LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
the old garden, with perhaps a scarcity of snails about Maule’s well, started out to see the world, and has been led by kindly fate to the Ranch of the Pointed Firs, and that we now own that remarkable chicken, ‘that looked small enough to still be in the egg, and at the same time sufficiently old, withered, wizened, and experienced to have been the founder of an antiquated race.’”
We were so entertained by this notion that our disappointment was half forgotten, though Tom did say, “The eggs of those ancient fowls were famous for rare delicacy of flavor; and you might cook the two to-night, if in the flavor of the one you could find compensation for the size of the other.”
“Which I couldn’t, so we’ll just bide a wee.”
The very next day our impatience was rewarded by another egg of normal size. We ate the two with cannibalistic ferocity, and looked longingly at the shells.
Being a truthful chronicler, I cannot say that after this the eggs poured in in great abundance. That was our first experience of owning chickens, and also our first experience of a scarcity of eggs. Before embarking upon this enterprise, while gloating over the pages of poultry catalogues, we had visions—at least I had—of sending baskets, and even tubs, of eggs to the market. Alas for human hopes, even in the magical land of Oregon!
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