The Sagebrusher | Page 5

none
the less after some fashion of their own do find their way out in all the
womanless regions of the world--Alaska, South Africa, the dry plains
of Canada and our Western States, mining camps far out in the outlying
districts beyond the edge of the homekeeping lands--it is in regions
such as these that periodicals such as the foregoing may be found. Their

circulation is among those who seek "acquaintance with a view to
matrimony." They are the official organs of Cupid himself--or Cupid
commercialized, or Cupid much misnamed and sailing his craft upon a
wide and uncharted sea. In lands of the first pick or the first plow, these
half-illicit pages find their way for their own reasons; and men and
women both sometimes have read them.
Wid Gardner finished his own brief work about the corral, came in,
washed his hands, and began to cook for himself his simple supper.
Then he washed his dishes, threw the towel above them as before, and
went to bed, since he had little else to do.
Early the next morning Wid had finished his breakfast, and was at the
edge of the main valley road, which passed near to his own front gate.
He lighted a pipe and sat down to smoke, now and again glancing down
the road at a slowly approaching figure.
It was the schoolma'am, Mrs. Davidson, who daily presided at the little
log schoolhouse a mile further on up the road, where some twenty
children found their way over varying distances from the surrounding
ranches. This lady was of much dignity and of much avoirdupois as
well. Her ruddy face was wrinkled up somewhat like an apple in the
late fall. She walked slowly and ponderously, and her gait being
somewhat restricted, it was needful that she make an early start each
day to her place of labor, since the only possible boarding place lay
almost a mile below Sim Gage's ranch. She had been the only applicant
for this school, and perhaps was the only living being who could have
contented herself in that capacity in this valley. Wid Gardner pulled at
the edge of his broken hat as he stepped down the narrow road to meet
her.
"'Morning, Mis' Davidson," said he.
"Good morning, Mr. Gar-r-r-dner," boomed out the great voice of Mrs.
Davidson. "It is apparently promising us fair weather, sir-r-r."
Mrs. Davidson spoke with a certain singular rotund exactness, and
hence was held much in awe in all these parts.

"Yes, ma'am," said Wid, "it looks like it would rain, but it won't."
"Your hay in that case would not flourish so well, Mr. Gar-r-r-dner?"
said she.
"Without rain, not worth a damn, ma'am, so to speak. But I'll get by if
any one can. This is one of the best locations in the valley. Me and Sim
Gage; and Sim, he says----"
"Sim Gage!" The lady snorted her contempt of the very name. "That
man! Altogether impossible!"
"He shore is. He certainly is," assented Wid Gardner. "He seems to be
getting impossible-er almost every year, now, don't he?"
"I do not care to discuss Mr. Gage," replied the apostle of learning. "I
was in his abode once. I should never care to go there again."
Already she was leaning partially forward, ponderously, as about to
resume her journey toward the school house.
"Well, now, Sim Gage," began Wid, raising a restraining hand, "he ain't
so bad as you might think, ma'am. He's just kind of fell into this way of
living."
"Mr. Gar-r-r-dner," said the lady positively, "I doubt if he has made a
bed or washed a dish in twenty years. His place is worse than an Indian
camp. I have taught schools among the savages myself, in Government
service, and therefore I may speak with authority."
"Well, now, ma'am, I reckon that's all true. But you see, if more women
come out in here, now, things'd be different. I been thinking of Sim
Gage, ma'am. I wanted you to do something fer me, or him, ma'am."
"Indeed?" demanded she. "And what may that be?"
"I don't mean nothing in the world that ain't perfectly all right," began
Wid, hesitatingly. "I only wanted you to write something fer me. I'm
this kind of a man, that when he wants anything to be fixed up, he

wants it to be fixed up right. I kind of got out of practice writing. I want
you to write a ad fer me."
"A what?" she demanded. "Oh, I see--you have something to sell?"
"No, ma'am, I ain't got nothing to sell--not unlessen--well, I'll tell you. I
want to advertise fer a woman--fer a wife--that is to say, really fer him,
Sim Gage--a feller's got to have something to sort of occupy his mind,
hain't he?"
Mrs.