Tip Smith still talks about going to New Mexico. He married
a slatternly, unthrifty country girl, has been much tied to a
perambulator, and has grown stooped and grey from irregular
meals and broken sleep. But the worst of his difficulties are now
over, and he has, as he says, come into easy water. When I was
last in Sandtown I walked home with him late one moonlight night,
after he had balanced his cash and shut up his store. We took the
long way around and sat down on the schoolhouse steps, and between
us we quite revived the romance of the lone red rock and the
extinct people. Tip insists that he still means to go down there,
but he thinks now he will wait until his boy Bert is old enough to
go with him. Bert has been let into the story, and thinks of
nothing but the Enchanted Bluff.






The Bohemian Girl

The transcontinental express swung along the windings of the
Sand River Valley, and in the rear seat of the observation car a
young man sat greatly at his ease, not in the least discomfited by
the fierce sunlight which beat in upon his brown face and neck and
strong back. There was a look of relaxation and of great passivity
about his broad shoulders, which seemed almost too heavy until he
stood up and squared them. He wore a pale flannel shirt and a blue
silk necktie with loose ends. His trousers were wide and belted at
the waist, and his short sack coat hung open. His heavy shoes had