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"Old fellow, this is a substantial woman. She was alone before I came." "This is not the same thing," I said. "It is the same woman," said Rainbow Pete, "she will be missing nothing but the flute." Oh my, wasn't the flute a little thing to reckon with. He went North, dreaming of gold, and here the matter they were thinking about was locked in his heart. They were angry with the man on Mushrat.
Now it was a wonderment to Mushrat, to hear the sound of Rainbow Pete's old flute dropping from the dark ledge, by night, when they were taking their opinion of matrimony up there together, with a candle at the window.
"No," I said, "when you get through with it, give it to the eel." "No," says he, "he's not fond of reading, but I know an old mushrat that's fond of anything like print. I'll give it to him, so any time you see him reading it by moonlight, with his spectacles on, you'll know it's my friend."
This I know, having seen it standing in the bottles. She was a prairie woman. This was a wild night we spent on Mushrat, after Pete's reproving the woman there in Scarecrow Charlie's place. Smash McGregor, the little doctor, was sitting between us in his yellow skull-cap; and Willis Countryman was reading and drinking in one corner, listening to the laughing men there.
On his arms were snakes and the like of that, daggers and the like of that, dragons and the like of that. This was a romantic skin to the man; and his blue eyes were like the diamond drills they were bringing to Mushrat. "Oh my," said the woman, leaning at his table, "this is what will be keeping me from mass, I shouldn't wonder."
I heard the mules waiting for him outside, and it was the "cap and eel" boy, and he said, "How are you, young feller? Heerd you was sick!" "Who told you?" I said. "The Mushrat," he said. "He came a-whooping and a-running up the canal one night, an' hollered to me in passing that he wasn't going to bring no pitcher-books back to no diphtheria sore-throaters.
In the near stream were sounds of splashing or a little plunge. "Must be Mushrat," whispered Sam to the unspoken query of his friend. A loud, far "Oho-oho-oho" was familiar to both as the cry of the Horned Owl, but a strange long wail rang out from the trees overhead. "What's that?" "Don't know," was all they whispered, and both felt very uncomfortable.
Now, I thought, he will be asking what description of wife is this answering to my name on Mushrat? Oh, man is careless in appointing himself among various women. Now, my friend, Rainbow Pete, blew a note on his flute to settle the thing clear in his mind. Oh, he was not too brisk in looking up at the black ledge, with the candle in the window. Now he was taken by the knees.
There Elburtus stood, with his nose a bleedin', and his whiskers singed, and a drippin' like a mushrat. But, instead of jawin' or complainin', the first thing he said wuz, "What a splendid draft our stove must have, or else the stove-pipe wouldn't be so hot!"
Now it was not many days after this that the blasting was begun on Mushrat. Men came with instruments stamped by the government; these they pointed down the trail and drove stakes into the ground. These were great days on Mushrat. Oh yes, numbers of Swedes and Italians were in a desperate way monkeying with powder. It's a fetching business.
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