and nearly smoked himself to death to possess
these desired forms and faces. For a change,
one could talk to the station agent; but he
was another malcontent; spent all his spare
time writing letters to officials requesting a
transfer. He wanted to get back to Wyoming
where he could go trout-fishing on Sundays.
He used to say "there was nothing in life for
him but trout streams, ever since he'd lost his
twins."

These were the distractions I had to choose
from. There were no other lights burning
downtown after nine o'clock. On starlight
nights I used to pace up and down those long,
cold streets, scowling at the little, sleeping
houses on either side, with their storm-win-
dows and covered back porches. They were
flimsy shelters, most of them poorly built of
light wood, with spindle porch-posts horribly
mutilated by the turning-lathe. Yet for all
their frailness, how much jealousy and envy
and unhappiness some of them managed to
contain! The life that went on in them seemed
to me made up of evasions and negations;
shifts to save cooking, to save washing and
cleaning, devices to propitiate the tongue of
gossip. This guarded mode of existence was

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