udden, ef he ken."

Buffle started toward the door, stopped as if he had something else to
say, started again, hesitated, feigned indignation at the baby, flushed
the least bit, opened the door, partly closed it again, squeezed himself
out and displaying only the tip of his nose, roared:

"This baby's name is Allan Buffle Berryn--Allen _Buffle_ Berryn!" and
then rushed at full speed to leave the baby at home, while the boys
clinked glasses melodiously.

At the end of another fortnight there was a procession formed at Fat
Pocket Gulch; two horses, one wearing a side-saddle, were brought to the
door of Buffle's old house, and Mrs. Berryn and her husband mounted
them; they were soon joined by Buffle and Muggy.

[Illustration: "THIS BABY'S NAME IS ALLAN BUFFLE BERRYN."]

For months after there was mourning far and wide among owners of mules
and horses, for each Gulchite had been out stealing, that he might ride
with the escort which was to see the Berryns safely to the crossing. An
advance-guard was sent ahead, and the party were about to start, when
Buffle suddenly dismounted and entered his old cabin; when he
reappeared, a cloud of smoke followed him.

"Thar," said he, a moment later, as flames were seen bursting through
the roof, "no galoot uv a miner don't live in that shanty after that.
Git."

Away galloped the party, the baby in the arms of its father. The
crossing was safely reached, and the stage had room for the whole party,
and, after a hearty hand-shaking all around, the stage started. Sandytop
threw one of his only two shoes after it for luck.

As the stage was disappearing around a bend, a little way from the
crossing, the back curtain was suddenly thrown up, a baby, backed by a
white hat and yellow beard, was seen, and a familiar voice was heard to
roar, "Allan _Buffle_ Berryn."

[Illustration]

MATALETTE'S SECTION.

"Nice place? I guess it is; ther hain't no such farm in _this_ part of
Illinoy, nor anywhere else that _I_ knows on. Two-story house, and
painted instead of being whitewashed; blinds on the winders; no
thirty-dollar horses in the barn, an' no old, unpainted wagons around;
no deadened trees standin' aroun' in the corn-lot or the
wheat-field--not a one. Good cribs to hold his corn, instead of leaving
it on the stalk, or tuckin' it away in holler sycamore logs, good pump
to h'ist his drinkin'-water with, good help to keep up with the
work--why, ther hain't a man on Matalette's w