LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
The other day I threw a big gunnysack over our old freezer, just as a veil to hide the past.
The lack of ice of course causes much extra work and trouble in caring for food. Until now I never half appreciated a refrigerator; but, as Tom says, “We never miss the water till the well runs dry.” As our well is a spring, we hope we may be spared that calamity. This spring is near,—just at the end of the kitchen porch,—and yet the water for use must all be carried in. Less convenient, surely, than the turning of a faucet above the kitchen sink!
We have other trials and privations,—and compensations also. At home the vegetables we use are brought us from the markets. Here we must ourselves go to the garden for them; this takes time, but I am always glad to go,—glad to go anywhere, to escape the consuming breath of that life-destroying fiend of the kitchen. There, in the fruit-canning season, the fruit in cases and baskets is delivered at the door; here we must pick it from the trees,—such delightful work that I can’t even pretend to complain of it. To-day, gathering rosy peach-plums under that tent of green leaves, I felt so insufferably proud that had the arrogant “Mrs. Lofty” passed by with her carriage and coachman, I could not but have smiled upon her disdainfully.
Unfortunately for me, Tom has recently learned in some way that corn-bread is a nourishing food for young
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