LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
soft delicate pink ones, like a “bride full of blushes,” and pure white, with the mossiest of buds and stems; big velvety crimson ones, too, almost as fine as jacqueminots.
About this time we began to suspect that we had unwittingly become the possessors of another Vale of Cashmere, and would not have been greatly surprised by the sudden appearance of temples, grottos, and fountains in our estate.
Though these things did not materialize, there came a sudden rush of herbs,—anise, dill, thyme, summer-savory, and sweet basil, in company with that venerable plant known as “old man,” which I am sure you must have met in childhood.
One day I heard Tom exclaim, “Hello, my old-time friend! I thought you belonged in this clique; I’ve been looking for you these many days. Katharine, did you ever see any ‘live forever?’”
“Yes, plenty of it,—about the time the morning stars first sang together.”
“Well, do come and see this! It looks just as it did a hundred years ago. Dear me! how it does bring back my Summer at Uncle Jim’s!”
“Did they have it there?” I inadvertently asked.
“Did they? Well, I should say they did! My bare feet were always hot with stone bruises, which my aunt Sarah poulticed with these cool pulpy leaves; sometimes she put with them—”
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