dences of the three hundred thousand dollars, as set forth in the
document of old man Rundle.

I came down the hill in the cool of the afternoon. Suddenly, out of the
cedar-brake I stepped into a beautiful green valley where a tributary
small stream ran into the Alamito River.

And there I was startled to see what I took to be a wild man, with
unkempt beard and ragged hair, pursuing a giant butterfly with brilliant
wings.

"Perhaps he is an escaped madman," I thought; and wondered how he had
strayed so far from seats of education and learning.

And then I took a few more steps and saw a vine-covered cottage near
the small stream. And in a little grassy glade I saw May Martha Mangum
plucking wild flowers.

She straightened up and looked at me. For the first time since I knew
her I saw her face--which was the color of the white keys of a new
piano--turn pink. I walked toward her without a word. She let the
gathered flowers trickle slowly from her hand to the grass.

"I knew you would come, Jim," she said clearly. "Father wouldn't let me
write, but I knew you would come."

What followed you may guess--there was my wagon and team just across the
river.

I've often wondered what good too much education is to a man if he can't
use it for himself. If all the benefits of it are to go to others, where
does it come in?

For May Martha Mangum abides with me. There is an eight-room house in a
live-oak grove, and a piano with an automatic player, and a good start
toward the three thousand head of cattle is under fence.

And when I ride home at night my pipe and slippers are put away in
places where they cannot be found.

But who cares for that? Who cares--who cares?

TO HIM WHO WAITS

The Hermit of the Hudson was hustling about his cave with unusual
animation.

The cave was on or in the top of a little spur of the Catskills that had
strayed down to the river's edge, and, not having a ferry ticket, had to
stop there. The bijou mountains were densely wooded and were infested
by ferocious squirrels and woodpeckers that forever menaced the summer
transients. Like a badly sewn strip of white braid, a macadamized road
ran between the green skirt of the hills and the foamy lace of the
river's edge. A dim path wound from the comfortable road up a rocky
height to the hermit's cave. One mile upstream was the Viewpoint Inn,
to which summer folk from the city came; leaving cool, electric-fanned
apartments that