This Cravat Needs To Hit The Trail

Brian knots up a plummy tie with tiny white dots in regimented rows this evening. Frankly, I'm thrown by this cravat. It's got an odd prairie-calico feel to it, and I have this image of burdened Conestogas lumbering across wide, grassy territories while brave women peer out, eyes shaded from the sun by tanned hands held visor-like over their eyes. Their bonnets are dusty and faded, and with the other hand, they carefully tuck their long skirts and petticoats around their legs and into the wagonbox so that they don't become entangled in the spokes of the wheels.