“You see, stranger,” he answered, “I’ve always lived ’round here and I guess I’ll stay awhile longer.” “Well,” said the tourist, “every man to his own fancy, and I guess a fellow might get attached even to such a spot as this. But what can you expect by staying on? You are bound to get poorer and poorer all the time.” “Mister,” said the hillsman, “I’m a blamed sight better off than what you seem to think. Why, I don’t own nary acre of this here land.” § 349 The Curious Ways of Sheep They tell this story on Charlie Russell, Montana’s famous cowboy painter, who by a very great many is regarded as Frederic Remington’s successor as the greatest delineator of Western life. Probably it isn’t true, because Russell, as an old cow hand, naturally would have the utmost contempt for all phases of the sheep-growing industry; but as the story goes, he once fell upon hard times and in this emergency accepted a position as herder for a sheep man. Now, Russell knew about all there was to know about beef cattle and about horses but his education regarding the ways and habits of sheep had been neglected. All the same, he went out on the range with a flock of woolly baa-baas. Ten days passed, and he returned to headquarters to replenish his supply of provisions. The boss met him at the ranch-house. “Well, Charlie,” he asked, “how goes it?” “Oh, all right,” said Russell. “Satisfied with your new job, eh?” pressed the employer. “I guess so,” said Russell. “But if you want me to keep on working for you there’s one thing you’ll have to do.” “What’s that?” “You’ll have to get another lot of sheep. That first bunch has done lit out on you.” § 350 Where They Take Things as They Come Down in the old malarial belt below Mason and Dixon’s Line, the indolence of the dwellers in the Low Grounds is proverbial. In illustration of this attribute a story used to be told by the late Polk Miller, of Virginia. Miller said that in a remote district a prominent resident was being buried. The funeral procession, on its way from the church to the graveyard passed a cabin where an ancient couple resided. The pair in question were engaged that afternoon in the pursuit of their favorite occupation of doing nothing whatsoever. The old man was stretched on the earth with his back against the wall of the house, and facing the road. His wife, in a rickety arm-chair, was facing in the other direction, massaging her front teeth with a snuff stick. Presently she spoke: “Whut’s that I hear passin’?” “It’s Jim Coombs’ fune’l jest goin’ by.” “Much of a turn-out?” “Biggest I ever seen in these parts,” he answered. “More’n twenty hacks and waggins, looks like, and a whole passel of mo’ners on foot.” The old woman fetched a little resigned sigh: “Well,” she said, “I certainly do wish I was settin’ turned ’round the other way—I’d like mightily to see that there fune’l.” § 351 A Mystery Unraveled