LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
Mrs. Graham is at the sea-shore.” But before I could speak, the giant continued, “I’ve got some mail here for you,” as he began untying the flour-sack, the only form of mailbag used in the hills.
Now we had had no mail for over two weeks; and as I watched that towering angel in corduroy throwing out letters, magazines, papers, and packages, I could have fallen upon his neck in gratitude—if a convenient step-ladder had been near me.
A pitcher of milk with a gingerbread accompaniment was offered, and graciously accepted by the giant. Declining a chair, he rested on the edge of a table, the Madonna on the wash-bench, as we held a porch conversazione. I learned that he was living quite alone on a timber claim, “about four mile back in the mountains, mighty nigh the summit, and just about at the end of things.”
“Ever feel lonely up there?” I ventured to inquire.
“Not a bit of it! I’ve lived in the woods since I was knee-high; I go to town about once in three months, and then I’m lonesome, uneasy as a fish out of water, just homesick for the big trees.”
I recognized a kindred spirit. He then told me of his work,—of making rails and posts, of splitting shingles and clapboards, of cooking, and of baking “sour-dough biscuit.” I wondered what they were.
“And do you have to do this?” I asked, with a wave of my hand toward the tubs.
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