LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
reasonably calm under this shower of compliments. “Now you must all come out in the dining-room and sample it,” I said.
Supplied with forks, each took a generous dose. Then they glared at each other, dismay and disgust upon every countenance.
“Shades of the mighty!” cried Tom. “What flavoring did you use,—sage, parsley, bergamot, or wild onions?”
“Seems more like paregoric or linseed oil,” sputtered Bert.
Mary—I suppose through sympathy for me—said nothing, but I observed that she was drinking water copiously.
“Are you sure, Katharine, that you didn’t use Epsom or Rochelle salts in this stuff?”
“No, Tom; the salt used was the right brand.”
“Well, what the dickens does ail it?”
No one being able to diagnose the case, we all sat down around that diabolical bowl and held a sort of round-table talk. The pronounced herby flavor suggesting the pasture, the men remembered that quantities of mint grew there; also dandelion, dock, English yarrow, sorrel, and similar things. Of course the cows had eaten them, and this was the direful result. During this conference it became known that every one had noticed a peculiar tang to the milk, but, through loyalty to the cows, none had spoken of it.
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