LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
Tom, and the roads hub-deep with good red Oregon mud.”
“I’ll buy an air-ship before I’m a year older!”
Contemplation of the fire is silently resumed; no sound, save a little secret whispering among the flames, the muffled throbbing of rain on the mossy roof, and the steady drip from the overflowing eaves to the wet porches.
“Just listen, Tom! Drip, drip, drip, everlastingly! No wonder the gloom of this thing has crept into our hearts and looks out of our eyes. It’s as bad as Chesnywold, in Lincolnshire.”
“Not quite,—we haven’t any Ghosts’ Walk!”
“No; but I wish to goodness we had, and that a whole procession of phantoms paraded there nightly, spouting fire and brimstone, winding up with the carmagnole in blue flames.”
“Whew! What’s the carmagnole?”
“I don’t exactly know,—something fiendish, though; and I’d actually be glad to look out at midnight and see a couple of dozen airy apparitions, lit with phosphorus, cutting the pigeon-wing under these dripping black firs. We would get a thrill or two at least, and that would be something just now.”
“Katharine, are you getting tired of Oregon?”
“Tired of Oregon! You know I love its very name. I’m only tired of sullen skies, rain, mud, myself, and—you.”
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