LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
Strictly obeying instructions, we had scarcely got under way before our guide halted. “Perhaps, if the ladies feel up to it, a bit of yodelling might relieve the tedium of the ascent and add much to its realism.”
As the ladies were now laughing hysterically, they were hardly “up to it.” The ever-willing Chadband, however, was equal to the emergency. An oily voice was heard saying, “I myself, carnal vessel that I am, will essay a few joyful notes unto these hills.” Whereupon arose a sound of lamentation not unlike the lonely howling of a distant wolf, broken at intervals by a shrill war-whoop. By steady pulling from above and violent shoving from below, we were finally landed in a heap upon the floor, in the centre of a big, garret-like room, dimly lighted by one small, dusty, cobwebby window. While being released from bondage, our guide remarked, as he glanced around, “We are now in the Cave of the Winds, a locality rarely visited by the ordinary tourist; those glittering stalactites above our heads are Nature’s own formation.” It was a true statement, the stalactites being long rows of yellow seed-corn strung on wires. A couple of bottomless chairs, a few joints of rusty stovepipe, and an old scythe with a broken blade, hanging over one of the rafters, completed the attractions.
We were very eager for a glimpse of the adjoining apartment, as we had been told it was built and had been used exclusively as a ball-room. Just think of it,—
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