wailing. He heard me call.
He saw me. And when I reached him he was licking the white face of
Whiskey Weston.

[Illustration: Sat little Colonel, wailing.]

XIII

Hindsight is better than foresight. A foolish saying. By foresight we
do God's will. By hindsight we would seek to better His handiwork.
Things are right as they are, I say, as I sit quietly of an evening
smoking my pipe on my porch, watching the mountains in the west bathe
in the gold and purple of the descending sun. What might have been,
might also have been all wrong. A foolish saying, says Tim, for if
what might have been should actually be, then we should have the
realization of our fondest dreams. And with that realization might
come a dreadful awakening from our dreams, say I. You might have
become a tea-king, Tim, and measure your fortune in millions. I might
have turned lawyer instead of soldier; I might have made a great name
for myself in Congress by long speeches full of dry facts and figures,
or short ones puffed up with pompous phrases. The fact that Six Stars
existed might have gone beyond our valley because here you and I were
born, and for a time we honored the place with our presence. Suppose
all that had been, and you the tea-king and I the great lawyer sat here
together as we sit now, smoking, could you add one note to the evening
peace; would the night-hawk pay us homage by a single added ring as he
circles among the clouds; would the bull-frogs in the creek sing louder
to our glory; would the bleating of the sheep swing in sweeter to the
music of the valley? And look at God's fireplace, I cry, pointing to
the west, where the sun is heaping the glowing cloud coals among the
mountains. God's fireplace? says Tim, with a queer look in his eyes.
Yes, say I, and the valley is the hearthstone. The mountains are the
andirons. Over them, piled sky high, the cloud-logs are glowing, and
never logs burned like those, all gold and red. Night after night I
can sit here and warm my heart at that fireside. Could you, tea-king,
buy for my eyes a picture more wonderful? The fire is dying. The
cloud coals grow fainter--now purple; and now in ashes they float away
into the chill blue. But they will come again. Could your millions,
tea-king, buy for me a sweeter music than the valley's heart throb as
it rocks itself to sleep?

"No," Tim answers, "but suppose----"

"And could I have better company to watch and listen with?"