LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
only a succession of blue Mondays and gray skies through an atmosphere of steaming suds. Prospective wash-days, however, held no terror for Tom; he rose to the occasion grandly, declaring with much animation that he believed he would rather like the novelty of the thing,—that it would be his pride and pleasure “to make the wheels go round.” But after one or two experiences his enthusiasm drifted away like an ebbing tide; and I soon learned that if there was any one day upon which farm-work pressed more heavily than another, that day was Monday; though the gentleman was always very sorry his own work was so crowding,—hoping that the next Monday he would be “able to grasp the helm.” It seems strange, but even at this late day his work continues to “crowd” on Monday, though it always seems to ease up a little toward the middle of the week.
You will remember that the rainy season was on when we came here; consequently the drying of clothes was a problem, and to hang them on the line, stretched across a hillside as steep as the roof of a house, required the dexterity of a mountain climber. The ground, covered with soft decaying leaves, was as slippery as if soaped. To keep one’s feet one must cling to the line with one hand while hanging clothes with the other; and very often they were still swinging there, dripping wet, when the next Monday dawned. I having written to a friend about these difficulties, she wrote back: “Make your laundry-work light; put away
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