LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
How did we find it? It happened rather strangely. Last summer, in a purely accidental way, there drifted to us a little pamphlet from a real-estate agent, in which we learned more than we had ever known of the beauties and attractions of Oregon. We read of her glorious snow-capped mountains, of great dim forests, of sparkling trout-laden streams, of wooded hills and blossoming valleys, swiftly flowing rivers, and fern-shaded springs of delicious cold water gushing from rock and hillside. From that hour the madness was in our blood. We said, Let us act at once, and not stand shivering on the brink. And so the leap into the unknown was taken, landing us in a small town here in the height of the rainy season. Then, “under skies that were ashen and sober,” in prosy fact as well as poetic figure, began the search for our new homes. It was like searching for the Golden Fleece.
In response to an inquiry concerning real-estate agents,—strange coincidence!—the first name suggested was one already familiar to us as the author of the little book whose beguiling eloquence had led us across mountains, plains, and desert to the promised land. Under his monitions we at once took possession of the only vacant house in the town,—a small leaky-roofed cottage in an advanced state of decay,—unpacked a few goods, merely enough with which to do “light housekeeping,” while our lords were searching for the new Arcadia. Day after day they went forth,
10
