There was also Mr. Legion, who had never been on a horse before, who complained all the twenty-six miles up and down hill that his stirrups were too long, and too short, that his horse wouldn’t go, and that he jolted when he trotted, that the saddle was too hard and that the guide went so fast nobody could keep up with him. It was Mrs. Legion who got dizzy at the steep places and stopped the procession on the worst switchback while she got off and walked, or insisted on taking her eight-year-old child along, and then frightened both the child and herself into hysteria when they gazed down on those lake-threaded valleys straight beneath them. There was the lady who took a walk up a tangled mountain-side to pick flowers, and got lost and kept the whole outfit hunting for her an entire night. But there were many as well who were good-natured and good sports, whether they had little or much experience in riding and roughing it,--many who acquired here a life-long habit for outdoors. Having seen all these sorts and conditions of “doods,” we tried not to be vain when Bill introduced us to his friend Curly in these words. The fact that Bill had visited Lewis’, the only place in the Park where there was a saloon, had no effect on our pride, for Bill had tightly kept his opinion to himself, heretofore, and _in vino veritas_. “Girls,” he said from his horse, his dignity not a whit impaired because of the purple neck-handkerchief pinned to his Stetson, because “the boys said I didn’t look quite wild enough,”----“Girls, this is Curly. Curly, this is the girls. You’ll like them, Curly, they aint helpless!” Praise is as sweet to me as to most, but those words of Bill’s, even with the evidence of the bandana, meant more than the wildest flattery. Of all the “dood-wranglers” in the Park, Bill was possessed of the most whimsical personality. He had been our guide several summers ago, the year the draft bill was passed. Bill always spoke in a slow drawl, his words, unhurried and ceaseless, forming into an unconscious blank verse frequently at odd variance with their import. Could Edgar Lee Masters do better than this? “I had a legacy from my uncle, The only one in the fam’ly had money. They quarreled over the will. When I got my share It was just eighty dollars. I bought me a saddle with it, Then I got gamblin’,---- Pawned the saddle, Tore up the tickets And throwed them away.” “I was never in jail but onct,” he told us, rather surprised at his own restraint, “and then I was drunk. I was feelin’ fine,--rode my hoss on the sidewalk, shot off my gun and got ten days. Was you ever drunk? No? Well, beer’s all right if you want a drink, but if you want to get drunk, try champagne. You take it one day, and rense out your mouth the next, and you’re as drunk as you were the night before.” When the draft came, no high sentiments of patriotism flowed in vers libre from Bill’s lips.