LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
“A pack of hounds on the warpath, that’s what.”
On came the clamor, “nearer, clearer, deadlier than before,” when suddenly the whole crew of Bedlamites dashed under our house. Bert called out, “They’ve treed us the first dash, Tom!” There they were, snapping, snarling, gnashing their teeth, thumping and bumping against the very boards upon which we were lying.
“Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then.” Armed with her threescore years and the iron poker, proceeding to the door, which she opened fully two inches, she said in calm but firm tones: “You dogs, go home, every last one of you! Go home, I say! Go!” Then a voice was heard from the department store, saying softly, “Yes, kind, good doggies, do go.” And they did go, giving me the surprise of my life. The instant my brave words were heard, the racket ceased, and they came tumbling out from under the house, and went scampering off in the darkness as if fiends were at their heels. A human voice from a house long deserted must have shaken their nerves. Tom, however, saw things in a different light, for, as I closed the door with a triumphant bang, he remarked, “Rather a doubtful compliment to your charms!” There were no more disturbing sounds during the remainder of the night, and we slept until the morning was far advanced.
Breakfast hastily prepared and eaten, a little leisure and the light of day gave us an opportunity to inspect
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