That rollicking chorus died away. The wagon road turned up a sandy draw for a long detour, to cross the high ridges far inland. Stargazer clambered up the Drunkard's Mile, a steep and dizzy cut-off. High on an overhang of halfway shelf, between water and sky, Stargazer paused for breathing space. _The world has no place for a dreamer of dreams, Then 'tis no place for me, it seems, Dearie!... My dearie!_ Echo rang bugle-brave from cliff to cliff, pealed exulting, answered again--came back long after, faint and far: "Dearie!... My dearie!" He looked down, musing, at the swirling black waters far below. _For I dream of you all the day long! You run through the hours like a song! Nothing's worth while save dreams of you, And you can make every dream come true-- Dearie! My dearie!_ Drunkard's Mile fell off into the valley at Redbrush and joined the wagon road there. They passed Beck's Ferry and Beneteau's; they came to a bridge over the _acequia madre_, the mother ditch, wide and deep. Beyond was a wide valley of cleared and irrigated farm lands. This was Garfield settlement. * * * * * You remember Mr. Dick and how he could not keep King Charles' head out of his Memorial? A like unhappiness is mine. When I remember that pleasant settlement as it really was, cheerful and busy and merry, I am forced to think how gleefully the super-sophisticated Sons of Light would fall afoul of these friendly folk--how they would pounce upon them with jeering laughter, scoff at their simple joys and fears; set down, with heavy and hateful satisfaction, every lack and longing; flout at each brave makeshift, such as Little Miss Brag crowed over, jubilant, when she pointed with pride: _For little Miss Brag, she lays much stress On the privileges of a gingham dress-- A-ha-a! O-ho-o!_ A lump comes to my throat, remembering; now my way is plain; if I would not be incomparably base, I must speak up for my own people. Now, like Mr. Dick, I must fly my kite, with these scraps and tags of Memorial. The string is long, and if the kite flies high it may take the facts a long way; the winds must bear them as they will. Consider now the spreading gospel of despair, and marvel at the power of words--noises in the air, marks upon paper. Let us wonder to see how little wit is needed to twist and distort truth that it may set forth a lie. A tumblebug zest, a nose pinched to sneering, a slurring tongue--with no more equipment you and I could draw a picture of Garfield as it is done in the fashion of to-day.