LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
the blinds, piled high with logs the old fireplace, hoping the illumination might make a little path of radiance through the forest’s gloom. For us this was an uncanny experience. Outside, no “social watchfires” gleamed from neighborly windows; in fact, there were no windows,—only the blackness of night. Within the old house were two lone, listening women. From the “ball-room” above came a flying touch of phantom feet and a faint swish of ghostly skirts, as plainly heard as the scurrying of mice among the packing-boxes. High up among the pines a lonely night-bird screamed; while upon the window-sills fell the steady drip, drip, drip of the rain, as if some wandering spirit of the night were rapping out for us a message.
Not until ten o’clock did we hear the welcome rumble of wheels over the little bridge at the foot of the hill. Then came a loud “Whoo-whoo,” a sort of mountain call we have learned here. How quickly we flew to the door and gave an answering call, all our fears forgotten! As that wagon-load of merchandise had to be carried in, it was midnight before we sat at supper, listening to a detailed account of the vexations and mishaps of the day. About dusk the travellers had found themselves “stuck fast in the mud,” working vainly a whole hour with rails and poles to lift those wheels out of a bog. Fortunately a Good Samaritan came along with a team of big Clydesdale horses, which he hitched to the wagon, yanking it out in a jiffy. Tom said he
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