The Song of the Lark by Willa Cather (best reads .TXT) 📕

about the Grand Canyon and Death Valley, two places much shrouded in mystery in those days, and Thea listened intently. Mrs. Tellamantez took out her drawn-work and pinned it to her knee. Ray could talk well about the large part of the continent over which he had been knocked about, and Johnny was appreciative.

“You been all over, pretty near. Like a Spanish boy,” he commented respectfully.

Ray, who had taken off his coat, whetted his pocketknife thoughtfully on the sole of his shoe. “I began to browse around early. I had a mind to see something of this world, and I ran away from home before I was twelve. Rustled for myself ever since.”

“Ran away?” Johnny looked hopeful. “What for?”

“Couldn’t make it go with my old man, and didn’t take to farming. There were plenty of boys at home. I wasn’t missed.”

Thea wriggled down in the hot sand and rested her chin on her arm. “Tell Johnny about the melons, Ray, please do!”

Ray’s solid, sunburned cheeks grew a shade redder, and he looked reproachfully at Thea. “You’re stuck on that story, kid. You like to get the laugh on me, don’t you? That was the finishing split I had with my old man, John. He had a claim along the creek, not far from Denver, and raised a little garden stuff for market. One day he had a load of melons and he decided to take ’em to town and sell ’em along the street, and he made me go along and drive for him. Denver wasn’t the queen city it is now, by any means, but it seemed a terrible big place to me; and when we got there, if he didn’t make me drive right up Capitol Hill! Pap got out and stopped at folkses houses to ask if they didn’t want to buy any melons, and I was to drive along slow. The farther I went the madder I got, but I was trying to look unconscious, when the end-gate came loose and one of the melons fell out and squashed. Just then a swell girl, all dressed up, comes out of one of the big houses and calls out, ‘Hello, boy, you’re losing your melons!’ Some dudes on the other side of the street took their hats off to her and began to laugh. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I grabbed the whip and lit into that team, and they tore up the hill like jackrabbits, them damned melons bouncing out the back every jump, the old man cussin’ an’ yellin’ behind and everybody laughin’. I never looked behind, but the whole of Capitol Hill must have been a mess with them squashed melons. I didn’t stop the team till I got out of sight of town. Then I pulled up an’ left ’em with a rancher I was acquainted with, and I never went home to get the lickin’ that was waitin’ for me. I expect it’s waitin’ for me yet.”

Thea rolled over in the sand. “Oh, I wish I could have seen those melons fly, Ray! I’ll never see anything as funny as that. Now, tell Johnny about your first job.”

Ray had a collection of good stories. He was observant, truthful, and kindly⁠—perhaps the chief requisites in a good storyteller. Occasionally he used newspaper phrases, conscientiously learned in his efforts at self-instruction, but when he talked naturally he was always worth listening to. Never having had any schooling to speak of, he had, almost from the time he first ran away, tried to make good his loss. As a sheepherder he had worried an old grammar to tatters, and read instructive books with the help of a pocket dictionary. By the light of many campfires he had pondered upon Prescott’s histories, and the works of Washington Irving, which he bought at a high price from a book-agent. Mathematics and physics were easy for him, but general culture came hard, and he was determined to get it. Ray was a freethinker, and inconsistently believed himself damned for being one. When he was braking, down on the Santa Fe, at the end of his run he used to climb into the upper bunk of the caboose, while a noisy gang played poker about the stove below him, and by the roof-lamp read Robert Ingersoll’s speeches and The Age of Reason.

Ray was a loyal-hearted fellow, and it had cost him a great deal to give up his God. He was one of the stepchildren of Fortune, and he had very little to show for all his hard work; the other fellow always got the best of it. He had come in too late, or too early, on several schemes that had made money. He brought with him from all his wanderings a good deal of information (more or less correct in itself, but unrelated, and therefore misleading), a high standard of personal honor, a sentimental veneration for all women, bad as well as good, and a bitter hatred of Englishmen. Thea often thought that the nicest thing about Ray was his love for Mexico and the Mexicans, who had been kind to him when he drifted, a homeless boy, over the border. In Mexico, Ray was Señor Ken-áy-dy, and when he answered to that name he was somehow a different fellow. He spoke Spanish fluently, and the sunny warmth of that tongue kept him from being quite as hard as his chin, or as narrow as his popular science.

While Ray was smoking his cigar, he and Johnny fell to talking about the great fortunes that had been made in the Southwest, and about fellows they knew who had “struck it rich.”

“I guess you been in on some big deals down there?” Johnny asked trustfully.

Ray smiled and shook his head. “I’ve been out on some, John. I’ve never been exactly in on any. So far, I’ve either held on too long or let go too soon. But mine’s coming to me, all right.” Ray looked reflective. He leaned