LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
gone like a tale that is told,” I cried remorsefully. Looking at the big black range, I thought, “Allah be praised! I don’t have to fire you up and cook dinner.” That alone was joy enough for a whole day,—to be able to check off one meal from the 1095 of them looming up yearly before every servantless housekeeper. A slice of smooth cool curd, with a dash of nutmeg and powered sugar, deluged with thick Jersey cream, made a luncheon good enough for royalty itself. My precious berries I saved to delight and refresh the wanderers on their return.
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