LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
that something must be done at once to stimulate the industry of our poultry-yard.
“Let’s make them a hot mash,” I suggested; “the article I read to-day advised it.”
“Great earth, Katharine! if you will kindly refrain from any further mention of ‘that article,’ I’ll make ’em a hot mash every hour in the day and every day in the year.”
“It’s just possible that you would overdo it,” retorted the aggrieved lady.
The next morning I prepared the “hot mash,” a terrible mess of corn-meal and bacon, and while I was deluging it with cayenne pepper the man of the house entered, and with that phenomenal memory of his remarked that “Uncle Jim’s folks” used black pepper; so we put in both. Then rummaging among various condiments, he exclaimed: “Paprika! That’s hot stuff! we’ll give ’em a dose. Mustard, stimulating and inspiring! Three tablespoonfuls will be about right. Ginger! Now we’ve struck it!—our hens lack ginger. Curry powder! What think you of that, Katharine?”
“It may be the one thing needful.”
“All right, in it goes!”
Liberally salted and stirred, the dish was pronounced fit for the gods. With the mixture in one hand, a dish of cold boiled potatoes in the other, the experimenter then advanced upon his victims.
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