LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
zigzagged off the porch and placed upon wooden rollers, immediately sinking fathoms deep in mud. In spite of all lifting, pushing, and prying, it sat there as firmly fixed as the Rock of Gibraltar. A new propeller was devised; then, after wobbling a little, it lurched forward a foot or two. Thinking to give a light touch to the scene, I cried joyously,—
“She starts, she moves, she seems to feel
The thrill of life along her keel!”
Then two pairs of eyes were lifted, from which flashed murder in the first degree. It seems that poetry doesn’t always find favor with the sterner sex. By pluck and perseverance the monster was finally located where it should have been placed when taken from the wagon. The range was wide, the door narrow. That the one would never go through the other, Mary and I both saw at a glance,—a knowledge gained by the men only after making careful measurements. The door was taken off its hinges. More measurements, but still no go; now the door-frame itself must be taken out,—and all the time the weather was growing colder, the sleet thicker.
“Got to tear the whole end of the house out,” growled Tom, “to get this blasted old man-of-war in here; I always said that it was a fool notion to bring it!” Of course he was the one who insisted upon bringing it; but I have learned there is a time to keep
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