be a man horseback or
maybe a freighter without the fear of God in his soul, we didn't have
no words with them; they was too busy cussin' the highways and
generally too mad for social discourses.

One day early in the year, when the 'dobe mud made ruts to add to the
bumps, one of these automobeels went past. It was the first Tusky and
me had seen in them parts, so we run out to view her. Owin' to the
high spots on the road, she looked like one of these movin' picters, as
to blur and wobble; sounded like a cyclone mingled with cuss-words, and
smelt like hell on housecleanin' day.

"Which them folks don't seem to be enjoyin' of the scenery," says I to
Tusky. "Do you reckon that there blue trail is smoke from the machine
or remarks from the inhabitants thereof?"

Tusky raised his head and sniffed long and inquirin'.

"It's langwidge," says he. "Did you ever stop to think that all the
words in the dictionary stretched end to end would reach--"

But at that minute I catched sight of somethin' brass lyin' in the
road. It proved to be a curled-up sort of horn with a rubber bulb on
the end. I squoze the bulb and jumped twenty foot over the remark she
made.

"Jarred off the machine," says Tusky.

"Oh, did it?" says I, my nerves still wrong. "I thought maybe it had
growed up from the soil like a toadstool."

About this time we abolished the wire chicken corrals, because we
needed some of the wire. Them long-laigs thereupon scattered all over
the flat searchin' out their prey. When feed time come I had to
screech my lungs out gettin' of 'em in, and then sometimes they didn't
all hear. It was plumb discouragin', and I mighty nigh made up my mind
to quit 'em, but they had come to be sort of pets, and I hated to turn
'em down. It used to tickle Tusky almost to death to see me out there
hollerin' away like an old bull-frog. He used to come out reg'lar,
with his pipe lit, just to enjoy me. Finally I got mad and opened up
on him.

"Oh," he explains, "it just plumb amuses me to see the dumfool at his
childish work. Why don't you teach 'em to come to that brass horn, and
save your voice?"

"Tusky," says I, with feelin', "sometimes you do seem to get a glimmer
of real sense."

Well, first off them chickens used to throw back-sommersets over that
horn. You have no idee how slow chickens is to learn things. I could
tell you things about chickens--say, this yere bluff about roosters
bein' gallant is all wrong.