"Maxims," sighed Gloriana, "is mostly rubbish. Now, fine feathers--an'
ther ain't a finer feather than this in San Lorenzy county--don't make
fine birds. A sparrer is always a sparrer, an' can't look like an
ostridge noway. But, good land! feathers is my weakness."

She burned much oil that night, and on the morrow the phoenix that
sprang from the flames was proudly displayed.

"I bought more'n a bonnet yesterday," she said, with her head on one
side, and a slyly complacent smile upon her lips. "Yes, sir, stuff ter
make a dress--a party dress, the finest kind o' goods."

Ajax stared helplessly at me. The mystery that encompassed this woman
was positively indecent.

"An' shoes," she concluded. "I bought me a pair, hand sewn, with
French tips--very dressy."

Later, inspired by tobacco, we agreed that the problem was solved. Our
head _vaquero_, Uncle Jake, gaunt as a coyote at Christmas, and
quite as hungry, had fallen a victim to Gloriana's flesh-pots. He
lived in an old _adobe_ near the big corral, boarded himself and
a couple of Mexicans upon _tortillas_, _frijoles_ and bacon,
and was famous throughout the countryside as a confirmed bachelor and
woman hater. We entertained a high regard for this veteran, because he
seldom got drunk, and always drove cattle _slowly_. To him the
sly Gloriana served Anglo-Saxon viands: pies, "jell'" (compounded
according to a famous Wisconsin recipe), and hot biscuit, light as the
laughter of children! What misogynist can withstand such arts? I
remembered that at the fall calf-branding Uncle Jake had expressed his