the men had been driving about the country all the week, buying horses suitable to turn in on a Government cavalry contract. The night before they had spent on the floor of a cold railroad station, wrapped up in their blankets, with a lighted lantern under the covering at their feet. Their sleep was somewhat broken, with either cremation or freezing pending that cold September night. Poor Owen! He was completely worn out. And now he had to go through a surprise party.

At eight o’clock, Tex, self-appointed master of ceremonies, ushered in the first arrivals. They were a tall, lean chap and two very much be-curled young misses. I made trials without number at conversation, but they could only be induced to say “Yes” and “No.”

From eight until ten they came,—ranchmen, cow-punchers, ex-cow-punchers running their own outfits, infant cow-punchers, girls and women, until kitchen and sitting room were filled to overflowing, and every chair and bench on the place in use. Among the last to arrive was a tall, languid Texan, accompanied by two languid, drab-colored women. They were presented to us as “Robert, Missus Reed and Maggie.” “Maggie,” I immediately concluded, was a sister, but not being quite certain, I sought enlightenment from Mrs. Bohm.

“She ain’t Reed’s sister,” she informed me in a low tone, “she’s his girl.”

“Oh, works for them, you mean?” I said, somewhat puzzled by the Reed connections.

“Works nothin’,” Mrs. Bohm replied, scornfully. “She’s got the next place to ’em and goes with ’em everywhere. Ella don’t seem to mind. I’d just call her Maggie’ if I was you,” and Mrs. Bohm departed to join a group of women near the door.

I looked over at the two with a new interest. They were chatting and laughing together, the “girl” and the wife seemingly on the best of terms, with no sign of rivalry for the tall Texan’s affections. Here was a situation fraught with latent possibilities that made me tremble, yet—“Ella don’t seem to mind.”

The kitchen had been converted into a ballroom by moving the table up against the wall and placing three chairs upon it. Unfortunately the sink and stove were fixtures, but everything else, including the bread jar, found a temporary resting place in the yard.

Old Bohm, with his fiddle under his arm, gingerly ascended the table first. Then another man followed with a similar instrument; and last came a youth with a mouth harp. No fatality having resulted from the musicians taking their seats, the dancing began.

The music, if such a combination of sounds can be dignified by that name, was such as to defy description. Never in the wildest flights of fancy could I have conceived of such execution and such sounds. The two men sawed their violins, and the third was purple in the face from his efforts on the mouth-harp; all were stamping time with their feet, and he of the harp was slapping his knee with his unoccupied hand.

Before every dance a council was held, after which each musician would play the tune decided upon, as best suited to his taste. Old Bohm tried to get to the end in the shortest time possible, while the second fiddler, taking things more seriously, finished four or five bars behind his companion. The harpist, not playing “second” to anything or anybody, had his own opinion as to how “A Hot Time in the Old Town” should go. With these independent views, the result was a series of the most discordant sounds that ever fell on mortal ears. However, music mattered little, for all had come to have a good time, and the “caller-out,” with both eyes shut tight and arms folded across his breast, was making himself heard above all other sounds.

“Birdie in the center and all hands around!” he commanded. Then fiddles and mouth harp began a wild jig, couples raced ’round and ’round, while “Birdie,” a blond and blushing maiden, stood patiently in the midst of the whirling circle, until the next order came: