LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
clad in brand-new glistening rubber suits, almost as hideous as a diver’s outfit, we tossing old shoes after them for luck. Night invariably brought them home, tired, hungry, and disappointed. There was always something wrong with the places they had seen: the ranches were either too large or too small; not enough tillable land, or too much tillable land and a scarcity of timber; either no water on the place, or a deluge of it, submerging a good portion of the estate. So it went on day after day, week in and week out, until we began to compare ourselves to Martin Chuzzlewit and Mark Tapley in search of their Eden in the Indiana swamps.
But at last, one glad day, capricious Fate, relenting, led our brave scouts straight up the green and shining hills of Paradise into the country of the Pointed Firs, where in a little emerald basin they found the enchanted land. The place was large enough to be divided into two ranches, each provided with both tillable and wood land. There was great rejoicing, a hurrying to and fro, a hasty repacking of goods, and much searching for means of their transportation. It was difficult to find men willing to brave the horrors of the mountain roads with loaded wagons during the rainy season. But after a delay of two days, three men with teams reluctantly consented to come to our rescue, which they did, but bringing no tarpaulin or any kind of protection for our goods. We had one outfit of our own; and when the four wagons pulled out, Mary and I could
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