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A Poor Rule
I have always maintained, and asserted ime to time, that woman is no mystery; that man
can foretell, construe, subdue, comprehend, and interpret her. That she is a mystery has
been foisted by herself upon credulous mankind. Whether I am right or wrong we shall
see. As "Harper's Drawer" used to say in bygone years: "The following good story is told
of Miss --, Mr. --, Mr. --and Mr. --."
We shall have to omit "Bishop X" and "the Rev. --," for they do not belong.
In those days Paloma was a new town on the line of the Southern Pacific. A reporter
would have called it a "mushroom" town; but it was not. Paloma was, first and last, of the
toadstool variety.
The train stopped there at noon for the engine to drink and for the passengers both to
drink and to dine. There was a new yellow-pine hotel, also a wool warehouse, and
perhaps three dozen box residences. The rest was composed of tents, cow ponies, "black-
waxy" mud, and mesquite-trees, all bound round by a horizon. Paloma was an about-to-
be city. The houses represented faith; the tents hope; the twice-a- day train by which you
might leave, creditably sustained the role of charity.
The Parisian Restaurant occupied the muddiest spot in the town while it rained, and the
warmest when it shone. It was operated, owned, and perpetrated by a citizen known as
Old Man Hinkle, who had come out of Indiana to make his fortune in this land of
condensed milk and sorghum.
There was a four-room, unpainted, weather-boarded box house in which the family lived.
From the kitchen extended a "shelter" made of poles covered with chaparral brush. Under
this was a table and two benches, each twenty feet long, the product of Paloma home
carpentry. Here was set forth the roast mutton, the stewed apples, boiled beans, soda-
biscuits, puddinorpie, and hot coffee of the Parisian menu.
Ma Hinkle and a subordinate known to the ears as "Betty," but denied to the eyesight,
presided at the range. Pa Hinkle himself, with salamandrous thumbs, served the scalding
viands. During rush hours a Mexican youth, who rolled and smoked cigarettes between
courses, aided him in waiting on the guests. As is customary at Parisian banquets, I place
the sweets at the end of my wordy menu.
Ileen Hinkle!
The spelling is correct, for I have seen her write it. No doubt she had been named by ear;
but she so splendidly bore the orthography that Tom Moore himself (had he seen her)
would have indorsed the phonography.
 
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