# Letters from an Oregon Ranch/Chapter 4

IV
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now, as you listen to a tale of woe rising 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 goddess 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 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 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
Copyright, Kiser Bros., Portland, Ore.
LEWIS RIVER "The fir-clad hills of Oregon" (page 33)
​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 removing 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 toboggan 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 coil of wire, mounted this pedestal, observing that he felt quite like a performing elephant. After violent struggling and some vigorous boosting, he was safely landed on the porch roof. Crossing it gingerly, 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 ​perpendicular 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 spectacle, as seen upon the sharp ridge of a snowy cliff; that dark, distorted figure, half crawling, half leaping, 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 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, galloped 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 firma, 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.”
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 prancing round and round the stove ​like a whirling dervish, 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 floodgates of wrath opened. His listeners will never again doubt the existence of the emotional Mr. Bowser. There was absolutely no draught. It was found the projecting pipe aloft was not of sufficient 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, 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 postponement, 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 ordering 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 sackcloth 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 something 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, 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 we flew to the door and gave an answering call, all our fears forgotten! As that wagon-load of merchandise 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 travellers 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.