LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
“Now, if our lady of the loaves and fishes will glance up the heights, she will behold her future home.”
High upon a steep hillside we saw, through slanting rain and the fast-gathering shadows of night, a very tall house of two stories, grim, gaunt, unpainted, frowning down inhospitably upon us. It looked to be the fitting abode of hobgoblins, warlocks, and witches, plainly saying, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.” Half dead with the fatigue and cramped positions of our long ride, we could scarcely stand after crawling from the ambulance. An infirm gate, lashed to its moorings with a bit of rope, fell as we passed through. Going up the muddy gulch leading to the house, I noticed five ugly, narrow, curtainless windows glaring at us, and I noted also the absence of a front porch. As in a vision, I saw the home we had left, with its wide shining windows, broad Colonial porch, and round white pillars. A painful lump rose in my throat, and just then and there came my first and last touch of homesickness.
Steps of rough slabs led up to the front entrance of the house; the steps were presumably six in number originally, but now the two lower ones were missing. As a final note of desolation, upon one of these steps stood a rusty tin can, holding a wretched, sodden, dead geranium. While these observations were being made, Tom was struggling with a refractory key in a broken lock, which finally yielded. The door flew open; he entered the new home, roaring in tremendous tones,—
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