LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
Loitering along the walls, gathering roses, now blooming in perfection, all these things seemed very old-fashioned and sweet, lying so quietly under the soft shadows of the early morning. I realized to the full that—
“There’s no price set on the lavish Summer,
June may be had by the poorest comer.”
If there were a price, an Oregon June in the hills would “come high,” I am sure, and that would bar us out. After filling the rose-bowls, I went to the garden for white carnations; coming back through the tall grasses of the orchard, I gathered many strange varieties of the airy, fairy things, waving now in a slender vase near me, looking as fine and delicate as spun glass.
After the breakfast work was done, looking about for more worlds to conquer, I thought of the wild strawberries ripening on the hillside; a dish of them would pleasantly surprise the home-comers, and Sheila would be charmed by such an excursion. Sheila is our Scotch shepherd-dog, given me a year ago by a genuine dog-lover, a kind girl-friend of the hills. When she came to us, she was a woolly little thing, like a soft fluffy ball of chenille; now she is a graceful, light-footed creature, with a small pointed head, and honest eyes of clear gray, just matching her coat; she looks the true-born patrician, and is one. Having no dog friends, she has to depend upon us for society, and we talk to her about everything, and rather think she understands. I said, “Sheila,
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