LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
a real Di Vernon, a novelty, and a most refreshing one.”
Tom had hit upon a name that seemed rightfully to belong to her, and we have called her by it ever since. We have learned that she is a very successful trout-fisher, and as a discoverer of bee-trees has no equal in the hills. She has no fear of bees, and always helps to take the honey; is a fine marksman,—has a rifle and a shotgun of her own, and can bag as many pheasants and quail as her brother or uncle when out with them on a hunting trip. She often goes with them coon-hunting at night, when it is so dark they have to carry lanterns. Once when she was out hunting alone in our woods, the dogs got on the track of a wildcat, chased it half the morning, and finally treed it. She followed them, found it high among the branches, fired, and brought it down.”
“Of course, Di, you kept its skin for a rug?”
“No; sold it.”
“You foolish girl! Why did you?”
“Oh, to get some more money to buy some more ammunition to kill some more wildcats!” she answered laughingly.
I am very sorry to tell you that a few years ago she killed a deer,—her first, and, I am glad to say, her last. In telling me of it she said: “Never again while I live will I point a gun toward a deer; for that poor thing, as it lay dying, turned its beautiful head in my direction, and two big reproachful eyes looked me squarely in my
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