ile, a steep and dizzy cut-off.
High on an overhang of halfway shelf, between water and sky, Stargazer
paused for breathing space.

_The world has no place for a dreamer of dreams,
Then 'tis no place for me, it seems,
Dearie!... My dearie!_

Echo rang bugle-brave from cliff to cliff, pealed exulting, answered
again--came back long after, faint and far:

"Dearie!... My dearie!"

He looked down, musing, at the swirling black waters far below.

_For I dream of you all the day long!
You run through the hours like a song!
Nothing's worth while save dreams of you,
And you can make every dream come true--
Dearie! My dearie!_

Drunkard's Mile fell off into the valley at Redbrush and joined the
wagon road there. They passed Beck's Ferry and Beneteau's; they came
to a bridge over the _acequia madre_, the mother ditch, wide and
deep. Beyond was a wide valley of cleared and irrigated farm lands.
This was Garfield settlement.

* * * * *

You remember Mr. Dick and how he could not keep King Charles' head out
of his Memorial? A like unhappiness is mine. When I remember that
pleasant settlement as it really was, cheerful and busy and merry, I
am forced to think how gleefully the super-sophisticated Sons of Light
would fall afoul of these friendly folk--how they would pounce upon
them with jeering laughter, scoff at their simple joys and fears; set
down, with heavy and hateful satisfaction, every lack and longing;
flout at each brave makeshift, such as Little Miss Brag crowed over,
jubilant, when she pointed with pride:

_For little Miss Brag, she lays much stress
On the privileges of a gingham dress--
A-ha-a! O-ho-o!_

A lump comes to my throat, remembering; now my way is plain; if I
would not be incomparably base, I must speak up for my own people.
Now, like Mr. Dick, I must fly my kite, with these scraps and tags of
Memorial. The string is long, and if the kite flies high it may take
the facts a long way; the winds must bear them as they will.

Consider now the spreading gospel of despair, and marvel at the power
of words--noises in the air, marks upon paper. Let us wonder to see
how little wit is needed to twist and distort truth that it may set
forth a lie. A tumblebug zest, a nose pinched to sneering, a slurring
tongue--with no more equipment you and I could draw a picture of
Garfield as it is done in the fashion of to-day.