LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
In this mood I remarked at breakfast, rather savagely: “I wish to goodness some Croesus would scatter some of his superfluous millions among poor and needy ranch-folk! What’s the sense of giving organs and libraries to people who don’t want them, and of endowing universities that get mad about it and are ashamed of their origin?”
Thomas, recognizing the Monday morning madness, showed no surprise at this outburst, but placidly inquired: “Have you a specially crying need of wealth this morning? What do you want to buy?”
“Nothing,—I want to build. If my esteemed friend Mr. Carnegie would favor me with, well, say this coffee-pot full of twenty-dollar gold-pieces, I’d proceed at once to erect a steam laundry, out of sight and sound of this house, away back in the canyon, in its darkest, deepest depths; and I’d have a Chinaman to operate it, and Mr. Mantalini himself to preside over the mangle, and a big bandanna-browed lady of African descent to hand out the soiled linen to that Mongolian; and I’d have nothing at all to do with this unpleasant business until the clothes were returned, smooth and immaculate, in beautiful Indian baskets, each separate package wrapped in white tissue paper, ribbon-bound, with sprays of sword-fern, wild lavender, and mountain laurel tucked in. That’s what I’d do if I had the necessary wealth!”
“Great Scott! but you are soaring this morning,
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