if we would. But High Jack happened to think of the United States, and began to talk ethnology.
“‘Ruins!’ says Major Bing. ‘The woods are full of ’em. I don’t know how far they date back, but they was here before I came.’
“High Jack asks what form of worship the citizens of that locality are addicted to.
“‘Why,’ says the Major, rubbing his nose, ‘I can’t hardly say. I imagine it’s infidel or Aztec or Nonconformist or something like that. There’s a church here—a Methodist or some other kind—with a parson named Skidder. He claims to have converted the people to Christianity. He and me don’t assimilate except on state occasions. I imagine they worship some kind of gods or idols yet. But Skidder says he has ’em in the fold.’
“‘A few days later High Jack and me, prowling around, strikes a plain path into the forest, and follows it a good four miles. Then a branch turns to the left. We go a mile, maybe, down that, and run up against the finest ruin you ever saw—solid stone with trees and vines and underbrush all growing up against it and in it and through it. All over it was chiselled carvings of funny beasts and people that would have been
