"Oh, you'll see a lot of queer things on
these here plains," her husband said when
she spoke to him of these phenomena. "I
guess what you see is the wind."

"The wind!" cried Flora. "You can't see
the wind, Bart."

"Now look here, Flora," returned Bart, with
benevolent emphasis, "you're a smart one,
but you don't know all I know about this here
country. I've lived here three mortal years,
waitin' for you to git up out of your mother's
arms and come out to keep me company,
and I know what there is to know. Some
things out here is queer -- so queer folks
wouldn't believe 'em unless they saw. An'
some's so pig-headed they don't believe their
own eyes. As for th' wind, if you lay down
flat and squint toward th' west, you can see
it blowin' along near th' ground, like a big
ribbon; an' sometimes it's th' color of air,
an' sometimes it's silver an' gold, an' some-
times, when a storm is comin', it's purple."

"If you got so tired looking at the wind,
why didn't you marry some other girl, Bart,
instead of waiting for me?"