LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
shoved into the open space and utilized for a table, a newspaper covering its surface instead of damask. A candle stuck in a vaseline bottle, placed upon a white napkin, served as a centrepiece. The contents of the lunch-basket were transferred to the table, and the repast was ready, with the exception of the Java and Mocha combine, which was soon made, as the kettle was already singing merrily. We had hoped a cricket hidden away in the hearth might “join the kettle” in a duet of welcome; but if one was there, he remained obstinately mute. As only two chairs were obtainable, the male members of the party were seated at the banquet upon a pile of fir wood and bark. Never was a meal eaten with better relish. There was no time for after-dinner talk, as sleeping arrangements were to be made, bedding to be searched for and unpacked,—a formidable task amid such chaos. Bert and Mary, groaning and perspiring, succeeded in putting up a bedstead in an adjoining room, surrounded by a confused mixture of things, suggestive of the reserve stock of a department store. Scorning the luxury of a bedstead, we hastily tumbled springs, mattress, and bedding upon the floor, and were ready for the “sweet restorer.”
But alas for human hopes! Just as our heads touched the pillows we were startled by the most terrific barking, shrieking, yelping, and howling that ever mortal heard.
“Tom, what under the sun is that?”
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