LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
Upon our arrival here, a well-mannered stream of water about two inches in diameter was flowing from this spout; but one morning after the rains I heard Tom exclaim, as he stepped out on the porch, “Great Scott! isn’t this getting a little bit too gay?” I looked out, and, lo! a stream of water as thick as the stove-pipe was gushing from that spout and dashing half-way across the porch. Tom had to construct a sort of breakwater of boards in front of it, in doing which he was half drowned, shouting at me through the roar of the breakers, “Life may seem extinct, but don’t give up till you’ve rolled me over a barrel.” Not being familiar with the habits of mountain springs, this “rampage” surprised us; but we afterwards learned that they are as much given to “rampagin’” as was Mrs. Joe Gargery herself.
Lower down the hill, at one side of the front lawn, under a giant alder, another spring pours from the cavern-like side of a big rock, and goes dancing away over a stony path to lose itself in the green pasture-lands below. Upon the massive rock overhanging this spring we might have carved,—
“The mountain air
In winter is not clearer, nor the dew
That shines on mountain blossoms.”
The water of this spring is most delicious, icy-cold and pure; “the more you drink, the more you want.”
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