LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
Though our quest was fruitless, I learned that there are worse things in life than hunting for eggs on an Oregon ranch. Those old logs and stumps mantled in pretty green moss gave out an agreeable damp woodsy smell; the wet fir boughs exhaled a pleasant perfume; and just before us rushed the noisy little brook, its clear waters flashing through the tawny tassels of alders and overhanging willows decked with downy gray–green catkins, charming prophecies of swift-coming Spring. And suddenly we came upon Spring herself, in the guise of a little tree covered with delicate white pendent blossoms. In almost breathless excitement we broke off some of the pretty branches, the first wild blooms we had gathered in Oregon. It was to us then a beautiful stranger; we have since learned that it was the Indian peach tree. In summer-time its branches are laden with perfectly formed though very tiny peaches; they look hard and forbidding, and lacking the courage of the aborigines, we have not tasted them.
Returning eggless to the house, Tom remarked resignedly, “Bert’s folks are in the same boat; that’s some comfort!”
“No, they are not; they have had three eggs. Mary told me so to-day.”
“Great Scott! I wonder Bert didn’t fire off a twenty-four-pounder after such an event!”
The report of those three eggs came to Tom like the explosion of a bomb in our camp. He declared fiercely
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