endurance power of springs and axles.
Everything was jake, to use a cowboy expression, and we reached the
mouth of the Canyon where both we and the flood could spread out.

"Whew!" said the Chief, wiping his face. I didn't say anything.

I can't remember that anything disastrous happened for two or three days
after the flood. Life assumed an even tenor, and I yawned occasionally
from sheer ennui.

To break the monotony I made a salad. That was momentous! Salads meant
something in our young lives out there. One of the rangers on leave had
returned and brought me a fine head of lettuce--an entirely rash way of
saying it with flowers. One last can of shrimp reposed on the shelf. It
almost had cobwebs on it, we had cherished it so long, saving it for
some grand spree. The time had arrived. That salad looked tempting as I
sliced the rosy pimiento on top and piled it in the blue and white bowl.
The ranger who contributed the lettuce was an invited guest, and he
stood on one foot, then on the other, while the dressing was mixed. Even
White Mountain hovered over it anxiously.

Just then came a knock! A very famous "bugologist" had come to call on
us. Of course the Chief invited him to dinner, while the ranger and I
looked glumly at each other. Maybe there wouldn't be plenty of salad for
four!

Our guest was deep in his favorite sport, telling us all about the bugs
that killed the beautiful yellow pines at the Canyon.

"Have some butter, Professor, and try this salad," invited White
Mountain.

"Thanks, it looks enticing," answered our distinguished guest, and he
placed the bowl with all its contents on his plate. Bite by bite the
salad disappeared, while he discoursed on the proper method of killing
the Yellow Pine Beetle.

"Why aren't you folks eating some of this delicious salad? You deprive
yourself of a treat when you refuse to eat salads. The human body
requires the elements found in fresh, leafy plants, etc., etc."

I gave the Chief's shins a sharp little kick.

"We seldom eat salads," murmured White Mountain.

I think I heard the disappointed ranger mutter: "Damn right we don't!"

When the last bite was gone we all stepped outside to look for signs of
the dread beetle on our own trees. While we stood there a blast was put
off by the construction gang on the railway directly in front of our
house. Rocks, 'dobe, and pine cones rattled down all around us. We beat
a retreat into the house and the Chief called t