LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
with great enthusiasm, when out popped the cork with a noise like the report of a Winchester, followed by a revolving stream of hot water and steam. The operator, though scared and trembling, stuck to her post, knowing the thing must be stopped, and stopped with the nozzle-end up, though several revolutions were made before this could be accomplished. The cork had blown to the other side of the room; but I dared not leave my post to get it,—I felt sure that if the churn were released it would turn over and begin spouting again. It was plain the mountain must go to Mahomet; so, pushing the sputtering and pulsating machine across the floor, I reached and replaced the cork, hooked the churn back in its place, and then paused to consider,—thankful indeed that my precious cream was not in the machine when the explosion occurred.
Turning again to my butter lore, I read: “Remove cork at intervals to allow escape of steam.” In my eagerness to get down to business, I had overlooked that detail. Well, the cork had removed itself, and that part of the affair was over; so I proceeded to mop up the overflow, looking ruefully at my new wallpaper.
The next step was the heating of the cream, which my authorities said must be tested with the thermometer. Then came the proudest moment of my life. I felt, perhaps, as does a great scientist, shut up in his laboratory, engaged in some wonderful chemical experiment
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