LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
Oh, the joy of having that lovely mistletoe growing right in one’s own dooryard!
“The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,
The holly branch shone on the old oak wall!”
We shall use buckthorn for holly, and when the blessed Yuletide comes round, this old rancho shall blossom as the rose.
Across the rear of the yard, half-way up the hillside, are the remains of an old fence, which we shall remove, except one portion of it, which is formed by a fallen log. This must have been one of the monarchs of the forest. It is seventy-five feet long, and so thick that when Tom stands on one side of it and I on the other, we are not visible to each other. In winter it is a mossy, lifeless thing; but in summer vines clamber over it, running along the top and festooning its sides; chattering squirrels play over it, and tuneful birds meet there for choir rehearsals. Our woodland is truly a “forest primeval,” as wild as an African jungle. From a hilltop beyond Deer Leap, when the skies are clear, we can plainly see Mount Jefferson, Mount Hood, and the Three Sisters, yes, and Mary’s Peak. Why it is called that I don’t know, when it has its pretty Indian name, “Chintimini.”
I have now indifferently sketched for you, dear Nell, a few of the more pronounced attractions of this old place; but, believe me, it has hundreds of minor though
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