about the noon hour poke his head in my kitchen, 
 he would instantly shout, "Eureka! Eureka !" and 
 cease his quest. 
 
 This range, to be kept up to the mark of duty, 
 when fed by the light dry fir wood used here, must be 
 crammed unceasingly; it gulps down a half-dozen 
 sticks in as many minutes and immediately sulks for 
 
Jfrom an flDregon Hand 
 
 more. To keep the pot boiling with such fuel re- 
 quires eternal vigilance. 
 
 There is no cooling off here by drinking ice water, 
 for, alas ! there is no ice. While spring water is cold, 
 one can't help longing for the tinkle of ice in the 
 pitcher ; and iceless lemonade is, as we have found to 
 our sorrow, "flat, stale, and unprofitable." Ice 
 cream and those refreshing water ices! let me not 
 speak of them, for " that way madness lies." 
 
 The other day I threw a big gunnysack over our 
 old freezer, just as a veil to hide the past. 
 
 The lack of ice, of course, causes much extra work 
 and trouble in caring for food. Until now I never 
 half appreciated a refrigerator; but, as Tom says, 
 "We never miss the water till the well runs dry." 
 As our well is a spring, we hope we may be spared 
 that calamity. This spring is near just at the end 
 of the kitchen porch and yet the water for use 
 must all be carried in. Less convenient, surely, than 
 the turning of a faucet above the kitchen sink ! 
 
 We have other trials and privations and com- 
 pensations also. At home the vegetables we use are 
 brought us from the markets. Here we must our- 
 selves go to the garden for them ; this takes time, but 
 I am always glad to go glad to go anywhere, to 
 escape the consuming breath of that life-destroying 
 fiend of the kitchen. There, in the fruit-canning sea- 
 son, the fruit in cases and baskets is delivered at the 
 door; here we must pick it from the trees such 
 
f torn an 2Dtegon 
 
 delightful work that I can't even pretend to complain 
 of it. Today, gathering rosy peach-plums under that 
 tent of green leaves, I felt so insufferably proud that 
 had the arrogant " Mrs. Lofty " passed by with her 
 carriage and coachman, I could not but have smiled 
 upon her disdainfully. 
 
 Unfortunately for me, Tom has recently learned 
 in some way that corn bread is a nourishing food for 
 young chickens (I knew it long ago read it in a 
 book but kept still about it), and I have now to 
 bake about a yard of it daily. As Mrs. Todgers, of 
 boarding-house fame, said of the making of gravy 
 for single gentlemen, " That one item has aged me 
 ten years." 
 
 This tale of woe might be continued indefinitely, 
 but enough has been said to show that our " leisure " 
 is not really burdensome ; that we are not quite all the 
 time sitting with folded hands, "rapt in nameless 
 reverie." And yet, in spite of the toil, the hardships, 
 and the privations of this life, these Oregon scenes 
 are so dear to me that I would not exchange this 
 woodsy old ranch for the finest of city homes, with a 
 retinue of servants and ten thousand a year thrown 
 in. I am far happier here under these dark firs, with 
 the wood pigeons and the owls, the fresh air, and the 
 glorious freedom of the hills. 
 
BUSY time indeed we hill-dwellers 
 have been having for the past six weeks ! 
 Such hurrying to and fro, such rushing 
 in and out, such fetching and carrying, 
 such toiling and moiling, as if the pros- 
 perity of the nation depended upon our individual 
 activity surely I never saw the like of it before. 
 
 What is it all about ? Why, we've been a-harvest- 
 ing, and a-gathering in the sheaves, and a-threshing 
 of 'em; and I've been a-standing over that fiery 
 dragon of a kitchen stove, canning fruit, making a 
 bewildering confusion of jams, jellies, marmalades, 
 and preserves, with sweet-pickling and sour-pickling 
 and chili-saucing, and all the other evils flesh is heir 
 to thrown in as a side issue ; and I haven't had time to 
 take a deep, full breath since the middle of August. 
 However, it was not of these things that I in- 
 tended to write today ; rather, of certain good fortune 
 
 [149] 
 
JFtom 3n 2Dre0on Kancft 
 
 that has just come to me and on wash day, too, 
 when I never look for anything but sodden, suds- 
 soaked misery. 
 
 Let me tell you, first, that this being forced to do 
 one's own laundry work is the worst feature of ranch 
 life. The shadow of the coming event actually dark- 
 ens my Sundays, and by Monday morning I have 
 generally reached the depths of gloom. 
 
 In this mood I remarked at breakfast, rather sav- 
 agely* "I wish to goodness some Croesus would 
 scatter some of his superfluous millions among poor 
 and needy ranch folk ! What's the sense of giving 
 organs and libraries to people who don't want them, 
 and of endowing universities that get mad about it 
 and are ashamed of their origin?" 
 
 Thomas, recognizing the Monday morning mad- 
 ness, showed no surprise at this outburst, but placidly 
 inquired, "Have you a specially crying need of 
 wealth this morning ? What do you want to buy ? " 
 
 "Nothing I want to build. If my esteemed 
 friend Mr. Carnegie would favor me with, well, say 
 this coffee pot full of twenty-dollar gold pieces, I'd 
 proceed at once to erect a steam laundry, out of sight 
 and sound of this house, away back in the canyon 
 in its darkest, deepest depths; and I'd have a China- 
 man to operate it, and Mr. Mantalini himself to pre- 
 side over the mangle, and a big bandanna-browed 
 lady of African descent to hand out the soiled linen 
 to that Mongolian ; and I'd have nothing at all to do 
 
 [150] 
 
Jftom an flDregon Katufc 
 
 with this unpleasant business until the clothes were 
 returned, smooth and immaculate, in beautiful In- 
 dian baskets, each separate package wrapped in white 
 tissue paper, ribbon-bound, with sprays of sword 
 fern, wild lavender, and mountain laurel tucked in. 
 That's what I'd do if I had the necessary wealth!" 
 
 " Great Scott ! but you are soaring this morning, 
 Katharine ! Methinks e'en now I behold the opium- 
 tinged gentleman from Hong Kong, in flowing Ori- 
 ental robes, entering my suite of apartments, bearing 
 an Injin tray of manzanita, upon which lie in state 
 my dark blue overalls and my blue jumper, with one 
 lone red bandanna glowing upon its pulseless breast, 
 and these all swathed about with tissue paper and 
 baby ribbon, a cute little wisp of golden rod tucked 
 in the left hip pocket of my blue jeans. Bon ami! 
 How absurd!" 
 
 "Bon ami! I don't know what it means, and I 
 doubt if you do." 
 
 " I don't, Katharine, but we've got to work up in 
 the languages a little if we are going to have a house- 
 ful of foreign-born menials ; they will be likely to act 
 sort of uppish at times, then I'll roar at 'em in 
 French, and I fancy it will be pretty scary." 
 
 "It certainly will be awesome your kind of 
 French. But do listen to that clock striking seven ! " 
 
 "Tempus fugit to continue my classic form of 
 speech ; and as your thought waves are not likely to 
 reach the shekel-dispenser of Skibo in time to bring 
 
 [151] 
 
jfrom 9in 2Dregon 
 
 returns before next week, shall I rise and fill the 
 wash boiler as of yore?" 
 
 "You may, if you please as Chang Wang's 
 barque seems to be detained by head winds." 
 
 While we were engaged in the task of gathering 
 together the depressing laundry outfit, my assistant 
 earnestly assured me that he "really would take a 
 hand today" as it was probably the last time the 
 work would be done at the house only that he was 
 just compelled to put new sills under the cattle barn, 
 as it was liable to tumble down any minute. 
 
 As the structure referred to has stood for about a 
 quarter of a century, it seemed possible the crash 
 might not have come today and I believe I hinted 
 as much, as I went about radiating sweetness and 
 light. 
 
 Not long after this there might have been seen 
 upon the back porch of the Ranch of the Pointed 
 Firs a woman's waving shadow, bowing and bending 
 low above a wash tub, the shadow muttering 
 
 "For men must work, and women must weep, 
 And there's little to earn, and many to keep." 
 
 After an hour or more of hard work, I observed 
 Thomas coming up from the ruins of Palmyra, and 
 hoping to awaken a spark of compassion in his ada- 
 mantine bosom, I put on my most fagged expression, 
 rubbing so fast and with such force that every loose 
 
Jftom 3n 2Dregon 
 
 thing on the porch was jingling when he reached it. 
 
 But, alas for my misplaced hopes! he passed me 
 with a cheerful, " Lay on, Macduff ! " 
 
 Then " the breaking waves dashed high," and the 
 white foam flew, but the Madonna of the tubs spake 
 no word. 
 
 He came for some tool, as nearly as I could judge 
 without looking at him which I disdained to do. 
 When starting back, he halted to say, "A mighty 
 tough time I'm having with that old shack. Casual- 
 ties up to the present hour, one mashed thumb, two 
 blood blisters on left hand, three fir splinters in 
 right." Then he waited a little for some expression 
 of sympathy ; but nothing was heard on the porch but 
 the hurrying hand of the wash lady. 
 
 Advancing by easy stages to the colored clothes, I 
 found among them a pair of overalls new ones, as 
 stiff as buckram. In one pocket I discovered about 
 half a pound of nails of various sizes, a coil of wire, 
 a short piece of rope, and a leather shoestring; in 
 another some plump grains of vetch and some large 
 speckled beans, doubtless carried about to awaken 
 envy in the hearts of neighboring farmers. The 
 usual supply of oats and chaff was then shaken out, 
 and the lightened garments were plunged in the tub, 
 where, becoming inflated with hot air, they refused 
 to down at my bidding just fell upon their knees, 
 looking so like their owner that I felt as if I were 
 drowning him. Unmoved, I was jabbing them 
 
 [153] 
 
4Ftom an Oregon Hancft 
 
 viciously with a stick, when a strange voice said, 
 " Good-morning, ma'am ! " I jumped, dropped the 
 stick, and the blue jeans bobbed up like a jack-in-the 
 box. Near me stood a perfect giant of a man with a 
 flour sack on his shoulder, really the tallest man ever 
 seen outside of a canvas. 
 
 "Are you Mrs. Graham?" 
 
 I thought of saying, " No ; I'm Bridget McCarty ; 
 Mrs. Graham is at the sea shore." But before I 
 could speak, the giant continued, "I've got some 
 mail here for you," as he began untying the flour 
 sack, the only form of mail bag used in the hills. 
 
 Now we had had no mail for over two weeks ; and 
 as I watched that towering angel in corduroy throw- 
 ing out letters, magazines, papers, and packages, I 
 could have fallen upon his neck in gratitude if a 
 convenient step ladder had been near me. 
 
 A pitcher of milk with a gingerbread accompani- 
 ment was offered, and graciously accepted by the 
 giant. Declining a chair, he rested on the edge of a 
 table, the Madonna on the wash bench, as we held a 
 porch conversazione. I learned that he was living 
 quite alone on a timber claim, " about four mile back 
 in the mountains, mighty nigh the summit, and just 
 about at the end of things." 
 
 "Ever feel lonely up there?" I ventured to 
 inquire. 
 
 " Not a bit of it ! I've lived in the woods since I 
 was knee-high; I go to town about once in three 
 
 [154] 
 
jftom an 2)re0on Rancft 
 
 months, and then I'm lonesome, uneasy as a fish out 
 of water, just homesick for the big trees/' 
 
 I recognized a kindred spirit. He then told me of 
 his work of making rails and posts, of splitting 
 shingles and clapboards, of cooking, and of baking 
 " sour-dough biscuit." I wondered what they were. 
 
 "And do you have to do this?" I asked, with a 
 wave of my hand toward the tubs. 
 
 " Yes, about once a month." 
 
 "Don't you just hate it?" 
 
 " You bet I do ! " (Another link forged in friend- 
 ship's chain.) "But I make short work of it, slap 
 'em through in a hurry and throw 'em on the bushes 
 to dry ; and I never wash them things " pointing to 
 the suds-soaked effigy of Thomas, now slowly sink- 
 ing into the waters of oblivion. " You see, mine get 
 just plastered with pitch; water wouldn't even wet 
 'em. I wear 'em till things get to stickin' to me, then 
 burn 'em." 
 
 I fancied him in his strange suit of armor, stalk- 
 ing about in the gloom of the forest, with feathers, 
 ferns, pine needles, and cones sticking to him, giving 
 him the look of some gigantic woodland satyr. 
 
 But the best of friends must part; his cart was 
 soon climbing the long hills, and I gathering up the 
 mail with the joy of Silas Marner gloating over the 
 pot of gold hidden beneath his loom. I had resolved 
 to keep it all intact until my work was done, and then 
 enjoy it with a clear conscience; and I might have 
 
jFrom an fl)re0on 
 
 done so but for a mysterious package, very heavy and 
 oblong, not unlike a gold brick, too tempting to be 
 resisted. Eager fingers hurriedly removed the heavy 
 outer wrapper, then a lighter one, then one of tissue 
 paper, and there appeared the most beautiful book 
 fine paper, exquisite type, wide margins, and choice 
 illustrations. 
 
 Thinking gratefully and lovingly of the generous 
 giver of my precious book, and quite ashamed of 
 the rebellious mood of the morning, I went back to 
 my work with a light and happy heart. Something 
 pleasant had happened to relieve the monotony of 
 toil and change the current of my thought. Work 
 was easy now, and soon those clothes were fluttering 
 white upon the hillside. They were not slighted in 
 the least, either; for I've learned of Emerson, cor- 
 roborated by experience, that to feel "relieved and 
 gay, one's work must be well done, otherwise it shall 
 give one no peace; is a deliverance which does not 
 deliver." 
 
 Dinner over, the work " done up," and every trace 
 of the late unpleasantness removed, Bridget McCarty 
 vanished from mortal view ; Mrs. Graham emerged 
 from seclusion, freshly if not modishly gowned, 
 seated herself in a favorite rocker by a favorite win- 
 dow, drew another chair near upon which was piled 
 that blessed mail, then glanced at the clock. It was 
 three p. M. two whole hours before time to begin 
 supper. 
 
Jftom an Oregon Kancf) 
 
 During those two hours I was about as near per- 
 fect content and happiness as I ever expect to be this 
 side the gates of pearl. Absorbed in the delightful 
 contents of six plump letters, the fascinations of a 
 new book, and a multitude of papers and magazines, 
 I was startled when the clock with cruel distinctness 
 struck five. The sound fell upon my ear like the 
 death knell of Duncan. 
 
 Now, if you think my pleasure in these things ex- 
 aggerated, go and live for a year or two in the isola- 
 tion of the woods, far away from public libraries and 
 book stores ; then let a surprise and pleasure like mine 
 come into your life, and see if your head also would 
 not be turned just a little. 
 
 
mm, 
 
 XVIII 
 
 P OW that the "mellow autumn days" 
 have come, if you are longing for 
 
 " Kir and sunshine and blue sky, 
 The feeling of the breeze upon your 
 
 face, 
 
 The feeling of the turf beneath your feet, 
 And no walls but the far-off mountain tops," 
 
 then come to my beloved Oregon hills. All for which 
 you long is here ; and far more, now that autumn is 
 abroad in the land, standing tiptoe upon the hilltops, 
 pouring down their slopes " from a beaker full of 
 richest dyes " a flame that setteth the mountains on 
 fire and maketh a new heaven and a new earth. Il- 
 lustrated in colors, they seem not the hills we have 
 known, but strangely unfamiliar in this shimmering 
 radiance, this new witchery " from dreamland sent." 
 There was a time when I was rather skeptical of the 
 
Jfrom an Oregon 
 
 existence of a " beauty that intoxicates," but that was 
 before coming to Oregon. I am a believer now, and 
 already half inebriated through the charm of this lat- 
 est revelation. For a long time I have been sitting 
 on an old stump one of the decorative features of 
 our woodland lawn looking over this wonderland 
 and regretting the years lost in finding it. 
 
 For the first and only time in my life, I am happy 
 and content in my environment. Of course there are 
 some ugly old buildings that mar the picture but 
 you know that we are told to look up, not down; 
 and looking up, they are quite forgotten. Such a sky 
 as we have here today blue as a harebell, and much 
 the shape of one, its rim just resting upon this crown 
 of dark firs ; crawling up its western edge, a low line 
 of white wreathing clouds, as if the sea, rolling high, 
 were dashing its foam there. A luminous flood of 
 sunshine is in the air, soft, caressing, and sweet with 
 the aromatic breath of the fir trees ; brooding over all 
 is " Nature's own exceeding peace," a hush unusual 
 even in this land of silence. I thought as I often 
 do here of the stillness of Craigenputtoch, where 
 " for hours the only sound is that of the sheep, nib- 
 bling the short grass a quarter of a mile away"; of 
 Carlyle writing his mother : " These are the grayest 
 and most silent days I ever saw. My broom, as I 
 sweep up the withered leaves, might be heard at a 
 furlong's distance." I always think of that place as 
 the dreariest on earth. " The house, gaunt and hun- 
 
jFrom 3n ffl)re0on 
 
 gry-looking, standing in its scanty fields like an 
 island in a sea of morass, the landscape unredeemed 
 either by grace or grandeur mere undulating hills 
 of grass and heather, with peat bogs in the hollows." 
 What a home for the eager, ambitious, brilliant 
 Jeannie Welsh Carlyle! Away from all the refine- 
 ments of life, shut up in that gaunt, hungry-looking 
 house on that treeless waste with that tragic man of 
 genius of terrible earnestness and blackest melan- 
 choly is it any wonder that she lost her cheerful- 
 ness and vivacity ? 
 
 Though we have here the solitude, thank goodness 
 we have not the gray desolation of Craigenputtoch 
 nor the gloom of a mar; of genius. The only sounds 
 that come to me in this peaceful Eden are those of 
 softly rippling invisible waters, the low murmur of 
 insects, the occasional dropping of the tiny brown 
 cones of the alders, and a faint rustle of falling 
 leaves. Nothing more. Even the clamorous cricket 
 is silent. Our birds have long been mute, and now 
 "slide o'er the lustrous woodland," voiceless phan- 
 toms of the minstrels we once knew. 
 
 But we have a visitor who has brought his voice 
 with him. He has but lately come to us, from out of 
 the reeds and rushes of the lowlands a meadow 
 lark. Every morning comes floating up to us from 
 this little glen a melody so divine that the angels 
 above must fold their wings to listen. From child- 
 hood I have loved this bird above all others. His 
 
 [160] 
 
Jfrom 3n S)re0on Kane!) 
 
 notes are inexpressibly mellow and sweet tender, 
 too, with a perplexing hint of sadness. Is it the 
 pathos of reminiscence, of prophecy, or of passionate 
 pleading? I try hard to understand, but cannot. I 
 only know there is in it a cadence 
 
 " That touches me with mystic gleams, 
 Like glimpses of forgotten dreams 
 Of something felt, like something here; 
 Of something done, I know not where." 
 
 Tears fill my eyes as I listen. I hope that " when I 
 put out to sea" a flight of this divine melody may 
 pilot me through the gray mists to that far-away 
 shore where shine the lights of the heavenly harbor. 
 The I was going to say lawn, but I won't, for 
 that word doesn't fit this lumpy, bumpy, gopher- 
 hilled ground ; it is best, when you live in the woods, 
 to put aside affectations ; so henceforth and forever 
 I shall say do or yard. The dooryard now has none 
 of its June loveliness. While the grass is still green, 
 it has lost its freshness through the drouth and heat 
 of summer ; and the wild flowers that once blossomed 
 here are but a memory. A few clover blooms, in 
 defiance of fate and frost, are trying bravely to hold 
 up their heads, but they have lost the rosy glow of 
 youth. All about me the dandelions are lifting high 
 in air their gauzy white balloons. They are quite dif- 
 ferent from ours at home, which were low growers ; 
 and if one rashly attempted to cut down one of the 
 
 [161] 
 
Jfrom an fl)regon Kancfc 
 
 white-headed veterans, his head fell off and blew 
 away. Here they are nearly two feet high, and that 
 hollow starry globe of lacework is a wonderful 
 stayer. Nearly a month ago, tempted by the beauty 
 of these delicate transparencies, I cut a few of the 
 slender stems and stuck them in a pot of growing 
 ferns, not expecting them to last more than a few 
 hours; and here they are today, those fairy balloons 
 just lifted above the green, fully inflated and tugging 
 at their guy ropes. 
 
 The thistle family also is well represented here. 
 Purple with bloom and white with down, the yard 
 looks like a cotton field. I find the thistle rather in- 
 teresting, now that I have left the vain world and its 
 distractions and have time to look at it, with its long 
 narrow leaf deeply notched and lance-tipped, its pur- 
 ple-stained paint brush blossom, its seed pod such 
 a pretty flaring cup of wood brown, thickly studded 
 with sharp spikes and filled with tiny brown seeds all 
 feathered and ready for flight. It seems a wonderful 
 plant, and must be possessed of virtues still unknown 
 to us, else why did Nature take such pains to protect 
 and perpetuate it ? 
 
 Holding up the brown cup, I blew gently across it, 
 and oh, such a frenzy of excitement among those 
 little feathery folk of thistle down ! They leaped over 
 the housetop, tumbled down the spiked walls, cling- 
 ing frantically to one another in that brief moment 
 of parting; then, disentangling themselves, floated 
 
JFrom 3n 2Dre0on IRancft 
 
 upward, circling about an instant, took one last look 
 at the little brown home, and one by one sailed away 
 into the blue briery world. As the empty cup fell 
 from my hand, I felt half sorry for those drifting 
 airy voyagers. 
 
 When the cups have emptied their contents, they 
 soon become round platters, each with a fringed lin- 
 ing of old ivory satin, in the center a tiny tufted 
 couch of softest down. In such a cosy bed had 
 nestled the little brown heads of my poor wanderers. 
 Why need I have meddled with them ? 
 
 Farmers may despise the thistle, but I'm sure the 
 butterflies love it. Oh, the beauties I have seen this 
 day not the delicately tinted butterflies of summer, 
 but living, glowing jewels, fluttering always above 
 the thistles ! One rested for a long time upon a pur- 
 ple bloom quite near me, opening and closing his ex- 
 quisite wings of black and gold, sun-illumined, like 
 dainty, gauzy Japanese fans. 
 
 I must go back and tell you of the beauty of that 
 towering hill directly in front of us. It is really a 
 mountain, I think, but here we call it a hill. We had 
 quite forgotten the many maple trees growing upon 
 its slopes, the green of their foliage in the summer- 
 time being lost in that of the firs. Though we forgot, 
 autumn remembered ; and, grieved that her favorites 
 should remain unrecognized in that monotony of 
 green, she stole softly into the shadowy forest, traced 
 up the lost Cinderellas, and then, with the gorgeous 
 
jFrom an Oregon 
 
 dyes of Turner and the brush of an impressionist, 
 splashed all their broad leaves with that ineffable 
 glory which is the distinctive badge of the maple 
 family. Today, as I look up and see them standing 
 on the heights, the rich blazonry of their armorial 
 bearings flashing in the fair October sunlight, I say 
 aloud, " Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming 
 of the Lord." ' 
 
 Such a blaze of beauty so near the sky seems pass- 
 ing strange to me coming from a level country, seems 
 alien to this world, and I half believe it to be a celes- 
 tial landslide. I look, and look, and am thrilled 
 through every fiber of my being. I feel such excite- 
 ment, buoyancy, exultation, I want to absorb it all, to 
 catch the luminous picture with its wavering lights, 
 its tremulous shadows, and fold it away in memory 
 as a sort of sacred amulet, a charm to be brought 
 from its hiding place when the dull days come, as 
 come they must in every human life. 
 
 "Katharine! Oh, Katharine!" 
 
 That's Bert's voice. " I'm coming ! " I answered, 
 as, clambering down, I turned for one last lingering 
 look at those banners of scarlet and gold floating 
 across that field of green, like the passing of some 
 royal old-time cavalcade, and I thought that if I 
 should hear the blast of a trumpet or the notes of a 
 bugle, see prancing steeds with gay trappings, and 
 catch a glimpse of the plumed heads of lords and 
 ladies, followed by glittering knights with shining 
 
JFrom an 2Dre0on 
 
 shields and lances, I should feel no surprise, but 
 think it fitting pageantry for this " land o' glamour," 
 where 
 
 "The splendor falls on castle walls 
 
 And snowy summits old in story; 
 The long light shakes across the lakes, 
 And the wild cataract leaps in glory." 
 
 I found Bert awaiting me with both hands full. 
 Mary had sent a great bunch of magnificent chrysan- 
 themums, all white and gold the fluffy-headed 
 kind, with curling petals. He brought, too, a branch 
 of blood-red vine maple that he had broken off as he 
 came through the woods, and some very curious 
 lichens. And in this pleasant but effective way was 
 cut short the thread of these autumnal rhapsodies. 
 
JNCE my last letter, we have passed 
 through such a terrible experience that 
 I scarcely know how to describe it. I 
 shudder as I write. Think of it! in 
 this quiet out-of-the-way place, where we felt so 
 safe, so secure! Though this awful tragedy oc- 
 curred three nights ago, my nerves are still quiver- 
 ing. I feel so weak and unstrung that I fear I can- 
 not write calmly or coherently about it. 
 
 The wretched affair happened in the ball room 
 most incongruous of places ! We find that entrance 
 to the room was effected by way of the roof, which 
 the intruder must have reached by climbing a large 
 alder tree standing near the corner of the house. We 
 now believe him to have been secreted there when 
 we went to our beds. My blood runs cold when I 
 think of it but it dawns upon me that I am not 
 telling this story in the right way. How do the re- 
 
 [166] 
 
jfrom 3n SDtegon 
 
 porters manage these things ? I believe the tragedy 
 should have come later that I should have led up 
 to it more gradually, describing the events preceding 
 it, the scene of the conflict, with a diagram of the 
 room showing the position of each piece of furniture, 
 the hole in the roof, and all that sort of thing. Now 
 I'll have to begin again, I fear, and do it all over. 
 
 Soon after coming here, believing that our danc- 
 ing days were over, we decided to reform the ball 
 room by making a bedroom of it. By doing this we 
 could reserve the only one below for a possible guest, 
 and could ourselves have the pleasure of sleeping up- 
 stairs, where we could hear the rain falling upon the 
 roof. " Much too good a thing to miss," Tom said, 
 " in this land where the rain it raineth every day 
 and night, too for six months at a stretch ! " 
 
 How to get our furniture up that narrow per- 
 pendicular stairway was a problem. Fortunately, it 
 was still crated, just as it had come from the far 
 East. Bert and Mary volunteered their assistance ; 
 and finally, through much pushing, shoving, groan- 
 ing, and some maledictions, the deed was done. Our 
 ball room was transformed. Then Thomas had some 
 dark hours there, removing tacks, nails, screws, 
 boards, drugget, and excelsior, and putting the va- 
 rious pieces together, after which Katharine she 
 who has lived to tell the tale brought her mighty 
 talents to bear upon the situation, toiling for days 
 trying to bring order out of chaos. 
 
Jfrom an Oregon 
 
 I once gave you a description of the ball room, but 
 perhaps you have forgotten it. The room is twenty 
 feet wide and about a quarter of a mile long; side 
 walls, rough, unplaned boards running up and down ; 
 no ceiling overhead, just the rafters and shingles 
 its spaciousness and beautiful smooth floor its only 
 redeeming features. With two full chamber sets, 
 and some extra furniture for which there was no 
 room below, there was still left a vacant space of suf- 
 ficient size for a couple of cotillions. 
 
 At one end of the apartment was a platform about 
 a foot high for the use of the musicians in " the brave 
 days of old." Upon this dais, feeling like one of 
 royal birth, I placed my bedstead. Tom, upon be- 
 holding it, immediately dubbed my part of the room 
 "Mrs. Boffin's Bower." 
 
 Suspecting spiders in the roof, we tacked large 
 sheets to the rafters above each bed canopies that 
 added to the general effect; the one above the dais 
 looked so grand that I felt a sort of awe of it myself. 
 As a finishing touch, a few rugs were scattered over 
 the floor. The decorative artist, turning to leave, 
 paused in the doorway for a critical examination of 
 the "altogether," and was forced to the conclusion 
 that a bedroom in a barn would have been quite as 
 attractive. 
 
 Up to this time it had been raining steadily, though 
 gently, for days ; but the morning my great work was 
 completed it began pouring in torrents, growing 
 
 [168] 
 
JFtom an 2Dre0on 
 
 worse toward evening, with a strong wind blowing 
 straight from the ocean, something very unusual 
 here. 
 
 When Tom had finished his evening work and was 
 standing on the porch, shaking the rain from his 
 storm coat, he called out, "A fine night for the 
 Abbey, Katharine!" 
 
 "Yes, won't it be glorious?" I responded with 
 enthusiasm. We were in high glee couldn't wait 
 for our regular bedtime, but put our books aside 
 early, covered the embers in the old stone fireplace, 
 lighted a hand lamp, and were ready for the ascen- 
 sion soon after eight o'clock. 
 
 Do you remember my telling you that one of the 
 chief architectural oddities of this place was the lack 
 of an entrance to the second floor from the inside of 
 the house the only door to the stairway being an 
 outside one at the end of a long narrow porch ? Tom, 
 in advance of me, lamp in hand, opened the door of 
 the dining room, gave a whistle of surprise, and be- 
 gan to sing 
 
 " Come ferry me o'er, come ferry me o'er, 
 Over the river to Charlie." 
 
 " What's the matter, Tom ?" 
 "Look and see!" 
 
 I looked, and beheld the darkness of a tomb. 
 There was a torrent of rain and wkid rushing 
 
Jfrom an 2Dtegon Hancfi 
 
 through the wet fir trees, driving the flame of the 
 lamp out of the chimney, smoking it black ; the floor 
 of the porch was all bumps and hollows mostly 
 hollows, each filled with water, gleaming in the 
 lamplight. 
 
 " It's hideous, Tom ; we can't make it ! " 
 
 " We've got to make it ! Faint heart ne'er won the 
 second floor of anything. I'll hold my hat over the 
 light, you lock the door, then we'll dash for our 
 lives!" 
 
 It was no dash, I can tell you. We went tiptoeing 
 and teetering across the sloppy links like a couple 
 of prize cakewalkers. When at last the goal was 
 reached, we looked at each other in speechless amaze- 
 ment. Such an uproar was never heard outside of 
 bedlam. Accustomed to a plastered ceiling, with a 
 garret above, this pounding of the rain upon a roof 
 directly over our heads was positively deafening. It 
 was not at all like rain more like a downpour of 
 rattling bullets or cobblestones. Through the open 
 windows came the tumult from outside. Deer Leap, 
 out of its banks, was roaring like Niagara ; the wind 
 was writhing and swishing through the fir boughs ; 
 the spring at the kitchen was a mighty cataract, 
 throwing a big stream of water half-way across the 
 porch. 
 
 Avoiding the eye of my fellow sufferer, I re- 
 marked indifferently, "Sort of boisterous, isn't it?" 
 
 " It does seem a little so just at first." 
 
 [ 170-1 
 
jfrom 3n SDregott 
 
 "Yes, I meant just at first." 
 
 Truly, we could scarcely hear each other's voices. 
 After the lights were out, the turmoil and bluster 
 were even more terrifying. The dampness of the 
 room was something awful. After a while Tom 
 shouted through the darkness, " Isn't it sweet, this 
 gentle patter of the rain upon the roof?" 
 
 "Fine!" I shrieked; "so soothing like a lul- 
 laby!" 
 
 "Oh, yes! And this Cataract of Lodore, too, just 
 under a fellow's head, is a mighty nice thing! To- 
 morrow let's make us some megaphones." 
 
 As there was no hope of sleep, I fell a-thinking of 
 the palmy days of this ball room, when, as we are 
 told, the devotees of the dance came from twenty 
 miles around to tread a gay measure here. I thought 
 of the nail keg we found upon the dais, which had 
 probably been used as a seat by one of the musicians, 
 as an empty violin case was leaning against it. 
 
 It seemed a most fitting time for ghosts to walk. 
 What if that long-ago violinist should come back to- 
 night, and perching himself on the chair that had 
 ousted his keg, suddenly begin " to plonk and plunk 
 and plink, and to rosin up his bow," and should start 
 up all the phantom belles and beaux of the shadowy 
 past, and I should hear slippered and pumped feet 
 sliding up and down the long room should catch 
 the scent of bergamot and patchouli and other old- 
 time flavors? 
 
Jfrom an 2Dregon 
 
 Just here I heard above the roar of the tempest: 
 " Honors to your partners ! Join hands and circle to 
 the left ! Balance all ! Swing on the corners ! " 
 
 "Goodness, Tom! are you crazy?" 
 
 " No, ma'am; it's just water on the brain, I think. 
 But didn't you hear him that old fiddler at the 
 head of your bed, jerking off ' Old Dan Tucker,' and 
 all the fellows skating across the room to secure 
 their partners? Just to be friendly, I thought I'd 
 call off for the spooks." 
 
 After a time the deluge ceased, and then the ball 
 room became an ideal place for sleep. It was de- 
 lightful to lie there, listening to softly falling rain, 
 night winds soughing through the forest, owls hoot- 
 ing in the orchard nature music as deliciously lull- 
 ing to the senses as the " drowsy wine of poppies." 
 
 But the midnight adventure can no longer be 
 postponed. 
 
 During the night I woke suddenly without any 
 apparent cause, but with the sure consciousness of 
 something being wrong, soon verified by the strang- 
 est of sounds, as if tiny soft hands were very gently 
 patting time for unseen dancers an awfully creepy 
 sound in the dark. A little later came stealthy foot- 
 steps, nearer and nearer, seeming to approach the 
 dais. Soon there was a rustling among some clothes 
 hanging on the wall, quite near, as if they were 
 being fumbled over. Flesh and blood could endure 
 no more. 
 
jFrom 3n flDregon Rancfi 
 
 "Tom! Tom! There's somebody in this room! 
 Get a light, quick ! " 
 
 " How foolish you are, Katharine ! If you hear 
 anything at all which I doubt it's only the 
 squirrels running over the roof." 
 
 "Don't stop now to talk! Do hurry with the 
 light!" 
 
 Reluctantly and with great deliberation he arose, 
 muttering something about "idiocy" and "spells," 
 and just as he struck a match, a horrible hairy crea- 
 ture bounded out of those clothes, leaped to the 
 wall, and ran along a. rafter to the comb of the roof. 
 
 " For heaven's sake, what was it, Tom ? " 
 
 I secretly believed it to be a wildcat ; it was such a 
 monster, with the face of a fiend, eyes of fire, and 
 waving a big bushy tail of a squirrel. 
 
 "I'd shoot him," Tom said, rather indifferently, 
 "but my shotgun is in the barn, and just today I 
 fired the last cartridge from my revolver." 
 
 " Get my rifle," I cried, swelling with pride. A 
 friend visited us a year ago, a fine sportsman, who 
 came with four guns, and when he left he gave me a 
 lovely little rifle. 
 
 "Where is it?" 
 
 " Downstairs in the dining room." 
 
 " All right ! " and off he started with the lamp. 
 
 "No, you don't and leave me here in the dark 
 with this hideous thing ! " 
 
 " Such a coward ! " but he gave up the lamp, and 
 
 [173] 
 
jFrom 3n SDtegon Battcfc 
 
 went blundering off in the darkness. After what 
 seemed an age, he returned, remarking with some 
 bravado, as he loaded up, " Now, my bold outlaw, 
 your hour has come ! " 
 
 I held the lamp; he fired. There was no effect 
 whatever. 
 
 " I thought you said his hour had come! " 
 
 "It has if he'll stay there long enough and the 
 ammunition holds out." 
 
 Twice again he shot, and then the "thing" ran 
 down a rafter and was hidden from us by the canopy 
 above the dais. 
 
 At this the brave lady was encouraged to mount 
 to the top of her bureau and try to locate him. With 
 lamp in hand, she peered into the shadows. 
 
 "Wait! I'll fix him!" 
 
 Going into the next room, Tom came back armed 
 with one of the parts of the quilting frame we found 
 here when we came. 
 
 " Now, then, just about where is he ? " 
 
 " Close against the side wall." 
 
 The quilting frame cut a wide swath of air, and 
 struck solid wood. Running straight up the 
 rafter just over my head came the "thing" a 
 poor frightened rat! 
 
 " Now, Tom, you hold the light and I'll show you 
 some Buffalo Bill marksmanship." Drawing my 
 trusty rifle to my shoulder, I shut both eyes, and 
 fired. 
 
 [174] 
 
jFrom 3n SDregon Bancfi 
 
 " That was a hot shot, Katharine ! he must have 
 winked his other eye at that!" He snatched the 
 smoking weapon from my hand and fired again. The 
 rat humped his back, waved his tail lazily, and 
 looked down upon us so dreamily that I really 
 thought he would be asleep in another minute. 
 
 " I guess we'll lay aside our firearms," Tom said, 
 " as we have already shot five holes through the roof. 
 He is too much in the shadows; we can never hit 
 him. I'll see if I can't punch him out of there with 
 this." Mounting my bed with that frame, he threw 
 it like a harpoon; it went flying through the room, 
 and down at my feet, with a dull, heavy thud, fell 
 the rat. Suddenly he left the open, ran under the 
 bed and up the wall just back of me. Tom struck 
 at him, knocked a brass knob from the top of -the 
 bedstead, and the rat ran down the wall near the 
 corner of the room. 
 
 " Pull the bed away, Katharine, and I'll give him 
 a side wipe across the floor that'll fetch him." 
 
 I sent the bed spinning to the middle of the room, 
 followed it up, and climbed to a chair. The " side 
 wipe" was made; it didn't fetch him, but it did 
 fetch down an easel and a picture. 
 
 " For pity's sake, Tom, don't break all the furni- 
 ture in the house! Let's go downstairs; don't let's 
 kill him tonight ! " 
 
 " A lot of killing you're doing ! " Tom persisted, 
 prodding under the washstand. 
 
JFrom an fDregon 
 
 "If you're punching for that rat, he isn't there; 
 he's under that couch." 
 
 " Did you suppose I was down on all fours poking 
 under that thing for fun? If you'd get off your 
 perch and set that lamp down and come and pull this 
 thing out, I'd get him here." 
 
 "Honestly, Tom, I can't. He might run across 
 my feet." 
 
 "Well, do you think I want to chase this rat all 
 night?" 
 
 " No, I don't." 
 
 "Well, then " 
 
 Here the creature under discussion, taking advan- 
 tage of the family jar, dashed from his lair, ran 
 across the room, hid behind a pile of magazines, and 
 there met death. 
 
 As the curtain fell upon the last act, the clock 
 struck one. The pursuit began at twelve. It was 
 an hour to be remembered. 
 
REALLY can't remember when I last 
 wrote home, but I think it was before 
 the worst of our rainy season, as during 
 the greater part of that time we were 
 hibernating, sunk in a lethargy too pro- 
 found to be disturbed by overflowing pigeonholes 
 of unanswered letters. Our winter was a medley of 
 rain, snow, hail, landslides, and floods amazing 
 even to the oldest inhabitant, who promptly re- 
 marked that he had " seen nothing like it for twenty- 
 five years." We had fifty-two successive days and 
 nights of rain, with frequent dashes of snow and 
 hail between showers; yet we remained reasonably 
 calm, though the Noahs, I believe, took to the ark 
 after a little dash of forty days. 
 
 The winter rains were expected, and were even 
 enjoyed; it was their continuance so far into the 
 spring that palled on us. The last four weeks it 
 
 [177] 
 
Jfrom an Oregon 
 
 rained steadily without variation. Day after day 
 we saw the same drab sky, the same gray rain dole- 
 fully slanting across the glen, veiling the hills and 
 shutting out the world a monotony that not only 
 depressed but stupefied. 
 
 All this surplus rain water, together with that 
 caused by the melting of the snow in the mountains, 
 produced fearful high waters and floods. And 
 really I was half glad of it glad of anything 
 coming to break the dull uniformity of our lives. 
 I was ready just then to reach out a welcoming 
 hand to floods, earthquakes, cyclones, or any other 
 excitement that might happen along. 
 
 Deer Leap, our dashing mountain stream, though 
 drinking heavily for some weeks, and rather omi- 
 nously full, had up to this time kept his bed, show- 
 ing no particularly riotous spirit. But with the first 
 hint of the coming of the flood he began tossing and 
 tumbling restlessly, and presently he broke loose 
 from his restraining banks and went plunging 
 through the alders and maples, whisking, whirling, 
 and foaming, dealing destruction right and left, de- 
 molishing cattle sheds, poultry houses, and pasture 
 fence. He then made a dash for the bridges, de- 
 stroying one and trying hard for the other, blus- 
 tering and raging about it for a day and night, 
 hurling great logs against it, savagely bumping the 
 floor, lifting a part of the planks, pulling and push- 
 ing and tugging fiercely at it ; but though it trembled 
 
JFtom 3n 2Dre0on Kane!) 
 
 and swayed, it stood its ground bravely, aided by 
 strong chains lashing it to the trees. 
 
 Our meadow looked like a dreary waste. The 
 trees and bushes seemed growing out of a lake. We 
 one day saw fourteen Angora goats carried through 
 this shallow sea. Fortunately they were thrown 
 upon a little knoll in a thicket of briars, where sharp 
 thorns caught their fleecy coats and held them fast 
 until their owner came to the rescue. In being 
 released from their thorny entanglement the poor 
 things were half shorn. Little white flags of mohair 
 still flutter from those bushes in commemoration 
 of the event. 
 
 All the known springs were gushing noisily, and 
 many new ones were developing in unheard-of 
 places. One day little streams of water came cours- 
 ing down the hillside just back of the house, gradu- 
 ally broadening, then soon united, forming a swiftly 
 flowing shallow river of bright orange color the 
 coloring material furnished, we supposed, by the red 
 soil of Mount Nebo above. It was the strangest 
 sight imaginable, reminding us of the flood at Glen 
 Quharity that Barrie tells of in the story of "The 
 Little Minister." Indeed, many of the scenes here 
 were as wild as those the "Dominie" looked out 
 upon from the schoolhouse in the Glen. 
 
 If Mrs. Noah had great yellow waves of thick 
 muddy water dashing against her habitation, it's no 
 wonder she welcomed the coming of the ark. I told 
 
 [179] 
 
JFrom an flDregon Bane!) 
 
 Tom he really must do something, or we should be 
 forced to take to the hills, as I believed the house 
 would be swept into Deer Leap and carried by the 
 high tide down to the Willamette and from there 
 out to sea. Though he said, " I should think you'd 
 like that, you've always wanted a houseboat," he at 
 once began digging canals. When he had finished, 
 he called me out to see how madly the water was 
 dashing through them. 
 
 At first I could see nothing but Tom himself 
 plastered with yellow mud from head to foot, fea- 
 tures hidden and hair decorated with it. 
 
 A bright thought struck me. "Tom, get the 
 wooden trough out of the milkhouse, and that pole 
 by the alder, and see if you can't shove yourself 
 around a little. I might fancy you a tall and 
 shadowy gondolier, and half believe ourselves in 
 Venice especially if you would first wash your 
 face." 
 
 " Yes, and we'll be in Venice indeed when I make 
 such an idiot of myself as that ! " 
 
 I've always been sorry that he declined to em- 
 bark. The current of the lagoon was surprisingly 
 swift, and would have carried his craft into the 
 spring run, which a little lower down in the yard 
 has a fall of five or six feet. To see Mr. Thomas 
 Graham shooting the rapids in the milk trough 
 would have made glad my day, dark as the skies 
 were then. 
 
 Ii8o] 
 
JFrom 3n SDregon Kancft 
 
 During this flood time we often heard the dull 
 roar of the ocean; the wind blew straight from it 
 with the force almost of a hurricane. The house 
 shook in the fierce gusts; great branches of the 
 alders snapped off and came tumbling down in the 
 yard. Occasionally a big tree, uprooted by wind 
 and water, fell with a tremendous crash. 
 
 It was fine to hear the rush of wind through the 
 forest, to see the tall firs tossing their plumy heads, 
 wrestling so fiercely with one another that many 
 came out of the fray with broken limbs, and not a 
 few headless. Near the house one broke partly off, 
 lodging against its neighbor. Swaying back and 
 forth in the gale, they made a most hideous, rasp- 
 ing, screeching sound, like the screaming of caged 
 beasts in a menagerie. Tom said those trees would 
 be a treasure for a "shivaree" party that a 
 resined scantling drawn across a pine box was but 
 an seolian harp in comparison. 
 
 In daylight, when one could see what was going 
 on, it wasn't so bad; but at night it was something 
 fearful. There was no light of moon or stars; only 
 darkness and the rush and roar of wind and water, 
 the lashing and swish-swashing of firs, with an ac- 
 companiment of shrieks from the crippled one and 
 his fellow sufferer. 
 
 Though rather frightened at times, I liked the 
 excitement and exhilaration of all this, and I think 
 Tom and Bert did if they would admit it. The 
 
 [181] 
 
jfrom 3n 2Dre0on 
 
 effort to save buildings, fences, bridges, etc., stirred 
 their blood, and gave them something new to think 
 and talk about. 
 
 The uneventful days preceding this stormy period 
 were far worse to bear. During ten weeks I never 
 exchanged a word with a neighbor woman, nor even 
 saw one pass ; and I saw only three men, all horse- 
 men. The first a smooth, round-faced, large man, 
 wearing a plaid shawl was so motherly looking 
 that we set him down as a country doctor. The 
 second rider, gaunt and thin, with a stuffed gunny- 
 sack for a saddle, had a bag of flour lying across 
 his steed ; we concluded hunger had drawn him from 
 his lair. The last to pass was a stoop-shouldered, 
 hollow-chested stripling, singing "Hold the Fort, 
 for I Am Coming." 
 
 These are the only human beings, outside our own 
 families, that I saw from the last of January until 
 near the middle of April. Tom tells a rather myth- 
 ical story of seeing emerge from the melancholy 
 yews down in the canyon a shadowy hound, followed 
 by a brown-corduroyed man, who called up to him, 
 " I reckon you hain't seen no stray Angorys up this 
 way lately?" As this story lacks verification, we 
 think Thomas, by overlong living in the woods, is 
 beginning to " see things." 
 
 In those gloomy days darkness descended upon 
 us about four in the afternoon, making woefully 
 long evenings. At first we were glad, as it gave us 
 
jFcom 3n Oregon Kattcfc 
 
 a chance to read our Christmas books and the piles 
 of magazines and papers saved up from the busy 
 season. After that for a while we enjoyed re-read- 
 ing our favorites among the old books. Then came 
 a time when the " restless pulse " of ennui could not 
 be quieted even by good literature. 
 
 I'll just lift the curtain and give you a glimpse of 
 one of our winter evenings, which will be a fair 
 sample of the other hundred or two. Open wide 
 your eyes and look across the rainy night away up 
 into the dark fir forests of Oregon. Do you see a 
 faint light shining and wavering among the wet 
 leaves ? Well, that glimmer is from a student lamp 
 in front of the big stone fireplace of the Ranch of 
 the Pointed Firs. At the left of it, in an old Morris 
 chair, sits Tom, silently and diligently reading. A 
 low willow rocker on the right is occupied by Kath- 
 arine, also silently and diligently reading. Between 
 the two, upon a black fur rug, still as a shadow, lies 
 Sheila, dreaming of summertime and the whirr of 
 pheasant wings. 
 
 Hours pass. The Morris-chair reader lays his 
 book aside, draws nearer the fire, and, replenishing 
 it, remarks that it must be near midnight. Even 
 as he speaks, the clock chimes eight. Katharine 
 closes her book, seeks the opposite chimney corner, 
 and there they sit, like a couple of heathen gods 
 carved in wood, solemnly staring into the fire, which, 
 having just swallowed a fresh dose of turpentine 
 
JFtom an Oregon JRancft 
 
 and pitch, snaps and crackles so alarmingly that 
 Sheila, suspecting a gun, retires to a distant corner. 
 
 Presently the " brazen image " on the left remarks 
 abruptly, " I'm as hungry as a bear ; I wish we had 
 some raw oysters ! " 
 
 "You might as well wish for the apples of Hes- 
 perides." 
 
 "Just now I prefer the common ones of Oregon. 
 Where are they? I'll get some." 
 
 " All gone at the house." 
 
 " Great Scott ! Then there isn't one on the place, 
 and no more to come until next July." 
 
 "And we're twenty miles from oranges and ba- 
 nanas, Tom, and the roads hub-deep with good red 
 Oregon mud." 
 
 " I'll buy an airship before I'm a year older ! " 
 
 Contemplation of the fire is silently resumed; no 
 sound, save a little secret whispering among the 
 flames, the muffled throbbing of rain on the mossy 
 roof, and the steady drip from the overflowing eaves. 
 
 "Just listen, Tom! Drip, drip, drip, everlast- 
 ingly ! No wonder the gloom of this thing has crept 
 into our hearts and looks out of our eyes. It's as 
 bad as Chesnywold, in Lincolnshire." 
 
 "Not quite we haven't any Ghosts' Walk!" 
 
 " No ; but I wish to goodness we had, and that a 
 whole procession of phantoms paraded there nightly, 
 spouting fire and brimstone, winding up with the 
 carmagnole in blue flames." 
 
jFrom 3n flPregon 
 
 " Whew ! What's the carmagnole ? " 
 " I don't exactly know something fiendish, 
 though ; and I'd actually be glad to look out at mid- 
 night and see a couple of dozen airy apparitions, lit 
 with phosphorus, cutting the pigeon wing under 
 these dripping black firs. We would get a thrill or 
 two at least, and that would be something just now." 
 " Katharine, are you getting tired of Oregon?" 
 "Tired of Oregon! You know I love its very 
 name. I'm only tired of sullen skies, rain, mud, 
 myself, and you." 
 
 ; ' Thanks. Your frankness emboldens me to con- 
 fess that there have been dark moments of late when 
 your society seemed to me to lack something of the 
 charm of the Sorceress of the Nile." 
 
 "Very likely. I never set myself up for a sor- 
 ceress. I know I am stupid ; so are you. We need 
 friends, mirth, music, and all that sort of thing; and 
 it wouldn't greatly damage our immortal souls even 
 to see a good play. Oh, Tom ! just imagine that we 
 are sitting this very minute in a brilliantly lighted 
 theater, the perfume of flowers in the air, well- 
 dressed people all about us, wealth and beauty in the 
 boxes, waves of melody floating up from the orches- 
 tra, one final flourish and crash, and lo ! the curtain 
 
 rises." 
 
 Adding more fuel to the fire and carefully brush- 
 ing the hearth, Tom remarked, "What do you say 
 to cards ? We have all the Sarah Battle essentials." 
 
JFrom 
 
 " Not all, Tom. The ' rigor of the game' would 
 be lacking ; for you well know that I always did, do 
 now, and ever shall hate cards." 
 
 "Well, then, as gardening time is not far off, 
 suppose we look over a seed catalogue and select 
 such seeds as we shall need." 
 
 " Good heavens ! A seed catalogue ! I want ex- 
 citement, but I couldn't stand anything quite so 
 hilarious as that." 
 
 " I'm sure you have often said there was nothing 
 more fascinating." 
 
 " Possibly, when the sun was shining and birds 
 singing ; but to sit in this dreariness and watch you 
 slowly turn the pages and hear you ask, ' Now about 
 cucumbers : shall we get the white spine or the long 
 greens? Onions: the yellow Danver is a good 
 onion, don't you think ? Radishes : English Break- 
 fast. Didn't we have some seed left over? Beans: 
 I'll order the bunch kind the Golden Wax, I 
 guess.' Honestly, Tom, I couldn't listen tonight to 
 that lingo, clear through alphabetically from aspara- 
 gus to watermelons, and live." 
 
 "Well, that was my trump card. I've nothing 
 more to offer." Leaning back he began singing 
 
 " I'm wearing awa', Jean, 
 Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean." 
 
 After an interval the doleful one remarks : " I've 
 [186] 
 
jftom an Oregon Kancft 
 
 thought of something, Tom, that would be absorbing 
 work, for 
 
 ' There's nae sorrow there, Jean, 
 There's neither cauld nor care, Jean/ 
 
 Let's write a ghost story ! " 
 
 "All right. I've long felt in my bones that I 
 could write a rattling good ghost story. We'll col- 
 laborate." 
 
 "Oh! I think I understand." 
 
 The inspired ones seize pencil and paper, and at 
 once become absorbed in plots and plans. Curtain 
 falls at 8 -.30 P. M. 
 
 We really did try the ghost story. It was about 
 the only fun we had last winter. We wrote alter- 
 nate chapters, Tom illustrating the whole with pencil 
 sketches. It is a work of almost supernatural power, 
 and destined to live, we think, and rank with the 
 really great literature of the world. It will appear 
 about the holidays some other year. 
 
FTER the slackening of the winter rains, 
 which I tried to picture to you in my 
 last letter, there came an aftermath 
 of light showers and lovely mists, 
 soft, filmy, floating-about-the-mountain 
 mists. Nothing else in all these beautiful Oregon 
 hills seems quite so near and dear to me as these 
 mists, so sympathetic, so companionable, and yet so 
 indescribable; a witchery of nature, too changeful 
 and elusive to be caught by words. I cannot tell 
 you how much I love them, nor how strangely they 
 appeal to my better self. Often, when annoyed by 
 household cares, and the many 
 
 " Little sharp vexations, 
 The briers that catch and fret," 
 
 I look out of my kitchen window and see these ten- 
 der gray mists quietly rising from the encircling 
 
 [188] 
 
Jftom 3n SDtegon Rancft 
 
 hills, like clouds of incense to the Great Spirit. 
 Tears "rise in my heart and gather to my eyes," 
 my rebellious mood is softened, my worries slip 
 away, peace steals into my heart, and I am com- 
 forted and helped as by the silent sympathetic pres- 
 sure of the hand of a friend. I cannot analyze the 
 mysterious charm of these dreamy, brooding 
 shadows, nor define what it is they say to me, nor 
 make clear even to myself the secret of their silent 
 ministry. I only know they soothe and tranquillize 
 and restore. Perhaps the Father, mindful of the 
 solitariness of his mountain children, sends these 
 soft winds of peace to hover over them, in token 
 of His unforgetting love and care. 
 
 If through an unkind fate I should suffer ban- 
 ishment from this land of enchantment, I know I 
 should be homesick day and night for the " Sisters 
 of the gray veil," as Tom calls them. He often 
 comes in saying, "The gray veils have camped 
 among the firs today," or " The Sisters of the gray 
 veil are climbing the hills this morning," and some- 
 how the name satisfies my sense of kinship with 
 them. 
 
 About this time I enjoyed some delightful walks 
 v/ith my new acquaintance, the young lady who gave 
 me Sheila. She had just returned from a distant 
 ranch where she had gone to spend the holiday sea- 
 son, and where she had been imprisoned by high 
 waters for many weeks. We call this young lady 
 
 [189] 
 
JFtom 3n ffl)tegon 
 
 " Di Vernon," because of her adventurous spirit and 
 love of out-door life. We met her once or twice 
 soon after our arrival here, but before we had be- 
 come fairly acquainted she went to visit friends in 
 Colorado, where she remained many months, and we 
 did not meet again until about a year ago. If she 
 had been at home during our long winter, we should 
 have been less lonely, as she, in short skirts and rub- 
 ber boots, roams these hills quite regardless of the 
 weather. 
 
 Three dogs are her inseparable companions 
 Texas, a great fierce fellow, with a deep and terrible 
 voice; Shady, a hound, lean, lank, and brown as 
 his name implies; and June, a Scotch collie. The 
 latter is a beauty, yellow and white in color, and 
 clean, fluffy, and f ringy, like a prize chrysanthemum ; 
 she has a pretty face, too, with big, luminous brown 
 eyes, set in a tiny circle of black, as if she had coquet- 
 tishly touched them up with India ink. I really be- 
 lieve there is no handsomer dog in Oregon with 
 one notable exception. 
 
 Miss Vernon rides a fleet little Indian pony, with- 
 out a saddle just a surcingle, with stirrup at- 
 tached. She uses a queer sort of bridle, with reins 
 of braided rawhide, and a cruel-looking curb bit; 
 and, strangest of all, she rides with a spur. When 
 I first caught a glimpse of her shoe embellished with 
 that shining metal wheel, I grew fairly dizzy. But, 
 oh, how she rides ! Flying along at a furious pace, 
 
 [190] 
 
Jfrom 3n SDregon 
 
 leaping over logs and even fences, how she manages 
 to stick on is a mystery to me. 
 
 The hill women all ride, and ride well, using only 
 the surcingle, though sometimes it is buckled around 
 a blanket or a sheepskin. The only sidesaddle we 
 have seen here came up from the valley, and we all 
 looked upon it with contempt. You may think that 
 as they ignore the saddle they have adopted the 
 modern method of riding astride ; but they haven't. 
 Such dashing horsemanship among women has 
 greatly astonished us, and our interest in it never 
 wanes. When I hear galloping hoofs, and see 
 through the trees the flash of a sunbonnet or 
 streaming veil, I stand stock-still in admiration. 
 
 But I am straying far from our own particular 
 enchantress, who greatly surprised us during her 
 first call. In speaking of this isolated life, I had 
 asked what her amusements were here. 
 
 " Oh, I ride, fish, and hunt, and I'm fond of dogs 
 and horses, and as we have a lot of them I spend a 
 good deal of my time with them. I always help 
 break the bunchgrassers, and that's exciting." 
 
 Bunchgrassers ! I had never before heard that 
 word, and wondered if she could possibly mean 
 jack-rabbits. I have never seen any, but have 
 always associated them with bunchgrass. But why 
 should they want to break them? I kept still and 
 waited for light. 
 
 When I had learned that she was talking of 
 
jfrom 3n SDregon Kancft 
 
 horses, I made bold to ask, "Why bunchgrassers ? " 
 and was told they were horses that had been running 
 wild on the range. 
 
 Tom, who had been an interested listener to all 
 this, asked her if she could wield the lasso. 
 
 "Oh, yes," she replied; "my father taught me 
 that when I was quite a young girl, though I don't 
 pretend to be an expert." 
 
 While she discussed horsebreaking methods with 
 Tom, I looked at her in amazement. It was hard to 
 reconcile such deeds with the doer. She was "like 
 the hazel twig, straight and slender, and as brown 
 as hazel nuts," with a pleasant voice, a charming 
 smile, a frank, cordial manner, entirely free from 
 self -consciousness; was well gowned in dark blue 
 cloth, wore a Rough Rider hat of tan color, with 
 gauntlets to match, and tucked in her belt was a 
 yellow daffodil. 
 
 As she discoursed enthusiastically of ropes, 
 thongs, slipknots, and nooses, I remembered that 
 only a few minutes before in our talk she had quoted 
 from "The Birds of Killingworth " and from "The 
 Bonnie Brier Bush " and so my wonder grew. 
 
 When she left us we sat for a moment looking, 
 at each other dumbly. Then Tom remarked, " Exit 
 Saint Cecilia, the female bronco buster." * 
 
 " Aren't you ashamed, Tom, to speak in that way 
 of one of my visitors?" 
 
 "Why, no, Katharine I meant that as a com- 
 
 [192] 
 
Jfrom 3n SDtegon 
 
 pliment. Though she talked of the overturning of 
 wild horses, she certainly looked the gentlest of 
 saints. She is a new type, and I like her immensely. 
 She's a thousand times more interesting than such 
 girls as we have known, talking eternally of recep- 
 tions and clubs, of whist and theater parties, of pink 
 teas and green luncheons, color schemes that were 
 poems, and gowns that were dreams, and that sort of 
 gush. Now this girl is a real Di Vernon, a novelty, 
 and a most refreshing one." 
 
 Tom had hit upon a name that seemed rightfully 
 to belong to her, and we have called her by it ever 
 since. We have learned that she is a very successful 
 trout fisher, and as a discoverer of bee trees has no 
 equal in the hills. She has no fear of bees, and 
 always helps to take the honey; is a fine marksman 
 has a rifle and a shotgun of her own, and can bag 
 as many pheasants and quail as her brother or uncle 
 when out with them on a hunting trip. She often 
 goes with them coon-hunting at night, when it is so 
 dark they have to carry lanterns. Once when she 
 was out hunting alone in our woods, the dogs got on 
 the track of a wildcat, chased it half the morning, 
 and finally treed it. She followed them, found it 
 high among the branches, fired, and brought it down. 
 
 "Of course, Di, you kept its skin for a rug?" 
 
 "No; sold it." 
 
 "You foolish girl! Why did you?" 
 
 " Oh, to get some more money to buy some more 
 
 [193] 
 
Jfrom 3n 2Dre0on Eancft 
 
 ammunition to kill some more wildcats!" she an- 
 swered laughingly. 
 
 I am very sorry to tell you that a few years ago 
 she killed a deer her first, and, I am glad to say,- 
 her last In telling me of it she said, " Never again 
 while I live will I point a gun toward a deer; for 
 that poor thing, as it lay dying, turned its beautiful 
 head in my direction, and two big reproachful eyes 
 looked me squarely in my face, and I felt myself the 
 cruel murderess that I was. I had no pride in that 
 shot. I went home ashamed and in tears, haunted 
 by those dying eyes. But I've saved the life of many 
 a one since in atonement for that crime." 
 
 "How, Di?" 
 
 "Very easily just by misdirecting their pur- 
 suers. You know there is a regular deer run on 
 our place, and many a time when I have been stroll- 
 ing through the fields or along the banks of the 
 stream I've seen one of those poor frightened crea- 
 tures come flying out of the woods with death at its 
 heels, clear the brook at a bound, and, though ready 
 to drop from exhaustion, not daring to pause even a 
 second for a drop of pure water to cool its throat. 
 The hunters are seldom far behind, and when they 
 come crashing through the underbrush and see me, 
 they naturally ask whether I have seen the deer and 
 which way it ran. That's my opportunity, and I rise 
 to meet it. 
 
 "'The deer? Yes, I saw it about three minutes 
 
 [194] 
 
jFtom 
 
 ago. It jumped this stream where that alder stands 
 and ran straight up the canyon/ Or, ' It ran across 
 the meadow, leaped the fence, and entered the oppo- 
 site woods just between those two tall dead firs/ 
 
 1 ' Oh, thank you, Miss ! thank you ! ' they gasp 
 excitedly, as they dash off in the wrong direction. 
 I suppose I ought to suffer remorse for the lie I have 
 told, but I don't; I know that I have saved the life 
 of a hunted wild thing, and I feel glad to my finger 
 tips." 
 
 Our young lady knows these hills and woods and 
 streams like a book. She knows the haunts of the 
 wild flowers, but not always their names to my 
 regret, for, not learning them of her, I despair of 
 learning them at all. She it was who told us of the 
 rhododendrons and where they grew; it was four 
 miles farther back in the mountains ; a part of the 
 way there was no road, only a tangled trail, the last 
 half-mile straight up. Though eager to go at once 
 to that field Elysian, my ardor cooled somewhat as 
 I thought of the walk of eight miles, part of it a 
 straight climb, with active housework before and 
 after taking. I decided the rhododendrons of the 
 mountains must come to Mahomet. And come they 
 did; for Bert, after hearing of them, never really 
 enjoyed a good night's rest until he had scaled the 
 heights crowned by those blushing rose trees. He 
 returned from his trip late in the evening, footsore 
 and weary, but glowing with enthusiasm, declaring 
 
 [195] 
 
Jfrom 3n Dregon 
 
 he had seen the most wonderful sight in all the 
 world. "Fully a half-acre of those magnificent 
 blooms! Just think of it! a pink-canopied island 
 in a sea of green!" 
 
 He had carried a great armload of their flowery 
 branches all that distance, and for the next ten days 
 "rose-pink rhododendron bells, with narrow leaves 
 of satin's sheen," glorified and illumined this old 
 box-house. 
 
 We were surprised and pleased to find our new 
 friend a most intelligent and appreciative reader of 
 good literature. The books in her home, though 
 few, are of the best, and have been so thoroughly 
 and thoughtfully read that she seems to know them 
 by heart. She is a good comrade, and we enjoyed 
 many delightful walks during the time of mists of 
 which I have written. As there were still frequent 
 showers, and the ground was well soaked by the 
 winter rains, I followed her example, donning a pair 
 of rubber boots which Tom had bought for me to 
 wear during "snake week." 
 
 A rainy-day walk in town is an uncomfortable 
 experience compared with our free-and-easy hill 
 excursions. We wear old soft felt hats, and our 
 most disreputable jackets, and gowns with skirts 
 reaching but little below our boot tops. Unham- 
 pered by gloves and umbrellas, we swing along with 
 the mist in our faces, as happy as gypsies. Four 
 barking dogs go frisking ahead, so insanely gleeful 
 
Jftom an 2Dre0on 
 
 they must needs run back very often to leap on us 
 with muddy feet, just to ask if this isn't a lark and 
 if we aren't glad they let us come. 
 
 As we skirt the red-furrowed fields, hugging the 
 old rail fence for the sake of a grassy path, fright- 
 ened quails go scurrying off through the tall weeds 
 and tangled briers, while from near-by thickets, with 
 a rush of wings that is almost a roar, startled China 
 pheasants fly up and over, croaking as hoarsely as 
 though an epidemic of sore throat were raging 
 among them. 
 
 Our footpath leads straight to the woods, the 
 entrance barred only by a few mossy poles. We 
 slide back the two middle ones, and gracefully 
 tumble through the opening. Our impatient four- 
 footed friends, who long before had leaped that bar- 
 rier, plunging into the forest's fringing under- 
 growth, were doubtless already engaged in a still 
 hunt, as no sound came from them. As we struggle 
 through the dripping bushes, rejoicing in both their 
 baptism and their benediction, and enter the dusky 
 atmosphere of the real woods, where the stately 
 trees stand in crowded columns, and catch that first 
 cool wave of scented silence, we are apt to talk com- 
 passionately of city-dwellers, all heaped and huddled 
 together, with nothing but a little carpentry or ma- 
 sonry between them. I think of all such pityingly, 
 as I stand in the solitude of the pointed firs, crush- 
 ing their green aromatic needles in my hands, bury- 
 
 [197] 
 
4Fcom 3n Dregon Rancft 
 
 ing my face in them to catch their fullest and sweet- 
 est perfume; and then I thank the kindly star that 
 guided us across plain and desert and mountain into 
 these glorious hills of Oregon. 
 
WANT to tell you something more 
 about our walks. Tom and I have a 
 couple of light, tough cedar alpenstocks, 
 which we regard as very helpful in hill 
 climbing; and I like them for another 
 reason. In the end of each is a very 
 sharp spike, which I have secretly thought would be 
 of service if I should chance to meet one of the furry 
 folk of the forest and find it necessary to engage 
 him in single-handed combat. 
 
 When Di Vernon joined me on these excursions, 
 it seemed but courteous to offer her one of them. 
 She carried it twice; on its third presentation she 
 remarked, " If it won't hurt your feelings, I'd rather 
 not take that pole." Pole, indeed ! my nice, smooth, 
 sand-papered, cedar alpenstock! Rather chagrined, 
 Tasked, "Why? Don't you like it?" "No; I don't 
 care much for it. You see, I'm accustomed to the 
 
 [199] 
 
Jfrom an 2Dregon Batuf) 
 
 hills, have climbed them from childhood, and I 
 really have no use for it." I had observed that she 
 carried it like a music roll under her arm. 
 
 " I'll venture to say/' she added, " that you never 
 have seen a native of the hills walking with one of 
 these poles ; only newcomers carry them/' 
 
 Though humbled by this " plain talk to plain peo- 
 ple," I had my own reasons for clinging to my 
 "pole," and so I clung. I find, however, that I 
 carry it less like a flagstaff, and note a growing 
 tendency to trail it. 
 
 The walks here are all so interesting that we often 
 have difficulty in deciding which to take. We some- 
 times leave it to the dogs. If they scamper away 
 across the sodden, spongy meadow, we know they 
 are bound for the canyon, and we cheerfully follow 
 them. 
 
 Near the stream we enter a narrow, winding path, 
 padded with brown wet leaves, bordered by willow, 
 maple, ash, and alder trees; while crowding among 
 these grow smaller trees wild cherry, Indian 
 peach, chittam vine bark, and hazel, with elder, wild 
 syringa, currant and blackberry bushes; the wild 
 rose, too, with an infinite variety of other shrubs 
 that love to haunt the banks of Deer Leap. 
 
 This difficult path is made even more difficult in 
 places by curving boughs of vine maple and the 
 palm-like branches of young firs. We must needs 
 advance crouchingly here, hoisting the green, sag- 
 
 [200] 
 
JFrom an 2Dre0on 
 
 ging roof above our heads, learning through its 
 showery protests that sagging is not its only defect. 
 
 Soon after escaping from this troublesome tangle, 
 we enter the dusky atmosphere of the big trees. This 
 canyon, Nell, is a wild and eerie region, a veritable 
 "ghoul-haunted woodland of wier," just the place 
 for hobgoblins and spooks. I avoid hugging the 
 trees lest a withered arm with bony hand should 
 reach round and clutch me. 
 
 So far we have seen nothing more awesome than 
 solemn brown owls perched high among the firs, 
 silent and meditative as cowled monks. Occasion- 
 ally at our approach one slips noiselessly away,, 
 though oftener he sits motionless, staring down with 
 tragic eyes. 
 
 Here, there, and everywhere among these tower- 
 ing trees lie fallen ones. Some have tumbled head 
 first into the canyon, their mighty roots, with tons 
 of earth, reared high in air a hanging garden 
 where green mosses grow, with low bushes, trailing 
 vines, and even fine young firs, promising scions of 
 a lordly race. Across these, other unfortunates have 
 fallen rampant, while still others are stretched prone 
 upon the ground, half buried in the thick woodland 
 debris. 
 
 Here, too, are trees left headless and otherwise 
 disfigured by fierce winds; and many fire sufferers 
 also. Their jagged trunks, painted in motley colors, 
 are left in shapes both fantastic and wonderful 
 
 [20*] 
 
JFtom 3n SDregon 
 
 strange resemblances to man and beast, suggestive 
 of the skill of some wandering wood carver. 
 
 The dullest fancy must see in this burnt-wood 
 exhibit the sculptured majesty of King Lear and 
 the picturesquely posed Huguenot lovers; also our 
 soldiers' monuments, where, poised upon a broken 
 column, stands a fine military figure in full uniform, 
 even to hat, epaulettes, and sword. Believing him 
 to be a cavalry officer, we have named him General 
 Forrest. 
 
 And, Nell, through a vista of trees may be seen 
 emerging from the opposite wood a lady of most 
 aristocratic bearing, wearing a picture hat with 
 sweeping plumes of black, and a long black cloak 
 bordered with silvery gray fur. As she stands in a 
 twilighty place, she is known as Our Lady of the 
 Gloaming. 
 
 I shall not expect you to believe the half of this, 
 unless you yourself have somewhere seen the strange 
 carvings and colorings of the fire artist. 
 
 This art gallery of Nature's is half screened from 
 our path by naked branches of young oaks, through 
 which a rain of gray moss is falling, giving an agree- 
 able touch of desolation to our surroundings. For 
 your sake, I am willing to admit that forest statuary 
 seen through so ghostly a drop curtain may, from 
 its vagueness, possibly receive an extra dash of 
 glamour. 
 
 The farther up the canyon we go the denser and 
 
 [202] 
 
Jftom an flDregon Batufc 
 
 darker grow the woods. In that time of rain and 
 mist it was often almost like night there, and still as 
 death, unless the dogs got on track of some wild 
 thing and set the echoes flying. In that case the 
 yelping and yowling of Shady, the hound, must 
 have made even the wood nymphs strike for tall 
 timber. 
 
 Sometimes through a small clearing we catch a 
 glimpse of "high Cromla's head piercing dark 
 clouds, with squally winds in their skirts," and see 
 gray mists rolling stormily through the hills. That 
 picture, with the roar of the mountain stream, is like 
 a page from Ossian. The pool of memory is stirred. 
 Half unconsciously we listen for the trembling harp 
 strings and tuneful voices of " aged bards with gray 
 hair on the breeze," for the horn of the hunter, and 
 the clash of steely mail. 
 
 If from out the tall pointed firs should come 
 "slowly stalking dark-browed warriors with bossy 
 shields and helmeted heads, with red eyes rolling 
 silently," I'd blanch not, only stand with spiked pole 
 uplifted and await the onslaught. As for those 
 very thin, dim ghosts of Ardven, with robes of 
 flying mist, I'd fear them as little "as the rising 
 breeze that whirls the gray beard of the thistle." 
 
 Having once surrendered to the mood inspired 
 by the wild scenery of my beloved Oregon hills, I 
 should feel little surprise, if, at the next turn of our 
 winding trail, we came face to face with "the fair 
 
 [203] 
 
Jftom an 2Dregon Kane!) 
 
 maids of Woody Worven, with hair like the mist 
 on Cromla, when it curls in the breeze and shines 
 in the sun." And even less should I be surprised, 
 if through the tall fern thickets surrounding us 
 should appear " the branching heads of dark brown 
 hinds, flying from stern hunters with bows of 
 bended yew and the panting gray dogs long- 
 bounded sons of the chase." 
 
 Di, as a devotee of Scott, thinks the stage setting 
 calls for kilted Highlanders, with plumed bonnets 
 and tasseled horns, for red-faced monks and jolly 
 friars, for winding bugles, baying hounds, scream- 
 ing bagpipes, and all that sort of thing. 
 
 Farther up the canyon at the right of our path is 
 a deep cleft in the hills, and there in a most romantic 
 spot a spring of pure, sparkling water gushes from 
 encircling mossy rocks half hidden by ferns and 
 buckthorn. 
 
 We always make a detour through this pic- 
 turesque glen to drink of this water from cups fash- 
 ioned of leaves. We could, of course, bring with 
 us a more satisfactory drinking cup, but that would 
 savor too much of civilization a thing we cannot 
 brook. 
 
 Oh, Nell, if only you could see this crystal spring 
 and its wild environment! I'm sure it would sug- 
 gest to you, as to us, the " fairy well haunted by 
 the White Lady." One has but to imagine that 
 overshadowing buckthorn to be holly which it 
 
 [204] 
 
Jfrom 3n 2Dre0on 
 
 so closely resembles and the illusion is complete. 
 
 Standing there one day, I said to Di, " I have a 
 mind to call up an apparition, if you think you can 
 look on it and live." 
 
 Stepping forward, bowing solemnly to holly and 
 spring, I repeated the well-known incantation 
 
 " Thrice to the holly brake, 
 Thrice to the well, 
 I bid thee awake, 
 White Maid of Avenel!" 
 
 But to my chagrin that golden-girdled spirit failed 
 to appear. 
 
 ''' The Lady seems not to be at home, Di." 
 
 " No wonder. You forgot a very important part 
 of the spell. Now watch me." Thereupon that 
 intrepid damsel stalked through the oozy moss to 
 the very edge of the fountain, where, with clasped 
 hands and " red eyes rolling " wildly about the glen, 
 she muttered, "It is the place, the season, and the 
 hour!" 
 
 Then, gravely removing the rubber boot from her 
 right foot, balancing herself on the left, she bowed 
 as impressively as could be expected from one in 
 that stork-like attitude, thrice to the holly and thrice 
 to the well, invoking the spirit in tones more awful 
 than those of the ghost in "Hamlet," using both 
 verses of the charm to make all sure. Again we 
 
 [205] 
 
jfrom an >re0on Kancft 
 
 waited. Nothing was seen, nothing heard, save the 
 hurrying waters of Deer Leap. 
 
 "By my knightly word, this is strange!" ex- 
 claimed the petitioner, drawing on her boot. 
 "Though I bethink me now I should have brought 
 hither me good steel blade, or, lacking that, should 
 at least have waved a bulrush or a hazel wand." 
 
 "If you'd like to try again, Di, and think a 
 cedar " 
 
 " Good gracious ! Do you think I'd try to lure a 
 wood maiden from her haunts with a spiked pole? 
 Anyway, come to think about it, I don't want her 
 to appear, for now we have the freedom of her 
 drawing room, and can stare around to our hearts' 
 content." 
 
 Mother Nature doesn't mind us; she knows that 
 we are just a couple of tired mortals from out the 
 workaday world, who have strayed into her leafy 
 courts for an hour's forgetfulness of the fever called 
 living; knows, too, that the air of her great sani- 
 tarium is apt slightly to affect the brain of her 
 visitors; has learned to expect nonsense, and to 
 accept it with placid indifference. 
 
 But even the sanest could hardly stand in this 
 deep, narrow ravine and not think of a city drawing 
 room in gala day attire. 
 
 Across the lower end hangs a leafy portiere; 
 through its seine-like meshes flash the silvery waters 
 of Deer Leap, the upper one banked high with firs 
 
 [206] 
 
Jfrom an Dregon 
 
 and hemlock; a charming background for the fern- 
 fringed fountain, its entire floor carpeted with thick 
 green moss, which extends up the side walls, form- 
 ing an effective dado; logs and stumps upholstered 
 in the same material massive divans and hassocks 
 scattered conveniently about, awaiting the arrival 
 of our lady's guests, the merry foresters. 
 
 When I speak of mossy logs, Nell, you mustn't 
 think they are like ours at home, splotched here and 
 there with that thin, dry, scaly stuff. Here, in the 
 rainy season, they are swathed in it, as completely 
 hidden as if slipped into cases of I was going to 
 say plush, but that's too smooth and shiny for this 
 intricate moss; fashioned of millions of tiny, 
 twisted, curving ferns, it looks more like curled 
 astrakhan or some rich fur. 
 
 We lifted a piece of the White Lady's carpet, 
 about a square yard, just to see if she could turn it 
 when she cleaned house, carefully replacing it, you 
 may be sure, patting down the edges that the dese- 
 cration might not be noted, and, oh, how beautiful 
 it was, Nell ! Nature couldn't make a lovelier thing 
 if she tried ! Heavy as a fleece of wool, so deep and 
 so soft, as luxurious to eye and touch as any Persian 
 prayer rug. 
 
 Now you are saying, "Katharine doesn't know 
 a blessed thing about a Persian prayer rug ! " You 
 are mistaken. Haven't I read that beautiful poem 
 of Mr. Aldrich's, describing his, beginning 
 
 I 207 ] 
 
JFrom 3n Oregon 
 
 " Made smooth some centuries ago 
 
 By praying Eastern devotees, 
 Blurred by those dusky, naked feet, 
 And somewhat worn by shuffling knees 
 In Ispahan." 
 
 Now what do you think? And that's not all. I 
 once saw one with my own eyes at the World's 
 Fair in Chicago, guarded by a red-turbaned, saf- 
 fron-tinted gentleman, of countenance so sinister I 
 thought as I looked at him, "My Yellow Peril, 
 no prayer rug is ever going to suffer much wear 
 and tear through your devotional exercises ! " Now 
 see how far afield I am! I honestly believe an 
 incredulous friend is a sharper trial than a thank- 
 less child ! 
 
 We one day found a perfect little bracket shelf, 
 just the color of old ivory, its outer surface all 
 written over with a fine tracery of sepia-tinted 
 hieroglyphics. We half feared, as we pried and 
 pulled it from the tree, that we were carrying off a 
 love sonnet in secret cipher left there by some 
 forest-haunting Orlando of the hills for his elusive 
 Rosalind. 
 
 This was Di's find. Not long ago I saw it in her 
 dining room, fastened to the wall and holding a 
 little squatty brown and yellow jug, from which 
 trailed two or three pretty nasturtium vines, with 
 their flaming blossoms. 
 
 [208] 
 
jftom 3n ffl)tegon Kancft 
 
 Another time we took from an old stump a most 
 striking facsimile of the bust of Shakespeare. It 
 was of plastic material, much like paraffine wax, 
 only cameo-tinted, and exquisite. As this was my 
 discovery, I brought it home and gave it a back- 
 ground of black velvet. 
 
 But I must stop this rambling talk, and I will 
 stop right now, by wishing you a happy Christmas 
 and a glad New Year. I came near forgetting it. It 
 is hard to realize the nearness of the holiday season, 
 when one lives in the woods, hearing no Christmas 
 talk, seeing none of the flutter and excitement of it, 
 and the weather so far from Christmasy. 
 
 For several days dense fogs have enveloped the 
 land. Today even the hills are blotted out, and the 
 fog creeping nigher has built a high wall of gray 
 around yard and orchard one we can neither see 
 through nor over. We feel like castaways on some 
 lonely island, with the vague sea about us. 
 
 And yet we know somewhere beyond this gray- 
 ness Christmas bells are ringing and Christmas 
 carols singing. 
 
 You'll keep the day with festal cheer, and be to- 
 night in a whirl of festivity. We'll have the biggest, 
 crackliest, snappiest Yule log we can find, and the 
 brightest blaze a Rochester burner can produce 
 and then what? Why, just let me tell you. Three 
 brand-new books, a dozen magazines, sent us some 
 weeks ago by a blessed saint and kept by us as a 
 
 [209] 
 
jFrom 3n flDtegon 
 
 special treat for the holiday season! I can hardly 
 wait till night. Just to think of those new books 
 with uncut pages gives me a kindly " peace on earth, 
 good will to man" feeling. 
 
 Good-bye. God bless us, every one ! 
 
 [210] 
 

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