A Prevaricated Parade by W. C. Tuttle Author of “Clean Crazy,” “Monkeying with Ancestors,” etc. “And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.” Hank Padden shifted his seat on the top pole of the corral, and marks the place with his finger. “Now,” says he, “shall I orate the names of the men who signed it?” “Never mind,” replies old man Whittaker. “We don’t know none of them, personally, so we’ll let what you’ve already read be sufficient and plenty. After listening to all you’ve read out of that book, Hank, I’m of the impression that she’s a fitting day to be celebrated. What do you think, Hen?” “She’s worth a passing memorial,” says I, and “Scenery” Sims, the fourth member of our committee, nods his head: “She sure is, gents. I never cared for kings, except in jack-pots, and our glorious forefathers sure did proclaim their feelings. I’m with yuh from the hondo to the saddle-horn.” That makes it unanimous. The night before there’s a meeting in Paradise, and they appoints me and Scenery, Hank Padden and old man Whittaker as a committee to investigate the reasons and so forth of the Fourth of July, and whether, in our own minds, she’s of sufficient import to consider a celebration. We finds that she is. Hank Padden reads us the reasons out of a dictionary, while we sets there on the corral top, at the Cross J. Old man Whittaker owns the Cross J, Hank Padden the Seven A, and Scenery Sims is the possessor of the Circle S outfit and the squeakiest voice ever anchored in the throat of a human being. Every time I hears Scenery start to talk I pray for cylinder oil or chloroform. Me? I’m Henry Clay Peck. I work for old man Whittaker. I ain’t got nothing but a conscience, a heap of respect for the truth and the feeling that I lowers myself when I punches cows. We has just arrived at our conclusion when “Muley” Bowles saunters down to the corral, climbs up beside us and bends our seat all to pieces. We four moves to the next section for safety. Muley weighs so much that he has to bandage his bronc’s legs with splints to keep it from being bowlegged. The world lost a cracking good poet when Muley essayed to punch cows. He don’t look the part, not having soulful eyes nor emaciated ribs, but when it comes to making up poetry he’s got ’em all lashed to the snubbing-post. “Has the committee arrived at a satisfactory conclusion?” he asks, puffing hard on his cigaret, and shaking out a new rope. “When the facts is made public we’ll let yuh know with the rest,” squeaks Scenery, who dislikes Muley a heap. “Who’s talking to you?” demands Muley. “Scenery, you takes too much upon yourself. I been thinking of a sweet little rhyme what sounds like this, and I gives yuh three guesses who I mean: