LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
“Possibly, when the sun was shining and birds singing; but to sit in this dreariness and watch you slowly turn the pages and hear you ask, ‘Now about cucumbers: shall we get the white spine or the long greens? Onions: the yellow Danver is a good onion, don’t you think? Radishes: English Breakfast. Didn’t we have some seed left over? Beans: I’ll order the bunch kind,—the Golden Wax, I guess.’ Honestly, Tom, I couldn’t listen to-night to that lingo, clear through alphabetically from asparagus to watermelons, and live.”
“Well, that was my trump card. I’ve nothing more to offer.” Leaning back in his chair, he began singing,—
“I’m wearing awa’, Jean,
Like snaw when it’s thaw, Jean.”
After an interval the doleful one remarks: “I’ve thought of something, Tom, that would be absorbing work, for—
‘There’s nae sorrow there, Jean,
There’s neither cauld nor care, Jean.’
Let’s write a ghost story!”
“All right. I’ve long felt in my bones that I could write a rattling good ghost story. We’ll collaborate.”
“Oh! I think I understand.”
The inspired ones seize pencil and paper, and at once become absorbed in plots and plans. Curtain falls at 8.30 P. M.
190
