discuss anything and everything, except himself.

In making up personnel records I asked him to fill out a blank. He gave
his name and age. "Education" was followed by "A.B." and "M.A." Nearest
relative: "None." In case of injury or death notify--"_Nobody._" That
was all. Somewhere he had a family that stood for something in the
world, but where? He was a striking person, with his snow-white hair,
bright blue eyes, and erect, soldier-like bearing. White Mountain and
Ranger Winess had known him in Yellowstone; Ranger Fisk had seen him in
Rainier; Ranger West had met him at Glacier. He taught me the game of
cribbage, and the old game of gold-rush days--solo.

One morning Pat came to my cabin and handed me a book. Without speaking
he turned and walked away. Inside the volume I found a note: "I am
going away. This is my favorite book. I want you to have it and keep
it." The title of the book was _Story of an African Farm_. None of us
ever saw Pat again.

The yearly rains began to come daily, each with more force and water
than the preceding one. Lightning flashed like bombs exploding, and
thunder roared and reverberated back and forth from Rim to Rim of the
Canyon. We sank above our shoes in mud every time we left the cabin. The
days were disagreeable, but the evenings were spent in the cabin, Ranger
Winess with his guitar and the other boys singing while we girls made
fudge or sea-foam. Such quantities of candy as that bunch could consume!
The sugar was paid for from the proceeds of a Put-and-Take game that
kept us entertained.

We had a girl friend, Virginia, from Washington as a guest, and she fell
in love with Arizona. Also with Ranger Winess. It was about arranged