LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
ing knots of gold among the white blossoms. They came here in swarms last Spring, though earlier, when the peach trees were blooming. I remember that Tom called me to come out and see a “yellow peach tree.” He thought there were a hundred or more birds on one tree.
Such a flurry, flutter, and twitter as there was up among those pink blossoms! Such a multitude of little yellow birds we had never before seen. We were as excited as two children. They stayed but a day or two in such numbers, though many remained throughout the Summer.
I suppose this is another party of tourists stopping over with us to-day, thinking they have reached Paradise; and it is little wonder, for it is like it.
I too longed to stay there “and just be glad,” but the vegetables were calling me from below to hurry along and deliver them from the deadly snares of their enemies,—the coiling snake-grass, wire-grass, smart weed, dog’s fennel, and all their myriad foes. Reluctantly leaving the flowery kingdom, with glittering blade of steel I walked down into the valley of distress and began dealing death and destruction right and left. Yet even as I did it I felt a kind of pity for the innocent little trespassers.
I wish you could see this dear old ranch garden,—so quiet and secluded, hedged about by green growing wild things, like a lonely little island. Across one side
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