It ain't my fault, nor the Kumpeney's, I reckon, Ye can't get ez square meal ez any on the Bay, Up at you place, whar the senset 'pears to beckon-- Ez thet sharp allows in his airy sort o' way. Thar woz a place wor yer hash ye might hev wrestled, Kept by a woman ez chipper ez a jay-- Warm in her breast all the morning sunshine nestled; Red on her cheeks all the evening's sunshine lay. SECOND TOURIST Praise is but breath, O chariot compeller! Yet of that hash we would bid you farther say. YUBA BILL Thar woz a snipe--like you, a fancy tourist-- Kem to that ranch ez if to make a stay, Ran off the gal, and ruined jist the purist Critter that lived-- STRANGER (quietly) You're a liar, driver! YUBA BILL (reaching for his revolver). Eh! Here take my lines, somebody-- CHORUS OF PASSENGERS Hush, boys! listen! Inside there's a lady! Remember! No affray! YUBA BILL Ef that man lives, the fault ain't mine or his'n. STRANGER Wait for the sunset that beckons far away, Then--as you will! But, meantime, friends, believe me, Nowhere on earth lives a purer woman; nay, If my perceptions do surely not deceive me, She is the lady we have inside to-day. As for the man--you see that blackened pine tree, Up which the green vine creeps heavenward away! He was that scarred trunk, and she the vine that sweetly Clothed him with life again, and lifted-- SECOND TOURIST Yes; but pray How know you this? STRANGER She's my wife. YUBA BILL The h-ll you say! THOMPSON OF ANGELS It is the story of Thompson--of Thompson, the hero of Angels. Frequently drunk was Thompson, but always polite to the stranger; Light and free was the touch of Thompson upon his revolver; Great the mortality incident on that lightness and freedom. Yet not happy or gay was Thompson, the hero of Angels; Often spoke to himself in accents of anguish and sorrow, "Why do I make the graves of the frivolous youth who in folly Thoughtlessly pass my revolver, forgetting its lightness and freedom? "Why in my daily walks does the surgeon drop his left eyelid, The undertaker smile, and the sculptor of gravestone marbles Lean on his chisel and gaze? I care not o'er much for attention; Simple am I in my ways, save but for this lightness and freedom."