--as Irish as the pigs in
Dublin. Before it was day the man came to feed and to get our horses
ready. We were up betimes and had breakfast. The last speck was wiped
from the shining stove, the kitchen floor was scrubbed, and the last
small thing put in order. The man had four horses harnessed and hitched
to the sled, on which was placed a wagon-box filled with straw, hot
rocks, and blankets. Our twelve apostles--that is what we called our
twelve boxes--were lifted in and tied firmly into place. Then we
clambered in and away we went. Mrs. Louderer drove, and Tam O'Shanter
and Paul Revere were snails compared to us. We didn't follow any road
either, but went sweeping along across country. No one else in the
world could have done it unless they were drunk. We went careening
along hill-sides without even slacking the trot. Occasionally we struck
a particularly stubborn bunch of sagebrush and even the sled-runners
would jump up into the air. We didn't stop to light, but hit the earth
several feet in advance of where we left it. Luck was with us, though.
I hardly expected to get through with my head unbroken, but not even a
glass was cracked.

It would have done your heart good to see the sheep-men. They were all
delighted, and when you consider that they live solely on canned corn
and tomatoes, beans, salt pork, and coffee, you can fancy what they
thought of their treat. They have mutton when it is fit to eat, but
that is certainly not in winter. One man at each camp does the cooking
and the other herds. It doesn't make any difference if the cook never
cooked before, and most of them never did. At one camp, where we
stopped for dinner, they had a most interesting collection of fossils.
After delivering our last "apostle," we turned our faces toward Frau
O'Shaughnessy's, and got there just in time for supper.

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is a widow, too, and has quite an interesting story.
She is a dumpy little woman whose small nose seems to be smelling the
stars, it is so tip-tilted. She has the merriest blue eyes and the
quickest wit. It is really worth a severe bumping just to be welcomed
by her. It was so warm and cozy in her low little cabin. She had her
table set for supper, but she laid plates for us and put before us a
beautifully roasted chicken. Thrifty Mrs. Louderer thought it should
have been saved until next day, so she said to Frau O'Shaughnessy, "We
hate to eat your hen, best you save her till tomorrow." But Mrs.
O'S