LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
We lifted a piece of the White Lady’s carpet, about a square yard, just to see if she could turn it when she cleaned house, carefully replacing it, you may be sure, patting down the edges that the desecration might not be noted, and, oh, how beautiful it was, Nell! Nature couldn’t make a lovelier thing if she tried! Heavy as a fleece of wool, so deep and so soft, as luxurious as any Persian prayer-rug.
Now you are saying, “Katharine doesn’t know a blessed thing about a Persian prayer-rug!” You are mistaken. Haven’t I read that beautiful poem of Mr. Aldrich’s, describing his, beginning,—
“Made smooth some centuries ago
By praying Eastern devotees,
Blurred by those dusky, naked feet,
And somewhat worn by shuffling knees
In Ispahan.”
Now what do you think? And that’s not all. I once saw one with my own eyes at the World’s Fair in Chicago, guarded by a red-turbaned, saffron-tinted gentleman, of countenance so sinister I thought as I looked at him: “My Yellow Peril, no prayer-rug is ever going to suffer much wear and tear through your devotional exercises!” Now see how far afield I am! I honestly believe an incredulous friend is a sharper trial than a thankless child!
We one day found a perfect little bracket shelf, just the color of old ivory, its outer surface all written over
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