A FAT LITTLE EDITOR. 69 



hot, almost, to tell the truth. Even here 

 under Mount Shasta, in her sheets of eter 

 nal snow, the mercury is at par. 



This Mount Sinai is not a town; it is a 

 great spring of cold water that leaps from 

 the high, rocky front of a mountain which 

 we have located as a summer home in the 

 Sierras myself and a few other scribes of 

 California. 



This is the great bear land. One of our 

 party, a simple-hearted and honest city ed 

 itor, who was admitted into our little 

 mountain colony because of his boundless 

 good nature and native goodness, had 

 never seen a bear before he came here. City 

 editors do not, as a rule, ever know much 

 about bears. This little city editor is bald- 

 headed, bow-legged, plain to a degree. And 

 maybe that is why he is so good. "Give 

 me fat men," said Caesar. 



But give me plain men for good men, any 

 time. Pretty women are to be preferred; 

 but pretty men? Bah! I must get on with 

 the bear, however, and make a long story 



