LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
are just a couple of tired mortals from out the workaday world, who have strayed into her leafy courts for an hour’s forgetfulness of the fever called living; knows, too, that the air of her great sanitarium is apt slightly to affect the brain of her visitors; has learned to expect nonsense, and to accept it with placid indifference.
But even the sanest could hardly stand in this deep, narrow ravine and not think of a city drawing-room in gala-day attire.
Across the lower end hangs a leafy portière; through its seine-like meshes flash the silvery waters of Deer Leap, the upper one banked high with firs and hemlock; a charming background for the fern-fringed fountain, its entire floor carpeted with thick green moss, which extends up the side walls, forming an effective dado; logs and stumps upholstered in the same material—massive divans and hassocks—scattered conveniently about, awaiting the arrival of our lady’s guests, the merry foresters.
When I speak of mossy logs, Nell, you mustn’t think they are like ours at home, splotched here and there with that thin, dry, scaly stuff. Here, in the rainy season, they are swathed in it, as completely hidden as if slipped into cases of—I was going to say plush, but that’s too smooth and shiny for this intricate moss; fashioned of millions of tiny, twisted, curving ferns, it looks more like curled astrakhan or some rich fur.
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