[Illustration: THE CHRISTIAN BECOMES SUN-WORSHIPPER ALSO] XXIII. THE SUN-WORSHIPPER “I DRINK to America as she was before 1492,” said Vachel, lifting high his coffee cup. “I drink to her as she was before the Red Man came.” “And I drink to her as she was before the Mound-builders came----” “And I drink to her as she was in the days of the mountain-top tribe when a man and his family lived together on a mountain-top and the rule was one peak to one family, and the eagles were tame and carried the mail.” “And I drink to Noah’s fourth son, who was so naughty he was not allowed to bring a wife into the Ark but carried a pine branch under his arm. Is there any more booze i’ the can? Yea. Very well; I drink again to Noah’s outcast son who wandered in these parts before the mountain-tribe arrived.” “Is there any more of this most excellent coffee?” “There is, dear Stephen, one last kick in the bottom of the pot.” “Then I drink to the Lady of the Lake whom Noah’s son was obliged to marry and to the cut-throat trout that were their offspring----” “Enough, enough! Is there any more booze?” “Not a suck, Sir.” “Alas!” * * * * * THE reader will perhaps surmise that we are approaching the Canadian line and that my anti-saloon companion has fallen for what they make in Alberta. But no, we have been made drunk with words; it often occurs, and with Lindsay’s stone coffee. The stone in the mosquito-net coffee bag has spoken through us. It is a piece of the Rocky Mountains, and they know all there is to know about the mysterious mound-builders and mountain-tribes. How gauntly and savagely these old mountains have looked on at no-humanity and for how many thousands of years! “What went ye out for to see?” said Vachel presently when we had hitched on our packs. “Not a reed shaken by the wind! What went we out into Glacier Wilderness for to see? Why, _man_, a prophet. And there’s a prophet in these mountains who can tell us a good deal about the old world. We ought to settle many things about the world before I get back to Springfield and you get back to London. Everywhere you have been I’m going to assume I’ve been also. Now, at our next sitting let us drink to Russia--Russia as she was before the Bolsheviks.” “As she was before Peter the Great,” I added. “As she was before the hordes.” The subject was too dark after all. I felt we should have to drink, not to the past, but to the Russia that is going to be when the Bolsheviks have been forgotten. “And England?” I asked. “Will you not drink confusion to the enemies of King George V.?” * * * * * “OH, no,” said the poet. “I’m too good an American for that. Couldn’t do that. My roots are too deep in democracy. Confusion to the enemies of King George--no, couldn’t drink it. Confusion to the enemies of the English people. Yes, I’d drink that toast.” “Well, it’s the same thing.” “Doesn’t sound so.”