# Letters from an Oregon Ranch/Chapter 9

IX
Having recovered somewhat from the partial anæsthesia 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 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,” sputtered 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 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 every one had noticed a peculiar tang to the milk, but, through loyalty to the cows, none had spoken of it.
​“And now, fellow-citizens,” said Tom, “what disposition are we to make of this delectable potpourri?”
“Well, Bert will take a part of it, and—”
“Not by a good deal!” interrupted that gentleman, 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 churning 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 accustomed to this flavor in early spring butter and rather like it.”
“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 supplies, then say quite innocently, ‘Oh, by the way, a lady sent in some butter with me; came near forgetting 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 recall 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.”
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 longing 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, theatres, 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 companionship. You will think it incredible when I tell you that since last July I have not spoken to a woman—nor a man, either, except the occasional workmen we have employed,—always, of course, excepting the other two members of our quartet. The most of our near neighbors are men “keeping bachelor’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 fairy-land, 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 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 banishment from the Santa Claus pageant.
That evening, as the rain tinkled against the window-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 Yuletide; now, looking through our book-shelves, it was not to be found,—probably loaned to some one in the old home and thus left behind. So even that pleasure 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, motionless 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 long in its cool moist gloom, selecting our woodland treasures with perplexity because of their bewildering 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 bluejay 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, nipping 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.