LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
over. Lights will be turned off at once. Follow me—fly!” And he dashed through the Cave of the Winds, and dropped into the hole in the floor, shouting back through the darkness, “Shoot the chute everybody!”
Prosaic duties were awaiting us below. The men hurried off in search of fuel,—just then one of our most crying needs. We busied ourselves with preparations for cooking our first dinner by a fireplace. Potatoes were buried in the ashes, and then covered with a nice warm blanket of coals. Onions were given the same treatment, after being partially peeled and wrapped in white tissue-paper. Fiery coals were raked out to make a hot-box for the teakettle. A row of fine apples was placed on the hearth at proper distance from the heat. Then the perspiring cooks rushed to the door for air and to cool their blistered faces. We agreed that cooking by an open fire was interesting as a new experience, but that in time it might pall upon one. In a surprisingly short time, however, the apples turned a golden brown, plumped up and burst open, their escaping juices bubbling into white foam. “Done!” said the experts, as they were placed in a dish and given a liberal powdering of sugar. Then, with well-bandaged hand, and face shielded by the dustpan, one of the brave pioneers volunteered to exhume the potatoes. They were found, like the apples, to be roasted to the Queen’s taste, were taken by the assistant
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