ONE SUMMER DAY about the turn of the century Henry Frost, the Yosemite butcher, decided that he was tired of his white whiskers. A drinkin’ pal by the name of Zickafoos cooperated with enthusiasm by painting ‘em red with tough, weatherproof barn paint. Frost repented the next morning, but the harder he scrubbed, first with soap, then kerosene, and finally turpentine, the brighter and redder his whiskers seemed to get. Walking down the road a while later Frost caught one of his friends turning around for a second gape. He was pretty indignant and wanted to know what the feller thought he was starin’ at!”

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