Blackguards they are—­but manly, humorous blackguards.  Immoral, one must confess them to be, according to our lights, but even in England “Custom from time immemorial” is held as law.

The vast majority will steal raw hide gear as a cat steals fish, but will not touch your money, much as in a community of young men property is common to all with the same exception.  They will lie if scared, or rather will substitute for the truth something they think you would like to hear, and they will do as little work as you will let them.

But, have a bad case of sickness in the house and ask a man to go out at midnight with the carriage to get the doctor, or to go on horseback on his own horse twenty miles for medicine, and he goes as quietly and pleasantly as though he were going about the most commonplace work.  He expects no tip, no extra wage, nor is he lauded as a hero.  He may have come down, horse and all, in the dark, but is happy if he has not smashed the bottle of medicine, and he resumes his work on return, just as if he hadn’t been up all night riding at a hard canter over broken ground full of holes and snags.

No, he is by no means an ideal worker, neither is he half so bad as he’s painted, and I’d rather meet him in the next world than lots of men who boss him in this.

MY FRIEND THE AXEMAN.

MY FRIEND THE AXEMAN.

Eighty square leagues of dense forest.  One is inclined to feel a trifle small and overcome when this fraction of Mother Earth is put into one’s hands (metaphorically), with orders to know all about it and to be able to answer all questions as to what is going on in it.

The work is like most other occupations:  not quite so romantic as it sounds at first, but as interesting as one cares to make it.

One’s main employment can best be illustrated by a leaf out of a mental diary.

Fulano de Tal, axeman, wants credit for provisions at the almacen or general store—­Has he sufficient wood cut to warrant it?  It is the Mayor-domo’s business to find out.

With this end in view, he rides along “The Mangy” watercourse till he comes to the lowland of “The Blind Cow.”  The barking of half a dozen mongrel curs leads him into the edge of the forest, and he comes upon the residence of Fulano de Tal.  The man has perhaps recently moved to this spot, and has not had time or energy to build himself a “rancho,” and therefore the homestead consists of about four yards of canvas stretched across the branch of a tree like the roof of a tent.

Beneath this is a “New Home” sewing machine, a Brummagem bedstead, and a small trunk, made burglar-proof by innumerable bands and fastenings of bright tin, or even gilt wall-paper.  Scattered around are the little Fulanos, in costumes varying from nothing to very little.

Their mother ceases her cooking operations, wipes her hands on the nearest child’s head, and invites the visitor to dismount.