put up the electric lightin' and heatin' plant, and installed the
forty-eight miles of continuous trolley track all under one transfer
system? Who built the courthouse and the red brick schoolhouse, with
nine school-teachers fresh from Connecticut? Who planned the new
depot? Who got a new leather lounge for the managin' editor of our
daily newspaper? Who built the three new smelters? Who filled our
busy streets each evenin' with throngs of happy-faced laborers pacin'
home at night after four hours' pleasant work each day in our elegantly
upholstered quartz mines? Was it you, Curly, who made these different
and several _pasears_ in progress? Was it you, Doc, you benighted
stray from the short-grass Kansas plains, where they can't raise Kafir
corn? Was it you, McKinney, you sour-dispositioned consumer of canned
peas? Nay, nay. It was myself and my learned brother. You ought to
send us both to Congress."

We gazed up the long, silent street of Heart's Desire, asleep in the
all-satisfying sun, and it almost seemed to us that we could indeed see
all these things that he had named. The spell was broken by a renewal
of the thin, high voice of this mysterious Thing in Tom Osby's house.

"And now," resumed Dan Anderson, "as I remarked, havin' turned our
hands to the stable things of life, and havin' builded well the
structure of an endurin', permanent society, there remained for us no
need save for the softenin' and refinin' touch of a higher culture. We
lacked nothing but Art. Now, here she is!

"What you're listenin' to, my countrymen, is music. It ain't a baby,
Curly. Music, heavenly maid, is young in Heart's Desire, but it ain't
any baby that you're listenin' to. I told Tom Osby myself to look into
the phonograph business some time if he got a chance. Gentlemen, I now
bid you follow me, to greet Art upon its arrival in our midst. I must
confess that Tom Osby is actin' like a blamed swine over this thing,
tryin' to keep it all to himself."

The phonograph inside the adobe switched from one tune to another.
"Don't that sound like the Plaza Major in old Chihuahua by moonlight?"
cried McKinney, as a swinging band march came squealing out through the
door. "That's a piece by a Mexican band. Can't you hear the
choo-choo, and the wee-wee, and the bum-bum? They're all there, sure's
you're born!"

"If she plays 'La Paloma,' or that 'Golondrina' thing, I'm goin' to
shoot," threatened Curly. "I've done danc