y elevating about those old habitations. You feel like
it's up to you to do your best, on account of those fellows having it so
hard. You feel like you owed them something."

At Wassiwappa, Ray got instructions to sidetrack until Thirty-six went
by. After reading the message, he turned to his guests. "I'm afraid this
will hold us up about two hours, Mrs. Kronborg, and we won't get into
Denver till near midnight."

"That won't trouble me," said Mrs. Kronborg contentedly. "They know me
at the Y.W.C.A., and they'll let me in any time of night. I came to see
the country, not to make time. I've always wanted to get out at this
white place and look around, and now I'll have a chance. What makes it
so white?"

"Some kind of chalky rock." Ray sprang to the ground and gave Mrs.
Kronborg his hand. "You can get soil of any color in Colorado; match
most any ribbon."

While Ray was getting his train on to a side track, Mrs. Kronborg
strolled off to examine the post-office and station house; these, with
the water tank, made up the town. The station agent "batched" and raised
chickens. He ran out to meet Mrs. Kronborg, clutched at her feverishly,
and began telling her at once how lonely he was and what bad luck he was
having with his poultry. She went to his chicken yard with him, and
prescribed for gapes.

Wassiwappa seemed a dreary place enough to people who looked for
verdure, a brilliant place to people who liked color. Beside the station
house there was a blue-grass plot, protected by a red plank fence, and
six fly-bitten box-elder trees, not much larger than bushes, were kept
alive by frequent hosings from the water plug. Over the windows some
dusty morning-glory vines were trained on strings. All the country about
was broken up into low chalky hills, which were so intensely white, and
spotted so evenly with sage, that they looked like white leopards
crouching. White dust powdered everything, and the light was so intense
that the station agent usually wore blue glasses. Behind the station
there was a water course, which roared in flood time, and a basin in the
soft white rock where a pool of alkali water flashed in the sun like a
mirror. The agent looked almost as sick as his chickens, and Mrs.
Kronborg at once invited him to lunch with her party. He had, he
confessed, a distaste for his own cooking, and lived mainly on soda
crackers and canned beef. He laughed apologetically when Mrs. Kronborg
said she guessed she'd look