44 DENIZENS OF THE DESERT 



scraps had been going, but it took me two whole 

 years of watching to know how Billy made the 

 queer rapping sounds. 



This was the beginning of a series of visits 

 which became more frequent until now my mis- 

 chievous Billy comes around both day and 

 night to carry off peels or to inspect the con- 

 tents of my woodbox with his long-whiskered, 

 ever-moving, inquisitive nose. No sleepy head 

 is he; his bump of curiosity, his industrious, 

 provident impulses, are too strongly developed 

 to allow much dozing in slumber. 



At one end of my poorly floored shanty is a 

 knot-hole in the floor, to which Billy Bob-Tail 

 has laid claim as his door to the mysterious, 

 dark storehouse of his beneath the house. He 

 spent several days and nights rounding it out so 

 as to let himself pass through with ease; and 

 there was little leaving of his job until it was 

 done. His industry was marvelous. He stayed 

 by his task hours at a time — mostly at night. 

 His workmanlike industry, habitual diligence, 

 and steady attention to the business in hand 

 would have been a shame to many a man I 

 know. 



