etely
disappeared, but, in the meanwhile, if you would escape their nasty
niggling ways you must neglect your hair, teeth, and sun-scalded nose.
A real-estate agent was telling me to-day how the mosquitoes often
disappeared in a night, and, to illustrate this fact, related a story
of a Tipperary Orator, who said, "My fellow-countrymen, the round
towers of Ireland have so completely disappeared that it is doubtful if
they have ever existed."

.... A wagon is leaving this morning for St. Bernard's Mission on the
hill, and by some felicity I am invited to go with it. Bill, who is
the driver, received a bullet wound in a Mexican rebellion; had his leg
broken by a fall from "a terrible mean cayuse"; lost an eye and part of
his nose in a mine explosion, and says, by these same tokens, he will
live to be a hundred unless he loses his head to the government. Bill
was married once down Oregon, way, but his wife divorced him. His wife
was very short-sighted, but, contrawise, her tongue was long. Besides,
she was appallingly like her mother.

This trail to St. Bernard's, passing as it does through a trail of
lanky poplars and birch in green lacy gowns, is a right pleasant one,
and fills you with the great joy of growing things.

And also it is very pleasant this morning to shut your eyes that you
may the better inhale the fine brew of the conifers, the reek of the
wild roses, the pungent wafture of the mint from the meadows, and above
all, the subtle incense of the warm spawning soil. This is to have a
happiness as large as your wishes. This is to think thoughts that are
very secret and only half-way wise.

At St. Bernard's the nuns take me to see their finely manicured garden
with its rows of cabbages, leeks, turnips, radishes and its many herbs
such as parsley, mint and sage. Their potatoes are coming on well and
so are the posy beds. This sweet-breathed garden is tilled by
voluntary labour and held in common, but it must be remembered the
nun's occupation does not afford her any special opportunities for
knowledge of the world at large and its shrewder ways.

I can easily discern that the pride of this garden are the cabbages,
probably because more care has gone into their culture. Indeed, this
vegetable seems to be peculiarly favoured by all gardeners of all
classes, for even the haughty Diocletian, when asked to resume his
crown, said to the ambassadors, "If you would come and see the cabbages
I have planted, y