LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
steep hill slopes down to one side of the road; and up this height dashed the now poleless daughter of the Revolution, where, climbing high among the roots of a giant upturned fir tree, she surveyed the scene.
Just then a strange thing happened. I saw, as plainly as I now see this paper, the stage of a theatre in a far distant city, and standing out upon a jutting cliff the tall picturesque figure of Meg Merrilies. Beyond, through trees and rocks, was a faint glimpse of a sullen sea; while immediately below her was a dark narrow glen lit up by gypsy campfires. Though at the time this seemed strange, I now see that the outlook from my lofty perch very naturally recalled this half- forgotten scene. Night was now coming on; low-lying mists upon the meadow gave to it in that half-light a look of the sea; all about me were the same dark hills, and below was just such a little glen as I had seen in my vision. There were no rocks and no campfires, but, instead, a big brush-pile, teeming with life, a confused jumble of rubber coats, hoofs, and horns, and in its centre the struggling calf sinking deeper at every lunge. Clawing over it were its would-be captors; on the outskirts those roaring bedlamites tossing the brush with hoofs and horns. Dead ferns and wild blackberry vines clinging to her horns, the aged one looked a dangerous Nemesis,—and was, too, for she had to be beaten back with brush. Doubtless Thomas would now have been glad of my pole. Finally the pitfall yielded up its victim,
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