"But, friend, you see how it is. I'm lost, and you can help me. My cattle are swift; it won't take long to drive to the Norwegian's, so don't leave me here!" "An' sure it's not Pat O'Connor that'll do the likes o' that!" said he, touched by the urgency of my appeal. And springing to the seat, and applying the whip, the heavy team rumbled along over the roughnesses, now leaning to one side, now to the other, then ascending a rise of ground, then diving down the other side. Soon it stopped, and the driver jumped out, saying, cheerily,— "Here's the place! Jist mind the cattle, an' I'll stip over and inquire the way for yer—it's bad gittin' to the house for strangers." After a few moments he returned, saying, angrily, "Bad luck to 'em! The cabin is full of Norwegians, for they've had a raisin', an' they're all drunk as bastes, an' fightin' like Injuns, an' niver a word can I git out o' them. Sure, an' I don't know what I can do fur ye now. 'Twouldn't be safe for the likes o' ye to go with me, fur thim Irishmen are bad enough for any thing, an' it wouldn't do fur the drunken bastes in the house yonder to know ye're about. But good luck to ye, I must go." Some months before, I had come across an English family, living, I now thought, in that vicinity, and I asked, "Is there an Englishman living near here?" "And is his cabin in a fine grove?" "Yes." "An' has he grass land on the south, an' jist before his door a dozen acres of 'breakin'' that's not finced?" "That's the man." "Faith, an' he lives only a mile and a half from here!" "Can you drive me there?" "Sure, an' I wouldn't do it for all the goold in Californy; for it's meself that isn't well, an' me cattle 'll be murthered before I can git back!" "But," said I, strongly, "you 'must' do it. I can't lie out on the prairie. I don't think your cattle will be any safer for leaving me here." "Are you a minister?" he asked. "Yes." Instantly he was aboard again, and there was something of reverence in his tone, as he said, "I wouldn't go with ye fur money; but—but—I'll not lave ye now." It was past ten o'clock when the grove-shaded cabin rose to view. My guide hurried to arouse the occupants while I "minded" the cattle. "Hilloo there! Wake up!" he shouted, as he thumped at the door. "An' ould acquaintince has lost his way, an' wants a shilter. Wake up, I say, and not be slapin' like heathin, when a frind is frazin' in the cowld!" A door swung cautiously ajar; there was a hum of voices, and the Irishman returned, saying,— "It's all right with ye, an' I'll bid ye good-bye!" extending his hand. Then, as the well-earned guerdon touched the palm, "Sure an' ye don't think I came for pay!" and warm-hearted Erin disappeared as mine host came up. But like the Dutchman, who, after a scene of pathos over his lost "poy" restored, found that it was "not" his "poy," so this Englishman was not "my" Englishman. On explaining the mistake, however, he said,— "Never mind, I shan't fret if you don't."