ever been in
better health.

George Myers was holding the fort at the Maltese Cross, building his
four-mile fence, keeping an eye on the horses and cattle and acting as
general factotum and cook. He was successful in everything except his
cooking. Even that was excellent, except for an occasional and
unaccountable lapse; but those lapses were dire.

It happened that, on the day of his return to the semi-civilization of
the Maltese Cross, Roosevelt intimated to George Myers that
baking-powder biscuits would be altogether welcome. George was rather
proud of his biscuits and set to work with energy, adding an extra bit
of baking powder from the can on the shelf beside the stove to be
sure that they would be light. The biscuits went into the oven looking
as perfect as any biscuits which George had ever created. They came
out a rich, emerald green.

Roosevelt and George Myers stared at them, wondering what imp in the
oven had worked a diabolical transformation. But investigation proved
that there was no imp involved. It was merely that Sylvane or
Merrifield, before departing, had casually dumped soda into the
baking-powder can.

Evidently Roosevelt thereupon decided that if accidents of that sort
were liable to happen to George, he had better take charge of the
culinary department himself. George was off on the range the following
morning, and Roosevelt, who had stayed home to write letters, filled a
kettle with dry rice, poured on what looked like a reasonable amount
of water, and set it on the oven to cook. Somewhat to his surprise,
the rice began to swell, brimming over on the stove. He dipped out
what seemed to him a sufficient quantity, and returned to his work.
The smell of burning rice informed him that there was trouble in the
wind. The kettle, he found, was brimming over again. He dipped out
more rice. All morning long he was dipping out rice. By the time
George returned, every bowl in the cabin, including the wash-basin,
was filled with half-cooked rice.

Roosevelt handed the control of the kitchen back to George Myers.

VI

Once long ago an ocean lapped this hill,
And where those vultures sail, ships sailed at will;
Queer fishes cruised about without a harbor--
I will maintain there's queer fish round here still.

_The Bad Lands Rubaiyat_

Through the long days of that soft, green June, Roosevelt was making
himself at home in his new and