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You must not rashly infer, from the close of my last letter, that we were enveloped 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 fulness of your own holiday season. So up goes the curtain from the Christmas scene at the Ranch of the Pointed Firs.
First, you must know that, as is usual here in winter, the roads are bottomless. Turkey, cranberries, mince-pie ingredients, Christmas remembrances, all such essentials, are twenty miles away, and as unattainable 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 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
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