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"Good-morning," we said. One of the men was a sergeant. He scanned my animal, and then me, with a dawning smile. "That's a fightin'-cock of a horse you've got, sonny."

"Doesn't a good story revive the poetry of our actual lives?" He wiped the rim of his cap with a handkerchief of yellow silk enriched at one corner with needlework.

"My dear madam, you don't realize ours. We don't want to imprison women."

"Why, I suppose I'm to find there a road down Cole's Creek to Clifton."

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