farm,” in the “Blue Grass Country,” famous for the popular racers it has produced.  He was told that the owner was the “best judge of horse-flesh in the country.”  “Small wonder,” added his informant, “for they say as a young man out in California he was a horse-thief, and only saved himself by eloping with some rich farmer’s daughter.  But he’s a straight-out and respectable man now, whose word about horses can’t be bought; and as for his wife, she’s a beauty!  To see her at the ‘Springs,’ rigged out in the latest fashion, you’d never think she had ever lived out of New York or wasn’t the wife of one of its millionaires.”

THE MAN AND THE MOUNTAIN

He was such a large, strong man that, when he first set foot in the little parallelogram I called my garden, it seemed to shrink to half its size and become preposterous.  But I noticed at the same time that he was holding in the open palm of his huge hand the roots of a violet, with such infinite tenderness and delicacy that I would have engaged him as my gardener on the spot.  But this could not be, as he was already the proud proprietor of a market-garden and nursery on the outskirts of the suburban Californian town where I lived.  He would, however, come for two days in the week, stock and look after my garden, and impart to my urban intellect such horticultural hints as were necessary.  His name was “Rutli,” which I presumed to be German, but which my neighbors rendered as “Rootleigh,” possibly from some vague connection with his occupation.  His own knowledge of English was oral and phonetic.  I have a delightful recollection of a bill of his in which I was charged for “fioletz,” with the vague addition of “maine cains.”  Subsequent explanation proved it to be “many kinds.”

Nevertheless, my little garden bourgeoned and blossomed under his large, protecting hand.  I became accustomed to walk around his feet respectfully when they blocked the tiny paths, and to expect the total eclipse of that garden-bed on which he worked, by his huge bulk.  For the tiniest and most reluctant rootlet seemed to respond to his caressing paternal touch; it was a pretty sight to see his huge fingers tying up some slender stalk to its stick with the smallest thread, and he had a reverent way of laying a bulb or seed in the ground, and then gently shaping and smoothing a small mound over it, which made the little inscription on the stick above more like an affecting epitaph than ever.  Much of this gentleness may have been that apology for his great strength, common with large men; but his face was distinctly amiable, and his very light blue eyes were at times wistful and doglike in their kindliness.  I was soon to learn, however, that placability was not entirely his nature.