LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
“And now, fellow-citizens,” said Tom, “what disposition are we to make of this delectable potpourri?”
“Well, Bert will take a part of it, and—”
“Not by a good deal!” interrupted that gentleman, hastily.
“It was your own proposal!”
“Yes, but you must remember that was before taking.”
“Very well, sir,” I replied with wounded dignity, “the product of our dairy is not forced upon our friends.”
“For which praise God, from whom all blessings flow!” retorted that irreverent individual.
“Well, then, this butter must be sold.”
“Katharine, you are beside yourself; much churning hath made you mad! Are you so lacking in moral principle as to sell what you yourself cannot eat?”
“Yes, sir; I am. I fancy Oregonians are accustomed to this flavor in early spring butter and rather like it.”
“You’ll never catch me in the busy marts of men with this stuff for sale.”
“Of course, not as our own; it must be disposed of anonymously or under a nom de plume. You take it to the metropolis, lay in your grocery supplies, then say quite innocently, ‘Oh, by the way, a lady sent in some butter with me; came near forgetting it.’ Produce it, and then fly for your life.”
“But those men know all the butter-makers of the
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