“Now, don’t,” pleaded Alta; “tell me, Mrs. Willis, what is the spirit of the true Western girl?”
“She is full of sunshine as a meadow lark, and as spontaneous as a mountain stream, as lively as a squirrel—”
“And just as hard to catch,” inserted Mary.
“Unless the right feller comes along,” said Sally; “then she’s tame enough.”
“Not the true Western girl,” objected Mrs. Willis; “she won’t chase after any man. Her heart is hidden as deep as the mountain’s gold.”
“Oh, you’d make her an angel with wings,” said Sally.
“No, I wouldn’t, I’d just make her all she is—wholesome, natural, free—a wild rose that blooms among a tangle of thorns, scattering sweetness free and far, but stinging the hand that tries rudely to pluck it.”
“Why, you’re a regular preacher,” said Sally.
“No, I’m neither poet nor preacher, but if I were either I’d give you girls one lesson.”