LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
chef and carefully folded in a napkin, while the red-eyed explorer probed the next mound. This proved to be less satisfactory; the onions were yielding but slowly to their doom. More coals were added. Thin slices of ham were laid across the bars of the wire toaster and broiled beautifully, coffee was made, and the dry-goods box given a real table-cloth in honor of the occasion. At each plate was a spray of buckthorn,—a lovely, dark, waxen leaf, in color and shape like holly.
When the onions did give in, they did it handsomely. Upon removing their wrappers, we found a soft, pulpy mass, which, when seasoned and buttered, was delicious. The gentlemen pronounced the dinner good enough to satisfy the most epicurean taste. We bowed our burning heads in acknowledgment of the compliment. We couldn’t blush; our crimson faces could take no deeper tint.
After three days of this underground cooking we struck. But one loaf of bread remained, and we were much too amateurish to attempt bread-baking over the coals or under them; so we said decisively, “To-morrow morning that range goes up or we go out.”
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