LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
and, again raising my standard high in air, said in a hoarse, loud voice, “Huey, cows! Huey there!”
No effect whatever, except upon the man down the road. “Goin’ to stand all night lookin’ at ’em?” he yelled. “Why don’t you close in on ’em?”
“‘Close in on ’em,’ indeed! That’s all very well, sir, from your point of view, at the tail end of this caravan,” I thought; “but up here the outlook is different, facing these three steaming monsters, with six threatening horns and twice as many eager hoofs;” and I remarked softly to myself, “I won’t do it.”
On the grassy embankment at the roadside, quite near me, stood one of those grotesque Noah’s-ark calves. “I’ll just close in on you, my young friend; you will likely turn and run back down the road, where I trust your perspiring relatives may follow you.” I knew better than to jump at the creature with my big pole; so, trailing it behind me, I advanced cautiously, with one hand extended, saying in sweet tones, “Pretty little calfie,”—a piece of the basest flattery when applied to the sorry-looking object before me. One step more forward,—and what did that ungentle idiot do but give a wild snort, leap like a deer, whirl square about, and plunge through the rail-fence,—not through, either, for it stuck fast between the rails, bawling at the top of its voice. Mercy, Nell, you ought to have seen grandma then! She ploughed across that muddy road, scrambled up the green bank, and,
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