A new cook had
come to us just the day before the storm, and I fully expected that
she would start back to Bozeman that night, but she is still here, and
was most patient over the awful condition of things all over the
house. She is a Pole and a good cook, so there is a prospect of some
enjoyment in life after the house gets straightened out. There was one
thing peculiar about that storm. Bozeman is only three miles from
here, yet not one hailstone, not one drop of rain did they get there.
They saw the moving wall of gray and heard the roar, and feared that
something terrible was happening up here.
The storm has probably ruined the mushrooms that we have found so
delicious lately. At one time, just out of the post, there was a long,
log stable for cavalry horses which was removed two or three years
ago, and all around, wherever the decayed logs had been, mushrooms
have sprung up. When it rains is the time to get the freshest, and
many a time Mrs. Fiske and I have put on long storm coats and gone out
in the rain for them, each bringing in a large basket heaping full of
the most delicate buttons. The quantity is no exaggeration
whatever--and to be very exact, I would say that we invariably left
about as many as we gathered. Usually we found the buttons massed
together under the soft dirt, and when we came to an umbrella-shaped
mound with little cracks on top, we would carefully lift the dirt with
a stick and uncover big clusters of buttons of all sizes.
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