penetrated easily, even to the very foot of the mountain. "I'll
just get my spade," he remarked, "as I ain't got nothing else to
do." In deliberate slowness he returned up the divide, and got the
spade from his retreat, then brought it to the cove. Selecting a
spot near the channel of the dried-up torrent, he began to dig,
relieved to find that he did not strike rock.

"I guess," he said, stopping to lean on his spade as he stared at
the mountain, "the earth just got too full of granite and biled
over, but was keerful to spew it upwards, so's to save as much
ground as it could, while relieving its feelings."

Presently the earth on his blade began to cling from dampness.
"When I digs a well," he remarked boastingly, "what I want is water,
and that's what I gets. As soon as it's deep enough I'll wall her
up with rocks and take the longest drink that man ever pulled off,
that is to say, when it was nothing but common water. They ain't
nothing about water to incite you to keep swallowing when you have
enough. Of a sudden you just naturally leggo and could drown in it
without wanting another drop. That's because it's nature. Art is
different. I reckon a nice clean drinking-joint and a full-stocked
bar is about the highest art that can stimulate a man. But in
nature, you know when you've got enough."

After further digging he added, "And I got about enough of THIS!
I mean the mountains and the plains and the sand and the wind and
the cave and the cove--" he wiped away the dripping sweat and looked
at the sun. "Yes, and of you, too!" He dropped the spade, and sat
down on the heap of dirt. "Oh, Lord, but I'm lonesome! I got
plenty to say, but nobody to listen at me."