things will surely happen: You will hate each other afterward
with that enlightened hatred which is seasoned with contempt; you
will emerge with the contempt tinged with a pitying toleration,
or you will be close, unquestioning friends to the last six feet
of earth--and beyond. All these things will cabin fever do,
and more. It has committed murder, many's the time. It has driven
men crazy. It has warped and distorted character out of all
semblance to its former self. It has sweetened love and killed
love. There is an antidote--but I am going to let you find the
antidote somewhere in the story.

Bud Moore, ex-cow-puncher and now owner of an auto stage that
did not run in the winter, was touched with cabin fever and did
not know what ailed him. His stage line ran from San Jose up
through Los Gatos and over the Bear Creek road across the summit
of the Santa Cruz Mountains and down to the State Park, which is
locally called Big Basin. For something over fifty miles of
wonderful scenic travel he charged six dollars, and usually his
big car was loaded to the running boards. Bud was a good driver,
and he had a friendly pair of eyes--dark blue and with a
humorous little twinkle deep down in them somewhere--and a
human little smiley quirk at the corners of his lips. He did not
know it, but these things helped to fill his car.

Until gasoline married into the skylark family, Bud did well
enough to keep him contented out of a stock saddle. (You may not
know it, but it is harder for an old cow-puncher to find content,
now that the free range is gone into history, than it is for a
labor agitator to be happy in a municipal boarding house.)