seemed a grotesque, elephantine dance. They were too drunk to
fight. Then the peacemakers got hold of them and led them back to
cement the new friendship in the kitchen.

Soon they were all talking at once, rumbling and roaring as big-
chested open-air men will, when whisky has whipped their
taciturnity. And I, a little shaver of seven, my heart in my
mouth, my trembling body strung tense as a deer's on the verge of
flight, peered wonderingly in at the open door and learned more of
the strangeness of men. And I marvelled at Black Matt and Tom
Morrisey, sprawled over the table, arms about each other's necks,
weeping lovingly.

The kitchen-drinking continued, and the girls outside grew
timorous. They knew the drink game, and all were certain that
something terrible was going to happen. They protested that they
did not wish to be there when it happened, and some one suggested
going to a big Italian rancho four miles away, where they could
get up a dance. Immediately they paired off, lad and lassie, and
started down the sandy road. And each lad walked with his
sweetheart--trust a child of seven to listen and to know the love-
affairs of his countryside. And behold, I, too, was a lad with a
lassie. A little Irish girl of my own age had been paired off
with me. We were the only children in this spontaneous affair.
Perhaps the oldest couple might have been twenty. There were
chits of girls, quite grown up, of fourteen and sixteen, walking
with their fellows. But we were uniquely young, this little Irish
girl and I, and we walked hand in hand, and, sometimes, under the
tutelage of our elders, with my arm around her waist. Only that
wasn't comfortable. And I was very proud, on that bright Sunday