LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
caught the scent of the bacon? That very instant lithe furry forms with glowing eyes might be crouching in the dark boughs above us, ready to leap upon our defenceless heads, or soft padded feet might be stealthily creeping over the thick velvety moss to attack us from below. Awed by that vast immensity, we rode on in silence, and not one living thing did we see or hear, not even the whir of wings. Looking backward now from the safe shelter of these four walls, I wish some thing had at least growled, just to lend a touch of interest to my narrative. The forest folk may have watched us from behind that leafy screen, but if so, they gave no hint of it. After a time we turned into a dim sketchy road of twilight gloom, made gloomier by the riotous undergrowth. Low-hanging boughs raked the surrey top, and long green fingers reached in at the sides, snatching maliciously at the lace-befrilled lamp-shade. It was a “no thoroughfare” sort of place, but as we bumped along over stumps and poles, we were glad to learn that the agony would be brief. And so it proved, as we presently entered a wide lane, and with sighs of relief beheld open cleared spaces, with a very small house, a larger barn, and sheds innumerable. After passing several such places, we suddenly plunged down a steep declivity with a roaring torrent at its base, but stoutly bridged—blessed be the saints! Up one more rise, and the horses were stopped before a rickety paling fence, the driver remarking,—
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