with the blossom of wild orchards. Here our bench pasture is a
little sky with marigolds for stars. Down in the lower canyon the trees
are in summer leaf. The canaries are nesting, the humming-birds have
just come, the bees are having a wedding, just as Mendelssohn told us,
and Jesse and I are quite ashamed of ourselves, because the widow's
reproachful eyes have found us out. We are not really and truly grown
up.

Why should the poor sour woman be afraid of fairies? But then you see I
was dreadfully afraid of the landlord, until, emerging gaunt and haggard
from his winter sleep, Eph came to inquire for treacle. He had a dish of
golden syrup, bless him, and no baby short of nine feet from tip to tip,
could ever have got himself in such a mess. He still thinks I'm rather
dangerous.

One morning, it must have been the twenty sixth, I think, we had a
caller, destined, I fear, to entry in our visitor's book. Jesse had
ridden off to see how his ponies thrive on the new grass, Mrs. O'Flynn
was redding up after breakfast, and finding myself in the way, I took my
water colors down to Apex Rock, to see if one sketch would hold winter,
spring, summer, as viewed from the center of wonderland.

Now our house being in full view from the apex, and sound traveling
magically in this clear atmosphere, I heard voices. Mrs. O'Flynn had a
visitor, and I was in such a jealous hurry to share the gossip, that my
sketch went over the cliff as I rose to run. A rather handsome man, in
the splendid cow-boy dress, stood by a chestnut gelding, such a horse
aristocrat that I made sure he must sport a coat of arms. Moreover, in a
gingerly and reluctant way, as though under orders, he was kissing Mrs.
O'Flynn. She beamed, bless her silly old heart!

Mrs. O'Flynn looks on her truthfulness as a quality too precious for
every-day use, and so carefully has it been preserved that in her
fifty-fourth year it shows no signs of wear. Hence, on reaching the
house I was not surprised to find that her visitor was a total stranger.

From chivalrous respect for women--the species being rare on the stock
range--cow-boys are shy, usually tongue-tied. In a land where it is
accounted ill-bred to ask a personal question, as, for instance, to
inquire of your guest his name, where he comes from, or whither he is
bound, cow-punchers take a pride in their reticence. They never make
obvious remarks, ask needless questions, or interfere with matters
beyond their concern