The Widow down the River laughed every time she looked at Holiday’s rooster and wanted to take a picture of it. But Holiday said, “No.” “Holy Savior, no! I don’t want that rooster shown as an example of what is raised on my ranch.” Fearing Mrs. Dornan would take a picture of the fowl, he killed it, cooked it, and invited her to eat it with him. He never once thought that the bird might have been defeathered by disease. Mrs. Dorman ate rooster and pretended to enjoy it. She was an understanding neighbor. Both Bill and Holiday raised excellent gardens. To be fairly safe against frost they never planted until the snow melted up to a certain level in the Tetons. They raised many vegetables. Their cauliflowers were as big as footstools. They raised currents and raspberries galore, and made jelly and jam. And they raised flowers. Holiday always had pansies on the north side of his buildings. He called them tansies. He and Bill always gave freely of their vegetables, berries, and flowers. During the wild berry season, Bill would charge “huckleberry rates” to the local people—fare one way only—when the berries were ripe along the ridges and around the lakes under the Tetons. Holiday would can between 50 and 60 quarts of huckleberries during a season. And since he drank periodically he made wine. At any rate that is what he called it. He would make it of berries, raisins, prunes, beets, plus whatever else was handy—and never wait for the mixture to mature. It would knock his hat off. At five one summer morning, neighbors stopped at Holiday’s returning from a dance. They were cold. They needed a stimulant, but Holiday had no wine. He had drunk it all. So they drank a cocktail made of gin and huckleberry juice—half and half. After finishing their drinks, 2 young men in the party decided to go shoot a rabbit for breakfast. They did. “We shot it right in the eye,” one said, holding up what was left of the rabbit. The hind parts were shot away, slick as a whistle. That is what gin and wild huckleberry juice did to a rabbit. Holy Savior, yes! What might Holiday’s wine have done to it? Holiday enjoyed the summer visitors in Jackson Hole. Bill probably enjoyed them also, but they could not lift him from his natural state of grouchiness. Once, after looking over the miles of sage that covered the levels of land that rise from the river to the mountains, an Eastern lady said to Bill, “Mr. Menor, what do you raise in this country?” Bill, a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor, looked at her and said, “Hell and kids and plenty of both.” He enjoyed startling people.