LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
It was equal to Sairey Gamp’s when the existence of her beloved Mrs. Harris was doubted.
“Know how? I guess you forget that summer I worked for Uncle Jim!”
“No; I have never been allowed to forget it. I suppose you milked a dozen cows then, night and morning, didn’t you?”
“No, ma’am, I didn’t; I milked five.”
“If you did, it was so long ago that you have forgotten the art.”
“No, milking is like swimming; the accomplishment, once acquired, is never forgotten.” Presently he added thoughtfully: “Speaking just now of Uncle Jim reminds me—and I had forgotten to tell you about it—that I was down in the field the other morning, when suddenly out rang the clear notes of a bird, the same that I heard a thousand times that summer, tilting and lilting from the tops of the tall rosin-weeds. Here I found him poised on a branch of vine maple; but it was the very same bird, and for about a minute I was a straw-hatted barefoot boy, going for the cows in Uncle Jim’s pasture, wading through tall slough grass higher than my head. I could almost hear it rustling and feel the rushes crawling under my bare feet with a sort of squeaking sound, and all about me were those chipper little birds swaying upon the rosin-weeds, singing as if to split their throats. I tell you, it is worth coming to Oregon just to hear and see that bird again.”
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