There could be no finer advice for the deaf. I think Whittier’s gentle and placid philosophy (whose only sting was for slavery) was ripened and mellowed by his narrow life, which was still more closely circumscribed by the years of silence. But how strangely does compensation spring from a bitter root, and how surely are its best fruits reserved for “character”! Denied wide experience and education, deprived of one important avenue of approach to humanity, nevertheless Whittier’s voice came from his lonely hills with a rugged power all its own. And the message still rings true and sweet. He is truly a noble Apostle of the Silence. It was indeed something of a jump from such associations as these to a milking-stool beside a bad-smelling cow in a dusty barnyard, or out among the cactus on the dry plains. Then I soon found that I was on the road to silence. In that dry country those who naturally suffer from catarrh are sure to have trouble with the head and ears unless they can have expert treatment in time. Our ranch was just outside a growing town; the cattle were herded on the open prairie. We milked our cows in the open air in Summer and in low sheds in Winter; the milk was peddled from door to door, dipped out of an open can, so that the dust might increase the amount of milk solids. That was long before these days of certified milk or sanitary inspection; I doubt if there was a single milk inspector in the whole of Colorado. Such milk as we handled could never be sold for human consumption in these critical modern days. Happily for us, we had never heard of germs or bacteria. We doubtless consumed thousands of them with every meal—and rather liked the taste! Our custom was to drive up in front of a house and ring a large bell until someone came out with pail or pitcher. The milk was dipped out of the can and poured into the open dish. On an early morning in cool weather some of our customers were slow in responding to the bell. At those times we would ring patiently until the side door would open a narrow crack and a hand would appear holding a receptacle for the milk. Whenever I saw those hands extended, I thought of Whittier’s terrible lines on Daniel Webster: “Walk backward with averted face.” That was the way we were expected to approach the door. On one occasion the milkman had forgotten his glasses, and he was somewhat near-sighted. He rang his bell before one house for several minutes with no visible response. Finally he saw the front door open, and what seemed to him a tin bucket was thrust through the opening. Being somewhat familiar with the vagaries of lazy housewives, he filled a quart measure with milk and backed up to the door. He was careful, for hardly ten minutes before a lady holding out a hand in much the same way had plainly cautioned him: “Walk straight now, and if you bat an eye at this door I’ll call my husband!”