, you see, I was wrong. There's more real practical Christianity
among these people than I ever saw before, and it's hard work to be an
ass here. The way of the ass is full of trouble, and I begin to
understand why you wanted me to come out to Wyoming. The people are
rough, but as kind as angels. Felt like turning back, but these women
put new heart in me, especially the wooden-legged one.

"'"We don't like parlor talk out here," she said; "it ain't considered
good ettikit. Folks don't mind a little, but if it goes too fur it's
considered insultin' an' everybody begins to speak to ye like he was
talkin' to a balky mule."

"'I went on as soon as I was able, and spent the whole summer on the
back of a cayuse. Got lost in the mountains; went hungry and cold like
the wolf, as Garland puts it, for three days; had to think my way back
to camp. It was the best schooling in geography and logic and American
humanity that I ever had. Every man at the ranch, and the women, had
been out hunting for me. I offered them money, but they woudn't take a
cent--the joy of seeing me was enough. They haven't a smitch of the
revolting money-hunger of the average European. With all its faults I
am proud of my country. I want you to find a good, big American job
for me.

"'I have been reading the Bishop of St. Clare, who says: "There hath
been more energy expended in swaggering about with full bellies and a
burden of needless fat than would move the island to the main shore.
If thy purse be used to buy immunity from work, it secureth immunity
from manhood; and what is a man without manhood?"

"'There is the American idea for you.

"'Deacon Joe has got to change his mind about me. Marie has only
written me one letter, and that was a frost. If you have any influence
with the girl, don't let her get engaged to that parson.'

Socrates laughed as he put the letter away, and went on:

"Well, Harry came back, browned and brawny, with his cayuse, saddle,
and sombrero, and a shooting-iron half as long as my arm.

"He came here for a talk with me the day after his arrival. The
subject of a lifework was pressing on him.

"'Have you seen Zeb?' was his first query.

"'Zeb?' I asked. 'Who is Zeb?'

"'That dear old, irrepressible bishop,' said Harry. 'They have dug him
up and named him Zeb, and put him on a top shelf in the library. They
think he is one of our great-grandfathers.'

"'Oh, he has been promoted,' I remarked.

"Harry went on:

"