ACROSS THE BLUES.
325
sounded to the clatter of our donkies' feet Then we left the valley and began winding over more mountains. Sometimes there was a road and sometimes none.
I remarked several times to the driver the long see-saw push of Jack's ears. Billy said he was on a new road and guessed Jack didn't like it; that it was a cut-off to the Willawa, and the day being fine, he thought he'd try it. Then Jack stopped and began one of those mournfully long and rasping whaw-he-haws. The very air trembled and vibrated as note after note rolled out and went chasing each other up the mountains and through canyons, echoing and re-echoing until I fancied lost spirits from Hades were secreted in some fastness and holding high carnival. Then we started again. I have read of Alpine horns, though never was so fortunate as to hear one, but I will wager all I have that Jack can beat the best of them. I verily believe those brutes were deeply tinctured with satanic desire to give me a benefit. For the rougher the road the harder they would go. As for the buckboard—well, that thing had life, that's all. It never would do as you wanted, and besides it had a sneaking notion of going over every precipice we came to. Then sometimes it would dodge round and get in front of the team, or else make a clean jump of a yard or more, light stiff and and wait for me to come down. Jacob wrestling with angels was nothing to my two day's efforts to keep on top of that machine.
But somehow or other we got through the cut off and Willawa canyon, and arrived at Joseph the second evening, blue in spots and badly broken up. It took several months for me to recuperate from the effects of that trip and an attack of mountain fever, but I was partly compensated for this inactivity by its enabling me to become
acquainted with the people. I found them kind hearted, but they had strange ideas of my mission. Some thought me a government agent after timber thieves, while others set me down as some sort of a detective. To the credit of the gentler sex, be it said, that I was looked upon by them as an author, artist or poet.
When the fourth of July came, and I found so large a circle of mammas and daughters, especially the latter, my pleasure knew no bounds. The celebration was held at Silver Lake, a beautiful sheet of water, situated at the base of a snow range.
Tall pine trees fringed the lake and queer gondolas floated on its surface carrying light hearted merry-makers. We had a splendid day, and the orator on that occasion being an ex-honorable from Osborn Kansas, of course the American Eagle got his deserts.
So the hour of my departure drew on apace. But I felt my hair stand on end when a young lady blushingly asked me to leave her one of my sketches or a poem. The very idea of me sketching, much less writing a poem. But I could not refuse her request, and while racking my brain for a subject I recollected one time away back when I was husking corn in the White river bottoms of Indiana, of seeing a little stanza that a neighbor boy had cut out of an almanac, lauding the virtues of Herrick's Pills. I felt that could I but hit upon some such theme I might make an immortal name and at the same time please the girl. But the more I tried to think the more confused I became. It may have been her eyes that caused my thoughts to wander so. Anyway I had to give up and ask her what I should write about. "Why, about our Fourth of course." Grasping my pencil as though an idea might slip, I opened her album and scrawled as follows: