We had a visitor once, which was a business man. One of his chief
diversities was to compare sedentary occupations with what he called
the joyous, carefree outdoor life. He said ’at sedentary came from
sedan-chair, and meant to sit down at your work. I rode the range next
spring until I felt more sedentary ’n an engineer; and sometimes at
night it used to strain my intellect to split the difference between
myself an’ my saddle.
I got out o’ humor an’ depressed and downright gloomy. Fact is, I was
on the point o’ rollin’ up my spare socks and givin’ Jabez a chance to
save my board money, when I heard a sound ’at jerked me up through the
scum and gave me a glimpse o’ the sky again. I was ridin’ in about
dusk, and I had hung back o’ the dust the other fellers had kicked up,
so I could be alone and enjoy my misery, when I heard this inspirin’
noise.
Ol’ Tank Williams once tried to learn to play on a split clarinet a
feller had give him, and at first I thought he had found where we had
buried it, and had resumed his musical studies; but this outrage came
from an instrument a feller has to be mighty cautious about buryin’.
It was a human voice, and these were the words it was screechin’:
“Fair Hera caught her wayward spouse
With a mortal maid one dawn.
Zeus charmed the maid into a cow,
To save himself a jaw’n’.
This seemed to me a liber-tee
To take with poor I-oh;
But now I find that he was kind,—
’T was I who did not know.
For girls use slang and girls chew gum,
And drape their forms in silk;
While cows behave with de-co-rum,
And furnish us with milk.”
Well, I gave a whoop and threw the spurs into my pony. This was the
seventy-ninth verse of Horace’s song, and it was his favorite, because
it was founded on the Greek religion. I found him perched up behind a
rock, and he kept on slammin’ chunks of his song up again’ the welkin
until I shot some dirt loose above his head; and then he climbed down
and reunioned with me.
He was lookin’ fine, except that some of his waist products had come
back, and we talked into each other until the air got too thin to
breathe. Then we suppered up and began talkin’ again. He had tried all
sorts of gymnastical games back East, from playin’ golf to ridin’
hossback in a park, but it didn’t have the right tang. Folks thought
he’d gone insane an’ lost his mind, the air didn’t taste right, he got
particular about how his vittles were cooked; until finally, his
endurance melted and began to run down the back of his neck. This
decided him ’at he’d had full as much East as was good for him; so he
loaded up a box with firearms, tossed some clothin’ into a handbag,
and he said his grin had been gettin’ wider all the way out until it
had hooked holes through the window lights on both sides o’ the train.
We were all glad to see him, an’ he dove into ranch life like a
bullfrog into a cream jar; and he got toughened to a hard saddle in a
mighty short time for a feller who had got used to upholstery back
East. He said ’at the only thing ’at had kept life in him had been to
sing his song constant; but he denied ’at this was his main excuse for
fleein’ from his own range.
He didn’t seem to bear a mite o’ malice for the joke I had put up on
him; but still, I have to own up ’at he half pestered the life out of
me with his song. He had what he called a tenor voice; but it was the
dolefullest thing I ever heard, and the more he sang, the more his
notes stuck to him until I coveted to hear a love-sick hound
serenadin’ the moon. When he saw it was riskin’ his life to drag out
any more o’ the song, he would pause temptingly, and then begin a
lecture on the Greek religion. He got me all mussed up in religion.
Of course, I knew ’at the Injuns had a lot o’ sinful religious idees,
and I was prepared to give the other heathens plenty o’ room to swing
in; but not even an Injun would ’a’ stood for as immoral a lot as the
Greek gods an’ goddusses—especially the top one, which Horace called
Zeus an’ Jove an’ Jupiter.
This one didn’t have as much decency as a male goat, and yet he had
unlimited power. He was allus enticin’ some weak-minded human woman
into a scrape; and when his wife, who was called Hera and Juno, would
get onto his tricks, Zeus would snap his fingers, say “Flip!” and
charm the human woman into some sort of an animal. It was a handy
scheme for him, true enough; and he didn’t care a scene how
embarrassin’ it was for the human women.
He turned one of ’em into a bear, and, like most other women, she was
feared o’ bears an’ wolves an’ snakes, an’ the rest o’ the company she
was forced to associate with. She led a perfectly rotten existence
until her own son went bear huntin’, and was just on the point of
jabbin’ a spear into her, when even Zeus himself admitted ’at this
would be carryin’ the joke a leetle too far; so he grabs ’em up and
sticks ’em into the sky as a group o’ stars.
Horace tried to argue ’at this proved Zeus to be merciful; but as far
as I can see it’s as idiotic as havin’ the law hang a man for murder.
Supposin’ some feller had murdered me—would I feel any happier
because this feller who couldn’t put up with me in this world, is sent
over to pester me in the next? Course I wouldn’t; but if one o’ my
friends was murdered, and I had a chance to slay the feller ’at did
it, this would give me a lot o’ satisfaction an’ joy an’
pleasure—though I don’t say it would be just.
Puttin’ the woman an’ her son up in the sky didn’t square things in
Horace’s religion, neither; ’cause he said ’at Hera got jealous of
Zeus for elevatin’ the woman and she went to her foster parents who
had charge of the ocean, and made ’em bar this woman and her son from
ever goin’ into it, the same as the other stars did, and he could
prove it any clear night. I told him that he might get away with such
a tale as that back East among the indoor people; but that he couldn’t
fool a day-old child with it out our way.
We started this discussion the day after the fall round-up was over,
Horace had toughened up before it began, and he had rode with me all
through it, and takin’ it all in all he was more help than bother,
except that he shot too much. When he had come out before, he had been
so blame harmless he couldn’t have shot an innocent bystander; but
this trip, he was blazin’ away at every livin’ thing ’at didn’t have a
dollar mark on it, and when these wasn’t offered, he’d waste
ammunition on a mark.
I had some details to tend to after the round-up, so we didn’t get a
chance to settle the bet for several days. It was only a dollar bet;
but when the time came, I picked out a couple o’ good hosses, bein’
minded to look at the stars from the top o’ Cat Head.
We reached it about dark, made some coffee, an’ fried some bacon. Then
we smoked an’ talked until it was entirely dark before we ever looked
up at the stars. “Now, bluffer,” sez I, “show me your woman-bear.”
He looked up at the sky, an’ then moved on out o’ the firelight, an’
continued to look at the stars without speakin’. “Don’t seem to see
’em, do you?” I taunted.
He turned to me an’ spoke in a hushed voice: “Man,” he said, “this is
wonderful. Why, the way those stars seem to be hangin’ down from that
velvet dome is simply awe-inspirin’. I’ve looked through three good
telescopes, but to-night, I seem to be viewin’ the heavens for the
first time.”
“I thought you wasn’t much familiar with ’em, or you wouldn’t have put
out that nonsense about a bear-woman,” I sez.
“That,” sez he, pointin’ to the best known group o’ stars in the sky,
“is Ursa Major.”
“That,” sez I, “is the Big Dipper, an’ you needn’t try to fool me by
givin’ it one o’ your Greek names.”
He didn’t argue with me; but came back to the fire an’ fixed some
stones in the shape of the Big Dipper stars, then drew lines with a
stick, an’ sez ’at this made up the Great Bear. I looked him between
the eyes, but he held his face, so I knew he was in earnest. “All
right,” I sez. “I’ll take you huntin’ some o’ these days, an’ if we
chance to come across a silver-tip—a real grizzly, understand, and
not a pet varmint backed up again’ the risin’ sun—you’ll change your
mind about what a bear looks like. If that was all your fool Greeks
knew about wild animals, I wouldn’t waste my time to hear what they
had to say about gods an’ goddusses. I’m goin’ to start back, an’ you
can come or not, just as you please.” This was the first time I had
hinted about the woodchuck; but I was disgusted at his nonsense. He
took it all right, though, which proves he was game.
I rode some comin’ back, an’ he kept tryin’ to square himself; but I
didn’t heed him. Just before we reached the foothills, we saw a fire,
an’ when we reached it, the Friar was just finishin’ his supper. He
an’ Horace bowed stiffly to each other, an’ I was just put out enough
by Horace’s star-nonsense to feel like roastin’ some one; so I decided
to roast ’em both.
I sat on my hoss an’ looked scornful from one to the other. “Here is
two religious folks,” I said, impersonal to the pony, but loud enough
for all to hear. “Here is two genuwine religious folks! One of ’em is
workin’ for universal brotherhood, an’ the other is peddlin’ Greek
religion which he claims to be founded on beauty an’ love an’ harmony.
They meet in the mountains, an’ bow as cordial as a snow-slide. I
think if ever I pick out a religion for myself, I’ll choose the
Injun’s.”
I couldn’t have asked for any two people to look more foolish ’n they
did. Neither one of ’em seemed to have anything to say; so I said to
my pony: “Don’t you worry none, Muggins, I got a match o’ my own, an’
if we want to set by a fire, why, we can ride on to some place where
wood is free, an’ build us one.”
“Will you not dismount an’ rest a while at my fire?” sez the Friar, in
a tone meant as a slap at me.
“No, thank you,” sez Horace, “we must be goin’.”
“Yes, Friar,” I sez hearty. “Me an’ Horace has a bet up, an’ you can
decide it. Also, you owe him somethin’ on his own hook. You drove him
out o’ your religion an’ into the Greek religion; an’ if that don’t
give him a direct call on you, why then you don’t realize what a pest
the Greek religion is.”
They were so embarrassed they were awkward an’ spluttery; but I was
sure ’at this was good for ’em, so I got off, threw the reins on the
ground, an’ warmed my hands at the fire; while Horace apologized for
me not knowin’ any better, an’ the Friar assured him coldly that
everything was all right, an’ he was rejoiced to have a little
company.
Well, for as much as ten minutes, we sat around enjoyin’ what I once
heard a feller call frapayed convivuality, an’ then I took pity on ’em
an’ loosened things up by tellin’ the Friar about the trip me an’ Tank
an’ Horace had took into the mountains to pacify our nerves, just
before he had stumbled on Horace that other time. O’ course I didn’t
tell it all, as I didn’t want Horace to know any more about it than he
knew already; but I told what a seedy little windfall Horace had been
when we started out, an’ how he had come back crackin’ jokes an’
singin’ the infernalest song ’at ever was made up. I finally got
Horace to sing ten or fifteen minutes o’ this song, an’ he droned it
out so unusual doleful that he fetched a chuckle out o’ the Friar, an’
then we were feelin’ easy an’ comfortable, like outdoor men again.
Then I told the Friar what our bet was, expectin’ o’ course that he’d
back me up; but what did he do but say ’at Horace was right as far as
the stars was concerned. This tickled Horace a lot, an’ he began to
crow over me until I concluded to test the Friar; so I sez to Horace
that his religion havin’ been endorsed by the Friar himself, I’d
become a Greek the first chance I had.
Horace didn’t take any trouble to hide his satisfaction, an’ he began
to expound upon the beauty, an’ the art, an’ the freedom of the Greek
religion at a great rate.
“They certainly was free,” I sez, “an’ easy too, an’ I don’t deny ’at
they might ’a’ been some weight in art an’ beauty; but, confound ’em,
they didn’t know as much about bears as I know about e-lectricity. I’d
just like to see Zeus himself go up into the Tetons in the early
spring, to hunt for Big Dippers. I’ll bet the first hungry grizzly
he’d come across would set him right on the bear question.”
This was a good opener, an’ in about two shakes, the Friar an’ Horace
had locked horns. Horace was a crafty, sarcastic, cold-blooded little
argufier; while the Friar was warm an’ eager an’ open as the day. It
was one o’ the best gabbin’ matches I have ever started.
They dealt mostly in names I had never heard of before, although once
in a while they’d turn up one a little familiar on account of Horace
havin’ told me some tale of it. The Friar knew as much about these
things as Horace did; but he called ’em myths, an’ said while they
didn’t mean anything when took literal, they had great historical
value when regarded merely as symbols. He said that I-oh—the human
maid which Zeus had turned into a cow—was nothin’ but the moon, an’
that Argus of the hundred eyes was simply the sky full o’ stars; and
that the old god which ate up his children was nothin’ but time.
I didn’t really understand much of what they said; but I did enjoy
watchin’ ’em bandy those big words about. We all use a lot o’ words we
don’t understand; but as long as they sound well an’ fill out a gap it
don’t much matter. These two, though, seemed to understand all the
words they used, an’ I was highly edified.
As they talked, an’ I kept watchin’ the Friar’s face, I learned
somethin’: the Friar had been mighty lonesome with only us rough
fellers to talk with, an’ had been hungerin’ for just such a confab as
this to loosen up his subsoil a little.
Every now an’ again, I’d cast an eye up to the stars; an’ while I
didn’t know the religious names of ’em, I knew how to tell time by
’em; an’ I knew ’at those two would have a turn when they remembered
to look at their watches. It was full one o’clock when the
conversation came to its first rest, an’ then the Friar recalled what
I had said when I had dismounted; so he up an’ asked Horace
point-blank what he had had to do with makin’ Horace quit the church.
Horace was minded to sidestep this at first by intimatin’ that I was
not responsible for what I said; but he finally came across and told
the Friar that he had give up that church for about the same reason
that the Friar himself had. This set the Friar back purty well on his
haunches, an’ put him on the defensive. He had hammered Horace freely
before, but now when he conscientiously tried to defend the gang he
had left, and also excuse himself for leavin’, he had some job on his
hands.
I thought Horace had him when he compared the Golden Age of Greece an’
Plato’s Republic with the Dark Ages, which was a stretch of years when
the Christian religion about had its own way; but the Friar admitted
that what he called economical interests had put a smirch on the
church durin’ the Dark Ages, an’ then he sailed into the Golden Age of
Greece, showin’ that slavery was the lot of most o’ the decent people
durin’ that period. When I fell asleep, they were shakin’ their fists
friendly at one another, about Plato’s Republic, which I found out
afterwards was only a made-up story.
Bein’ edicated is a good deal like bein’ a good shot in a quiet
community—once in a long while it’s mighty comfortin’, but for the
most part it’s nothin’ but shootin’ at a target.