LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
when Spring came, by the wealth of bloom which leaped to light along its borders.
This is quite an old ranch, one that has had many different owners, some of whom must have been real flower-lovers. Wherever they are to-day, I wish this rose-scented breeze might carry to them our grateful benedictions.
Of late years the place was often without a tenant. At such times, we are told, the sheep and goats of neighboring ranches roamed over it at will, leaving destruction in their wake; that any plant life survived their ravages seems strange, and yet we were constantly being surprised by some old-timer struggling through the sod. Bert made the first discovery, and we all hurried to see the circle of little sharp bayonets piercing the earth, which a few weeks later, by their green ribbons and yellow frowsy heads, proclaimed themselves daffodils. These gave us hope of more to follow, and after that we fairly haunted the margin of that walk; presently our vigilance was rewarded by seeing delicate pink fingers pushing aside the matted grass and clover, in an effort to gain the sunlight and startle newcomers by the colossal size and beauty of the Oregon peony. Soon followed the tall queenly iris, gowned in white, yellow, and pale blue; then came snowballs and lovely jonquils, with the spicy clove pink, fragrant with memories of my dear mother’s old-time flower-garden.
June showered upon us the most exquisite roses,—-
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