Its western freshness and novelty startled me, at first, and interested me; but it presently grew monotonous, and lost its charm.

It was: "Pass the bread, you son of a skunk!" No, I forget--skunk was not the word; it seems to me it was still stronger than that; I know it was, in fact, but it is gone from my memory, apparently.

However, it is no matter--probably it was too strong for print, anyway.

It is the landmark in my memory which tells me where I first encountered the vigorous new vernacular of the occidental plains and mountains.
We gave up the breakfast, and paid our dollar apiece and went back to our mail-bag bed in the coach, and found comfort in our pipes.

Right here we suffered the first diminution of our princely state.