LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
crescent of dark green hills, towering so high that I sometimes think those topmost firs must brush against the walls of the unseen city. Half-way down, smoke, blue as the sea, curled up from the invisible cabin of a bachelor woodsman. “What can the man be cooking this hot day?” I asked myself. Far below lay the quiet glen dotted with trees and patches of waving grain,—shade here, shine there; birds flying up and over, singing as they flew. Near us in the grass were tall wand-like lavender blossoms, with French pinks of many colors, and the white parasols of the wild parsnip bobbing everywhere; bees were lazily droning, and yellow but terflies drifting like rose petals through the air.
“Oh, Sheila, isn’t it beautiful,—this great round earth, that swings in the smile of God!” I cried to my companion.
The plumy tail lashed the grass acquiescently. “I do wish that you could talk, Sheila,” I added.
Then the wistful gray eyes looked up; the small pointed head lifted, tilted anxiously, trying so hard to understand that I hastened to say, “Never mind, my mute little Highland Princess; you are faithful and true, and far more companionable than many who can talk.” Understanding the tone of approval, a hot little tongue forgivingly caressed my berry-stained hand.
So long did we linger in that cool retreat that I was horrified to hear the clock strike twelve as we entered the house. “Too bad! The half of my lovely day
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