in as a young horse, so I was
tamed until He reckoned me worth pasturage. Before then I'd work
hard--yes, for pride. A bucking horse throws miles, sheer waste into the
air, miles better pulled out straight the way you're goin'. I work for
service, now.

You know when you've been in trouble, how you swing back thinking of
edged words which would have cut, and dirty actions that you wish you'd
done. These devils has got to go if you'd keep your manhood, harder to
beat out than a talky woman, and even the littlest of them puts up a
heap big fight. But when the last is killed, there's room for peace.

Sloth walks in front of trouble, peace follows after. Water is nothing
till you thirst, rest nothing till you're weary, calm nothing till
you've faced the storm, peace nothing until after war. But peace is like
the water after thirst, rest when you're weary, calm after storm,
earnings of warriors only. Many find peace in death, only a few in life,
and I found peace thar in the wilderness, the very medicine of torn
souls, fresh from the hand of the Almighty Father.

And I found wealth. Seems there's many persons mistaking dollars for
some sort of wealth. I've had a few at times by way of samples, the
things which you're apt to be selfish with, or give away to buy
self-righteousness. Reckoning with them projuces the feeling called
poverty. They're the very stuff and substance of meanness, and no man
walks straight-loaded. Dollars gets lost, or throwed away, or left to
your next of kin, but they're not a good and lasting possession. I like
'em, too.

What's the good and lasting possession, the real wealth? Times I've been
down in civilization, meeting folks who'd been rusting and rotting on
one spot, from a while or so to a long lifetime, aye, and proud to boast
in long decaying. They'd good memory, but nothing to remember. They're
handy enough as purses if they were filled with coin. But where they're
poor I'm rich, with wealth of memories, some good, some bad, all real.
In coin like "seen" and "known" and "done" I'm millionaire. Ah, yes,
but times I wisht that I could part with things I've "lived" to help
beginners, and keep moths out of candles. Things lived ain't current
coin to be given, sold, lost, thrown, aye, or bequeathed. My body's meat
and bones, my soul's the life I've lived, and mine until I square
accounts with God. Queer reckoning that last. I guess He'll have to
laugh, and He who made all life plumb full of hu