The Englishman in the West 183 



brightens as he speaks of the quail and ducks, and 

 he will tell you that he and a pal are thinking 

 seriously of shooting for the market next winter, 

 only he will add it is "a beastly grind shipping 

 your birds in good condition." Most things are 

 "a beastly grind" to Jim and his friends. They 

 keep no cow, because a cow must be driven in from 

 the pasture and milked twice a day. You will 

 mark few hens about the barn, for Jim will tell 

 you that, in a country where coyotes and coons are 

 many, it is necessary to lock up your hens each 

 night in a marauder-proof hen-house. And that, 

 too, is a " beastly grind." Poor Jim blushes through 

 his tanned skin when he asks you to stop and take 

 pot-luck with him. Presently he retires into the 

 kitchen, and you are left alone in his sitting-room. 

 Here you will be sure to mark a curious assortment 

 of old clothes, boots, a few books, a hunting-crop, 

 some English illustrated papers and magazines sent 

 regularly to Jim by his kind sisters and aunts at 

 home, and many pipes. Upon most of these arti- 

 cles lies the dust of the West: that fine sand 

 which drifts invisibly into everything — even into 

 the hearts of men like Jim. You feel, perhaps, 

 that you would like to buy a broom, to sweep and 

 garnish, but your labour would be wasted. Dust, 

 the dun dust of life, settles thick upon the Eemit- 

 tance Man. And he — this is the pathetic part of 

 it — does not care. He has sold the birthright of 

 a gentleman : the right to be well-groomed in body 

 and mind, for a — remittance. 



While you sit dreaming by the hearth, Jim has 

 found a few eggs, and cooked a meal that tastes 



