begin to hum: "When the dew is on the rose, and the world is all
repose." ... Those rangers lived close to danger and hardships every
day, but they had more real sentiment in their makeup than any type of
men I know. Maybe it's because women are so scarce around them that they
hold all womanhood in high regard. Most of them dreamed of a home and
wife and children, but few of them felt they had a right to ask a woman
to share their primitive mode of living. They might not jump up to
retrieve a dropped handkerchief, or stand at attention when a woman
entered a room, but in their hearts they had a deep respect for every
woman that showed herself worthy.

Now and then, a certain son of Scotland, Major Hunter Clarkson, dropped
in. He was a real musician, and while I sewed and the Chief smoked he
treated us to an hour of true melody. He used to play the bagpipes at
home with his four brothers, he said, and he admitted that at times the
racket they made jarred his mother's china from the shelves!

He had served with the British forces in Egypt, and if he could have
known how interested we were in his experiences, he would have given us
more than a bare hint of the scenes that were enacted during the defense
of the Dardanelles and the entrance into Jerusalem.

One night he was telling us something about the habits of the Turks they
fought, when the telephone rang and interrupted the narrative, which was
never finished. The Chief had to go and investigate an attempted
suicide.

It seemed that a lad under twenty, in Cleveland, had seen on a movie
screen a picture of Grand Canyon. He tucked that vision away somewhere
in his distorted brain, and when he had his next quarrel with his mother