ting whar she bumps.
Still, draw them stars across.

* * * * *

I'm feeling better with twenty miles between me and Invicta City. The
sun transpires over the eastern sky-line, the horses is taking a roll,
I'm seated on the remnants of the chicken, and Bull Durham says I'm his
adopted orphan. "You rode," says he, "like a pudding on a skewer, you've
jolted yo' tail through yo' hat, you looks like a half-skinned fool hen,
and you've torn that poor mare's mouth till she smiles from ear to ear.
Yet on the whole them proceedings is cheering you up, _and thar's more
coming_."

Looking back it seems to me that the first night's proceedings was calm.
Thar was the fat German fire brigade pursuing an annual banquet across
lots by moonlight, all on our way north, too, till the wagon capsized in
a river.

Thar was the funeral obsequies of a pig, late deceased, with municipal
honors, until we got found out.

Then we was an apparition of angels at a revival camp, only Bull's wings
caught fire, and spoiled the whole allusion.

Yes, when I looks back on them radium nights entertainments along with
Bull Durham, I see now what a success they was in learning me to ride.
"What you need," says he, "is confidence. Got to forget mere matters of
habeas corpus, and how your toes point, and whether you're looking
pretty. Just trust yo' horse to pull through, so that you ain't caught
in the flower of youthful innocence, and hung on the nearest telegraph
pole. You still needs eclair as the French say, and you got no _ung bong
point_, but your _horse de combat_ is feeling encouraged to pack you
seventy miles last night, and we'll be in camp by sundown."

Once I been to a theater, and seen a play. Thar's act one, with fifteen
minutes hoping for act two. Thar's act after act till you just has to
fill up the times between with injun war-whoops, until act five, when
all the ladies and gents is shot or married. It just cayn't go on. So
the aujience says "Let's go'n have a drink," and the band goes off for a
drink, and the lady with the programs tells you to get to hell out of
that.

It's all over. The millionaire Lord Bishop of Durham is only Bull's
father-in-law. Bull's not exactly a cow-boy yet--but assists his mother,
Mrs. Brooke, who is chef at a ranch. It's not exactly a stock ranch, but
they raise fine pedigree hogs. Bull won't be quite popular with his
mother for having gorgeous celebrations with the hundre