never more pleased than when he had organized a quartette and had begun to awaken the echoes of the grand old cañons or forests with the deliciously plaintive notes of "La Golondrina," "Adios de Guaymas," or other songs in minor key, decidedly nasalized. I may say that at a later date I have listened to a recitation by a packer named Hale, of Espronceda's lines—"The Bandit Chief"—in a very creditable style in the balsam-breathing forests of the Sierra Madre.
The experiences of old Sam Wisser, in the more remote portions of Sonora and Sinaloa, never failed to "bring down the house," when related in his homely Pennsylvania-German brogue. I will condense the story for the benefit of those who may care to listen. Sam's previous business had been "prospecting" for mines, and, in pursuit of his calling, he had travelled far and near, generally so intent upon the search for wealth at a distance that he failed to secure any of that which often lay at his feet. Equipped with the traditional pack-mule, pick, spade, frying-pan, and blankets, he started out on his mission having as a companion a man who did not pretend to be much of a "prospector," but was travelling for his health, or what was left of it. They had not reached the Eldorado of their hopes; but were far down in Sinaloa when the comrade died, and it became Sam's sad duty to administer upon the "estate." The mule wasn't worth much and was indeed almost as badly worn out as its defunct master. The dead man's clothing was buried with him, and his revolver went a good ways in paying the expenses of interment. There remained nothing but a very modest-looking valise nearly filled with bottles, pillboxes, and pots of various medicinal preparations warranted to cure all the ills that flesh is heir to. An ordinary man would have thrown all this away as so much rubbish, but our friend was a genius—he carefully examined each and every package, and learned exactly what they were all worth according to the advertisements. Nothing escaped his scrutiny, from the picture of the wretch "before taking," to that of the rubicund, aldermanic, smiling athlete "after taking six bottles." All the testimonials from shining lights of pulpit and bar were read through from date to signature, and the result of it all was that Sam came to the very logical conclusion that if he had in his possession panaceas for all ailments, why should he not practise the healing art? The next morning dawned upon a new Esculapius, and lighted up the legend
