they were not equal. A half-great poet once had a wholly great day, and in that great day he was able to write a poem that has lived and become, with many, a household word. He called it The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. And it is rich with many lines that possess the memory; but these are the golden ones:

These lines are the pure gold. They are good to teach children; because after the children come to be men, they may believe at least some part of them still. The Virginian did not know them,--but his heart had taught him many things. I doubt if Balaam knew them either. But on him they would have been as pearls to swine.

“So you’ve quit the round-up?” he resumed to Shorty.

Shorty nodded and looked sidewise at the Virginian.

For the Virginian knew that he had been turned off for going to sleep while night-herding.

Then Balaam threw another glance on Pedro the horse.

“Hello, Shorty!” he called out, for the boy was departing. “Don’t you like dinner any more? It’s ready about now.” Shorty forded the creek and slung his saddle off, and on invitation turned Pedro, his buckskin pony, into Balaam’s pasture. This was green, the rest of the wide world being yellow, except only where Butte Creek, with its bordering cottonwoods, coiled away into the desert distance like a green snake without end. The Virginian also turned his horse into the pasture. He must stay at the ranch till the Judge’s horses should be found.

“Mrs. Balaam’s East yet,” said her lord, leading the way to his dining room.

He wanted Shorty to dine with him, and could not exclude the Virginian, much as he should have enjoyed this.

“See any Indians?” he enquired.

“Na-a!” said Shorty, in disdain of recent rumors.

“They’re headin’ the other way,” observed the Virginian. “Bow Laig Range is where they was repawted.” “What business have they got off the reservation, I’d like to know,” said the ranchman_” Bow Leg, or anywhere?” “Oh, it’s just a hunt, and a kind of visitin’ their friends on the South Reservation,” Shorty explained. “Squaws along and all.” “Well, if the folks at Washington don’t keep squaws and all where they belong,” said Balaam, in a rage, “the folks in Wyoming Territory ’ill do a little job that way themselves.” “There’s a petition out,” said Shorty. “Paper’s goin’ East with a lot of names to it. But they ain’t no harm, them Indians ain’t.” “No harm?” rasped out Balaam. “Was it white men druv off the O. C. yearlings?” Balaam’s Eastern grammar was sometimes at the mercy of his Western feelings. The thought of the perennial stultification of Indian affairs at Washington, whether by politician or philanthropist, was always sure to arouse him. He walked impatiently about while he spoke, and halted impatiently at the window. Out in the world the unclouded day was shining, and Balaam’s eye travelled across the plains to where a blue line, faint and pale, lay along the end of the vast yellow distance. That was the beginning of the Bow Leg Mountains. Somewhere over there were the red men, ranging in unfrequented depths of rock and pine--their forbidden ground.

Dinner was ready, and they sat down.