"My habits are set," says Miss Blossom, "so I cayn't suppose any such thing. But that wig of Curly's, that skirt, those—now did yo' robber baron steal those things off a scarecrow, or did they grow by themselves?"
Then she grabbed my hands. "Thar," says she, "that's off my mind, so don't look worried. The dear little soul, she's the bravest, sweetest thing—and the way she bore all that pain! Why, you or any other man would have set around cursing all day and groaning all night, but Curly—why, she never even whimpered. Now I ask you, is it possible she shot those two men? I cayn't believe a word, so it's no use your talking."
"Was Miss Pansy very much scart with Curly's talk?"
"Miss Pansy, my good man, is a fool, although I say it. Of all the romantic nonsense and sentimental—but thar, she writes poetry, my dear, and that accounts for her. Why, if I hadn't locked her up in her room, that woman would have sent off a poem, all about lady outlaws, to the New York Sunday Companion. I burned the stuff, and she had to go off in hysterics. Shucks! She puts Curly off to sleep every night with her fool poems—and such trash! Now there she is, with her glue-glue harp singing to Curly. If she don't beat cats! You listen."
Away off in the house I could hear Miss Pansy's thin little voice and glue-glue harp; I thought it sounded fine.
"Lost, stole, or strayed on Tuesday night,
The finder tries to hide it—
A woman's heart—he has no right,
For there's a Love inside it.
"The owner fears 'twas snatched away,
But this is a reminder,
That she is quite prepared to pay
One half, with thanks, to finder."
Miss Blossom led me to the house. "You come right into the settin'-room," says she, "and keep yo' tearing spurs off my new carpet."
I did my best about the spurs, but it would take an Indian scout to find a safe trail across that parlour floor, the same being cluttered up with little fool tables. These same tables were of different breeds, three-legged, two-legged, one-legged, tumble-over, all-to-pieces, trip-you-up, and smash-the-crockery, so it was a sure treat to watch Miss Pansy curving around without the slightest accident. Her paws were folded in front, her tail came swishing behind, her head came pecking along hen-fashion, and her smile was sweet enough to give me toothache.
"Oh," she bubbled, "I'm so glad you didn't get lynched by those horrid men who never wash themselves, or think of serious things; and it's so nice to see you looking so brown with that beautiful cherry silk kerchief round yo' neck, and the wonderful leather leggings, and that dreadful revolver, so picturesque, so——"