Part 9

“I see a brown patch against the mountain side surrounded by green that has something the shape of a man—is that what you mean?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“A patch of brown surrounded by grass or bushes.”

“Well, what does it mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“How did it come there?”

“Because the grass or bushes grew around it, I suppose.”

“Well, but I mean does it mean anything? It looks like a big man.”

“Life is short, little boy. But if it means anything, it is the photograph of the presiding genius of the Hot Sulphur Springs.”

“What’s a presiding genius?”

“Little boy, did you say that you would like to ride horseback? Yes—well go over and tell the man at the barn that you want the pony.”

I am a great lover of ponies, they give one a rest. In fact, if it were not for this particular pony, the only non-bucking broncho in the vicinity, I should be constrained to leave. I have been anxious to go down the river to the house of a friend and have a week’s fishing, but I dare not go away from that pony. I am afraid the owner of that pony is mercenary; he refuses to hire him for a week; I think he knows that I want to go fishing, and has possessed himself of the idea that I cannot fish without the pony. He told me only yesterday that he commonly fished off that pony’s back; in fact that it was “the best way to fish anyhow.” It may be a good method; I never tried it; the novelty of the thing is something of an inducement. But the man asks too much, I am satisfied; the pony is not worth more than thirty dollars, but the owner demands fifty. He says I can sell him again, and I have no doubt of that. But what can I get for him? Well, he don’t know, but he’s sure I “won’t lose nothin’;” he might take a notion to buy him back, at a discount, of course. I offer to pay him the “discount” for the pony’s use, and also tender references as to my integrity. But he “don’t know nothin’ about references—there’s the pony, sound in wind and limb, and so gentle a child can ride him, and the best pony to fish off’n I knows on; you can take him, or leave him.”

I have concluded to take him; an indifferent saddle and bridle, ten dollars—total, sixty dollars. The boy takes the outfit under his immediate supervision and we go down to the house of my friend.

Here we found another boy a couple of years younger. I did not know of this boy save by report, but now I do. This last boy is sedate; sometimes I think he is about sixty, but his father is not that old, and it bothers me occasionally to determine which is the father and which the son. They call him Judge, and it’s worth half a dollar to hear him call me counselor—the title with which he dubbed me on our introduction.

“Counselor, I’m glad to see you; the fishing is good; the mosquitoes are a little troublesome for this time of year; but we can give you a net, and I’ll show you where to fish.”

His hair is curly, and he has what the mother of the boy in charge of me would call a “sweet face.” I was about to take him in my arms, but I took off my hat instead, and introduced him to my boy; they looked at each other, grinned and shook hands; then I knew he was a boy, and again wanted to take him in my arms, but dared not. That evening I sat on a stool mending a broken leader, and the Judge sat opposite in a high chair.

“Counselor,” said he, “you are not tying that knot square; that knot will slip; bring it here and let me tie it for you.”

I obeyed reverently; he accomplished the trick deftly and handed back my leader in silence.

“Judge, can you tie a fly?”

“Not very well; but I will some day, and then I’ll make the trout round here think they are eating candy.”

“By the way, Judge, do you like candy?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

I was glad of that, because I’m fond of candy myself, though I never before took any on a camping trip.

We have been at my friend’s house nearly a week. I have not as yet had an opportunity to test the qualities of the pony “to fish off’n,” but the boys corroborate the stableman’s assertion, and I think that unless I can get a good price from the man of whom I purchased him, I shall take him home with me and try him another season. The idea, however, is not of my own suggestion; my boy proposed it. Besides, some day when the boy is at school—blessed be the school, the school teacher, and not the birch—his mother might get a chance to ride. The pony could rest at night, of course. It would only involve a dollar a day and a side-saddle. Think of a pony eating himself up once a month! That kind of financiering is what keeps me a pauper; I shall have to forego the pleasure of fishing “off’n that pony.”

At my friend’s house our tent is pitched on the bank of the river. I came away from home to be out. I have slept in the house for so many years that it has ceased to be a novelty. The boy and I sleep together; or rather he sleeps on the same spruce boughs or hay that I occupy. Perhaps there is nothing in the world so beautiful as a sleeping child, with the rosy flush of health mantling brow and cheek, with, may be, a tear trembling on the closed lashes, the remembrance of a sorrow that was, but now forgotten. This has been an inspiration to a multitude of poets, but the inspiration did not come upon them in camp, nor were the poets trying to snatch repose in the same bed; they were lookers on merely, giving the rein to their imagination. A poem under such circumstances would be a satire, certainly.

Last night the boy went to bed early, while the pony sorrowfully partook of his evening meal in my friend’s meadow. I flattered myself that a good night’s rest was in store for me, and turned in as the moon came up over the range. The night was very still, and I was dozing off under the soothing melody of the swift flowing river on its road to the sea, when I thought I heard the distant lowing of a cow; that was no strange matter in this neighborhood. I forgot it in a moment and was gone, perhaps five minutes, trout fishing, or eating wild raspberries with cream, yellow cream, not blue, when I heard the cow again, then something like three hundred cows and as many calves, and six hundred cow-boys, all yelling like a band of Apaches just before day break. If you never heard an Apache yell, remember, the first time you do, each particular hair will stand on end—if you have any left. Each cow bellowed for her calf and each calf for its dam—how I’d like to put an “n” to that last word, with cow to top off with—and each particular cow-boy yelled as though he were six, and interested in his mission. They were trying to ford the stream, not a hundred yards from my head. Of course I was broad awake, expecting every instant that the boy would start up with the impression that a million Utes had come down for him. I opened the tent fly, and the moonlight streamed brightly in upon his sunburned face; he heaved a long sigh of utter satisfaction, turned over and snored an accompaniment to the pandemonium in the road. I gave it up, and prepared to turn in again just as the rear end of the cavalcade was passing out of sight.

But not to sleep, just yet. My friend has a dozen or more burros, and the burro is another of the blessings of this world for which I possess unlimited love. Their patient and melancholy looking eyes will excite the sympathy of any human save the miner; their ears are a mystery; their song!—Oh for a bard to string his lyre and sing in poetic numbers his praises of the burro’s song! I have sometimes thought the burro the Pegasus of some of our Colorado poets, but that they shunned their source of inspiration; gave him the cold shoulder, as it were. Rivalry begets jealousy, and that may account for it; each individual poet would swear by himself only, upon the same principle that every fellow likes to take to himself the credit of all the good things said and done, forgetting there is nothing new under the sun.

Well, my friend’s burros had ranged themselves in line along the inside of the lane fence, and with their ears sticking straight out a foot or more between the top rails, seemed to be silently investigating the cause of the misery in their vicinity. A little blue fellow at the head seemed to take in the situation, as the last cowboy galloped by; then he stuck his head through the fence rails and laughed; his immediate neighbors of course saw the joke, and joined in. The whole band at once became inspired, and that infected me. When it grew monotonous, I began “heaving rocks;” they pulled their heads in at this unexpected interruption, backed off a few rods out of the reach of my compliments, and stared at me with their ears. After apparently taking in my situation, they began laughing again. I laid down in disgust, and the boy slept on. The moon was going down in the West before the serenade entirely ceased; then I went to sleep, and dreamed—no wonder, you say—that I was in Ireland. There I met the Doctor, driving round in an American buckboard, with no tires on the wheels. I asked him where the irons were, and he told me the English Government was covering the Green Isle with railroads as a military necessity, and was confiscating all the iron. Building railroads being then my mission, I had a gang of men at work, when I felt myself suddenly hit in the back with a spike hammer, whereat I was broad awake in the tent on the bank of the river, and the boy’s knees planted in my ribs. I shook him, gently of course, and asked him why he did it. He said he didn’t know, but guessed he was asleep; that he could always do it at home, and strike his knees against the wall. There was no answer to this, so I told him to go to sleep again, which he did. In less than five minutes he was lying crosswise. I straightened him out, gently of course, and he wanted to know why I did that. My explanation being satisfactory, he went to sleep again, and I was getting into a doze when he turned a somersault and lit with his head in my stomach. I straightened him out again, gently of course, and asked him if he thought I was a circus ring. He said he had been dreaming. I told him he shouldn’t dream; that dreaming was the peculiar privilege of his elders. I might have read him quite an essay on dreaming, but he was having out his morning nap, and I turned out quite refreshed. When I went to call him to breakfast, he was on his knees with his face buried in his hands, and his hands on his pillow. Of course I hesitated to disturb him in that Oriental attitude of devotion, but I soon discovered he was asleep, finishing that morning nap. As soon as he was fairly awake he began to whistle.