# Letters from an Oregon Ranch/Chapter 15

XV
This 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, especially 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.
The travellers 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, “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 woodland.”
“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 to-day, 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 survived their ravages seems strange, and yet we were constantly being surprised by some old-timer struggling through the sod. Bert made the first discovery, 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, proclaimed 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 the sunlight and startle newcomers by the colossal size and beauty of the Oregon peony. Soon followed the tall queenly iris, gowned in white, yellow, and pale blue; then came snowballs and lovely jonquils, with the spicy clove pink, fragrant with 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 surprised 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. Katharine, 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 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 remarked, “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, carefully staked about, hinting of something choice; but the omnivorous Angora (goat, not cat) had reached 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. Under one of the windows was the remains of an English ivy; given special treatment, to-day 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 perfection, 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 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 reaching the delectable land and delivering the basket reluctantly, she hurried away to inspect various surrounding 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 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 watchful supervision of the gray huntress, who, wearying of the pursuit of the ever-vanishing “Chiny,” had come up and thrown herself down 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 but terflies drifting 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.
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 remorsefully. 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 powered sugar, deluged with thick Jersey cream, made a luncheon good enough for royalty itself. My precious berries I saved to delight and refresh the wanderers on their return.