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"It may be my misfortune, I hope it is not my fault, but I do not remember to have seen stillness of any sort." Esculapius has but one shortcoming he is not a poet. I never wound him by appearing to notice this defect, so I sat down on the dry burr-clover and made no reply. "You think it is still," he went on in a mannish, instructive way, "but in fact there are a thousand sounds.
That's another thing I like about 'er; she'll stand up fer a feller; that is, fer any feller that b'longs to 'er that is, I mean, fer a feller she b'longs to." Mose got up and turned around, and brushed the burr-clover from his overalls. "Well, I guess I must be movin'," he said, with a highly artificial yawn. "Come here, you Muggins!" he called to his burro, which had strayed into the alfilaria.
"I hain't seen much good come of it," confessed the man reluctantly; "but it's human to talk, it's human, M'lissy. Some folks find it relievin', an' it don't do any harm." The young girl did not assent. Deep down in her placid, peace-loving nature was the obstinate conviction that it did a great deal of harm. She sat down in the velvety burr-clover, clasping her hands about her knees.
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