Now, says Saxton, what makes children and savages, who have a clear field to amuse themselves as they see fit, pick, with deliberate choice, such melancholy tunes? And he said it was because nature always hit on that; wind in rigging, wind in trees, waterfalls, the far-off hum of the city, all sad, sad. I asked him, if it was natural, where did we get the idea it was sad? It struck me that if a thing was natural, it was natural, not sad, nor nothin' else. He said, because nature was sad. Mary said, no such a thing; nature wasn't sad--there were the flowers and green fields, also natural, and pleasant and cheerful to the eye; there was more blue sky than gray, and as for the savage being sad, why, that might be, but it wasn't sad to think that men were working out of savagery into civilization. So then Saxton gave civilization one for its Ma, and talk brisked up. Civilization stood for Dutchmen that ran orchestras to Saxton, and he didn't spare her feelings none. I was glad Civvy, old girl, was no friend of mine. According to him, of all the mistakes so foolish that to think of bettering it was like building a hole with no rim around it, civilization stood first and foremost. Mary got red in the face and her eyes shone. They had it up one side and down the other, forgetting me entirely. Finally Saxton told her she wasn't talking honestly, that she hated civilization worse than he did, and it was plumb hypocrisy for her to set up in its defense; whereupon she replied that _she_ hadn't wasted her time and talents, anyhow; that she wasn't throwing things up the first little obstacle that came in the way. Which didn't seem to be just the answer one might expect to the charge, but finished Saxton plenty. He drew himself up proud. "If every topic had to turn to personalities--" said he. "I didn't begin the personalities," said Mary. "You called me a fraud." "I never did!" cries Saxton. "I said you were defending a cause you didn't believe in!" "And that isn't a fraud? I admire your distinctions." Saxton chewed his mustache and swallowed. He made her a low bow and said, in a tone of voice to flatten her out: "I am glad Miss Smith finds something admirable in me!" Mary's lip curled hard and contemptuous. It _was_ kiddish. "There'd be plenty in you to admire if you let it have liberty," she said. "The trouble is that your follies seem worth it, to you." "Follies! You let me off lightly. Why not absurdities, idiocies?" "Pick your name," she said, throwing away her interest with a sweep of her hand. "There is one folly you give me great cause to regret," he answered her, his manhood coming back to him, "but yet I never do." "Oh!" she jeered at him. "You should renounce them all. If I understand your meaning, that is the least excusable--you have some reason for the others."