LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
perpendicular. With locked wheels we slid down their precipitous sides, only to crawl up others that seemed steeper still, lurching into yawning chuck-holes with such violence that the kerosene splashed and the green bower swayed from side to side. At such times Mary’s lamp-shade showed its evil nature. Glancing her way, I saw that it was useless to protest against its murderous attacks. Her feet were planted on the horse-collar, her lips closed with Napoleonic firmness, her hat jammed over one eye, the other blazing with a high resolve to carry that lamp-shade to its goal though her every living friend and relative should fall by the wayside. As we advanced, the woods grew denser, the road curving around narrow mountain ledges, above deep dark canyons, where, crowding close, tier upon tier, in watchful guardianship, stood the sombre sentinel firs. A slip of a foot or two, and we would have been hurled into the bottomless pit. A native Oregonian may pursue his serpentine way nonchalantly on the edge of these craters, but to a tenderfoot they bring pimples of gooseflesh, as night brings out the stars. For miles our advance seemed characterized by a succession of shudders. Twice did we ford mountain streams swollen by recent rains until they had become tumbling, boiling cataracts, with currents dangerously swift. These streams had rocky beds, and our old ark quivered and creaked on its stormy passage through them. As the foaming waves leaped for us, I shut my eyes, doubled up my
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