LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
surfaces, brown wood and polished tin, gray limestone and rich orange rust on the iron weights and hooks and hinges.” Then, naturally, I fell a-thinking of the bewitching Hetty,—of the rose-petal cheeks, the round dimpled arms and pretty hands tossing and patting the butter, losing myself in the tragical story of that young life until recalled to consciousness by a queer slushing about of the cream in my own churn. Looking in the glass at the top of the churn, I was terrified to see that it was quite clear, and the book said, when that occurred, “STOP,” in letters about the size of those seen at railroad crossings.
Trembling with the fear that all was lost, I nervously removed the lid, glanced in, and, lo! there was the butter, just as predicted by the sages, “golden globules half the size of a kernel of wheat.” Oh, the pride of Miss McBride, as she drew off the buttermilk, rinsing the butter three times in pure spring water, scalding and cooling the bowl, taking out that mass of golden glory, sprinkling salt over it, and then trying desperately to “work it,” like one to the manner born.
My instructions were, after the first working, to set it aside for five hours; this seemed a cruel delay, but, mine “not to reason why,” I was about to obey orders, when it occurred to me that in my excitement I had forgotten to taste it. And then I had a surprise and shock I am not likely to forget. As the flavor reached my palate, I recoiled and stood aghast. How could any
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