A Summer in a Canyon. Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin

himself of the tongue-confusing word with a terrible grimace.

      ‘I’m not writing a botany,’ retorted Margery; ‘and I can never remember that word, much less spell it. I don’t see how it grows under such an abominable Russian name. It’s worse than ichthyosaurus. Do you remember that funny nonsense verse?—

      “I is for ichthyosaurus,

       Who lived when the world was all porous;

       But he fainted with shame

       When he first heard his name,

       And departed a long while before us.”’

      ‘The Spaniards are more poetic,’ said Aunt Truth, ‘for they call it la copa de oro, the golden cup. Oh, see them yonder! It is like the Field of the Cloth of Gold.’

      The sight would have driven a royal florist mad with joy: a hillside that was a swaying mass of radiant bloom, a joyous carnival of vivid colour, in which the thousand golden goblets, turned upward to the sun, were dancing, and glowing, and shaming out of countenance the purple and blue and pink masses which surrounded them on every side.

      ‘You know Professor Pinnie told us that every well-informed young girl should know at least the flora of her own State,’ said Jack, after the excitement had subsided.

      ‘Well, one thing is certain: Professor Pinnie never knew the state of his own flora, or at least he kept his wife sorting and arranging his specimens all the time; and I think he’s a regular old frump,’ said Polly, irreverently, but meeting Aunt Truth’s reproving glance, which brought a blush and a whispered ‘Excuse me,’ she went on, ‘Well, what I mean is, he doesn’t know any more than other people, after all; for he cares for nothing but bushes and herbs and seeds and shrubs and roots and stamens and pistils; and he can’t tell whether a flower is lovely or not, he is so crazy to find out where it belongs and tie a tag round it.’

      ‘I must agree with Polly,’ laughed Jack. ‘Why, I went to ride with him one day in the Cathedral Oaks, and he made me get off my horse every five minutes to dig up roots and tie them to the pommel of his old saddle, so that we came into town looking like moving herbariums. The stable-man lifted him on to his horse when he started, I suppose, and he would have been there yet if he hadn’t been helped off. Bah!’ For Jack had a supreme contempt for any man who was less than a centaur.

      By this time they had turned off the main thoroughfare, and were travelling over a bit of old stage road which was anything but easy riding. There they met some men who were driving an enormous band of sheep to a distant ranch for pasture, which gave saucy Polly the chance to ask Dr. Winship, innocently, why white sheep ate so much more than black ones.

      He fell into the trap at once, and answered unsuspectingly, in a surprised tone, ‘Why, do they?’ giving her the longed-for opportunity to respond, ‘Yes, of course, because there are so many more of ’em; don’t you see?’

      ‘You are behind the times, Dr. Paul,’ said Jack. ‘That’s an ancient joke. Just look at those sheep, sir. How many are there? Eight hundred, say?’

      ‘Even more, I should think,—a thousand, certainly; and rather thin they look, too.’

      ‘I should imagine they might,’ said Bell, sympathetically. ‘When I first came to California I never could see how the poor creatures found anything to eat on these bare, brown hillsides, until the farmers showed me the prickly little burr clover balls that cover the ground. But see, mamma! there are some tiny lambs, poor, tired, weak-legged little things; I wonder if they will live through the journey.’

      ‘Which reminds me,’ said Jack, giving Villikins a touch of the whip, ‘that nothing is so calculated to disturb your faith in and love for lambs as life on a sheep ranch. Innocent! Good gracious! I never saw such—such—’

      ‘Gasping, staggering, stuttering, stammering tom-fools,’ interposed Bell. ‘That’s what Carlyle called one Lamb,—dear Mr. “Roast Pig” Charles; and a mean old thing he was, too, for doing it.’

      ‘Well, it is just strong enough to apply to the actual lamb; not the lamb of romance, but the lamb of reality. You can’t get him anywhere; he doesn’t know enough. He won’t drive, he can’t follow; he’s too stupid. Why, I went out for a couple of ’em once, that were lost in the cañon. I found them,—that was comparatively easy; but when I tried to get them home, I couldn’t. At last, after infinite trouble, I managed to drive them up on to the trail, which was so narrow there was but one thing for a rational creature to do, and that was to go ahead. Then, if you’ll believe me, those idiots kept bleating and getting under the horse’s fore-feet; finally, one of them, the champion simpleton, tumbled over into the cañon, and I tied the legs of the other one together, and carried him home on the front of my saddle.’

      ‘They are innocent, any way,’ insisted Margery. ‘I won’t believe they’re not. I can’t bear these people who interfere with all your cherished ideas, and say that Columbus didn’t discover America, and Shakespeare wasn’t Shakespeare, and William Tell didn’t shoot the apple.’

      ‘Nevertheless, I claim that the lamb is not half so much an emblem of innocence as he is of utter and profound stupidity. There is that charming old lyric about Mary’s little lamb; I can explain that. After he came to school (which was an error of judgment at the very beginning), he made the rumpus, you know—

      “And then the teacher turned him out,

       But still he lingered nee-ar,

       And waited patiently about

       Till Mary did appee-ar.”

      Of course he did. He didn’t know enough to go home alone.

      “And then he ran to her and laid

       His head upon her arr-um,

       As if to say, ‘I’m not afraid;

       You’ll keep me from all harr-um.’”

      As if a lamb could be capable of that amount of reasoning! And then

      “‘What makes the lamb love Mary so?

       The eager children cry;

       ‘Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know,’

       The teacher did reply.”

      And might have added that as Mary fed the lamb three times a day and twice on Sundays, he probably not only knew on which side his daily bread was buttered, but also who buttered it.’

      ‘Dreadful boy!’ laughed Bell. ‘Polly, pray lower the umbrella; we are going to meet some respectable people, and we actually are too dirty to be seen. I have really been eating dust.’

      ‘They must be equally dusty,’ said Polly, sagely. ‘Why, it is the Burtons, from Tacitas ranch!’

      The Burton ranch wagon was drawn up, as its driver recognised Dr. Winship, and he proceeded to cheer the spirits of the party by telling them that he had passed Pancho two hours before, and that he was busily clearing rubbish from the camping-ground. This was six o’clock, and by a little after eight the weary, happy party were seated on saddle-blankets and carriage-cushions round a cheery camp-fire, eating a frugal meal, which tasted sweeter than nectar and ambrosia to their keen appetites.

      The boys expressed their intention of spending the night in unpacking their baggage and getting to rights generally, but Dr. Winship placed a prompt and decisive veto on this proposition, and they submitted cheerfully to his better judgment.

      Getting to bed was an exciting occupation for everybody. Dicky was first tucked up in a warm nest of rugs and blankets, under a tree, and sank into a profound slumber at once, with the happy unconsciousness of childhood. His father completed the preparations for his comfort by opening a huge umbrella and arranging it firmly over his head, so that no falling leaf might frighten him and no sudden gust of air blow upon his face.

      Bell stood before her hammock, and meditated. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘going to bed is a simple matter after