“Three days,” he said bitterly, while Grasshopper thrust his eager muzzle into the water-trough—“three days I have braced back my feet and slid, like a yearlin’ at a brandin’ bee—and look at me now! Oh, Copperhead, you darned old fool, see what you done now!”
In this morose mood he went to the house. There was no one at home. A note was tacked on the door.
Gone to Plomo. Back in two or three days. Beef hangs under platform on windmill tower. When you get it, oil the mill. Books and deck of cards in box under bed. Don’t leave fire in stove when you go.
Gene Baird.
N. B.—Feed the cat.
Jeff built a fire in the stove and unsaddled the weary Grasshopper. He found some corn, which he put into a woven-grass morral and hung on Grasshopper’s nose. He went to the waterpen, roped out Copperhead and shut him in a side corral. Then he let the bunch go. They strained through the gate in a mad run, despite shrill and frantic remonstrance from Copperhead.
“Jeff,” said Jeff soberly, “are you going to be a damned fool all your life? That girl doesn’t care anything about you. She hasn’t thought of you since. You stay right here and read the pretty books. That’s the place for you.”
This advice was sound and wise beyond cavil. So Jeff took it valiantly. After supper he hobbled Grasshopper and took off the nosebag. Then he went to the back room in pursuit of literature.
Have I leave for a slight digression, to commit a long-delayed act of justice—to correct a grievous wrong? Thank you.