LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
out to the ranch, the wagons being so heavily loaded with other things. We supposed they could be bought in the neighborhood; but here again we were disappointed.
The farmers had disposed of their surplus stock earlier in the season, reserving only sufficient for their own use; and it was not long until our supply was reduced to apples and potatoes. I see that I have made a vegetable of the apple, but that’s no worse than calling potatoes “spuds,” as people do here. You may be sure that members of this family suffered nothing from apprehensions of gout. How often, when looking through our empty cupboard, did we think sorrowfully of Dame Hubbard’s dog! At breakfast, while munching adamantine bread, bacon, and “spuds,” we were apt to have tormenting visions of hot griddle-cakes and maple syrup, or of juicy porterhouse steaks, and eggs variously served. At dinner, with the breakfast menu repeated, some one was sure to ask, “How would you like a good big slice of rare roast beef, with nicely browned sweet potatoes?” “Yes, or scalloped oysters, or chicken pie, and a nice crisp, cool salad?”—and so on down through an imaginary bill of fare.
Lest you wonder why we didn’t “go to town” and renew our supplies, let me remind you of the impassable condition of the roads. For weeks during the late winter never a team was seen passing. Finally, when almost the “last herring smoked upon the coals,” two hungry men arose in desperation, declaring they
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