ned around and around a few times in the same spot, then tried to
throw a bucket of water up against the ceiling. Had I been the
conflagration it would have ended then and there, for I was thoroughly
drenched. Failing to be my own fire engine I ran out and happened to see
Ranger Winess crossing the road. He must have been startled at my war
whoop, for he came running. By that time the smoke was rolling out
through the roof. While he climbed into the loft and tore pieces of
blazing boards away, I gave the emergency call by telephone, and soon we
had plenty of help. After the fire was conquered, I went to the hotel
and stayed until the Chief got back.

The months from Christmas to April are the dullest at Grand Canyon. Of
course tourists still come but not in the numbers milder weather brings.
There is little or no automobile travel coming in from the outside
world. Very few large groups or conventions come except in June, which
seems to be the month for brides and large parties. That left the ranger
family more time for play, especially in the evenings, and we had jolly
parties in our big living-room. The piano was the drawing card, and
combined with Ranger Winess' large guitar manufactured strange music.
When the other rangers joined in and sang they managed to make quite a
racket. Perhaps the songs they sang would not have met with enthusiasm
in select drawing-rooms, but they had a charm for all that. Cowboy
songs, sea chanties, and ballads many years old were often on call.
Kipling's poems, especially "I Learned about Women from Her" were prime
favorites.

I soon learned to take my sewing close to the fire and sit there quietly
a few minutes in order to be forgotten. There are realms of masculine
pleasure into which no mere woman should intrude. Besides that, I never
could negotiate the weird crooks and turns they gave to their tunes.
Every time an old favorite was sung, it developed new twists and curves.
Ranger Winess would discover a heretofore unknown chord on his guitar:
"Get that one, boys. That's a wicked minor!" Then for the ensuing five
minutes, agonizing wails shattered the smoke screen while they were on
the trail of that elusive minor. I had one set rule regarding their
concerts--positively no lighted cigarettes were to be parked on my
piano!

One song Ranger Winess always rendered as a solo, because all the others
enjoyed hearing it too much to join in with him:

OLD ROANEY

I was hangin' 'round