year-old 'Hotspur,' bein' he's plumb b'lligerent an' allers makin'
war medicine; while the little three-year-old, who inhabits about my
camp in the Caliente, he addresses as 'Prince Hal.' The fool of a
white steer that's worshippin' about 'Falstaff' gets named 'Pistol,'
although thar's mighty little about the weak-kneed humbug to remind
you of anythin' as vehement as a gun. Falstaff, Pistol, Hotspur an'
Prince Hal; them's the titles this dramatist confers on said cattle.

"Which the West is a great place to dig out new appellations that a-
way. Thar's a gentle-minded party comes soarin' down on Wolfville
one evenin'. No, he don't own no real business to transact; he's out
to have a heart-to-heart interview with the great Southwest, is the
way he expounds the objects of his search.

"'An' he's plenty tender,' says Black Jack, who's barkeep at the Red
Light. 'He cornes pushin' along in yere this mornin'; an' wliat do
you-all reckon now he wants. Asks for ice! Now whatever do you
make of it! Ice in August, an' within forty miles of the Mexico line
at that. "Pard," I says, "we're on the confines of the tropics; an'
while old Arizona is some queer, an' we digs for wood an' climbs for
water, an' indulges in much that is morally an' physically the
teetotal reverse of right-side-up-with-care, so far in our
meanderin's we ain't oncovered no glaciers nor cut the trail of any
ice. Which if you've brought snowshoes with you now, or been
figgerin' on a Arizona sleighride, you're settin' in hard luck."'

"Jest as Black Jack gets that far in them statements, this yere
tenderfoot shows in the door.

"'Be you a resident of Wolfville?' asks this shorthorn of Dave Tutt.