that style of sweet sounds if I had a free choice;
still, Colin H. Grunt got something kind of wild and blood-stirrin' out
of that windbag that was perfectly astonishin', when you took thought
of how it really did sound. And--I sung. Well, there was only the two
of us, and if I stood for the bagpipes it was a cinch he could stand my
cayodlin'.

Three days I passed there in peace and quiet. I hadn't anything on
hand to do; the more I saw of my new pardner the better I liked his
style, and here was my gorgeous opportunity to make connections with
the art of knitting that might be useful any amount, once I come to
settle down.

It was a handsome little place. The cabin was built of rocks. She
perched on the hillside, with three gnarly trees shadin' it and a big
shute of red rock jumping up behind it. Colin had a flower garden
about a foot square in front, that he tended very careful, lugging
water from the creek to keep it growing. Climbing roses covered one
wall, and, honest, it cuddled there so cunnin' and comfortable, it
reminded me of home. Think of that bare-legged, pock-marked,
sock-knittin' disparagement of the human race havin' the good feelin'
to make him a house like this! It knocked me then, because, as I have
explained, I was young. I have since learned that the length of a
jack-rabbit's ears is no sure indication of how far he can jump.

We spent three days in this pleasant life, knocking around the country
in the daytime, chinnin' and smokin' under some rock and discussin'
things in general, and at night we made music, played checkers, and
talked some more.

During this time his history come out. Naturally, I was anxious to
know how such a proposition landed in the Bill Williams Mountains. It
happened like this:

Colin came from an island in Scotland where, I judged, the folks never
heard of George Washington.

His chief had the travel habit, and Colin went along to bagpipe.

He'd followed his chief to France and then to Mexico, where the band of
Scotties tried to help Maximilian help himself to Uncle Porfirio Diaz's
empire. There was a row, and the son and heir of the house of Grunts
was killed, old Colin Hiccup fightin' over his body like a red-headed
lion in short skirts.

It was at night he told me about it, and at this point he got excited.
He pulled his old sword down from the wall and showed me how everything
occurred. It was as close a call as I can recollect. I'd rather meet