WE-NEN-GWAY. 301 



"dead loads of fun." At these rural hostelries we struck 

 a dance nearly every night. At a small place not far 

 from Rochester, Minn., the fiddler didn't show up, and 

 some country roughs proposed to wreck the hotel, and 

 the landlord appealed to us for protection. We were at 

 a late supper, and Tom Davies finished first, and went 

 out and talked with the turbulent spirits ; but he was only 

 one man, and he came back for reinforcements. We 

 went out in a body at the landlord's suggestion, and after 

 he had said a few words in a conciliatory way I winked to 

 Henry and he came; we took the leader of the gang one 

 side, and I said to him: 



"This party of ours has just come out of the woods, 

 and they're peaceable enough if there isn't any fighting 

 going on; but if there's any fighting you can't keep 'em 

 out. We don't know any of the people here, but the 

 landlord is a white man, and if a fight is started we're 

 with him. Do you see that dark man over there? Well, 

 he's a Welshman; look at the build of him; he can kill a 

 steer with one blow of his fist," and I pointed to Tom 

 Davies. 



"I've seen him do it three times down in Wisconsin," 

 said Henry. 



"It's just here," said I. "There isn't going to be any 

 fighting in this house to-night unless we all take a hand 

 in it, and if we do I tell you as a friend to keep away 

 from that Welshman." 



"Buried was the bloody hatchet; 

 Buried was the fearful war club; 

 Buried were all warlike weapons, 

 And the war cry was forgotten; 

 Then was peace among the nations." 



Just what delayed the fiddler is lost in memory's fog, 



