LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
stuck like a fiery adhesive plaster, and not all the waters of “great Neptune’s ocean” could wash it off.
Again our man of experience came to the rescue, telling us first to soak our hands in kerosene and then wash them,—a helpful though not fragrant remedy. We learned other things from our new guide, philosopher, and friend: first, that the wood we were using was “dozy” (we had ourselves observed that it was somnolently inclined); secondly, that if our “men folks” would cut or saw down a big tree, we would find that the heart of it would make a roaring fire. Now, we had suspicions that neither of our “men folks” had ever felled a tree, which suspicions were strengthened by their great activity in collecting bark, fallen limbs, and other woodland débris, and palming it off on us as something rather choice; but Mary and I, pining for the heart of that big tree, harped so long about it that at last the fagot-gatherers were spurred to action. At least we judged something was about to happen from a conversation in the woodhouse, overheard by us, which ran somewhat as follows:—
“Ever file one?”
“No; did you?”
“No. What the dickens shall we do?”
“Do? We’ll just file her, that’s what.”
Whereupon began terrible rasping, grating, screeching noises, which continued until the perpetrators were summoned to dinner. During the meal we were told
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