LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
Of something felt, like something here;
Of something done, I know not where.”
Tears fill my eyes as I listen. I hope that “when I put out to sea” a flight of this divine melody may pilot me through the gray mists to that far-away shore where shine the lights of the heavenly harbor.
The—I was going to say lawn, but I won’t, for that word doesn’t fit this lumpy, bumpy, gopher-hilled ground; it is best, when you live in the woods, to put aside affectations; so henceforth and forever I shall say dooryard. The dooryard now has none of its June loveliness. While the grass is still green, it has lost its freshness through the drouth and heat of summer; and the wild flowers that once blossomed here are but a memory. A few clover blooms, in defiance of fate and frost, are trying bravely to hold up their heads, but they have lost the rosy glow of youth. All about me the dandelions are lifting high in air their gauzy white balloons. They are quite different from ours at home, which were low growers; and if one rashly attempted to cut down one of the white-headed veterans, his head fell off and blew away. Here they are nearly two feet high, and that hollow starry globe of lacework is a wonderful stayer. Nearly a month ago, tempted by the beauty of these delicate transparencies, I cut a few of the slender stems and stuck them in a pot of growing ferns, not expecting them to last more than a few hours; and here they are to-day, those fairy balloons
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