LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
and one can drive a nail into it without having a man sound the wall with a hammer in an effort to find the studding.
Upon each end of our sideboard stood a red jardiniere containing a small Christmas tree; between them was a punch-bowl filled with the sweeping fronds of the sword-fern; and shining amid this greenery was a hydra-headed brass candlestick, with red candles. The table was then formally laid for the coming banquet. A centrepiece being in order, wanting a green jardiniere and having none, a wire basket used for frying croquettes was lined with moss,—the exquisite kind that seems woven of miniature ferns, green side out of course, and well pushed through, concealing the wires. In this we planted our loveliest little fir tree. Red berries were strung and festooned through its lower branches, the upper ones embellished with tiny red candles left over from previous decorations at our Eastern home. Placing this centrepiece upon a round mirror in the centre of the table, we rested from our labors by the old stone fireplace, the one and only interior jewel of this mountain home.
Sitting that evening by our fireside, watching the flare and flicker of the flames, we saw passing the long procession of dead and gone Christmases which, viewed in retrospect, bring only sadness. Through filmy azure smoke came dear shadowy faces, looking back from the misty borderlands of “That Undiscovered Country,”—
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