Our guest was deep in his favorite sport, telling us all about the bugs that killed the beautiful yellow pines at the Canyon.
"Have some butter, Professor, and try this salad," invited White Mountain.
"Thanks, it looks enticing," answered our distinguished guest, and he placed the bowl with all its contents on his plate. Bite by bite the salad disappeared, while he discoursed on the proper method of killing the Yellow Pine Beetle.
"Why aren't you folks eating some of this delicious salad? You deprive yourself of a treat when you refuse to eat salads. The human body requires the elements found in fresh, leafy plants, etc., etc."
I gave the Chief's shins a sharp little kick.
"We seldom eat salads," murmured White Mountain.
I think I heard the disappointed ranger mutter: "Damn right we don't!"
When the last bite was gone we all stepped outside to look for signs of the dread beetle on our own trees. While we stood there a blast was put off by the construction gang on the railway directly in front of our house. Rocks, 'dobe, and pine cones rattled down all around us. We beat a retreat into the house and the Chief called to the man in charge and warned him that such charges of powder as that must be covered if any more blasting were to be done.
Again next morning big rocks struck the house, and broke a window. In the absence of a ranger, I walked down and requested the Turk in charge of the labor to use a little more discretion. Our house was newly painted inside and out. My windows were all clean, new curtains were up, the floors were newly waxed, and we were quite proud of our place of abode. I said to the Turk I was afraid the roof would leak if such sharp rocks hit it. He replied insolently that if he blew the roof off, the Santa Fe would put another on. I went back to the house in fear and trembling, and picked up my sewing. For half an hour I sewed in quiet. Then a terrific explosion rent the air. There was ominous silence for an instant, then the house crumpled over my head. The ridgepole came crashing down, bringing part of the roof and ceiling with it. Rocks and a great boulder fell into the room, knocking the stove over. Ashes and soot went everywhere. One rock grazed me and knocked the sewing basket from my lap. Part of a railroad tie carried the window sash and curtains in with it and landed on the piano.
I have a vague recollection of searching vainly for my thimble, and then of grimly determining to locate the Chief's gun. It is well he wore his arsenal that day, else the usual order of things would have been reversed—a Christian would have massacred a Turk!