Bingham there is oil. He's punchin' the
earth full of wan thousand foot holes, and sendin' off two
hundred quarts of nitroglycerine at the bottom of them, and
pumpin' the accumulation across continents to furnish folks light
and hate. York here is runnin' a field railway between Bluffton
and Celina, so that I can get to the river and the resurvoir to
fish without walkin'. Haines is bossin' a crew of forty Canadians
and he's takin' the timber from the woods hereabouts, and sending
it to be made into boats to carry stuff across sea. Meself, and
me partner, Dannie Micnoun, are the lady-likest lambs in the
bunch. We grow grub to feed folks in summer and trap for skins to
cover 'em in winter. Corn is our great commodity. Plowin' and
hoein' it in summer, and huskin' it in the fall is sich lamb-like
work. But don't mintion it in the same brith with tendin' our
four dozen fur traps on a twenty-below-zero day. Freezing hands
and fate, and fallin' into air bubbles, and building fires to
thaw out our frozen grub. Now here among us poor little,
transmutin', lambs you come, a raging lion, ripresentin' the
cultour and rayfinement of the far East. By the pleats on your
breast you show us the style. By the thrid case in your hand you
furnish us material so that our women can tuck their petticoats
so fancy, and by the book in your head you teach us your
sooperiority.
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