I gave the Chief's shins a sharp little kick.

"We seldom eat salads," murmured White Mountain.

I think I heard the disappointed ranger mutter: "Damn right we don't!"

When the last bite was gone we all stepped outside to look for signs of the dread beetle on our own trees. While we stood there a blast was put off by the construction gang on the railway directly in front of our house. Rocks, 'dobe, and pine cones rattled down all around us. We beat a retreat into the house and the

Chief called to the man in charge and warned him that such charges of powder as

that must be covered if any more blasting were to be done.

Again next morning big rocks struck the house, and broke a window. In the absence of a ranger, I walked down and requested the Turk in charge of the labor to use a little more discretion. Our house was newly painted inside and out. My

windows were all clean, new curtains were up, the floors were newly waxed, and

we were quite proud of our place of abode. I said to the Turk I was afraid the roof would leak if such sharp rocks hit it. He replied insolently that if he blew the roof off, the Santa Fe would put another on. I went back to the house in fear and trembling, and picked up my sewing. For half an hour I sewed in quiet. Then

a terrific explosion rent the air. There was ominous silence for an instant, then

the house crumpled over my head. The ridgepole came crashing down, bringing part of the roof and ceiling with it. Rocks and a great boulder fell into the room, knocking the stove over. Ashes and soot went everywhere. One rock grazed me

and knocked the sewing basket from my lap. Part of a railroad tie carried the window sash and curtains in with it and landed on the piano.

I have a vague recollection of searching vainly for my thimble, and then of grimly determining to locate the Chief's gun. It is well he wore his arsenal that day, else the usual order of things would have been reversed—a Christian would

have massacred a Turk!

While I was aimlessly wandering around through the wreckage, half dazed, White Mountain and the Superintendent rushed in. They frantically pulled me this way and pushed me that, trying to find out if I were hopelessly injured, or merely killed. They found out I could still talk! Then they turned their attention to the Turk and his men who came trooping in to view the remains. It seemed they had put down a charge of four sticks and it had failed to explode. So they

had added four more and let her ramble. It was some blow-up! At least the Turk found it so.

"What do you want me to do?" that unfortunate asked me, after the Park men finished with him.

"Oh, go outside and die!"

"White Mountain, give me your pocketbook. I'm going to buy a ticket to West Virginia. I've had enough of the great open spaces," I continued.

"Why go now?" he wanted to know. "You've escaped death from fire, flood, and fools. Might as well stay and see it through."

So we started shoveling out the dirt.

FOOTNOTES

[1] Reprinted, by permission, with a few changes, from Good Housekeeping.

[2] Reprinted, by permission, with a few changes, from Good Housekeeping.

[3] Reprinted, by permission, with a few changes from Good Housekeeping.

[4] Reprinted, by permission, from the Los Angeles Times Sunday magazine.

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