We had a visitor once, which was a business man. One of his chief diversities was to compare sedentary occupations with what he called the joyous, carefree outdoor life. He said ’at sedentary came from sedan-chair, and meant to sit down at your work. I rode the range next spring until I felt more sedentary ’n an engineer; and sometimes at night it used to strain my intellect to split the difference between myself an’ my saddle.

I got out o’ humor an’ depressed and downright gloomy. Fact is, I was on the point o’ rollin’ up my spare socks and givin’ Jabez a chance to save my board money, when I heard a sound ’at jerked me up through the scum and gave me a glimpse o’ the sky again. I was ridin’ in about dusk, and I had hung back o’ the dust the other fellers had kicked up, so I could be alone and enjoy my misery, when I heard this inspirin’ noise.

Ol’ Tank Williams once tried to learn to play on a split clarinet a feller had give him, and at first I thought he had found where we had buried it, and had resumed his musical studies; but this outrage came from an instrument a feller has to be mighty cautious about buryin’. It was a human voice, and these were the words it was screechin’:

Well, I gave a whoop and threw the spurs into my pony. This was the seventy-ninth verse of Horace’s song, and it was his favorite, because it was founded on the Greek religion. I found him perched up behind a rock, and he kept on slammin’ chunks of his song up again’ the welkin until I shot some dirt loose above his head; and then he climbed down and reunioned with me.

He was lookin’ fine, except that some of his waist products had come back, and we talked into each other until the air got too thin to breathe. Then we suppered up and began talkin’ again. He had tried all sorts of gymnastical games back East, from playin’ golf to ridin’ hossback in a park, but it didn’t have the right tang. Folks thought he’d gone insane an’ lost his mind, the air didn’t taste right, he got particular about how his vittles were cooked; until finally, his endurance melted and began to run down the back of his neck. This decided him ’at he’d had full as much East as was good for him; so he loaded up a box with firearms, tossed some clothin’ into a handbag, and he said his grin had been gettin’ wider all the way out until it had hooked holes through the window lights on both sides o’ the train.

We were all glad to see him, an’ he dove into ranch life like a bullfrog into a cream jar; and he got toughened to a hard saddle in a mighty short time for a feller who had got used to upholstery back East. He said ’at the only thing ’at had kept life in him had been to sing his song constant; but he denied ’at this was his main excuse for fleein’ from his own range.

He didn’t seem to bear a mite o’ malice for the joke I had put up on him; but still, I have to own up ’at he half pestered the life out of me with his song. He had what he called a tenor voice; but it was the dolefullest thing I ever heard, and the more he sang, the more his notes stuck to him until I coveted to hear a love-sick hound serenadin’ the moon. When he saw it was riskin’ his life to drag out any more o’ the song, he would pause temptingly, and then begin a lecture on the Greek religion. He got me all mussed up in religion.

Of course, I knew ’at the Injuns had a lot o’ sinful religious idees, and I was prepared to give the other heathens plenty o’ room to swing in; but not even an Injun would ’a’ stood for as immoral a lot as the Greek gods an’ goddusses—especially the top one, which Horace called Zeus an’ Jove an’ Jupiter.

This one didn’t have as much decency as a male goat, and yet he had unlimited power. He was allus enticin’ some weak-minded human woman into a scrape; and when his wife, who was called Hera and Juno, would get onto his tricks, Zeus would snap his fingers, say “Flip!” and charm the human woman into some sort of an animal. It was a handy scheme for him, true enough; and he didn’t care a scene how embarrassin’ it was for the human women.

He turned one of ’em into a bear, and, like most other women, she was feared o’ bears an’ wolves an’ snakes, an’ the rest o’ the company she was forced to associate with. She led a perfectly rotten existence until her own son went bear huntin’, and was just on the point of jabbin’ a spear into her, when even Zeus himself admitted ’at this would be carryin’ the joke a leetle too far; so he grabs ’em up and sticks ’em into the sky as a group o’ stars.

Horace tried to argue ’at this proved Zeus to be merciful; but as far as I can see it’s as idiotic as havin’ the law hang a man for murder. Supposin’ some feller had murdered me—would I feel any happier because this feller who couldn’t put up with me in this world, is sent over to pester me in the next? Course I wouldn’t; but if one o’ my friends was murdered, and I had a chance to slay the feller ’at did it, this would give me a lot o’ satisfaction an’ joy an’ pleasure—though I don’t say it would be just.

Puttin’ the woman an’ her son up in the sky didn’t square things in Horace’s religion, neither; ’cause he said ’at Hera got jealous of Zeus for elevatin’ the woman and she went to her foster parents who had charge of the ocean, and made ’em bar this woman and her son from ever goin’ into it, the same as the other stars did, and he could prove it any clear night. I told him that he might get away with such a tale as that back East among the indoor people; but that he couldn’t fool a day-old child with it out our way.

We started this discussion the day after the fall round-up was over, Horace had toughened up before it began, and he had rode with me all through it, and takin’ it all in all he was more help than bother, except that he shot too much. When he had come out before, he had been so blame harmless he couldn’t have shot an innocent bystander; but this trip, he was blazin’ away at every livin’ thing ’at didn’t have a dollar mark on it, and when these wasn’t offered, he’d waste ammunition on a mark.

I had some details to tend to after the round-up, so we didn’t get a chance to settle the bet for several days. It was only a dollar bet; but when the time came, I picked out a couple o’ good hosses, bein’ minded to look at the stars from the top o’ Cat Head.

We reached it about dark, made some coffee, an’ fried some bacon. Then we smoked an’ talked until it was entirely dark before we ever looked up at the stars. “Now, bluffer,” sez I, “show me your woman-bear.”

He looked up at the sky, an’ then moved on out o’ the firelight, an’ continued to look at the stars without speakin’. “Don’t seem to see ’em, do you?” I taunted.

He turned to me an’ spoke in a hushed voice: “Man,” he said, “this is wonderful. Why, the way those stars seem to be hangin’ down from that velvet dome is simply awe-inspirin’. I’ve looked through three good telescopes, but to-night, I seem to be viewin’ the heavens for the first time.”

“I thought you wasn’t much familiar with ’em, or you wouldn’t have put out that nonsense about a bear-woman,” I sez.

“That,” sez he, pointin’ to the best known group o’ stars in the sky, “is Ursa Major.”

“That,” sez I, “is the Big Dipper, an’ you needn’t try to fool me by givin’ it one o’ your Greek names.”

He didn’t argue with me; but came back to the fire an’ fixed some stones in the shape of the Big Dipper stars, then drew lines with a stick, an’ sez ’at this made up the Great Bear. I looked him between the eyes, but he held his face, so I knew he was in earnest. “All right,” I sez. “I’ll take you huntin’ some o’ these days, an’ if we chance to come across a silver-tip—a real grizzly, understand, and not a pet varmint backed up again’ the risin’ sun—you’ll change your mind about what a bear looks like. If that was all your fool Greeks knew about wild animals, I wouldn’t waste my time to hear what they had to say about gods an’ goddusses. I’m goin’ to start back, an’ you can come or not, just as you please.” This was the first time I had hinted about the woodchuck; but I was disgusted at his nonsense. He took it all right, though, which proves he was game.

I rode some comin’ back, an’ he kept tryin’ to square himself; but I didn’t heed him. Just before we reached the foothills, we saw a fire, an’ when we reached it, the Friar was just finishin’ his supper. He an’ Horace bowed stiffly to each other, an’ I was just put out enough by Horace’s star-nonsense to feel like roastin’ some one; so I decided to roast ’em both.

I sat on my hoss an’ looked scornful from one to the other. “Here is two religious folks,” I said, impersonal to the pony, but loud enough for all to hear. “Here is two genuwine religious folks! One of ’em is workin’ for universal brotherhood, an’ the other is peddlin’ Greek religion which he claims to be founded on beauty an’ love an’ harmony. They meet in the mountains, an’ bow as cordial as a snow-slide. I think if ever I pick out a religion for myself, I’ll choose the Injun’s.”

I couldn’t have asked for any two people to look more foolish ’n they did. Neither one of ’em seemed to have anything to say; so I said to my pony: “Don’t you worry none, Muggins, I got a match o’ my own, an’ if we want to set by a fire, why, we can ride on to some place where wood is free, an’ build us one.”

“Will you not dismount an’ rest a while at my fire?” sez the Friar, in a tone meant as a slap at me.

“No, thank you,” sez Horace, “we must be goin’.”

“Yes, Friar,” I sez hearty. “Me an’ Horace has a bet up, an’ you can decide it. Also, you owe him somethin’ on his own hook. You drove him out o’ your religion an’ into the Greek religion; an’ if that don’t give him a direct call on you, why then you don’t realize what a pest the Greek religion is.”

They were so embarrassed they were awkward an’ spluttery; but I was sure ’at this was good for ’em, so I got off, threw the reins on the ground, an’ warmed my hands at the fire; while Horace apologized for me not knowin’ any better, an’ the Friar assured him coldly that everything was all right, an’ he was rejoiced to have a little company.

Well, for as much as ten minutes, we sat around enjoyin’ what I once heard a feller call frapayed convivuality, an’ then I took pity on ’em an’ loosened things up by tellin’ the Friar about the trip me an’ Tank an’ Horace had took into the mountains to pacify our nerves, just before he had stumbled on Horace that other time. O’ course I didn’t tell it all, as I didn’t want Horace to know any more about it than he knew already; but I told what a seedy little windfall Horace had been when we started out, an’ how he had come back crackin’ jokes an’ singin’ the infernalest song ’at ever was made up. I finally got Horace to sing ten or fifteen minutes o’ this song, an’ he droned it out so unusual doleful that he fetched a chuckle out o’ the Friar, an’ then we were feelin’ easy an’ comfortable, like outdoor men again.

Then I told the Friar what our bet was, expectin’ o’ course that he’d back me up; but what did he do but say ’at Horace was right as far as the stars was concerned. This tickled Horace a lot, an’ he began to crow over me until I concluded to test the Friar; so I sez to Horace that his religion havin’ been endorsed by the Friar himself, I’d become a Greek the first chance I had.

Horace didn’t take any trouble to hide his satisfaction, an’ he began to expound upon the beauty, an’ the art, an’ the freedom of the Greek religion at a great rate.

“They certainly was free,” I sez, “an’ easy too, an’ I don’t deny ’at they might ’a’ been some weight in art an’ beauty; but, confound ’em, they didn’t know as much about bears as I know about e-lectricity. I’d just like to see Zeus himself go up into the Tetons in the early spring, to hunt for Big Dippers. I’ll bet the first hungry grizzly he’d come across would set him right on the bear question.”

This was a good opener, an’ in about two shakes, the Friar an’ Horace had locked horns. Horace was a crafty, sarcastic, cold-blooded little argufier; while the Friar was warm an’ eager an’ open as the day. It was one o’ the best gabbin’ matches I have ever started.

They dealt mostly in names I had never heard of before, although once in a while they’d turn up one a little familiar on account of Horace havin’ told me some tale of it. The Friar knew as much about these things as Horace did; but he called ’em myths, an’ said while they didn’t mean anything when took literal, they had great historical value when regarded merely as symbols. He said that I-oh—the human maid which Zeus had turned into a cow—was nothin’ but the moon, an’ that Argus of the hundred eyes was simply the sky full o’ stars; and that the old god which ate up his children was nothin’ but time.

I didn’t really understand much of what they said; but I did enjoy watchin’ ’em bandy those big words about. We all use a lot o’ words we don’t understand; but as long as they sound well an’ fill out a gap it don’t much matter. These two, though, seemed to understand all the words they used, an’ I was highly edified.

As they talked, an’ I kept watchin’ the Friar’s face, I learned somethin’: the Friar had been mighty lonesome with only us rough fellers to talk with, an’ had been hungerin’ for just such a confab as this to loosen up his subsoil a little.

Every now an’ again, I’d cast an eye up to the stars; an’ while I didn’t know the religious names of ’em, I knew how to tell time by ’em; an’ I knew ’at those two would have a turn when they remembered to look at their watches. It was full one o’clock when the conversation came to its first rest, an’ then the Friar recalled what I had said when I had dismounted; so he up an’ asked Horace point-blank what he had had to do with makin’ Horace quit the church.

Horace was minded to sidestep this at first by intimatin’ that I was not responsible for what I said; but he finally came across and told the Friar that he had give up that church for about the same reason that the Friar himself had. This set the Friar back purty well on his haunches, an’ put him on the defensive. He had hammered Horace freely before, but now when he conscientiously tried to defend the gang he had left, and also excuse himself for leavin’, he had some job on his hands.

I thought Horace had him when he compared the Golden Age of Greece an’ Plato’s Republic with the Dark Ages, which was a stretch of years when the Christian religion about had its own way; but the Friar admitted that what he called economical interests had put a smirch on the church durin’ the Dark Ages, an’ then he sailed into the Golden Age of Greece, showin’ that slavery was the lot of most o’ the decent people durin’ that period. When I fell asleep, they were shakin’ their fists friendly at one another, about Plato’s Republic, which I found out afterwards was only a made-up story.

Bein’ edicated is a good deal like bein’ a good shot in a quiet community—once in a long while it’s mighty comfortin’, but for the most part it’s nothin’ but shootin’ at a target.