stay, so they sent another girl out to work with me. The poor
Superintendent was speechless! But his agony was short-lived. Another
superintendent was sent to relieve him, which was also a relief to me!

My new girl was from Alabama and had never been west of that state. She
was more of a tenderfoot than I, if possible. At first she insisted one
had to have a bathtub or else be just "pore white trash," but in time
she learned to bathe quite luxuriously in a three-pint basin. It took
longer for her to master the art of lighting a kerosene lamp, and it was
quite a while before she was expert enough to dodge the splinters in the
rough pine floor. I felt like a seasoned sourdough beside her!

We "ditched" the big cookstove, made the back room into sleeping
quarters, and turned our front room into a sort of clubhouse. White
Mountain gave us a wonderful phonograph and plenty of records. If one is
inclined to belittle canned music, it is a good plan to live for a
while where the only melody one hears is a wailing coyote or the wind
moaning among the pines.

We kept getting new records. The rangers dropped in every evening with
offerings. Ranger Winess brought us love songs. He doted on John
McCormack's ballads, and I secretly applauded his choice. Of course I
had to praise the Harry Lauder selections that Ranger Fisk toted in.
White Mountain favored Elman and Kreisler. The violin held him
spellbound. But when Pat came we all suffered through an evening of
Grand Opera spelled with capital letters!

Nobody knew much about "Pat." He was a gentleman without doubt. He was
educated and cultured, he was witty and traveled. His game of bridge was
faultless and his discussion of art or music authentic. He was ready to