better to go after the prizes for which we are qualified, than to aspire
to elevations which we are unable to hold intelligently.

The unpopular man backed himself up into his burrow, and for a time the
silence around town was embarrassing.




Of Hard Times Hance


Once upon a time on the foothills in the environs of Clinton, Lillooet
District, Province of British Columbia, there lived a "mossback" who was
as happy as the 22nd day of June is long in each year. At initiative
conclusions he would be classified with the freak species of humanity,
but beneath his raw exterior there lurked rich mines which the moss kept
a secret from the inquisitive, avaricious world.

He owned and operated an extensive ranch from which he encouraged enough
vegetation to feed himself, his pigs, his horses, his cattle, his
chickens, and his dog; and this, apparently, was all they derived from
the great, green earth. But the asset side of our "mossback's" yearly
balance sheet always made the liability side ashamed of itself. The
asset increased annually, and the hidden treasure grew to alarming
proportions. This growth was carefully salted away at the appropriate
salting-down season, when the pork barrels were brought out of the dark
cellars, dusted, scrubbed, and refilled with the carcasses of those
animals which had been his companions for the greater part of a year. He
was a standing joke with the "hands" on the ranch, for he was the most