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"What, a leather-curtained spring-wagon?"

Certainly no cricket ever dropped blither music from his legs than did my beautiful horse that glorious morning as we clattered in perfect rhythm on the hard clean road of the wide pine forest. Ah! the forest is not there now; the lumbermen--

Rills of perspiration tickled my back like flies. "Can't one man do the work?"

"Maiden passing fair, turn away thine eyes! Turn away thine eyes ere my bosom burn,

"Good-morning," he responded, tardily and grimly. "Well, you air in a hurry."

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