The head painter was a Norwegian, and though a very good workman, he was absolutely dense about colour. All day, in the midst of that howling hot wind, we struggled with him to get the tones we wanted, he becoming more and more depressed and obstinate, and we more feverish and anxious. The carpenters looked on with amused interest, expecting, so they said afterwards, “that someone would have to be pulled off somebody!” However, before the twilight came down on us, we had evolved some delicate shades that would pass, and were thankful to creep into the barn and rest if we could, knowing that we must be up betimes to-morrow, to see that the Norwegian did not make any mistake. On Sundays, when the men were free, they generally went off hunting for honey. They were very clever at finding the nests of the wild bees, and were very much in earnest on these expeditions, having fashioned for themselves extraordinary headgear and gauntlets, like armour in a comic opera, as a protection against stings. They made, too, quite an ingenious contrivance for running the clear honey out of the comb, and sold this and the wax for a nice little sum. Liza used to look after them with longing, envious eyes; they were so much more successful than she in their hunting. But then they used dynamite when the nest was behind some great rock, and she with all her savage strength could not remove the stones unaided. But though they were kind, friendly fellows, and almost all men in this wild West are particularly nice to women, they never asked her to join them. The architect who came out regularly from town, during the building of the house, and closely superintended every detail, was a more welcome comrade to them. He joined them in their expeditions, and lent us too a helping hand. Our ranchman was absent on some business connected with his land, and we were very much puzzled as to who was to milk the cow; we ourselves had not yet learned, and none of the carpenters could help us, though they would have been very willing. When our friend the architect heard of our difficulty, he at once exclaimed that he would milk the cow. And so he did in the most business-like and thorough manner. The carpenters were very like boys when working hours were over, and I remember one evening, when the building of the house was almost finished, and they were to return to town in a few days, we were all startled by hearing a terrific report, somewhere quite close at hand. Everyone rushed out into the beautiful starlight to know what disaster had happened, and then we found Mr. Scott gravely remonstrating with the men, who were looking very sheepish. It seems that finding they had quite a store of dynamite over from their bee-hunting, they determined to set it all off together for their own amusement. They had not expected quite so much noise, and were apologetic. Mr. Scott turned to my husband and said with a disgusted air, “Some of them carpenters has more powder than brains!”