LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
skirts and rubber boots, roams these hills regardless of weather. Three dogs are her inseparable companions,—Texas, a great fierce fellow, with a deep and terrible voice; Shady, a hound, lean, lank, and brown—as his name implies; and June, a Scotch collie. The latter is a beauty, yellow and white in color, and clean, fluffy, and fringy, like a prize chrysanthemum; she has a pretty face, too, with big, luminous brown eyes, set in a tiny circle of black, as if she had coquettishly touched them up with India ink. I really believe there is no handsomer dog in Oregon,—with one notable exception.
Miss Vernon rides a fleet little Indian pony, without a saddle,—just a surcingle, with stirrup attached. She uses a queer sort of bridle, with reins of braided rawhide, and a cruel-looking curb bit; and, strangest of all, she rides with a spur. When I first caught a glimpse of her shoe embellished with that shining metal wheel, I grew fairly dizzy. But, oh, how she rides! Flying along at a furious pace, leaping over logs and even fences, how she manages to stick on is a mystery to me.
The hill women all ride, and ride well, using only the surcingle, though sometimes it is buckled around a blanket or a sheepskin. The only side-saddle we have seen here came up from the valley, and we all looked upon it with contempt. You may think that as they ignore the saddle they have adopted the modern method
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