e see, the way my woman found it out, she runs over to
Lunette's every mail day and helps her sort the mail, 'nd she said all
the letters 't come directed to 'Mr. Paul Henry' had a mess o' wax run
onto the fold of every envelope with a pictur' stamped inter it o' a
couple o' the cur'osest-lookin' creeturs; said 'twas jest the head an'
necks of 'em an' they looked to be retchin' up ter eat out o' the same
soup plate; said 't must be your stock to the circus; for business
folks often has their business picturs put on outside their envelopes,
ye know, and jedgin' by the cur'osity of 'em, she thought they must be
doin' pretty well by ye."

"Oh, they are, captain," I sighed; "yes, they're doing pretty well by
me."

"Wal now, ef you've got a comf'tably good thing, major, be content with
it; 'tain't easy to git onto a new job nowadays. Ain't there some
pertick'lar spear o' grass ye'd like t' have set on the back seat with
ye?" he continued cheerfully. "She rides easier for havin'
consid'rable ballast, ye know."

"I don't know of any. Mrs. Lester is away at her daughter-in-law's."

"Hain't ye never thought--poo! poo! hohum!--wal, wal--

[Illustration: Music fragment: "'The blighting wind sweeps o'er, she--']

hain't ye never thought o' Miss Pray?"

"In what way, captain?"

"Wal, as a--poo! poo!--

[Illustration: Music fragment: "'She--']

as a pertick'lar spear, ye know?"

"No."

"In course human nature turns natchally to pink and white clover, like
Vesty; but I tell ye, major, when it comes to a honest jedgment o'
grass thar' 's lots o' comfort arter all to be took out o' old red
timothy. Old red timothy goes to shutin' right up straight an' minds
her own business. She ain't a-tryin' so many o' these d--d ructions on
ye. My foot 's some better," said he, lifting the maimed member; "but
she ain't yit what she use ter be. It 'u'd make a home for ye, 'ithout
payin' no board, an' ef ye got red o' payin' yer board ye wouldn't mind
ef she didn't treat ye quite so well--for that's the way 'ith all
female grass, clover 'n' all, when they once gits spliced onto ye. But
'ith what ye gits from yer show ye c'd buy a hoss, an' when the wind 's
in the nor'-east ye c'd tack away from home on some arrant--see? But
don't arsk her, 'less ye means ter stand by it, major, for the
women-folks has got to settin' onaccountable store by ye, ye kind o'
humors of 'em so."

I limped down the lane to invite Miss Pray on our excu