LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
fleurs-de-lis were all about me. Above them was a canopy of pink and white; around were the mighty hills spiked with the eternal green of the jagged fir trees, and over all was the arching blue of heaven.
Into my heart stole that peace which passeth understanding, with a tide of thanksgiving toward the all-loving Father, who gives to his poor tired children such glimpses of glory and beauty as they travel the long briery road stretching out from life’s dawn to life’s dusk. Then I pitied all the denizens of great cities imprisoned in brick and stone, so far away from these blessed hills of Oregon, where there’s “room to turn round in, to breathe, and be free.” At such times the world seems remote and unreal. No sound from it pierces our leafy barricade. No clanging bells, no whistles, no shrieking engines, no brass bands nor throbbing drums, invade this sweet peacefulness.
We grow almost conceited, living in this vast solitude, half believing that we are the only inhabitants of the earth, that the machinery of the universe is kept oiled and running just for us—until the mail arrives, some times once a week, but oftener once in two weeks; then, as we unfurl the manifold pages of the metropolitan papers we learn that there are others,—that the classes and the masses are still going up and down the world, toiling and suffering and dying. I suppose that when we received a daily mail this sort of thing came in smaller doses, and we became hardened to it; but
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