or "breeding farm," in the "Blue Grass
Country," famous for the popular racers it has produced. He was told
that the owner was the "best judge of horse-flesh in the country."
"Small wonder," added his informant, "for they say as a young man out in
California he was a horse-thief, and only saved himself by eloping with
some rich farmer's daughter. But he's a straight-out and respectable man
now, whose word about horses can't be bought; and as for his wife, she's
a beauty! To see her at the 'Springs,' rigged out in the latest fashion,
you'd never think she had ever lived out of New York or wasn't the wife
of one of its millionaires."

THE MAN AND THE MOUNTAIN

He was such a large, strong man that, when he first set foot in the
little parallelogram I called my garden, it seemed to shrink to half its
size and become preposterous. But I noticed at the same time that he was
holding in the open palm of his huge hand the roots of a violet, with
such infinite tenderness and delicacy that I would have engaged him as
my gardener on the spot. But this could not be, as he was already the
proud proprietor of a market-garden and nursery on the outskirts of the
suburban Californian town where I lived. He would, however, come for two
days in the week, stock and look after my garden, and impart to my
urban intellect such horticultural hints as were necessary. His name was
"Rutli," which I presumed to be German, but which my neighbors rendered
as "Rootleigh," possibly from some vague connection with his occupation.
His own knowledge of English was oral and phonetic. I have a delightful
recollection of a bill of his in which I was charged for "fioletz," with
the vague addition of "maine cains." Subsequent explanation proved it to
be "many kinds."

Nevertheless, my little garden bourgeoned and blossomed under his
large, protecting hand. I became accustomed to walk around his feet
respectfully when they blocked the tiny paths, and to expect the total
eclipse of that garden-bed on which he worked, by his huge bulk. For the
tiniest and most reluctant rootlet seemed to respond to his caressing
paternal touch; it was a pretty sight to see his huge fingers tying up
some slender stalk to its stick with the smallest thread, and he had
a reverent way of laying a bulb or seed in the ground, and then gently
shaping and smoothing a small mound over it, which made the little
inscription on the stick above more like an affecting epitaph than
e