The plan was, to start real early Christmas Eve morning, make our circuit of camps, and wind up the day at Frau O’Shaughnessy’s to spend the night.  Yes, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy is Irish,—­as Irish as the pigs in Dublin.  Before it was day the man came to feed and to get our horses ready.  We were up betimes and had breakfast.  The last speck was wiped from the shining stove, the kitchen floor was scrubbed, and the last small thing put in order.  The man had four horses harnessed and hitched to the sled, on which was placed a wagon-box filled with straw, hot rocks, and blankets.  Our twelve apostles—­that is what we called our twelve boxes—­were lifted in and tied firmly into place.  Then we clambered in and away we went.  Mrs. Louderer drove, and Tam O’Shanter and Paul Revere were snails compared to us.  We didn’t follow any road either, but went sweeping along across country.  No one else in the world could have done it unless they were drunk.  We went careening along hill-sides without even slacking the trot.  Occasionally we struck a particularly stubborn bunch of sagebrush and even the sled-runners would jump up into the air.  We didn’t stop to light, but hit the earth several feet in advance of where we left it.  Luck was with us, though.  I hardly expected to get through with my head unbroken, but not even a glass was cracked.

It would have done your heart good to see the sheep-men.  They were all delighted, and when you consider that they live solely on canned corn and tomatoes, beans, salt pork, and coffee, you can fancy what they thought of their treat.  They have mutton when it is fit to eat, but that is certainly not in winter.  One man at each camp does the cooking and the other herds.  It doesn’t make any difference if the cook never cooked before, and most of them never did.  At one camp, where we stopped for dinner, they had a most interesting collection of fossils.  After delivering our last “apostle,” we turned our faces toward Frau O’Shaughnessy’s, and got there just in time for supper.

Mrs. O’Shaughnessy is a widow, too, and has quite an interesting story.  She is a dumpy little woman whose small nose seems to be smelling the stars, it is so tip-tilted.  She has the merriest blue eyes and the quickest wit.  It is really worth a severe bumping just to be welcomed by her.  It was so warm and cozy in her low little cabin.  She had her table set for supper, but she laid plates for us and put before us a beautifully roasted chicken.  Thrifty Mrs. Louderer thought it should have been saved until next day, so she said to Frau O’Shaughnessy, “We hate to eat your hen, best you save her till tomorrow.”  But Mrs. O’Shaughnessy answered, “Oh, ’t is no mather, ’t is an ould hin she was annyway.”  So we enjoyed the “ould hin,” which was brown, juicy, and tender.