Of brethin his own are and no one else, Each one must take wotever comes to him. O Sextant! doant you know our lungs is belluses To bio the fier of life and keep it from Going out: and how can bellusses blo without wind? And aint wind are? I put it to your konshens, Are is the same to us as milk to babies, Or water is to fish, or pendlums to clox, Or roots and airbs unto an Injun doctor, Or little pills unto an omepath. Or Boze to girls. Are is for us to brethe. What signifize who preaches ef I can't brethe? What's Pol? What's Pollus to sinners who are ded? Ded for want of breth! Why Sextant when we dye Its only coz we cant brethe no more--that's all. And now O Sextant! let me beg of you To let a little are into our cherch (Pewer are is sertin proper for the pews); And dew it week days and on Sundys tew-- It aint much trobble--only make a hoal, And then the are will come in of itself (It loves to come in where it can git warm). And O how it will rouze the people up And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garps And yorns and fijits as effectool As wind on the dry boans the Profit tels Of. I went as far as Omaha, and then was asked if I were not going West. The reason for this charming reception was that it was a novelty then to hear a young woman talk in a lively way on striking themes which had been most carefully prepared, and a light touch added, with frequent glints of humour. Byron declared that easy writing was very hard reading. I reversed that method, always working hard over each lecture. For instance, I spent two months in preparing "Bachelor Authors," cramming and condensing, and passing quickly over dangerous ground. With my vocal training I could easily be heard by an audience of five hundred. A friend was eager to go to Alaska by Seattle; then, after our return, visit Yellowstone Park and San Francisco. She urged me so eloquently to accompany her, that I left my home in Metcalf, Massachusetts, taking great risks in many ways, but wonderful to relate, nothing disastrous occurred. We scurried by fastest trains across the country to Seattle, just in time to take the Steamer _Topeka_ from Seattle on August 8, 1899, the last boat of the season, and the last chance tourists ever had to see the Muir Glacier in its marvellous glory, as it was broken badly before the next summer.