Dinky-Dunk
has just pinned a piece of paper on my door; it is a sentence from
Epictetus. And it says: "Better it is that great souls should live in
small habitations than that abject slaves should burrow in great
houses!"

_Sunday the Eighteenth_

I spent an hour to-day trying to shoot a hen-hawk that's been hovering
about the shack all afternoon. He's after my chickens, and as new-laid
eggs are worth more than Browning to a homesteader, I got out my
duck-gun. It gave me a feeling of impending evil, having that huge bird
hanging about. It reminded me there was wrong and rapine in the world. I
hated the brute. But I hid under one of the wagon-boxes and got him, in
the end. I brought him down, a tumbling flurry of wings, like Satan's
fall from Heaven. When I ran out to possess myself of his Satanic body
he was only wounded, however, and was ready to show fight. Then I saw
red again. I clubbed him with the gun-butt, going at him like fury. I
was moist with perspiration when I got through with him. He was a
monster. I nailed him with his wings out, on the bunk-house wall, and
Olie shouted and called Dinky-Dunk when they came back from rounding up
the horses, which had got away on the range. Dinky-Dunk solemnly warned
me not to run risks, as he might have taken an eye out, or torn my face
with his claws. He said he could have stuffed and mounted my hawk, if I
hadn't clubbed the poor thing almost to pieces. There's a devil in me
somewhere, I told Dinky-Dunk. But he only laughed.

_Monday the Nineteenth_

To-night Dinky-Dunk and I spent a solid hour trying to decide on a name
for the shack. I wanted to call it "Crucknacoola," which is Gaelic for
"A Little Hill of Sleep," but Dinky-Dunk brought forward the objection
that there was no hill. Then I suggested "Barnavista," since about all
we can see from the door are the stables. Then I said "The Builtmore,"
in a spirit of mockery, and then Dinky-Dunk in a spirit of irony
suggested "Casa Grande." And in the end we united on "Casa Grande." It
is marvelous how my hair grows. Olie now watches me studiously as I eat.
I can see that he is patiently patterning his table deportment after
mine. There's nothing that silent rough-mannered man wouldn't do for me.
I've got so I never notice his nose, any more than I used to notice
Uncle Carlton's receding chin. But I don't think Olie is getting enough
to eat. All his mind seems taken up with trying to remember not to drink