LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
tin cans is like reaching into the depths of the great tun of Heidelberg.
There was no milk-house on the place when we came, and no cellar,—they seem not to have cellars in Oregon,—and as the weather grew warm the milk soured, and the heart of Martha was troubled. After worrying along for a time, one morning Tom said, “I’ve an inspiration, Katharine! This day thou shalt behold a milk-house!”
After several hours had passed I was called to come out and view the edifice. I sallied forth and found one of our largest packing-boxes placed under the shade of a big alder, directly over the little spring rivulet, with a wooden trough inside, through which ran the water in which the cans were to stand. Half the top of the box was hinged to fold back; but as it was found that the mistress of the manse was unable to reach the cans, even when standing on a chair, the architect was obliged to hinge the upper half of one side to let down instead of lift up. Four poles driven into the ground supported an old porch-awning which served as a canopy for this masterpiece.
Rather primitive it was, although, as Tom said, “It beats nothing.” It truly did, and I was grateful for it,—though not long before I had visions of a picturesque stone milk-house, overgrown with English ivy, myself walking about in the cool interior, directing my dairy maids, somewhat after the manner of the vigorous Mrs.
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