LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
When starting back, he halted to say: “A mighty tough time I’m having with that old shack. Casualties up to the present hour, one mashed thumb, two blood-blisters on left hand, three fir splinters in right.” Then he waited a little for some expression of sympathy; but nothing was heard on the porch but the hurrying hand of the wash-lady.
Advancing by easy stages to the colored clothes, I found among them a pair of overalls,—new ones, as stiff as buckram. In one pocket I discovered about half a pound of nails of various sizes, a coil of wire, a short piece of rope, and a leather shoestring; in another some plump grains of vetch and some large speckled beans, doubtless carried about to awaken envy in the hearts of neighboring farmers. The usual supply of oats and chaff was then shaken out, and the lightened garments were plunged in the tub, where, becoming inflated with hot air, they refused to down at my bidding,—just fell upon their knees, looking so like their owner that I felt as if I were drowning him. Unmoved, I was jabbing them viciously with a stick, when a strange voice said, “Good-morning, ma’am!” I jumped, dropped the stick, and the blue-jeans bobbed up like a jack-in-the-box. Near me stood a perfect giant of a man with a flour-sack on his shoulder, really the tallest man ever seen outside of a canvas.
“Are you Mrs. Graham?”
I thought of saying, “No; I’m Bridget McCarty;
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