Behind, half a dozen more marched free, and
the rear was brought up by Billy, astride a ninth horse. All these he
shipped from Roseburg to the West Oakland stables.

It was in the Umpqua Valley that they heard the parable of the white
sparrow. The farmer who told it was elderly and flourishing. His farm
was a model of orderliness and system. Afterwards, Billy heard neighbors
estimate his wealth at a quarter of a million.

"You've heard the story of the farmer and the white sparrow'" he asked
Billy, at dinner.

"Never heard of a white sparrow even," Billy answered.

"I must say they're pretty rare," the farmer owned. "But here's the
story: Once there was a farmer who wasn't making much of a success.
Things just didn't seem to go right, till at last, one day, he heard
about the wonderful white sparrow. It seems that the white sparrow comes
out only just at daybreak with the first light of dawn, and that it
brings all kinds of good luck to the farmer that is fortunate enough
to catch it. Next morning our farmer was up at daybreak, and before,
looking for it. And, do you know, he sought for it continually, for
months and months, and never caught even a glimpse of it." Their host
shook his head. "No; he never found it, but he found so many things
about the farm needing attention, and which he attended to before
breakfast, that before he knew it the farm was prospering, and it
wasn't long before the mortgage was paid off and he was starting a bank
account."

That afternoon, as they drove along, Billy was plunged in a deep
reverie.

"Oh, I got the point all right," he said finally. "An' yet I ain't
satisfied. Of course, they wasn't a white sparrow, but by getting up
early an' attendin' to things he'd been slack about before--oh, I got it
all right. An' yet, Saxon, if that's what a farmer's life means, I don't
want to find no moon valley. Life ain't hard work. Daylight to dark,
hard at it--might just as well be in the city. What's the difference?
Al' the time you've got to yourself is for sleepin', an' when you're
sleepin' you're not enjoyin' yourself. An' what's it matter where you
sleep, you're deado. Might as well be dead an' done with it as work your
head off that way. I'd sooner stick to the road, an' shoot a deer an'
catch a trout once in a while, an' lie on my back in the shade, an'
laugh with you an' have fun with you, an'... an' go swimmin'. An' I 'm a
willin' worker, too. But they's all the difference in the wo