# Letters from an Oregon Ranch/Chapter 2

II
The 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 spectres, 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 some thing of foreboding in it.
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 wondered, 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 defenceless 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 some thing had at least growled, just to lend a touch of interest to my narrative. 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 surrey 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 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 slanting rain and the fast-gathering shadows of night, a very tall house of two stories, grim, gaunt, unpainted, frowning down inhospitably upon us. It looked to be the fitting abode of hobgoblins, warlocks, 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.
“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 crackling 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 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 housekeepers 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 centrepiece. 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 amid such chaos. Bert and Mary, groaning and perspiring, succeeded in putting up a bedstead in an adjoining room, surrounded by a confused mixture of things, suggestive of the reserve stock of a department store. Scorning the luxury of a bedstead, 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 terrific 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 Bedlamites 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, proceeding 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 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 different light, for, as I closed the door with a triumphant bang, he remarked, “Rather a doubtful compliment 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 occupying 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 narrow windows, crisscrossed 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 windows, five panes of glass missing, for which oilcloth 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 wedding 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 furnish forth a ​feast for a company of dragoons. Extending 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.