The morning was drowsy. Conversation between us had in a sleepy way
ranged a wide field. As had grown to be our habit we at last settled
on Wolfville and its volatile inhabitants. I asked to be enlightened
as to the sage Enright, and was informed that, aside from his
courage and love of strict justice, the prominent characteristic of
our Wolfville Lycurgus was his wrath against Mexicans.

"Not that Enright loathes so much as he deplores 'em, "continued the
old gentleman. "However, I don't aim to be held as sayin' he
indorses their existence a little bit; none whatever.

"Enright's tellin' of this tale arises outen a trivial incident
which a Mexican is the marrow of. We're out on the spring round-up,
an' combin' the draws an' dry ARROYAS over between the cow springs
an' the Floridas, when one night a Mexican runs off a passel of our
ponies. The hoss-hustler is asleep, I reckons, at the time this
Mexican stacks in. He says himse'f he's lyin' along the back of his
bronco gazin' at the stars when this robber jumps at the ponies an'
flaps a blanket or somethin', an' away patters every hoof in the
band.

"This yere Mexican don't run off with only about a handful; I takes
it he can't round up no more in the dark. When you-all stampedes a
bunch of ponies that a-way they don't hold together like cattle, but
plunges off diffusive. It's every bronco for himse'f, disdainful of
all else, an' when it's sun-up you finds 'em spattered all over the
scene an' not regardin' of each other much.

"But this yere Mexican, after he stampedes 'em, huddles what he can
together--as I says mebby it's a dozen--an' p'ints off into the