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From  the  collection  of  the 


o  Prefinger 

i     a 

JLJibrary 

p 


San  Francisco,  California 
2006 


I 


JULY--1913 


! 


METALLIC 
CARTRIDGES 


Made  by  the 

Foremost  Ammunition  Concern  in  America 

THE  biggest  name  in  the  ammunition  and  firearms  world 
today  is  Remington-UMC. 

Whether  your  arm  is  a  Remington  or  any  other  standard 
make,  whatever  its  calibre  and  the  load   you   need,    you  want 
Remington-UMC  metallics — not  because  they  are  necessarily 
stamped  with  the  same  name  as  your  firearm,  but  because 
they  give  more  accurate  results. 

This  Company  has  been  making  ammunition  for  fifty  years. 
We  produce  metallics  for  every  standard  make  of  arm — and  every 
Remington-UMC  cartridge  is  tested  in  the  arm  for  which  it  is  made. 

There  is  a  dealer  in  this  community  who  can  give  you  Rem- 
ington-UMC Metallics  for  your  rifle,  your  pistol.  Find  him. 
Ask  for  them.  Look  for  the  Red  Ball  Mark  on  every  box  of 
metallics  and  shot  shells  you  buy. 

Remington  Arms-Union  Metallic  Cartridge  Co. 

299  Broadway,  New  York  12  Geary  St.,  San  Francisco    Cal. 


The  Overland  Monthly 


Vol.  XLII — Second  Series 


July-December  1913 


The  OVERLAND  MONTHLY  CO.,  Publishers 

Offices— 21  Sutler  Street,  San  Francisco 


f  LIBRARY 


A    BAD    BARGAIN.      Story 

A    CALIFORNIA    CABIN.       Verse 

A  CHRISTMAS  SILHOUETTE.     Verse 

ACROSS    COUNTRY    IN    ARIZONA        . 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

ADELE.       Story 

A    FOREST   CALL.      Verse 

Illustrated  from  photograph. 
A   FORT  OF  '49 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
AFTER    FOUR  YEARS.      Story        . 
ALONG   A   CALIFORNIA   WATERWAY        . 
AMONG   THE    HEAD    HUNTERS 

Illustrated   from   photographs. 

Illustrated  from  photographs  by  the  author. 
AN    ARMY    BAND.      Verse  . 

A    THANKSGIVING    CONVERT.      Story 
A  TRIOLET.      Verse  ...«-.. 

AUTUMN'S    ORCHESTRA.       Verse 
A    WHIFF    FROM    THE    PIT.       Story 

BAGUIO,   SIMLA   OF  THE    PHILIPPINES 

BLACK    HEART.      Story 

BREATH   OF  NIGHT.      Verse  .          .          .          . 

BY  THE  NIGHT  SEA.      Verse  . 


CALIFORNIA.       Verse 

CALIFORNIANS   IN    NEW  YORK  ... 

Illustrated    with    photographs. 

COUGAR,   JAGUAR  AND    BOB-CAT    HUNTING 
THE  WEST  ... 

Illustrated   from   photographs   taken   by  the 

DAWN.       Verse 

DE     PROFUNDIS.       Story 

DON    CIPRIANO.      Story 

DUNCAN    OF    METLAKAHTLA    DESERTED 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

EXPLORING  THE  SANTA  LUCIA  SIERRA  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

FAMINE   IN  THE  LAND 


RUFUS    L.    SNELL  374 

RALPH  BACON  262 

ELIZABETH  REYNOLDS  560 

FREDERICK   HEWITT  379 

CY  MARSHALL  272 

KATHERINE  KENNEDY  593 

MONROE   WOOLEY  497 

MABEL  VILAS  391 

ROGER   SPRAGUE  169 

DANIEL  FOLKMAN  542 


MARION  ETHEL  HAMILTON  267 

LANNIE  HAYNES  MARTIN  449 

VIRGINIA   CLEAVER   BACON  200 

AGNES   LOCKHART   HUGHES  378 

ISAAC  MOTES  53 

MONROE    WOOLLEY  292 

RONALD    TEMPLE  246 

CLARA   HUNT   SMALLWOOD  474 

PROF.  ODELL  SHEPARD  584 

CHRISTOPHER  GRANT  HAZARD     189 

ELIZABETH    SEMPLE  421 


IN 

.         LEWIS  R.  FREEMAN 
author. 


ALICE  H.   CUNNINGHAM 
GENEVIEVE    COONEY 
CHARLES   C.    LOFQUEST 
HAROLD  FRENCH 


J.  SMEATON  CHASE 


LEWIS    R.    FREEMAN 

STOKELY    S.    FISHER 
FRED  A.   HUNT 


C.  T.  RUSSELL, 
Pastor  London  and 
Brooklyn  Tabernacles. 
FEATURES    OF    THE    PANAMA-PACIFIC 

EXPOSITION 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
FLASHLIGHTS    IN    AN    ASIATIC    STEERAGE 

Illustrated   from   photographs. 
FORECASTS.        Verse 

FOUND  BY  THE  FIRELIGHT.     Story  .          . 

FRONTISPIECES—  Scenes   Along    El    Camino    Real 
FRONTISPIECES—  Photographs    Illustrating    Legends  of  Mt.  Shasta 
FRONTISPIECES  ....... 

Romance    of    American    Archaeology. 

[RONTISPIECES.      Photographs   illustrating   the   Santa    Fe   Trail 
FRONTISPIECES  ...... 

Photographs    illustrating    "Hunting   Alligators    in    Panama. 
Photograph   of    Blanche    Bates  from    "Californians  in   New  York." 
ONTISPIECES.—  Scenes  from   Golden  Gate  Park  ... 

FRONTISPIECE.—  Night    illumination    of   the    Ferry  Tower 
FUR    SEAL    IN    ALASKAN    WATERS  .          .          .          JEAN    RHODA 

Illustrated   from   photographs. 

GOLDEN    GATE    PARK 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 


119 


367 

38 

573 

327 


595 
201 

585 
23 


52 

582 

1-2-3 

105-106-107 
210-211-212 

314-315-316 
418-419-420 


521-522-523 
524 
225 


UARRY>     Story 


HAROLD  DE  POLO 


HOW  SIX  CALIFORNIA  TEACHERS  TRIED  TO 

THE    HIGH    COST   OF   LIVING 
HUNTING  ALLIGATORS  IN   PANAMA 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 


LINDA 


530 

568 


«1 


INDEX 


IDENTITY.       Verse  .         . 

INDEPENDENCE   DAYS  OF   LATIN-AMERICA  JOHN    L     COWAN 

Illustrated   from   photographs.  5 

I'NSURRECTO "PRISONERS  CAPTURED  BY  UNCLE  ELEANOR  DUNCAN  WOOD            390 

Illustrated   from  photograph?     '         '         '                 '  MARION    ETHEL   HAMILTON            432 
IN     THE     REALM     OF     BOOKLAND 
IN  THE  REALM  OF  BOOKLAND 

IN  THE  REALM  OF  BOOKLAND  307 

614 

Jim  VDAW,SON'S    RECITAL.     Story       .         ...  BENJAMIN    S.   KOTLOWSKY 

JULY.      Verse               .        . AGNES  LOCKHART  HUGHES             37 

KRUMRINE.      Story .  K.    S. 

gH4ShTsA  LIZZIE  PARK  FLEMING 

^qriTALlT*.       ktary        \        [  gfffcMffilSa                          2ft 

MADAME.      Story       .         .  MAPTAixr    TAvrrvR 

**   HUNDRE,D   MILLJON   A  YEAR       .         I  FELIX  J.   KOCH°R                                      492 
Illustrated  from  photograph. 

Verse'         \        \        \        \  FJ^SgS^**                       III 

-MISS  MARION."     Story A     C     SEELY 

MOUNT   TACOMA.      Verse  C    G 

"MOVIES"   ENCROACHING  ON   THE  STAGE  ROBERT  GRAU 

MURIEL-        Story                 WALTER    FREDERICK 

MV    £,lw'     °5NIA<      VePSe MARION  ETHEL  HAMILTON             313 

MY    MAN.      Verse       ........  ROBERTA  CROSBY                                  485 


NAVAJO    BLANKETS.      Verse 
NOT    FOR   TO-DAY.      Verse 

OUR    EXPECTANT    HOSTESS 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

PAINS  OF   HELL   EXPLAINED  TO   US 


PEACE,    VIA   THE    BABY.      Story 
PECULIAR   LIFE  OF  THE  ZYRIANS 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
POST    OMNI  A.      Verse 
"PICKLING"     TIMBER 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
PREHISTORIC    INDIAN     RUINS    FOUND 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
PRIMEVAL  ECHOES.     Verse 
PRIVILEGES  OF  THE  COLONEL.     Story 


RAINDROPS.       Verse 

REMARKABLE    GROTESQUE    INDIAN     MASKS 
FROM    VANCOUVER    ISLAND 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
RICE  GROWING  IN   HAWAII 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
RISUS  DEORUM.     Verse 

SAN    FRANCISCO.      Verse 

SEEKING,   I    FOUND.      Verse 
SELF-SUPPORTING    CHILDREN'S    HOME 
STEAKS    AND    PEARLS    FROM    THE    ABALONE 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

SUFFERINGS    OF    THE    OVERLAND    EMIGRANTS 
TO   CALIFORNIA    IN    '49  ... 

TAHITI— NIGHT.        Verse         .         .         . 

THANKSGIVING.       Verse 

THE   "AROLAS   WAY."      Verse 

THE    BARGAIN.      Verse 

THE    BATTLE   OF   ARMAGEDDON        .... 


THE    BLIND  SEARCH.      Verse       . 

"THE    BLOOD   OF   THE   TROPICS."      Story 

THE   BOW  OF  PROMISE.      Verse 

THE   CHARITY    BALL.      Verse        . 

THE    CLOUDS   AT   CARMEL.      Verse 

THE    COWARD.       Story  .... 

THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

THE    DOG    MARKET    AT    BAGUIO 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 
THE    DREAMERS 

Illustrated  from  photograph. 
THE    FEAR.      Verse  .  .    *_ 


MARION    ETHEL    HAMILTON  160 

ALICE  H.    CUNNINGHAM  335 

HELEN    LOCKWOGD    COFFIN  75 


C.  T.  RUSSELL  302 

Pastor  of  London  and 

Brooklyn   Tabernacles 

NELLIE  B.   IRETON  466 

BASIL  A.    IZHUROFF  278 

R.   R.    GREENWOOD  417 

ARTHUR   L.    DAHL  233 

E.   DANA  JOHNSON  549 

LANNIE  HAYNES  MARTIN  118 

JANE  DALZIEL  WOOD  553 

AGNES  LOCKHART  HUGHES  592 

LILLIAN  E.  ZEH  336 

MATILDA   VANCE  NEWMAN  486 

ALICE    MAYOR   EDWARDS  232 

MARY    CAROLYN    DA  VIES  295 

DOROTHY    GUNNELL  532 

MONROE    WOOLLEY  387 

C.   L.   EDHOLM  383 

VINTON  M.  PRATELLES  345 

HAROLD    MILLER  58 

MARY   GIBBONS   COOPER  368 

LEWIS   R.   FREEMAN  152 

VIRGINIA   CLEAVER  BACON  480 

C.   T.   RUSSELL  402 
Pastor  of  London  and 
Brooklyn    Tabernacles. 

C.  L.  SAXBY  354 
BLANCHE  HOWARD  WENNER         241 

CHARLES  H.  CHESLEY  301 

LANNIE  HAYNES  MARTIN  470 

LILLIAN  H.   S.   BAILEY  254 

FRED  B.   SMITH  505 

JOHN   WRIGHT   BUCKHAM  63 

EMMA  SAREPA  YULE  436 

STELLA  I.  CROWDER  607 

KATHARINE    BEARDSLEY  245 


INDEX 


AND 


Thl    FlRtTAMA?L°rROUTE    IN    CALIFORNIA 
DANA'S   RANCH        .. 

Illustrated  with  map  and  photographs. 

G™|A?  wmrk  T^NE,  'DAY'  o 

MISUNDERSTOOD 


THE     GUARDIAN,        Verse  .... 

THE  HEART  OF  PAT  MAGARITY.     Story  . 

THE    INDUSTRIAL   SIDE  OF  THE   ALIEN-LAND 
LAW   PROBLEM 

Illustrated  from 
THE    JUDGMENT. 

THE  LEAP  OF  THE  GRINGO.     Story 
THE  LOG  OF  THE  SAN  CARLOS  . 

Illustrated  from  painting. 

THE   LONG  FIGHT.     Story  

THE    MAN    IN    THE   TOWER.      Story 
THE    MULE    AS   A    "MOVIE"    OF   THE    WESTERN 
TRAILS  . 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

THE   NEW   YEAR.      Verse 

THE   ONE  WHO  WINKED.      Story       .... 
THE   OUTLAW   TRAIL.      Story  .... 

Illustrated  from  photograph. 
THE  PORTOLA  FESTIVAL:  SAN    FRANCISCO 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

THE  PRAIRIE  PANG.     Story 

THE   REVOLT  OF  ABNER   HOWLAND.      Story 
THE  ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  ARCHAEOLOGY 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 

THE   ROOF  OF  THE   CONTINENT       .... 
THE   RUBAIYAT  OF  A  LOVER.      Verse       . 

Illustrated   from   photographs. 
THE     SABBATH      DAY  


THE   SANTA   FE  TRAIL 

Illustrated  from  photograph 
THE    SEASONS.      Verse 


s. 


'erse 

WHEN  SILENCE  IS  GOLDEN.     Story 
THE  SONG  OF  THE  WESTERN  WATERS.    Verse 
THE    SPANISH    MISSIONS.      Verse 
THE    SPITE    VEST.       Story  .... 

THE  SPOT  ON   WHICH    MOSES  READ  THE  TEN 

COMMANDMENTS 
Illustrated  from  photographs. 
THE   SWORD   OF   LA   FITTE.      Verse 
THE  TRANSFORMATION    OF    HANA.      Story 
THE     TRUE     CHURCH 


"THE   WANDERING    HOME."      Verse 
THE    WHISPER    OF   THE    WIND.      Verse 
THROUGH    THE    MIST.      Story 
TO    R.    L.   S.      Verse  .... 

TORTOISESHELL    TOM.       Story 

UNCLE   JOHN'S  WILL.      Story 

WHEN   ACCOUNTS  ARE    BALLANCED.     Story 

WHEN    A    MAN    KNOWS   HIS   OWN.      Story       . 

WHEN    DADDY    COMES.      Verse 

WINTER    FOLK'S   SONG.      Verse 

WITH    INTENT  TO  KILL.      Story 

WITH    THE   THEOSOPHISTS  AT   POINA   LOMA 

YERBA    BUENA    ISLAND    NAVAL    TRAINING 
STATION 

Illustrated   from  photographs. 
YUMA,   THE    HOTTEST   PLACE    IN    AMERICA 

Illustrated  from  photographs. 


RAY  McINTYRE  KING  350 

W.   J.   HANDY  181 

FREDERICK   HEWITT  471 

C.   T.   RUSSELL  97 

Pastor  of  Brooklyn 

and  London  Tabernacles. 

C.    L.    SAXBY  32 

ARDELLA   Z.    STEWART  268 

PERCY   L.   EDWARDS  190 

KATHARINE  H.    STILWELL  145 

CRITTENDEN    MARRIOTT  475 

MARCO  GARCEAU  603 

ALFRED  HOWE  DAVIS  154 

JOHN   HOWLAND  238 

JAMES  DAVIS  109 

MARION  TAYLOR  613 

W.    GERRARE  137 

EDWIN  L.   SABIN  88 

THORNLY   HOOKE  525 

ONEY   FRED    SWEET  259 

IRENE  ELLIOTT  BENSON  395 

ARTHUR    CHAPMAN  213 

F.    S.    SANBORN  17 

MARION  ETHEL  HAMILTON  581 

C.    T.    RUSSELL  512 

Pastor  of  London  and 

Brooklyn  Tabernacles 

JOHN    L.    COWAN  317 

LILYAN  H.  LAKE  209 

ELIZABETH  VORE  355 
HERBERT    BENJAMIN    PEIRCE      224 

ROSE  TRUMBULL  459 

MILDRED  LUDLUM  361 

276 

ELEANOR   DUNCAN   WOOD  275 
AGNES  LOCKHART  HUGHES           373 

C.   T.  RUSSELL  610 
Pastor  of  Brooklyn  and 
London  Tabernacles 

LUCY    BETTY    McRAYE  168 

AL.    H.    MARTIN  44 

CATHERINE   ADAIR  255 

R.   R.   GREENWOOD  602 

R.  F.   O'NEAL  263 

IRENE    ELLIOTT    BENSON  161 

ELIZABETH   VORE  298 

REBECCA   MOORE  453 

ALICE  H.  CUNNINGHAM  567 

HARRY    COWELL  401 

DEWEY   AUSTIN    COBB  45 

FELIX  J.  KOCH  340 


FRED  A.   HUNT  65 

FELIX   J.   KOCH  287 


Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


An  impromptu  dance  with 
a  Victor- Victrola 


Take  a  Victrola  with  you 
when  you  go  away  this  summer 

Whether  you  go  to  the  country,  mountains,  or  sea- 
shore for  the  summer,  or  just  camp  out  for  a  week  or  so, 
you'll  be  glad  of  the  companionship  of  the  Victrola. 

This  wonderful  instrument  enables  )ou  to  take  with  you 
wherever  you  go  the  most  celebrated  bands,  the  greatest  opera 
artists,  the  most  famous  instrumentalists,  and  the  cleverest 
comedians — to  play  and  sing  for  you  at  your  leisure,  to  provide 
music  for  your  dances,  to  make  your  vacation  thoroughly  enjoyable. 

And  even  if  you  don't  go  away,  a  Victrola  will  entertain  you 
and  give  you  a  delightful  "vacation"  righrat  home. 

There  are  Victors  and  Victrolas  in  great  variety  of  styles  from  $10  to  $500 

Any  Victor  dealer  in  any  city  in  the  world 
will  gladly  play  your  favorite  music  and  demonstrate 
the  Victrola  to  you. 

Victor  Talking  Machine  Co.,  Camden,  N.  J.,  U.  S.  A. 


Always  use  Victor  Machines  with  Victor  Records  and  Victor  Needles— 
the  combination.    There  is  no  other  way  to  get  the  unequaled  Victor  tone. 


Berliner  Gramophone  Co.,  Montreal,  Canadian  Distributors 


Victor  Steel  Needles,  5  cents  per  100 

Victor  Fibre  Needles,  50  cents  per  100  (can  be  repointed  and  used  eight  times) 
New  Victor  Records  are  on  sale  at  all  dealers  on  the  28th  of  each  month 


HIS  MASTERS  VOICE 


VoL  LXII  No.  1 

OVERLAND     MONTHLY 

An  Illustrated  Magazine  of  the   West 


CONTENTS     FOR    JULY,     1913 


story .         MARIAN    TAYLOR 


FRONTISPIECES— Scenes   Along    El    Camino    Real 
INDEPENDENCE   DAYS  OF    LATIN -AM  ERICA 
Illustrated    from    photographs. 

HOMESICK.       Verse 

THE    ROOF  OF  THE   CONTINENT       . 

Illustrated    from    photographs. 
FLASHLIGHTS    IN    AN    ASIATIC    STEERAGE 

Illustrated    from    photographs. 
THE     GUARDIAN,        Verse 
MADAME. 
JULY.      Verse 

DE     PROFUNDIS.       Story 

THE    WHISPER    OF    THE    WIND.      Verse 
WITH    INTENT  TO  KILL.      Story 

FORECASTS.        Verse  ' 

A    WHIFF    FROM    THE    PIT.       Story 
TAHITI— NIGHT.       Verse  ] 

MURIEL.        Story  ] 

HER    MINIATURE— 1778.       Verse  ! 

THE    DELECTABLE    MOUNTAINS 

YERBA    BUENA    ISLAND    NAVAL    TRAINING 

STATION 

Illustrated    from    photographs. 
OUR    EXPECTANT    HOSTESS        .... 

Illustrated   from   photographs. 
THE    OUTLAW   TRAIL.      Story 
Illustrated   from  photograph. 
THE  GREAT  WHITE  THRONE;   DAY  OF  JUDGMENT 


JOHN    L.    COWAN 

KATHERINE    E.     OLIVER 
F.    S.    SANBORN 

LEWIS    R.    FREEMAN 
C.    L.    SAXBY 


HUGHES 
GENEVIEVE    COONEY 
AL.    H.    MARTIN 
DEWEY   AUSTIN    COBB 
STOKELY    S.    FISHER 
ISAAC   MOTES 
HAROLD    MILLER 
WALTER    FREDERICK 
LUCY  BETTY  McRAYE 
JOHN    WRIGHT    BUCKHAM 

FRED  A.   HUNT 

HELEN    LOCK  WOOD    COFFIN 

EDWIN   L.    SABIN 


MISUNDERSTOOD 


IN     THE     REALM     OF     BOOKLAND 


C.    T.    RUSSELL 

Pastor  of  Brooklyn 

and  London   Tabernacles. 


Manuscripts  should  never  be  rolled 


zzzz 


16 
17 

23 

32 
33 

37 
38 
44 
45 

53 
58 
59 
62 
63 

65 
75 

88 


'or  the   preservation   of  unso- 


by  th.  OVERLAND  MONTHLY  COMPANY';  •SrS!^"SB£Sff 

"    SUTTER    STREET. 


Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


Ill 


f 


*"*« 


You're  "The  Picture  Of  Coolness"  In  B.  V.  D. 

TRIFLES  don't  nag  you — heat  doesn't  fag  you  in  Loose  Fitting,   Light 
Woven  B.  V.  D.     You're  not  chafed  and  confined,  as  in  tight  fitting 
underwear.     You  joy  in  the  feeling  of  muscle-freedom,  as  well  as  in  the 
coolness  of  B.  V.  D.  Coat  Cut  Undershirts  and  Knee  Length  Drawers,  or 
Union    Suits.     Comfort   and    common    sense    say    "B.  V.   D." 

To  get  genuine  B.  V.  D.  get  a  good  look  at  the  label. 
On    every   B.  V.   D.    Undergarment    is    sewed 
This  Red  Woven  label 


B.YD. 


(Trade  Mark  RtS    U.  8,  Pat.  Off.  and 
Foreign  Countries. ) 

Insist  that  your  dealer  sells  you 
only  underwear  with  the  B.  V.  D. 
label. 

I  B.V.D.  Coat  Cut  Undershirts  and 
]  Knee  length  Drawers,  50c.,  75c., 
1  $1.00  and  $1.50  the  Garment. 

B.  V.  D.  Union  Suits  (Pat.  U.S.A., 

4-30-07.)  $1.00,  $1.50,  $2.00, 
$3.00  and  $5.00  the  Suit. 

T/ieE.V.  D.  Company, 

New  York. 

Ion  don  Selling  Agency: 
66  ALDERMANBURY,  E.  C. 

Copy  rights  U.&A  •  I 9J3  by 
The   B.V.D.  Company." 


Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


Wonderful  Automatic 


Sews  Leather 

Quick! 


MYERS 

Famous  Lock  Stitch 
SEWING  AWL         ȣn. 

IS  the  original  and  only  one  of  its  kind  ever  invented,  ,   ""      . 

It  is  designed  for  speedy  stitching,  to  be  used  by  all  classes,  the  inexperienced  as  well 
as  the  mechanic.  Its  simplicity  makes  it  a  practical  tool  for  all  kinds  of  repair  work, 
even  in  the  hands  of  the  most  unskilled.  With  this  tool  you  can  mend  harness,  shoes, 
tents,  awnings,  pulley-belts,  carpets,  saddles,  buggy-tops,  suitcases,  dashboards  or  any 
heavy  material  You  can  sew  up  wire  cuts  on  horses  and  cattle,  therefore  the  veterin- 
arian and  stockman  find  it  indispensable.  The  patent  needle  is  diamond  point  and 
will  cut  through  the  thickest  of  leather.  It  has  a  groove  to  contain  the 
thread,  running  the  full  length  through  the  shank,  overcoming  any  danger  of 
cutting  off  the  thread  when  sewing  heavy  material. 

The  reel  carrying  the  waxed  thread  is  in  a  most  convenient  position  under  the  fingers'  ends,  so 
that  the  tension  can  be  controlled  at  will  by  a  simple  movement  of  the  fingers  on  the  reel  and  the 
thread  can  be  taken  up  or  let  out  as  desired.  This  feature  is  very  essential  m  a  device  ol  this 
kind.  These  are  exclusive  features:  Convenient  to  carry— Always  ready  to  mend  a  rip  or  tear 
in  any  emergency— Tools  in  the  hollow  of  the  handle— Assorted  needles— A  supply  ot  w 
thread— Wrench  aud  screw-driver  combined.  Complete  with  instructions,  for  ^K 


Though  it  is  not  necessary,  a  holder  for  the 
leather  sometimes  speeds  the  work.  One  can 
easily  be  made  by  sawing  a  barrel  stave  in 
two — a  bolt  and  thumb  screw  inserted  near 
the •".  center,  and  the  lower  ends  hinged 
to  suitable  piece  of  wood. 


Illustration  shows  the  proper  way  to  start 
sewing  with  the  Myers  Lock  Stitch  Sewing 
Awl.  Note  that  the  thread  is  shortened  to  go 
clear  through.  The  forefinger  must  hold  thread 
spool  from  turning,  until  needle  has  carried 
shortened  thread  entirely  through  leather.  r 


Prices  of  Awl  and  Supplies  Postpaid 

Sewing   Awl   Complete,   ready   for  use           -           -           -          -           $1.OO 

Needles,  extra  assorted          -      .     -  each  lOc,  per  dozen       .75 

Thread,  25-yard  skeins,  waxed  each  lOc,  per  dozen    l.OO 

Reels,  with  thread,  waxed  each  15c,  per  dozen    1.5O 

SPECIAL    FREE    OFFER! 

OVERLAND    MONTHLY,    21  Sutler  Street,  San  Francisco,  Gal. 

Please  send  MYERS  FAMOUS  LOCK  STITCH    AWL  and  OVERLAND 
MONTHLY  for  ONE  year  to  the  following  address  for  $2  enclosed. 

Name ____^__ 

Street 


City. 


State. 


Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


THE 

Paul  Gerson 

DRAMATIC  SCHOOL 

Incorporated  Under  the  Laws  of  the  State  of  California 

The  Largest  Training  School  of  Acting 

in  America. 

The  Only  Dramatic  School  on  the  Pacific  Coast 
TENTH  YEAR 

Elocution,  Oratory, 
Dramatic  Art 

Advantages: 

Professional  Experience  While  Studying 
Positions  Secured  for  Graduates 
Six  Months  Graduating  Course 

Students  Can  Enter  Any  Time 

Arrangements   can   be   made   with  Mr.  Gerson  for 
Amateur  and  Professional  Coaching 

Paul  Gerson  Dramatic  School   Building 

MCALLISTER  and  HYDE  STREETS 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL. 
Write  for  Catalogue 


Manzanita  Hall 


PALO  ALTO,  CAL. 

Makes  a  specialty  of  preparing  boys  and  young 
men  for  entrance  to  the  universities.  The  loca- 
tion adjacent  to  Stanford  University  and  to  Palo 
Alto,  a  town  of  remarkable  culture,  makes  pos- 
sible a  schoo1  life  of  unusual  advantages  and 
opportunities. 

W.  A.  SHEDD,  Head  Master 


Miss   Barker's    School 

Home  and  Day  School  for  Girls. 

College  Preparatory,  Intermediate  and 
Primary  Departments.          Accredited 

Ideal  location,  new  buildings. 
Catalogue    upon    Application 


PALO  ALTO 


CALIFORNIA 


BEST  FOR 


BABY5  BATH 


CUTICURA 
SOAP 

It  tends  to  keep  baby's  skin 
clear  and  healthy,  prevents 
minor  eruptions,  and  estab- 
lishes a  permanent  condi- 
tion of  skin  and  hair  health. 
Assisted  by  Cuticura  Oint- 
ment it  is  unrivaled  in  the 
treatment  of  eczemas,  rashes 
and  other  itching,  burning 
infantile  eruptions  so  often 
the  cause  of  baby's  fretful- 
ness  and  sleeplessness. 

Cuticura  Soap  and  Ointment  are  sold  every- 
where.  For  sample  of  each,  with  32-p.  book, 
free,  address  "Cuticura,"  Dept.  133,  Boston. 

TENDER-FACED  MEN 

Should  shave  with  Cuticura  Soap  Shaving 
Stick.  Makes  shaving  a  pleasure  Instead 
of  a  torture.  At  stores  or  by  mail,  25c. 


vi 


Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


Safe  as  a  Government  Bond- 
Rich  as  a  Mint 


"Few  large  fortunes  can  now  be  made  In  any 
part  of  the  world,  except  from  one  source — the 
rise  in  value  of  real  estate.  The  wise  young 
man  or  wage-earner  of  to-day  Invests  his 
money  in  suburban  real  estate."— Andrew 
Carnegie. 


"No  Investment  on  earth  Is  so  safe,  so  sure, 
so  certain  to  enrich  Its  owner  as  undeveloped 
realty.  I  always  advise  my  friends  to  place 
their  savings  near  some  growing  city.  There 
is  no  such  savings  bank  anywhere." — Grover 
Cleveland. 


AN    EXTRAORDINARY    OFFER 

Choice  Building  Lots  at  $79.00  Each 

$1.00  Down  and  $1.00  per  Month 

Read  above  what  Andrew  Carnegie  and  Grover  Cleveland  say 
of  real  estate  as  an  investment.  Then,  if  you  want  to  make 
your  money  work  for  you,  write  to  us  today. 

The  wonderful  Increase  of  values  on  Long  Island  is  one  of  the  marvels 'of  latter-day  history. 
In  scores  of  towns  property  has  increased  not  only  50  per  cent,  100  per  cent,  but  in  many  cases 
1000  per  cent.  Lots  that  sometime  since  could  have  been  bought  for  a  song  are  to-day  worth 
thousands  of  dollars.  A  few  years  ago,  some  school  teachers  bought  lots  in  Hempstead,  Long 
Island,  at  fifteen  dollars  each;  to-day  the  lots  sell  for  six  hundred  dollars  apiece.  Eighteen 
months  ago,  a  physician  bought  two  lots  at  Long  Beach,  at  ninety  dollars  each;  last  month  he 
sold  them  for  a  thousand  dollars  apiece.  These  are  only  two  out  of  thousands  of  similar  in- 
stances. 

Out  of  the  sweltering,  crowded  city  of  New  York  thronging  thousands  are  pouring  into  the 
suburban  towns  and  cities  of  Long  Island.  Hundreds  of  millions  of  dollars  are  being  expended 
by  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad  alone,  for  its  development.  Tremendous  engineering  works — 
tunnels,  bridges,  railroads,  electric  roads — are  under  way,  involving  more  money  than  the  Pan- 
ama Canal.  What  the  bridge  did  for  Brooklyn,  what  the  subway  did  for  the  Bronx — multiply- 
ing values  enormously  almost  overnight— these  gigantic  transportation  schemes  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania Railroad  will  do  for  Lung  Island.  It  will  furnish  the  fastest,  finest  and  the  most  com- 
fortable rapid  transit  in  the  world. 

We  are  offering  for  sale  at  remarkably  low  figures  choice  building  lots  located  at  Oak  Ridge 
Park,  near  East  Moriches,  the  world-famous  summer  resort,  on  the  Pennsylvania  Long  Island 
Railroad.  Every  foot  of  ground  is  high,  dry,  fertile  and  healthful.  The  property  is  only  seven 
minutes'  walk  to  the  station  and  twelve  minutes'  walk  to  the  Great  South  Bay,  with  its  glorious 
facilities  for  still  water  and  ocean  tishing,  swimming  and  boating.  For  a  summer  home  or  bun- 
galow, for  small  fruit  or  poultry  raising,  or  to  hold  as  an  investment,  these  lots  at  our  prices 
cannot  be  surpassed.  The  title  to  the  property  is  insured  by  the  United  States  Title  and 
Guarantee  Company  of  New  York  City. 

Our  present  price,  subject  to  increase  at  any  moment  is   $79.00   for  a  city     lot,     20x100 
feet.     This  can  be  paid  at  the  rate  of  $1.00  down  and  $1.00  per  month  until  paid  for.  We       •  *' 
sell  as  little  as  one  lot,  but  we  would  advise  that  you  buy  three,  five  or  as  many  more  up     '  •'  *>M- 
to  ten  as  you  feel  that  you  can  afford.    To  keep  the  property  from  being  snatched  up       •'       IJul:y 
by  real  estate  dealers,  we  will  not  sell  more  than  ten  lots  to  any  one  customer.          ^.••'   L  o  n  g 

BUY  NOW.     Begin  TO-DAY  to  provide  for  your   future   and   that     of     your    $\     !,?lJLnd 
family.    Get  into  the  land-owning  class  and  break  away  from  the  tyranny  of    CP      2°u!;h   Shore 
landlords.  Values  are  increasing  by  leaps  and  bounds.     If  you  buy  five  lots    .   °    -  JS5J&  7°' 
now,  you  ought  before  long  to  sell  any  one  of  them  at  what  you  paid  to-     <f*    .    156  Fifth  Ave., 
day  for  the  five.    DO   NOT  WAIT  until   the  gigantic  improvements  on    *?. «.New  York: 
Long  Island  now  in  progress  are  completed;  until   prices   climb   enor-      o*~     Please  send  without 
mously;  until  the  lot  that  you  can  buy  to-day  at  $79  00  is  selling  at     ,£>       cost      or      obligation 
$300.00  or  more.    Make  sure  of  reaping  that  profit  vourself  bv  art-         ^      to  me»     vour     beauti- 
ing  NOW.     Fill  out  this  coupon  and  fend  L^dly  for   our    beau-     <<C       fullv  Illustrated  booklet 
tifully  illustrated  booklet,  FREE  <&     bearing  on  your  offering  of 

<T       Long   Island   Real   Estate. 

The  Long  Island  South  Shore  Realty  Co. 

Presbyterian  Building,  156  Fifth  Ave  ,  New  York  City 


Name 


Address 


Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


Over  a  Million  and  a  Half 
Gallons  of 


The  Standard  Oil  for  Motor  Cars 

were  used  last  year  in  lubri- 
cating motor  cars  and  motor 
boats.  ZEROLENE  has 
won  this  popularity  on  its 
[  merits — perfect  lubrication. 


Dealers  everywhere 

-      Standard  Oil  Company 

(California) 
San  Francisco 


viii  Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 

GOLDEN    STATE 
LIMITED 

Via  El  Paso 

— =   Through   Daily   Service  ===== 

Between  San  Francisco,  Los  Angeles,  St.  Louis, 
Kansas    City  and    Chicago 

From  San  Francisco,  Third  St.  Station,  4:00  p.  m. 

Electric-Lighted  Equipment  of  highest  standard.  Drawing- 
rooms,  Compartments,  Sections  and  Berths.  Observation 
Clubroom  Car  containing  Ladies1  Parlor,  Library, 
Magazines,  Writing  Desks  and  Stationery.  Stock  and 
News  Reports  by  Telegraph.  Valet  Service.  Dining 
Car  Service  Unexcelled.  Only  First-Class  Tickets  Honored. 

THE    CALIFORNIAN 

Standard  Pullman  connection  and  through  Tourist 
Sleeper  from  San  Francisco.  Through  Pullman 
and  Tourist  Sleepers  and  Reclining  Chair  Cars 
from  Los  Angeles.  Dining  Car.  All  Classes 
of  Tickets  Honored. 

Southern   Pacific 

SAN  FRANCISCO:      Flood  Building,  Palace  Hotel,  Ferry  Station.      Phone  Kearny  3160 
Third  and  Townsend  Streets  Station.     Phone  Kearny  180 

OAKLAND:     Broadway  and  Thirteenth  St.    Phone  Oakland  162 
Sixteenth  Street  Station.    Phone  Lakeside  1420 


Old  Mission  bells  that  greeted  the  early  California  mail  carrier  along  his  route. 

1 


f 


Tourists  motoring  along  El  Camino  Real,  the  old  post  road  used  by  the 
early  California  pony  mail  carriers, 


I 


Statue  of  San  Martin  at  Boulogne,  France. 


JJL 


OVERLAND 


Founded  1868 


£fc 

MONTHLY 


BRET  HARTE 


VOL.  LXII 


San  Francisco,  July,  1913 


No.  1 


Jean  Jacques  Dessalienes 


Independence 
Days 

of 

Latin- 
America 

By  John   L.  Cowan 

Photos  Courtesy  Pan-American  Union 


WHEN  EACH  recurring  Fourth 
of  July  is  celebrated  with 
fireworks,  parades,  picnics, 
spreadeagle  oratory  and  the 
singing  .  of  patriotic  songs,  probably 
few  citizens  of  the  United  States  stop 
to  reflect  that  there  are  twenty  other 
American  republics,  each  one  of  which 
has  its  national  birthday,  and  nearly 
every  one  of  which  celebrates  that 
birthday  with  an  enthusiasm  quite 
equal  to  our  own.  From  our  own  point 
of  view,  independence  has  proven,  to 
the  Latin- American  republics,  a  doubt- 
ful blessing,  at  best.  Nevertheless, 
there  are  many  reasons  for  the  hope 


that  the  reign  of  militarism  in  the 
larger  nations  is  over;  and  that  they 
will  henceforth  play  a  more  significant 
role  in  the  affairs  of  the  world  than 
they  have  ever  done  in  the  past. 

With  the  completion  of  the  Panama 
Canal,  the  nations  of  Central  America 
and  northern  South  America  will  find 
themselves  situated  close  to  the 
world's  greatest  commercial  highway. 
It  is  not  conceivable  that  they  will  fail 
to  be  drawn  into  the  swift  current  of 
modern  progress.  At  the  present  time 
the  Spanish  and  Portuguese  languages, 
French  literature  and  ideas,  British 
capital  and  German  commerce  domi- 


Simon  Bolivar 


Jose  de  San  Martin 


nate  the  nations  to  the  south.  If 
Americans  will  fully  use  the  opportu- 
nities that  the  Panama  Canal  will  open 
to  them,  with  the  advantages -afforded 
by  geographical  proximity  and  politi- 
cal sympathy,  this  country  will  in  the 
future  exercise  a  much  greater  influ- 
ence with  the  Latin-American  nations 
and  enjoy  a  much  greater  share  of 
their  trade,  than  ever  heretofore. 

Far-seeing  statesmen  of  our  own 
country  have  long  seen  the  desirability 
of  the  establishment  of  closer  rela- 
tions between  this  country  and  the  neg- 
lected nations  to  the  south,  knowing 
that  those  nations  now  constitute  the 
world's  most  promising  field  for  com- 
mercial and  industrial  exploitation.  It 
was  for  the  promotion  of  a  better  un- 
derstanding, and  the  development  of 
friendly  intercourse,  that  the  Bureau 
of  American  Republics  (now  known 
as  the  Pan-American  Union)  was 
formed.  It  has  already  accomplished 
notable  results  in  the  way  of  arousing 
interest  in  the  United  States  concern- 
ing the  natural  resources,  productions, 
geography  and  history  of  the  Latin- 


American  republics,  and  the  institu- 
tions and  aspirations  of  their  peoples. 
The  independence  of  Spain's  South 
American  colonies,  from  the  Isthmus 
to  Cape  Horn,  was  achieved  largely 
through  the  military  genius  of  Simon 
Bolivar,  the  "Washington  of  South 
America,"  and  Jose  de  San  Martin, 
the  national  hero  of  Argentina,  as- 
sisted, of  course,  by  several  able  subor- 
dinates, among  whom  General  Jose 
Antonio  Sucre,  of  Colombia,  ranks 
first.  -Both  belonged  to  old  and  dis- 
tinguished families  of  Spanish  de- 
scent, both  were  educated  in  Spain  and 
served  with  credit  in  the  Spanish  army, 
and  both  made  haste  to  join  the  cause 
of  the  patriots  when  the  colonies  be- 
gan their  struggle  for  liberty.  How- 
ever, in  character  and  temperament 
they  were  very  different.  Bolivar  was 
self-seeking,  ambitious,  headstrong,, 
reckless  and  impulsive.  San  Martin 
was  silent,  unassuming,  self-sacrific- 
ing, cautious,  and  devoted  wholly  to 
the  interests  of  his  country.  Bolivar, 
in  consequence  of  his  recklessness, 
suffered  many  defeats;  but  San  Mar- 


Jose  Bonifacio 


Benito  Juarez 


tin  met  with  but  one  reverse   in  his 
whole  military  career. 

The  causes  that  led  the  colonies  to 
resort  to  arms  were  various  and  some- 
what complicated.  The  inhabitants 
might  be  designated  as  Indians,  Cre- 
oles and  Spaniards.  It  was  from  the 
ranks  of  the  Creoles  that  the  revolu- 
tion was  started  and  sustained.  They 
were  largely  of  mixed  Spanish  and 
native  descent,  although  many  were 
pure  Spaniards,  born  on  the  soil,  and 
therefore  colonial  in  their  interests 
and  sympathies.  The  Spaniards  (or 
rather  the  pro-Spanish  party)  included 
the  host  of  office  holders  and  para- 
sites, the  army,  and  new  arrivals  from 
Spain — men  whose  interests  were 
identified  with  the  mother  country, 
and  who  had  nothing  to  gain  and 
something  to  lose  by  a  disturbance  of 
the  old  order.  In  most  of  the  colonies, 
the  Indians  took  but  little  interest  in 
the  revolution ;  and  \vhen  they  did  take 


a  hand  they  were  quite  as  likely  to 
fight  for  Spain  as  for  independence. 

The  discontent  of  the  Creoles  arose 
from  Spain's  traditional  policy  of 
treating  the  colonies  as  the  personal 
estate  of  the  Crown.  That  the  colon- 
ists had  any  rights ;  that  they  were  en- 
titled to  the  privilege  of  developing 
the  natural  resources  of  the  country, 
establishing  industries  and  engaging 
in  trade  and  commerce,  were  proposi- 
tions that  would  have  constituted  lese 
majeste  had  any  one  been  so  bold  as 
to  affirm  them.  Gold  and  silver  were 
the  only  colonial  products  that  were 
wanted- in  Spain;  and  trade  and  com- 
merce were  so  hampered  that  imported 
goods  were  obtainable  only  at  fabu- 
lous prices,  and  the  profitable  export 
of  hides,  wool,  furs  and  agricultural 
products  was  impossible,  except  by 
smuggling.  Every  seaport  of  Spanish 
South  America,  with  the  single  excep- 
tion of  Nombre  de  Dios,  on  the  Isth- 


Government  House,  Guatemala. 


mus  of  Panama,  was  closed  as  abso- 
lutely as  laws  and  the  fear  of  punish- 
ment could  close  them  to  trans-oceanic 
commerce,  and  ports  on  the  Atlantic 
were  even  closed  to  coasting  vessels. 
If  a  merchant  of  Buenos  Aires,  for  ex- 
ample, wanted  goods  from  Spain,  they 
must  be  shipped  to  Nombre  de  Dios, 
packed  by  mules  across  the  Isthmus, 
taken  in  coasting  vessels  to  Callao, 
carried  up  the  rocky  passes  of  the  An- 
des, and  across  the  plateau  of  Bolivia, 
and  finally  conveyed  over  the  Argen- 
tine plain  to  the  estuary  of  the  Plata. 
The  merchants  who  took,  the  cheaper 
way  of  trading  wool,  hides  and  other 
products  for  goods  carried  by  British 
and  Dutch  vessels,  engaged  in  the 
smuggling  trade,  did  so  in  peril  of 
their  lives  and  the  forfeiture  of  their 
'  property. 

That  this  repressive  policy  was  en- 
dured by  the  colonies  for  more  than 
two  centuries  is  one  of  the  wonders 
of  history.  It  indicates  how  amazing 
must  have  been  the  patience  of  the 
colonists,  or  how  overwhelming  must 
have  been  the  power  of  the  Crown. 

In  Argentina,  which  suffered  the 
worst  from  Spain's  colonial  policy  and 
the  rapacity  of  Cadiz  monopolists  to 
whom  the  Crown  farmed  out  the  traf- 


fic of  the  New  World,  a  special  cause 
for  revolt  was  supplied  by  the  British 
invasion  of  1806.  The  Napoleonic 
wars,  when  the  great  Corsican  threat- 
ened to  permanently  close  the  ports 
of  the  continent  of  Europe  to  British 
vessels,  led  the  statesmen  of  England 
to  seek  new  markets  by  the  easy  way 
of  colonial  expansion.  Cape  Colony 
was  taken  in  1805,  and  it  was  antici- 
pated that  Southern  South  America 
would  fall  as  easy  a  prey.  In  1806  a 
British  fleet  appeared  in  the  Plata 
River,  commanded  by  Admiral  Pop- 
ham,  and  troops  led  by  General  Beres- 
ford  attempted  to  take  Buenos  Aires. 
The  British  were  routed,  and  several 
flags  taken  by  the  Argentines  on  that 
occasion  are  proudly  exhibited  in 
Buenos  Aires  to  this  day.  It  is  said 
that  a  few  years  ago  Argentina  offered, 
as  an  act  of  amity  and  courtesy,  to  re- 
turn those  flags  to  the  British  govern- 
ment. The  curt  and  characteristic  an- 
swer was  returned  (or  at  least  so  runs 
the  tale)  that  when  Great  Britain 
wanted  those  flags  she  would  take 
them! 

Reinforcements  arrived  from  Eng- 
land the  next  year,  and  Montevideo 
was  taken.  Then  on  July  5th,  Buenos 
Aires  was  attacked.  The  invaders  sue- 


National  Theatre,  Guatemala. 


ceeded  in  entering  the  city,  and  then 
found  to  their  dismay  that  they  could 
not  get  out  again.  The  flat-roofed 
adobe  houses  gave  the  citizens  van- 
tage points,  from  which  they  could  as- 
sail the  British  with  little  danger  to 
themselves.  After  two  days  of  fight- 
ing the  invaders  were  so  anxious  to 
escape  that  they  agreed  to  evacuate 
Montevideo  also  within  two  months,  .if 
permitted  to  withdraw  their  battered 
remnants  from  Buenos  Aires. 

Thus  the  Argentines  learned  their 
ability  to  take  care  of  themselves,  and 
the  necessity  of  doing  so.  The  Cre- 
oles in  particular  began  to  ask  why 
the  colonies  should  remain  dependent 
upon  the  monarchy  that  afforded  them 
no  protection  against  foreign  aggres- 
sion, and  that  used  its  power  only  to 
oppress. 

But' the  British  invasion  taught  still 
another  lesson.  In  the  wake  of  the 
British  warships  followed  a  fleet  of 
British  merchantmen.  For  the  first 
time  in  the  history  of  any  Spanish  col- 
ony, Buenos  Aires  enjoyed  free  and 
unrestricted  commerce  with  the  world. 
It  was  a  taste  of  liberty  that  could  not 
be  unproductive  of  results. 

But  the  immediate  occasion  of  the 
first  irrevocable  step  that  ultimately 
led  to  independence  was  the  abdication 
of  Charles  IV  of  Spain,  the  expulsion 


and  imprisonment  in  France  of  his 
son,  Ferdinand  VII,  and  the  elevation 
by  Napoleon  of  his  brother,  Joseph 
Bonaparte,  to  the  throne  of  Castile  and 
Leon.  Provisional  governments  were 
formed  in -many  cities  of  Spain  to  re- 
sist French  aggression,  and  the  junta 
of  Seville  claimed  authority  over  the 
colonies.  It  was  evident  that  the 
juntas  of  the  mother  country  had  all 
they  could  do,  and  more,  to  take  care 
of  themselves,  and  there  was  no  con- 
ceivable advantage,  either  to  the  colo- 
nies or  to  the  imperiled  monarchy  in 
this  attempted  usurpation  of  power  by 
the  junta  of  Seville,  which  had  not 
the  shadow  of  legal  authority,  and  was 
brought  into  existence  only  by  the 
exigencies  of  war.  So,  while  the  pro- 
Spanish  party  (then  for  the  first  time 
dominated  the  "Goths")  favored  rec- 
ognition of  the  supremacy  of  the  junta 
of  Seville,  the  Creoles  (or  Argentines) 
refused  to  do  so.  On  May  10,  1810, 
an  armed  assembly  met  in  the  plaza 
of  Buenos  Aires  and  named  a  junta  de 
gobierno,  which  assumed  authority 
over  all  the  provinces  of  'the  vice- 
royalty.  That  date  is  now  celebrated 
as  the  natal  day  of  the  Argentine 
nation,  although  at  the  time  it  was  the 
intention  of  the  colonists  to  take  care 
of  themselves  during  the  incapacity 
of  the  monarchy,  by  preserving  law 


10 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


Monument  to  Garcia  Granados, 
Guatemala. 

and  order,  and  resisting  possible 
French  aggression,  rather  than  to 
strive  for  separation  from  Spain.  The 
acts  of  the  new  government  ran  in  the 
rame  of  Ferdinand  VII,  King  of  Cas- 
tile and  Leon,  and  the  word  "independ- 
ence" had  not  yet  been  whispered. 

But  the  junta  of  Seville  saw  fit  to 
regard  the  formation  of  a  junta  by  the 
Argentines  as  treason,  and  war  fol- 
lowed at  once — the  "Goths"  resisting 
every  move  made  by  the  Argentines. 
No  formal  declaration  of  independ- 
ence was  made  until  July  9,  1816,  when 
a  congress,  assembled  at  Tucuman, 
took  that  action.  Even  then  it  was 
only  a  "bluff."  Successive  reverses 
had  driven  the  Argentines  to  the  last 
ditch.  Ferdinand  had  been  restored 
to  the  throne  of  his  fathers,  and  ten 
thousand  veterans  of  the  peninsular 
wars,  commanded  by  Marshall  Morillo, 


Spain's  greatest  general,  had  arrived 
in  Venezuela.  Commissioners  were 
sent  to  Madrid,  authorized  to  agree  to 
the  submission  of  the  colonists,  if 
local  self-government  or  .representation 
in' the  Cortez  were  granted  them.  The 
commissioners  were  ordered  from  the 
capital,  and  told  that  no  terms  would 
be  considered  but  unqualified  submis- 
sion. One  party  in  Buenos  Aires 
wanted  a  descendant  of  the  Incas  made 
Emperor  of  all  South  America.  An- 
other proposed  to  ask  Great  Britain  to 
establish  a  protectorate;  and  still  an- 
other wished  to  elect  a  prince  of  the 
Braganza  dynasty  (reigning  in  Brazil) 
to  rule  over  another  Portuguese  Em- 
pire. The  declaration  of  independence 
was  adopted  in  the  hope  that  it  would 
either  frighten  the  King  and  his  ad- 
visors into  a  compromise  with  the  colo- 
nies, or  clear  the  way  for  negotiations 
with  Great  Britain  or  some  other  for- 
eign power. 

The  little  adobe  building  in  Tucu- 
man in  which  the  declaration  of  inde- 
pendence was  adopted  is  regarded  as 
the  cradle  of  Argentine  liberties.  A 
later  president  of  the  Republic,  Gen- 
eral Boca,  had  it  enclosed  in  a  larger 
structure  of  steel  and  concrete,  that 
the  "Independence  Hall"  of  the  nation, 
with  its  historic  desk  and  other  fur- 
niture, might  be  preserved  from  dilapi- 
dation and  decay. 

In  January,  1817,  General  San  Mar- 
tin, who  had  been  drilling  and  recruit- 
ing his  army  and  accumulating  muni- 
tions of  war,  all  through  the  time 
when  the  various  factions  in  Buenos 
Aires  had  been  talking,  started  across 
the  Andes.  February  12th  he  defeated 
the  Spanish  army  at  Chacabuco.  It 
was  an  easy  victory,  but  Chacabuco 
proved  to  be  one  of  the  decisive  battles 
of  the  war  for  the  independence  of 
Spain's  colonies  in  the  southern  part 
of  South  America.  The  declaration  of 
Tucuman  ceased  to  be  a  mere  verbal 
formula.  Fourteen  months  later  the 
independence  of  Chile  was  won,  and 
that  of  Argentina  confirmed,  by  the 
battle  of  Maipo,  the  hardest  fought 
conflict  of  the  wars  waged  by  the  col- 
onies against  Spain.  One-fifth  of  San 


INDEPENDENCE    DAYS   OF   LATIN-AMERICA. 


11 


Martin's  army  were  killed  or  wounded, 
but  of  five  thousand  royalists  only 
-eight  hundred  escaped  capture,  death 
or  injury.  Chileans  celebrate  Septem- 
ber 18th  as  the  natal  day  of  the  nation 
because  it  was  on  that  date,  in  1810, 
that  the  junta  de  gobierno  of  Santiago 
was  formed.  The  formal  declaration 
•of  Chilean  independence  was  made  on 
January  20,  1818,  by  Ambrose  O'Hig- 
gins,  the  Irish-Argentine  adventurer, 
who  had  been  made  dictator  at  San 
Martin's  suggestion. 

While  San  Martin  was  thus  lead- 
ing Spain's  southern  colonies  towards 
the  goal  of  independence,  Simon  Boli- 
var was  not  less  active  in  the  north. 
The  same  causes  (with  the  exception 
'of  .the  British  invasion)  that  led  to  the 
formation  of  the  junta  at  Buenos 
Aires,  led  to  similar  action  in  the  prin- 
cipal northern  cities,  at  almost  the 
same  time.  In  1808,  French  commis- 
sioners arrived  in  Caracas  with  the 
news  of  the  downfall  of  the  Spanish 
monarchy,  and  with  power  to  receive 
the  allegiance  of  the  colonists  for 
Joseph  Bonaparte.  .The  French  over- 
tures were  received  coldly,  and  for  a 
time  a  grudging  recognition  of  the  au- 
thority of  the  junta  at  'Seville  was 
given.  In  April,  1810,  word  was  re- 
ceived that  the  armies  of  Napoleon 
had  overrun  nearly  all  of  Spain,  and 
the  decision  was  reached  that  the  colo- 
nies must  shift  for  themselves.  On 
April  '19,  1810,  the  junta  of  Caracas 
was  formed.  Venezuela  was  the  first 
of  the  South  American  colonies  to 
make  a  formal  declaration  of  inde- 
pendence, taking  that  action  July  5, 
1811.  The  anniversary  of  that  date  is 
celebrated  as  the  nation's  birthday. 

In  New  Granada  (now  Colombia) 
independent  juntas  were  formed  at 
'Cartagena,  May  22d;  at  Pamplona, 
July  4th;  and  at  Bogota,  July  20,  1810. 
Ecuador  celebrated  the  centenary  of 
its  struggle  for  liberty  four  years  ago, 
commemorating  the  appointment  of  a 
revolutionary  junta,  August  10,  1809. 
However,  the  movement  was  prema- 
ture, and  was  quickly  suppressed. 

Peru  was  the  chief  stronghold  of 
Spain's  military  power  in  America,  so 


Monument  to   Christopher  Columbus, 
Guatemala. 

that  the  outbreak  of  the  revolution  was 
there  longer  deferred  than  in  the  colo- 
nies that  were  not  overawed  by  the 
presence  of  an  efficient  army.  The 
first  blow  was  struck  by  Mateo  Garcia 
Pumicagua,  at  Cuzco,  August  3,  1814; 
but  his  army  was  soon  defeated,  and 
he  was  captured  and  executed. 

Of  Bolivar's  headlong  campaigns, 
sometimes  crowned  with  brilliant  suc- 
cesses, and  sometimes  ended  by  re- 
verses that  would  have  crushed  al- 
most any  one  else,  very  little  can  here 
be  said.  He  first  gained  the  confidence 
of  the  patriots  in  1813,  when,  in  the1 
service  of  the  junta  of  Cartagena,  with 
a  mere  handful  of  raw  troops,  he  drove 
the  Spaniards  from  the  valley  of  the 
Lower  Magdalena  River,  and  captured 
the  city  of  Ocana.  He  was  then  given 
command  of  a  larger  force,  and  in  a 


Facade  of  the  Legislative  Hall,  Mexico. 


brief  and  remarkable  campaign  de- 
feated and  dispersed  the  opposing 
army  and  conquered  Western  Ven- 
ezuela. 

Yet  in  little  more  than  a  year  Boli- 
var had  lost  every  advantage  thus 
gained,  and  was  driven  back  to  New 
Granada.  A  little  later  he  was  a 
refugee  in  Jamacia. 

In  April,  1815,  Marshall  Morillo  ar- 
rived on  the  Venezuelan  coast,  with 
more  than  10,000  seasoned  Spanish 
veterans.  He  besieged  and  took  Car- 
tagena, the  strongest  fortress  in  Amer- 
ica; and  before  long  the  revolution  in 
the  north  appeared  to  be  irretrievably 
crushed,,  only  the  fierce  Llaneros  of 
the  Orinoco  plains  maintaining  the 
fight  for  liberty. 

Bolivar  returned  to  Venezuelan  soil 
in  December,  1816.  In  spite  of  his 
failures,  his  prestige  was  greater  than 
that  of  any  of  his  rivals,  and  the  revo- 
lutionary party  was  glad  of  his  leader- 
ship. He  got  together  a  fleet  of  river 
craft  to  operate  on  the  vast  system  of 
inland  waterways,  and  soon  controlled 
much  of  the  interior  country.  Yet  in 


every  battle  his  troops  were  defeated, 
and  bitter  experience  proved  to  him 
that  the  native  soldiers  could  not  stand 
against  the  Spanish  regulars.  So  he 
raised  money  and  hired  British  and 
Irish  mercenaries.  It  was  these,  and 
not  the  Spanish-Americans,  who 
achieved  the  independence  of  the 
northern  colonies. 

In  1819,  with  2,000  soldiers  and  500 
mercenaries,  he  accomplished  his  re- 
markable march  across  the  flooded 
plains  of  the  Orinoco  and  its  tribu- 
taries, and  over  the  difficult  Paya  Pass 
of  the  Andes — an  exploit  that  has  of- 
ten been  compared  to  Hannibal's  or 
Napoleon's  passage  of  the  Alps. 
August  7,  1819,  he  defeated  the  Roy- 
alists at  Boyaca,  the  most  important 
battle  of  the  war  for  independence 
that  took  place  in  the  northern  part  of 
the  continent.  The  Venezuelan .  Con- 
gress had  just  branded  him  a  traitor, 
but  the  victory  of  Boyaca  so  changed 
the  outlook  that  no  one  voiced  a  word 
of  protest  when  he  announced  that 
Venezuela  and  New  Granada  were 
united  in  a  single  republic,  to  be  known 


r 


14 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


as  the  United  States  of  Colombia, 
with  himself  as  president  and  military 
dictator. 

The  year  1820  passed  in  recruiting 
and  refitting  the  armies,  and  in  various 
political  intrigues.  About  1,200  more 
mercenaries  arrived,  and  by  1821  Boli- 
var had  20,000  men  in  five  armies.  On 
June  23d  he  won  the  battle  of  Cara- 
bobo,  and  by  the  close  of  the  year,  so 
far  as  Venezuela  and  New  Granada 
were  concerned,  the  war  was  over.  In 
May,  1822,  General  Sucre,  at  the  bat- 
tle of  Pichincha  destroyed  the  Spanish 
power  in  Ecuador. 

In  July,  1822,  Bolivar  and  San  Mar- 
tin met  at  Guayaquil.  It  was  San 
Martin's  plan  to  unite  the  two  armies, 
and  with  an  overwhelming  force  crush 
the  last  remnants  of  the  power  of 
Spain.  It  is  even  said  that  he  offered 
to  serve  under  Bolivar  in  a  purely 
subordinate  capacity. 

But  Bolivar  perceived  a  possible 
rival  in  the  person  of  the  great  Ar- 
gentine. He  was  unwilling  that  any 
one  should  share  with  him  the  credit 
for  the  final  expulsion  of  Spain,  and 
rejected  all  overtures.  Rather  than 
risk  the  development  of  friction  that 
mighf  ultimately  result  in  hostilities 
between  the  two  armies,  San  Martin 
resigned  his  command  and  went  to 
Europe.  His  last  years  were  spent  in 
poverty  and  obscurity  in  Paris. 

Bolivar's  victory  at  Junin,  August 
6,  1824,  compelled  the  Spaniards  to 
retire  from  Cuzco.  Then,  December 
9,  1824,  Sucre  won  the  crowning  vic- 
tory of  the  long  war  for  independence, 
and  Spain  was  banished  from  the 
South  American  continent. 

For  thirty  years  before  the  begin- 
ning of  the  war  for  independence,  Up- 
per Peru,  now  known  as  Bolivia,  had 
been  attached  to  Argentina,  but  prior 
to  that  it  was  a  part  of  the  Viceroyalty 
of  Peru.  Being  on  the  great  commer- 
cial highway  between  Lima  and 
Buenos  Aires,  it  was  -crossed  and  re- 
crossed  by  hostile  armies,  and  suffered 
more  from  the  ravages  of  war  than 
any  other  part  of  the  continent.  The 
first  blood  shed  in  the  war  was  drawn 
in  Charcas,  and  the  last  battle  was  that 


Bird's-eye  view  of  Guatemala. 


of  Ayacucho.  The  war  being  over,  it" 
was  necessary  to  decide  whether  Up- 
per Peru  should  remain  a  part  of  Ar- 
gentina, or  be  again  attached  to  Peru, 
or  be  made  independent.  Delegates 
from  all  garts  of  the  country  met  in 
1825,  and  on  August  25th  proclaimed 
independence.  Bolivar  was  denomi- 
nated the  father  of  the  country.  It 
was  named  in  his  honor;  a  constitution 
written  by  him  was  adopted,  and  his 
friend  and  subordinate  officer,  General 
Sucre,  was  elected  first  president. 

Paraguay  has  been,  without  injus- 
tice, denominated  the  plague  spot  of 
South  America;  and  independence  is 
there  a  boon  of  so  doubtful  value  that 
its  celebration  is  exceptional.  The 
Paraguayans  were  not  friendly  to- 
wards the  people  of  Buenos  Aires. 
Hence,  when  Belgrano,  the  Argentine 
general,  started  forth  to  "liberate" 
Paraguay,  in  1811,  the  populace  of 
Asuncion  refused  to  accept  his  good 
offices  and  administered  a  crushing  de- 
feat to  his  army.  This  freed  Paraguay 
from  further  interference  on  the  part 
of  the  Argentines,  and  larger  affairs 
so  occupied  the  Spaniards  that  they 
never  molested  the  province.  So,  on 
June  11,  1811,  Paraguay  became  an 
independent  nation.  Descriptions 
given  by  travelers  of  existing  condi- 
tions, moral,  political,  social  and  in- 
dustrial, are  almost  unbelievable;  and 
it  is  evident  that  the  greatest  blessing 
that  could  befall  the  people  would  be 
the  loss  of  the  independence  they  are 
unfitted  to  enjoy.  Doubtless  the  coun- 


INDEPENDENCE    DAYS   OF   LATIN-AMERICA. 


15 


try  will,  sooner  or  later,  be  absorbed 
by  either  Brazil  or  Argentina,  or 
divided  between  the  two  Powers. 

Uruguay  is  interesting  at  the  mo- 
ment because  President  Batlle  is  try- 
ing out  the  most  interesting  experi- 
ment in  State  socialism  that  the  ruler 
of  any  country  has  ever  had  the  cour- 
age to  inaugurate.  The  region  known 
as  the  "Banda  Oriental"  was  claimed 
by  both  Spain  and  Portugal,  and  its 
people  had  to  fight  the  Indians,  the 
British,  the  Spaniards,  the  Argentines 
and  the  Brazilians.  From  1810  to 
1825  the  country  was  at  times  inde- 
pendent, at  times  occupied  by  Argen- 
tina, and  at  times  held  by  Brazil.  May 
18,  1811,  is  considered  the  natal  day 
of  the  republic,  for  the  reason  that 
on  that  day  Jose  Artigas,  the  "Founder 
of  the  •  Uruguayan  Nation,"  crushed 
the  Spanish  army  in  the  battle  of  Las 
Piedras.  However,  independence  did 
not  become  a  fact  until,  through  Brit- 
ish intervention,  Brazil  and  Argentine 
guaranteed  the  integrity  of  the  coun- 
try in  1828. 

The  Napoleonic  wars,  which  led  to 
the  independence  of  Spain's  South 
American  colonies,  also,  less  directly, 
caused  Portugal  to  lose  Brazil.  When 
the  French  invaded  Portugal  in  1807 
the  royal  family  sought  an  asylum  in 
Brazil,  which  was  the  seat  of  the  mon- 
archy until  in  1821,  when  King  John 
VI  returned  to  Lisbon.  His  son,  Dom 
Pedro,  remained  in  Brazil  as  regent. 

Soon  after  King  John's  return  to 
Portugal,  the  Cortez  enacted  repres- 
sive laws,  designed  to  deprive  the  col- 
onists of  all  the  advantages  they  had 
gained  during  the  residence  of  the 
royal  family.  Among  these  were  de- 
crees providing  for  Portuguese  gar- 
risons to  be  sent  to  the  principal  Bra- 
zilian cities,  creating  governors  to 
supersede  the  councils  that  gave  the 
cities  local  self-government,  abolish- 
ing the  courts  of  appeal  at  Rio,  and 
requiring  the  prince  regent  to  leave 
Brazil.  Great  excitement  followed  the 
receipt  of  this  news  in  Brazil,  and 
the  people  determined  not  to  submit. 
Urged  on  by  Jose  Bonifacio  de  An- 
drada,  the  leading  advocate  of  liberal 


ideas,  Dom  Pedro  refused  to  obey  the 
Cortez;  and  on  September  7,  1822,  the 
independence  of  Brazil  was  pro- 
claimed. It  remained  an  empire  until 
November  5,  1889,  when  a  provisional 
government  was  organized  and  the  re- 
public was  born. 

In  Spain's  South  American  colonies 
the  war  for  independence  started 
among  the  educated  and  well-to-do 
classes.  In  Mexico  it  had  its  begin- 
ning in  the  lower  strata  of  society.  Sep- 
tember 15,  1810,  just  before  midnight, 
Migual  de  Hidalgo  y  Costello,  an  aged 
priest  of  the  village  of  Dolores,  in  the 
State  of  Guanajuato,  proclaimed  inde- 
pendence. His  following  was  chiefly 
composed  of  Indians  and  peons,  and 
he  was  neither  a  statesman  nor  a  gen- 
eral. He  was  captured  and  executed, 
but  another  leader  arose  to  take  his 
place,  and  the  movement  he  started 
was  never  permitted  wholly  to  die  out, 
until  independence  became  a  fact  in 
1821. 

With  discretion  that  seems  surpris- 
ing in  view  of  their  later  history,  the 
people  of  the  Central  American  prov- 
inces made  no  move  towards  revolu- 
tion until  the  independence  of  Mexico 
was  assured.  Then  the  provinces  were 
declared  independent  in  rapid  succes- 
sion— Guatemala,  September  12th; 
Salvador,  September  21st;  Honduras, 
October  16th;  Nicaragua,  October  21st, 
and  Costa  Rica,  October  27th,  all  in 
1821. 

Haiti's  struggle  against  France  for 
independence  was  begun  by  Toussaint 
L'Ouverture.  He  was  captured  by 
treachery,  and  carried  off  to  die  in  a 
French  prison.  One  of  his  lieutenants, 
Jean  Jacques  Dessalines,  continued  the 
•  war.  With  the  help  of  a  British  squad- 
ron, he  compelled  the  French  army  to 
surrender  its  arms  and  leave  the  island. 
Then  he  instigated  a  massacre  of  all 
the  whites  on  the  island,  in  which  more 
than  2,500  persons  were  slain.  Janu- 
ary 1,  1804,  he  proclaimed  the  inde- 
pendence of  Haiti,  with  himself  as 
"Emperor"  Jean  Jacques  I.  He 
proved  an  insufferable  tyrant,  and  was 
killed  by  two  of  his  own  officers.  For 
forty  years  the  fortunes  of  San  Do- 


16 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


mingo  were  involved  with  those  of 
Haiti.  Then,  February  27,  1844,  the 
independence  of  the  Dominican  re- 
public was  proclaimed. 

Cuba's  real  natal  day  was  April  19, 
1898 — the  date  of  the  joint  resolution 
of  the  American  Congress  demanding 
that  Spain  relinquish  its  authority,  and 
directing  the  President  to  use  the  land 
and  naval  forces  of  the  United  States 
to  carry  the  resolution  into  effect.  At 
12  o'clock  noon,  May  20,  1902,  the 
American  flag  was  lowered  and  that 
of  Cuba  raised,  and  the  American 


troops  began  to  embark  for  their  de- 
parture from  the  island,  and  the  re- 
public of  Cuba  became  a  fact. 

Youngest  of  the  family  of  American 
nations  is  Panama.  On  account  of  the 
refusal  of  the  Colombian  government 
to  ratify  the  treaty  that  had  been  nego- 
tiated to  permit  the  construction  of  the 
Panama  Canal,  the  municipal  council 
of  the  city  of  Panama  proclaimed  the 
independence  of  the  republic,  Novem- 
ber 3,  1903.  Ten  days  later  the 
United  States  recognized  the  sover- 
eignty of  the  nation. 


HOAESICK 


I  know  out  there  the  day  is  breaking  on  the  hills, 
And  all  the  wide  and  waiting  distance  thrills 
One  hushed  moment  at  the  coming,  of  the  dawn. 

I  know  the  wine  of  morning  that  you  quaff — 
Prick  of  keen  wind,  sheen  of  sun  on  rock,  the  laugh 
Of  radiant  day  to  joyous  madness  run. 

I  know  out  there  the  warm  and  flushing  noons 
Soothe  the  great  land  to  languor  till  she  swoons 
To  deep* and  sudden  slumber  'neath  the  sun. 

I  know  how  the  shy  stars  will  light  your  way 
To  that  high  crest  you  seek  at  close  of  day; 
I  know  how  calm  your  slumber,  as  you  lie 
Under  the  vast  white  silence  of  the  sky. 

I  know — and  here  where  the  great  city  wakes 
From  fretted  sleep,  and  hideous  clamor  makes, 
Where  pinched  walls  herd  the  crowds  that  harried  go, 

I'm  longing  for  the  wide  land  that  I  know 

The  land  that  holds  just  you,  and  God. 

KATHERINE  E.  OLIVER, 


Guide  Higgins  snapped  by  the  ko- 
dak as  he  was  descending  a  steep 
cliff  to  attach  a  rope  to  the  body  of  a 
mountain  goat  which  had  been  shot, 
and  tumbled  25Q  feet  below. 


THE    ROOF 
OF  THE 


CONTINENT 


By   F.    S.    Sanborn 


Being  a  description  of  the 
healthiest  and  the  greatest  game 
preserve  on  the  American  Conti- 
nent, with  the  Glacier  National 
Park,  in  the  heart  of  it,  a  strip  of 
territory  larger  than  the  State  of 
Rhode  Island — an  ideal  outing 
region. 


THE     ROOF     of  the  Continent 
gradually     is     establishing  the 
reputation    of     being    one     of 
the  earth's  greatest  sources  of 
longevity,  for  wild  animals    as    well 
as  man. 

There  Wiley  Wimpuss,  an  Indian, 
who  now  enjoys  the  distinction  of  be- 
ing the  world's  oldest  living  human, 
was  born.  There,  three  years  ago, 


Chief  White-Calf,  of  the  Piegan  tribe, 
and  a  party  of  Indian  hunters,  slew 
two  of  the  oldest  grizzlies  ever  taken 
in  the  Rocky  Mountains,  the  skins  of 
these  -animals  being  larger  than  any 
from  the  biggest  buffalo  even  old 
Wiley  Wimpuss  has  recollection  of, 
and  he,  still  living,  now  is  131  years 
of  age. 

The  latest  evidence  that  the  Foun- 


18 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


Guide  Higgins  showing  the  horns  of 
a  mammoth  elk  killed  in  the  Glacier 
National  Park  Country. 

tain  of  Youth  must  flow  from  the  Roof 
of  the  Continent  comes  in  the  presen- 
tation to  the  outside  world  by  a  deer- 
hunting  party  of  what  probably  are 
the  horns  from  the  oldest  elk  of  which 
there  is  any  history.  These  horns  have 
a  spread  of  56  inches.  Frank  Higgins, 
mountaineer,  who  guided  the  New 
York  party  which  bagged  this  monster 
elk,  says  it  is  by  all  odds  the  largest 
of  this  species  he  ever  saw.  "I  could 
not  begin  to  estimate  the  age  of  this 
animal,"  he  said,  "but  I'll  venture  to 
say  that  he  could  shed  some  light  upon 
some  ancient  Indian  hunting  history, 
for  he  came  down  out  of  the  same 


country  that  for  ages  was  the  great 
hunting  grounds  of  the  Piegan  or 
Blackfeet  Indians. 

"I  think  the  greatest  elk  range  on 
this  continent,  or  in  the  world  for  that 
matter,  is  at  the  head  of  Two  Medicine 
Lake  country — Dawson  Pass  and  Mud 
Creek  and  Nyack  Creeks.  Mountain 
goat  also  are  found  there  in  abundance 
on  the  high  ranges,  and  sheep  are 
plentiful  on  the  eastern  slope  of  the 
main  range  of  the  Rockies — the  back- 
bone of  the  continent.  There,  pro- 
tected as  they  are  within  the  Park 
boundaries,  they  live  in  absolute  con- 
tentment during  the  summer  months, 
and  naturally  they  wander  down  upon 
the  lower  levels  to  feed  when  winter 
comes  on.  I  wouldn't  hesitate  to 
guarantee  'the  limit'  even  to  the  ten- 
derfoot who  never  saw  a  wild  animal 
in  its  native  environment,  provided,  of 
course,  he  has  the  physical  endurance 
to  withstand  the  rigor  of  outdoor  life 
which  is  necessary  to  take  him  to 
haunts  of  these  species  of  game.  Give 
me  time,  and  I'd  even  agree  to  take 
an  invalid  on  the  hunt,  for  in  two 
weeks  the  bracing  air  of  this  region 
would  fit  even  the  broken  down  city 
man  for  the  chase." 

Reverting  to  the  more  serious  as- 
pect of  this  remarkable  locality,  sci- 
entists, whose  attention  has  been 
drawn  to  it,  declare  that  it  must  be 
the  aerated  glacier  waters  that  flow 
from  the  "heaven-peaks"  that  invigor- 
ates man  and  beast  with  the  powers 
of  longevity.  There  is  nothing  else 
about  the  country  that  could  do  this, 
they  say.  save  the  rejuvenating  influ- 
ence of  the  crystal  waters — unless  it 
would  be  the  bracing  atmosphere  acts 
as  a  strong  contributing  force. 

One  of  the  greatest  natural  game 
preserves  upon  the  North  American 
Continent  was  created  when  Congress, 
in  1910,  set  aside  as  Glacier  National 
Park,  a  strip  of  the  northwest  corner 
of  Montana  somewhat  larger  than  the 
State  of  Rhode  Island. 

Within  these  mountain  fastnesses 
goat,  big  horn  sheep,  deer,  elk,  moose, 
lion,  grizzly,  brown  and  black  bear, 
and  an  almost  endless  variety  of 


A  "fry  pan"  catch  taken  from  St.  Mary's  Lake. 


20 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


A  mountain  goat  killed  by  the 
Higgins  party. 


smaller  animals  are  multiplying  so 
rapidly  under  the  protective .  wing  of 
the  Federal  law  that  in  late  fall,  just 
before  the  wintry  blasts  blow  the 
game  down  from  the  mountain-sides, 
hunters  go  forth  along  the  boundar- 
ies of  the 'new  national  park  and  find 
.big  game  in  plenty,  as  it  leaves  the 
higher  levels  to  browse  in  the  valleys. 

This  winter,  hundreds  of  deer  have 
appeared  in  the  valleys  along  the  west- 
ern slope  of  the  Continental  Divide, 
just  outside  the  park  breeding  grounds. 
Old  hunters  explain  the  great  exodus 
from  Uncle  Sam's  newest  playground 
by  the  fact  that  the  animals  have  not 
been  disturbed  during  the  last  three 
years,  and  now  are  venturing  in  the 
open  country  to  get  more  and  better 
food,  instinctively  feeling  that  there 
is  safety  even  there. 

During  the  late  season,  Frank  Hig- 


gins and  his  party  of  hunters  from  the 
East,  while  in  the  Flathead  River 
country,  killed  the  monster  elk  re- 
ferred to  in  the  foregoing.  This  party 
which  started  from  Columbia  Falls, 
Mont.,  was  gone  five  weeks,  and  it  re- 
turned with  a  six-horse  pack  train 
loaded  to  the  State  game  law  limit, 
with  choice  specimens  of  mountain 
goat  and  sheep  heads,  besides  one 
grizzly  bear,  two  black  bear  skins,  the 
horns  of  the  monster  elk  and  carcasses 
and  heads  of  five  beautiful  specimens 
of  the  black  tail  deer. 

The  unusually  large  number  of  this 
species  of  deer  that  is  coming  out  of 
the  park  this  season  is  a '  source  of 
much  delight  to  the  hunters  who  were 
strung  along  the  park-preserve  boun- 
daries. 

Besides  the  big  game  taken,  this 
particular  party  reported  extraordinary 
catches  of  Dolly  Varden  trout  in  the 
north  fork  of  the  Flathead,  Bowman 
and  other  lakes  upon  the  shores  of 
which  camps  were  pitched.  The  fish- 
ing, which  was  begun  by  the  guide 
himself,  merely  for  the  camp  frying- 
pan,  became  so  furious  that  the  other 
members  of  the  party  "hopped  to  it," 
improvising  tackle  for  the  occasion. 
They  whipped  the  streams  and  lakes 
just  for  the  sport  of  the  prodigious 
catches  which  the  virgin  waters  af- 
forded, throwing  back  all  that  were 
not  needed  to  appease  fickle  appetites 
which  had  grown  tired  of  venison  and 
bear  meat  after  three  weeks  in  the 
mountains. 

Inside  the  park  proper,  probably  is 
the  greatest  trout  fishing  in  the  world. 
Experts  who  feel  qualified  to  make 
comparisons  say^  so  at  least.  But, 
within  the  boundaries  of  Glacier  Park 
the  United  States  government  limits 
the  daily  catch  to  twenty-five  fish  for 
each  fisherman.  This  probably  is  a 
proper  precaution,  fishermen  declare, 
since  the  park  now  is  open  to  a  great 
stream  of  tourists  each  summer — last 
year's  attendance  exceeding  by  two 
hundred  per  cent  the  attendance  at 
some  of  the  oldest  national  parks  in 
the  country.  And  this,  in  the  second 
year  of  its  existence,  is  an  indication 


Wiley  Wampuss,  131  years  old,  an  Indian  living  on  the  roof  of  the  Continent, 
and  said  to  be  the  oldest  inhabitant  of  this  country. 


22 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


of  the  early  popularity  of  Uncle  Sam's 
newest  national  park. 

Until  last  year  the  only  possible 
way  to  get  into  this  new  national  park 
was  by  pony.  Last  year,  Louis  W. 
Hill,  chairman  of  the  board  of  direc- 
tors of  the  Great  Northern  Railway, 
built  thirty-two  miles  of  automobile 
scenic  highway,  linking  St.  Mary's 
Lake  direct  with  Glacier  Park  Station, 
Montana,  the  eastern  gateway  to  the 
park. 

This  opened  the  way  for  the  -big 
tide  of  "See  America  First"  tourists. 
The  new  scenic  highway  meanders 
.around  the  foothills  of  the  big  range, 
and  through  ten  miles  of  pine  forest 
in  the  country  of  the  Blackfeet  In- 
dians, to  which  is  attached  volumes  of 
legendary  tales  that  are  highly  inter- 
esting to  the  tourists. 

This  automobile  highway  is  part  of 
the  great  development  work  of  Mr. 
Hill  who,  at  its  beginning,  has  built 
the  most  unique  $150,000  log  hotel  in 
the  world— Glacier  Park  Hotel.  This 
hostelry,  from  which  the  highway 
leads  to  the  picturesque  Swiss  chalet 
camps  at  Two  Medicine  Lake,  Cut 
Bank  and  St.  Mary's  Lake,  and  Mc- 
Dermott,  is  built  of  huge  cedar  and 
fir  logs.  Some  of  the  pillars  are  six 
feet  in  diameter  and  100  feet  long. 

A  strange  sequence  to  this  artistic 
development  of  Uncle  Sam's  new 
Park  in  the  Rockies  is  that  it  has  been 
a  magnetic  factor  in  cementing  the  ties 
of  friendship  between  the  Indian  and 
the  "pale  face."  The  Piegan  or  Black- 
feet  Indians  were  naturally  a  savage, 
fighting  race  in  the  old  days.  The.  Crow 
Tribe  can  testify  to  this.  But  since 
the  automobile  has  replaced  the  stage 
coach  in  the  Park,  the  Indian  has  gone 
forth  over  the  trails  seeking  to  clasp 
the  hands  of  the  visiting  whites  in- 
stead of  to  hunt  the  wild  animals  of 
the  mountains,  as  he  used  to.  What  is 
most  amazing  is  that  the  novelty  of 
the  transformation  has  brought  to  the 
faces  of  the  Indians  the  smile  that 
won't  come  off.  They  delight  in  es- 
tablishing their  tepee  cities  upon  the 


reservation  and  commingling  with  the 
tourists,  exchanging  words  of  welcome 
through  interpreters.  Some  of  the  In- 
dians have  even  become  licensed 
guides,  and  escort  tourist  parties 
through  the  park  in  the  summer,  telling 
them  stories  of  the  marvelous  game  re- 
gion in  the  hope  of  getting  the  real 
hunters  to  visit  their  country  in  the 
fall  of  the  year  to  go  upon  big  game 
hunting  expeditions.  The  older  mem- 
bers of  the  Blackfeet  tribe  relate  some 
wonderful  hunting  tales  of  the  buf- 
falo chase  in  the  Glacier  Park  country. 
The  Piegans,  who  were  probably 
among  the  greatest  buffalo  hunters  of 
the  entire  Indian  race,  always  lived  in 
that  region  because  it  was  there  the 
mammoth  herds  of  buffalo  used  to  seek 
shelter,  and  feed  in  the  winter  months. 
These  old  Indians  even  to  this  day 
point  out  passes  in  the  mountains 
which  formed  natural  runways 
through  which  the  hunters  used  to 
drive  their  prey  by  the  hundreds,  until 
the  frenzied  animals  would  crowd 
themselves  over  the  cliffs  to  their 
death.  .Then  the  Indians  would  reap 
their  harvest  of  winter  meat  and  skins 
for  clothing  and  tepees  to  house  them. 

So  it  is  readily  seen  that  the  1,400 
square  miles  which  Uncle  Sam  trans- 
formed into  Glacier  National  Park  was 
from  time  immemorial  probably  the 
greatest  game  preserve  upon  the  face 
of  the  globe. 

The  buffalo,  or  grass  dance,  is  to 
this  day  one  of  the  m'ost  sacred  parts 
of  the  Piegans'  religious  ceremony, 
and  they  delight  in  going  through  it 
for  the  tourists  who  come  to  the  park. 
The  significance  of  this  dance  is  that 
the  Piegan  Indian,  who  depends  al- 
most, entirely  upon  the  buffalo  for  his 
winter  meat  and  skins  with  which  to 
make  his  shelter,  every  spring  and 
many  times  during  the  summer  months 
(if  the  season  threatened  to  be  dry) 
would  give  the  grass  dance  to  the  ^ods 
so  that  the  gods  would  recognize  them 
and  send  plenty  of  rain  to  make  a 
good  grass  crop,  and  thus  furnish  good 
feed  for  the  buffalo  to  graze  on. 


FLASHLIGHTS    IN   AN   ASIATIC 
STEERAGE 


By  Lewis  R.  Freeman 


Photographs    Specially    Taken     by    the    Author 


THE  PROFITS  in,  trans-oceanic 
steamer  business,  if  profits 
there  are,  are  derived  princi- 
pally from  freight.  A  bale  of 
silk  or  a  mat  of  rice  lies  where  it  is 
put  for  the  whole  voyage,  and  requires 
no  food  or  attention.  Passengers,  with 
staterooms,  dining  saloons,  social 
halls,  smoking  rooms,  broad  prome- 
nades and  the  like,  require  so  much 
of  the  limited  space  of  a  steamer  that 
it  is  usually  impossible  to  charge  a 
fare  that  will  make  the  carrying  of 
them  commercially  profitable.  There 
is  less  loss  on  second  class  passengers 
than  on  first,  and,  when  the  travel  is 
heavy,  third  class  or  steerage  passen- 
gers are  often  carried  at  a  profit.  This 
is  because  one  of  the  latter,  while  he 
may  pay  but  a  third  or  a  quarter  of  the 
fare  of  a  first  class  passenger,  does 
not  occupy  more  than  from  a  tenth  to 
a  fiftieth  of  the  room  necessary  for 
the  former.  In  other  words,  the  nearer 
a  passenger  can  be  reduced  to  the  con- 
dition of  freight,  the  less  room  he  can 
be  restricted  to  for  eating,  sleeping  and 
getting  fresh  air,  the  more  chance 
there  is  of  his  being  profitable. 

This  fact  is  so  generally  recognized 
among  transportation  people  that  when 
several  years  ago  an  American  paper 
published  as  a  joke  a  report  that  a 
clever  Yankee  had  devised  a  plan  for 
administering  a  special  anesthetic  to 
prospective  steerage  passengers,  and 
bring  them  to  the  United  States  in 
coffin-like  boxes  stowed  in  ventilated 


holds,  an  Italian  steamship  company 
wrote  to  ask  the  editor  for  the  address 
of  the  inventor,  and  his,  the  editor's, 
opinion  as  to  whether  or  not  the  Wash- 
ington government  would  permit  the 
scheme  to  go  into  operation. 

The  trans-Pacific  steerage  traffic  is 
undoubtedly  very  profitable,  for  not 
only  is  the  travel  very  heavy,  but  the 
passengers  are  there  reduced  nearer 
to  the  "freight  ideal"  than  on  any 
other  run  whatever.  If  the  main  route 
of  travel  was  in  the  Tropics,  or  if  the 
passengers  thus  carried  were  not  ex- 
clusively Asiatics,  the  conditions  that 
prevail  would  be  absolutely  insuffer- 
able; with  the  run  for  the  most  part 
in  the  temperate  latitudes,  and  with 
all  of  the  passengers  habituated  to 
close  and  stuffy  quarters  in  their  own 
country,  the  provisions  made  in  the 
steerages  of  all  the  trans-Pacific 
steamers  may  be  characterized  as 
"adequate." 

The  character  of  the  Asiatic  steerage 
travel  across  the  Pacific  has  under- 
gone considerable  change  in  the  last 
three  decades.  Up  to  the  time  of  the 
passage  of  the  Chinese  Exclusion  Act 
in  America  it  was  made  up  almost  en- 
tirely of  natives  of  the  Flowery  King- 
dom. During  the  following  ten  years 
the  movement  of  Japanese  to  the 
Pacific  Coast  and  Hawaii  increased  un- 
til those  of  that  nationality  regularly 
exceeded  the  bookings  of  Chinese  in 
both  directions.  Since  the  rush  of 
Sikhs  to  the  Pacific  Slope  and  the  re- 
striction of  the  Japanese  tide  which 


24 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


came  a  .year  or  so  later,  East  Indians 
have  often  outnumbered  Mongolians 
on  the  America-bound  steamers. 

The  victualing  and  sleeping  of  these 
diverse  and  often  antagonistic  races 
in  the  restricted  'tween-decks  space  of 
a  steamer  is  by  no  means  a  simple  un- 
dertaking, and  the  fact  that  it  has  been 
carried  on  through  so  many  years  with 
so  little  trouble  is  highly  creditable  to 
the  various  steamship  companies  en- 
gaged in  the  business.  Rice  is  the 
staple  food,  but  the  Japanese  must 
have  their  rice  cooked  one  way,  the 
Chinese  another,  while  the  Sikhs  must 
have  a  portion  of  the  galley  turned 
over  to  them  in  which  to  cook  their 
own  rice.  A  special  water  butt  must 
also  be  set  aside  for  the  exclusive  use 
of  the  latter — one  of  their  number  is 
usually  told  off  to  stand  guard  over  it 
and  see  that  no  Chinese  nor  Japanese 
drink  from  it — but  even  amongst 
themselves  differences  often  arise  over 
caste  infringements. 

The  sleeping  quarters — there  are  no 
eating  quarters — usually  take  up  the 
whole  length  of  the  lower  deck.  The 
bunks — "knock-down"  frames  of  gal- 
vanized iron — are  three  or  four  tiers 
high,  allowing  only  sufficient  room  for 
the  sleepers  to  crawl  in  and  lie  down. 
A  separate  room  is  provided  for  Chi- 
nese women;  those  of  the  Sikhs  and 
Japanese  bunk  indiscriminately  among 
the  men.  As  a  rule  the  different  na- 
tionalities, while  bunked  together  as 
far  as  possible,  are  not  separated  from 
each  other  by  partitions.  In  former 
times  the  principal  troubles  were  in  the 
form  of  Chinese  gambling  fights ;  more 
recently  some  infringement  of  Sikh 
caste — either  by  Mongolians  or  one  of 
themselves — is  the  most  fruitful  cause 
of  disturbance. 

For  amusement  the  Chinese  always 
fall  back  upon  "fan-tan"  or  "hi-low," 
the  gaming  often  going  on  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  a  one-stringed  fiddle 
and  a  squeaking  song.  The  Japanese 
play  cards — as  often  for  fun  as  for 
money — while  the  Sikhs,  on  rare  oc- 
casions, relax  their  dignity  to  the  ex- 
tent of  forming  a  circle  on  the  moonlit 
poop  and  indulging  in  an  hour  of  song 


and  dance,  a  rather  barbaric  perform- 
ance. 

On  my  last  westward  voyage  across 
the  Pacific,  in  emulation  of  the  first 
class  passengers,  the  Asiatic  steerage 
arranged  an  afternoon  of  sports.  The 
only  event  which  I  chanced  to  see  was 
an  international  tug-of-war  between 
the  Japanese  and  the  Sikhs,  in  which 
the  latter,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they 
had  been  refused  admission  by  the 
San  Francisco  immigration  authorities 
because  they  were  affected  with  "hook 
worm/'  won  out  handily. 

Photographing  in  the  Asiatic  steer- 
age is  beset  with  many  difficulties.  On 
deck,  even  if  the  prospective  subjects 
have  no  objection  to  being  snapped, 
they  are  usually  found  congregated  in 
the  heavy  shade  of  an  awning,  where 
nothing  but  a  stiffly  posed  time  ex- 
posure is  possible.  In  the  gloom  be- 
tween decks,  photographs  are  only 
possible  by  flashlight,  and  there  is  a 
heavy  fine  for  bringing  flashlight 
materials  aboard  any  vessel,  to  say 
nothing  of  using  them.  The  flash- 
lights which  accompany  this  article  I 
made  while  in  absolute  ignorance  of 
the  fact  that  the  act  was  forbidden, 
and  it  is  a  significant  commentary  on 
the  carelessness  of  the  officers  that  I 
"operated"  on  three  different  steamers 
before  I  was  called  to  account  and  in- 
formed of  the  law.  The  incident  which 
led  to  my  undoing  may  be  worth  set- 
ting down  as  a  warning  to  those  ama- 
teurs who  may  feel  tempted  to  try  and 
perpetuate  some  of  the  weird  and  fas- 
cinating sights  chanced  upon  in  the 
hidden  corners  of  the  Asiatic  steerage 
of  their  trans-Pacific  steamer: 

Shortly  before  the  S.  S.  M was 

to  sail  from  Hongkong  for  Manila  last 
February,  the  British  officers  became 
suspicious  that  a  large  amount  of 
opium  was  concealed  on  her,  and  de- 
cided to  make  a  search  on  the  off- 
chance.  A  friend  of  mine  in  the  ser- 
vice asked  me  to  go  off  to  the  ship 
with  them,  and  I  was  a  party  to  a  cou- 
ple of  hours  of  useless  rummaging, 
which  revealed  nothing  but  amused 
smiles  on  the  faces  of  the  Chinese 
stewards  and  lowering  scowls  on  the 


American  customs  officers  searching  the  steerage  of  the  S.  S. 
Asiatic  for  opium. 


26 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


sinister  countenances  of  some  of  the 
stokers,  whose  quarters  were  turned 
upside  down  to  no  purpose. 

A  couple  of  days  later  I  sailed  for 

Manila  on  the  M ,  and  to  while 

away  the  tedium  of  the  voyage,  took 
my  camera  and  flashlight  materials 
and  invaded  the  Asiatic  steerage.  Af- 
ter making  several  exposures  among 
the  bunks  and  one  on  a  dignified  old 
Chinese  merchant  who,  it  chanced,  was 
arrested  two  days  later  in  Manila  in 
connection  with  the  discovery  of  $10,- 
000  worth  of  opium  stowed  away  in 
the  boxed-in  supports  of  a  shipment  of 
very  heavy  machinery,  I  invaded  the 
stokers'  quarters.  Here  I  was  at  once 
recognized  as  a  member  of  the  search- 
ing party  of  a  couple  of  days  previous, 
and  was  greeted  so  menacingly  that  I 
was  glad  indeed  to  slip  back  through 
the  grated  door  by  which  I  had  entered 
and  head  for  the  main-deck  compan- 
ionway.  Evidently  I  was  looked  upon 
as  a  customs  officer  using  flashlight 
and  camera  in  an  endeavor  to  get  some 
tangible  evidence  against  the  sus- 
pected smugglers.  Quite  naturally, 
none  of  them  wanted  to  be  photo- 
graphed, for  if  a  stoker  is  not  smug- 
gling opium  to-day  he  is  pretty  sure 
to  be  incubating  plans  for  doing  so 
on  the  morrow. 

If  I  had  adhered  to  my  original  in- 
tention and  gone  back  on  deck,  in  spite 
of  the  truculent  attitude  of  the  stokers, 
several  of  whom  followed  to  the  door 
and  stood  glowering  after  my  retreat- 
ing form,  there  would  have  been  no 
trouble.  But  it  chanced  that  my  un- 
lucky star,  just  before  I  reached  the 
after  companionway,  impelled  me  to 
take  a  peep  into  the  "Opium  Den,"  to 
find  it  fully  occupied.  "What  a  chance 
for  a  flashlight!"  I  thought,  and  forth- 
with stepped  over  the  high  sill  into  the 
murky  depths. 

The  room,  barely  redeemed  from 
total  darkness  by  the  weak  rays  that 
filtered  through  a  heavily  begrimed 
electric  light  globe  in  the  ceiling,  was 
of  about  eight  by  ten  feet  in  dimen- 
sions; on  three  sides  of  it,  three  deep, 
were  tiers  of  bunks.  On  each  of  these, 
lying  on  a  strip  of  dirty  matting, 


thrown  over  the  loose  board  bottom, 
was  a  prostrate  figure  barely  distin- 
guishable in  the  murky  light. 

As  my  eyes  accustomed  themselves 
to  the  dim  light,  I  noted  that  most  of 
the  occupants  of  the  bunks  were 
hunched  up  together  and  seemed  sleep- 
ing heavily.  Two  or  three  eyed  me 
glassily  and  stupidly,  and  only  one 
showed  signs  of  activity  or  intelli- 
gence. The  latter,  a  lanky  Celestial, 
yellow  as  old  ivory,  had  evidently  just 
settled  himself  to  smoke.  He  let  his 
eyes  rove  over  me  for  a  moment  in 
an  amazed  sort  of  way,  but  gave  no 
other  sign  of  displeasure.  His  lamp 
simmered  beside  him  on  the  bunk,  and 
he  was  engaged  in  cleaning  out  what 
must  have  been  his  first  or  second  pipe. 
I  was  sure  that  he  had  had  at  least 
one  pipe  from  the  fact  that  he  was  not 
actively  hostile,  and  not  more  than 
two  from  his  movements,  and  the  fact 
that  his  eyes  still  had  the  light  of  in- 
telligence, and  seemed  to  focus  with- 
out difficulty.  I  had  previously  spent 
several  evenings  with  a  missionary 
doctor  in  one  of  the  Canton  "Opium 
Refuges,"  and  was  therefore  familiar 
with  some  of  the  symptomatic  signals 
of  the  smoker's  progress  to  dreamland. 

I  heard  a  babel  of  jabbering  from 
the  stokers'  quarters,  and  knew  it  was 
a  foolish  thing  to  attempt — but  I  was 
filled  with  a  great  desire  for  a  flash- 
light of  that  half-gone  smoker,  and, 
against  my  better  judgment,  started 
setting  up  the  camera  in  the  far  cor- 
ner, the  distance  being  just  about  suf- 
ficient, I  judged — there  was  no  chance 
to  use  the  finder,  of  course — to  get  the 
.  full  length  of  the  subject  within  the 
fairly  wide  angle  of  my  lens.  There 
was  a  mutter  of  angry  protest  from  a 
group  of  half-naked  loungers — evi- 
dently prospective  smokers  awaiting 
their  turn  at  the  room — about  the  door, 
and  I  was  dimly  aware,  as  I  trued  up 
the  tripod  and  screwed  the  camera  in- 
to place,  that  some  of  them  had  scuf- 
fled forward,  probably  to  spread  the 
news  of  what  was  going  on.  My  sub- 
ject's eyes  rested  on  me  in  a  sort  of 
mild  reproof  every  now  and  then,  but 
for  the  most  part  his  attention  was 


/.  Japanese  playing  cards  on  shipbooard.  2.  Opium  smoker  cleaning  a  pipe. 
The  flashlight  which  caused  the  trou  ble.  3.  "Returning"  Japanese  students  in 
the  "intermediate"  steerage. 


One  of  the  beauties  of  the  steerage. 


focused     on     the    all-important  pipe- 
cleaning  operation. 

From  amidships  the  clang  of  bang- 
ing iron  doors  and  the  noisy  jabbering 
of  shrill  voices  came  more  insistently. 
Down  the  vista  of  a  long  passage-way 
the  tail  of  my  eye  caught  vague 
glimpses  for  a  short  time  of  half- 
clothed  figures  dropping  from  the 
bunks,  but  before  the  flashlight  was 
ready  the  outside  view  was  blotted  by 
the  throng  about  the  door.  The  latter, 
for  the  most  part,  appeared  to  be  made 
up  merely  of  passively  curious  steer- 
age passengers  crowding  in  for  a 


"look-see,"  but  just  as  I  touched  a 
hastily  scratched  match  to'  the  corner 
of  the  sheet  of  calcium — it  was  im- 
paled on  my  knife-blade  for  want  of 
any  other  way  of  holding  it — I  was 
aware  of  a  wedge  of  yellow  shoulders 
and  waving  arms  forcing  its  way 
through  the  throng,  and  turned  to  con- 
front my  sinister  friends  from  the 
stoke  hold,  a  dozen  or  more  strong. 

The  flash  exploded  with  a  sharp 
"whouf,"  and  the  white  smoke  cloud 
welled  up  against  the  ceiling  and  went 
pouring  out  of  the  door.  A  wild  yell 
answered  from  the  passage,  and  I 


Japanese  doctor  inspecting    return- 
ing immigrants  at  Yokohama. 


Three  Sikhs  being  returned  to  India 
because  of  "hookworm." 


closed  the  shutter  just  as  I  saw  a  pair 
of  yellow  arms  and  shoulders  come 
diving  through  the  smoke  at  the  tri- 
pod. The  last  thing  which  focused 
itself  upon  my  retina  as  I  went  down 
before  the  rush  was  the  imperturb- 
able smoker  industriously  scratching 
away  at  his  pipe  bowl  and  smiling  in 
contemplative  ecstasy,  and  I  distinctly 
recall  a  flash  of  wonder  at  his  impas- 
sivity in  the  face  of  imminent  murder. 
The  miraculously  preserved  photo 
doesn't  seem  to  show  the  smile,  and 
it  may  be  that  it  was  a  figment  of  my 
imagination;  but  at  any  rate,  in  com- 
parison with  the  consternation  my  own 
visage  must  have  registered,  even  the 
sober-jowled  physiognomy  in  the  pic- 
ture might  be  considered  as  expanding 
in  a  broad  grin. 

Any  one  who  has  attempted  much 
picture-taking  in  crowds,  and  especi- 
ally in  crowds  of  an  unsympathetic  or 
hostile  character,  learns  to  turn  to  his 


camera  at  the  first  alarm,  as  a  mother 
to  her  babe.  The  tripod  of  mine  was 
collapsing  in  the  clutch  of  the  fore- 
most representative  of  the  "Yellow 
Peril,"  even  as  I  laid  hold  of  it,  but 
the  head  of  the  stand  tore  loose  easily 
and  the  camera  went  down  clutched  to 
my  breast,  repaying  my  solicitude 
with  a  sharp  dig  in  the  ribs  as  we  were 
crowded  into  the  angle  of  the  bunks 
together.  The  turn-down  front  snapped 
loose,  and  the  long  extension  bellows 
flapped  free  as  I  extricated  the  wreck- 
age and  tossed  it  into  the  farthest  cor- 
ner of  a  bunk,  behind  an  uneasily 
stirring  sleeper's  head.  The  old 
wooden  tripod  was  quickly  reduced  to 
match  sticks. 

There  seemed  to  be  nothing  personal 
about  the  attack;  it  was  only  that  the 
stokers — and  apparently  most  of  the 
Asiatic  steerage— all  came  into  the 
little  room  at  once  and  sought  to  de- 
stroy the  offending  camera.  A  half 


30 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


dozen  of  them  could  have  had  it  out 
and  smashed  to  bits  in  a  twinkling, 
but  the  halt  hundred  or  so  found  the 
same  difficulty  which  they  used  to  say 
handicapped  the  mosquitoes  in 
Alaska — they  got  in  each  other's  way. 

For  a  minute  I  laid  on  my  back  and 
kicked  out  vigorously,  experiencing  for 
the  first  time  since  my  tootball  days 
the  delectable  sensation  which  accom- 
panies the  planting  of  a  sharp-shod 
heel  in  tne  soft  flesh  of  a  fellow-being. 
Then  the  fight  for  air  became  more 
pressing  than  the  fight  for  the  camera, 
and  I  went  under  one  of  the  lower 
bunks  in  a  search  for  unused  oxygen. 
This  move  gave  some  of  the  intruders 
the  idea  that  the  camera  was  occupy- 
ing the  same  hiding  place,  and  forth- 
with they  all  started  swarming  under 
after  it.  How  many  of  them  got  there 
I  should  hardly  dare  to  say,  but  the 
place  was  becoming  something  more 
than  uncomfortably  cramped  when  the 
ring  of  bellowed  orders  cut  in  through 
the  shriller  yapping  of  the  Chinese, 
and  there  seemed  to  be  something  of 
a  scattering  of  the  throng  about  the 
door. 

What  was  that  I  heard  ?  "Firehose 
—hot  water  hydrant — step  lively — try- 
ing to  kill  a  passenger." 

That  certainly  was  something  of  a 
joke  about  killing  a  passenger.  As- 
phyxiation would  supervene  quickly 
enough  if  the  crush  wasn't  relieved, 
but  that  was  only  incidental  to  the  at- 
tack on  the  camera.  I  didn't  want  to 
do  them  the  injustice  of  imputing  a 
desire  to  annihilate  anything  but  the 
obnoxious  machine,  but — how  slow 
that  schooling  stream  of  scalding  water 
was.  in  coming!  Ah,  there  it  was! 
"Whish!  Bang!"  It  was  beating 
about  the  door  while  the  crowd  scat- 
tered with  yells  of  terror.  "Whish! 
Whouf!"  It  flashed  back  and  forth, 
across  the  opening  two  or  three  times, 
and  then  centered  in  a  hissing  stream 
upon  the  heaving  mass  within. 

"Give  'em  hell!  Roast  'em  alive!" 
bellowed  the  directing  voice.  "Catch 
'em  while  they're  all  together!" 

Heavens!  Did  they  think  that  the 
passenger  was  killed  already  that  they 


should  turn  that  scalding  jet  of  hot 
water  in  upon  him?  The  Celestials, 
shielding  their  heads  under  their  arms, 
were  bolting  one  after  another,  and  as 
the  jam  thinned,  I  began  to  get  the 
spray  from  the  hissing  stream.  Then 
two  of  them,  yelling  like  Indians,  ran 
the  gauntlet  together,  and  before  I 
could  shift  my  position  the  shaft  of 
water,  hard  and  unbroken,  was  boring 
into  my  protesting  anatomy.  A  fire 
hose  stream  at  twenty  feet  would  have 
been  bad  enough  if  the  water  had  been 
cold,  but  scalding  steam,  fresh  from 
the  boilers — how  was  it  possible  for 
flesh  and  blood  to  stand  it? 

It  is  a  well,  established  scientific  fact 
that  a  blindfolded  man  cannot  tell*  the 
difference  between  the  touch  of  an 
icicle  and  a  red  hot  iron,  and  to  all  in- 
tents and  purposes  I  was  as  good  as 
blindfolded.  For  several  long  seconds 
I  suffered'  all  the  torments  of  the 
toasting  sinner  in  Hades  before  I  real- 
ized that  the  floor  had  been  awash  for 
five  minutes  with  cold  salt  water,  the 
same  that,  at  about  half  pressure,  was 
being  played  upon  me  now.  I  took  the 
door  like  a  bull  at  a  gate,  and  had  the 
doubtful  satisfaction  of  bowling  over 
the  quartermaster  at  the  nozzle,  and 
deflecting  the  stream  for  an  instant 
into  the  immaculate  ranks  of  a  bevy  of 
my  fellow  passengers  who  had  been 
enjoying  the  fun  from  a  supposedly 
safe  vantage  point. 

"We  switched  her  onto  the  cold  as 
soon  as  we  saw  how  peacefully  in- 
clined the  mob  was,"  explained  the 
mate  in  answer  to  my  query  regarding 
the  mild  nature  of  the  stream  from  the 
fire  hose;  "and  we  cut  down  the  pres- 
sure as  soon  as  we  had  'em  on  the  run. 
Nearly  knocked  the  blocks  off  the  first 
two  or  three  chinks  when  we  had  her 
on  the  full.  Oh,  you  haven't  any  kick 
coming"  (answering  my  indignant  pro- 
test regarding  my  "unfortunate  pre- 
dicament" being  played  up  for  the 
amusement  of  the  passengers)  "serves 
you  right  for  trying  to  burn  up  the 
ship.  Which  reminds  me  that  the 
'Old  Man'  is  probably  waiting  for  you 
in  his  cabin  with  a  copy  of  the  law 
regarding  the  bringing  of  'combust- 


A  rich  Chinese  merchant  in  the  "intermediate"  steerage. 


32 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


ibles  and  inflammables'  aboard  ship. 
I'm  afraid  your  trouble  has  .only  just 
begun,  young  man." 

Ignorance  of  the  law  is  no  pallia- 
tive under  ordinary  circumstances ;  but 
I  was  so  extremely  ignorant,  and  the 
circumstances  were  so  very  extraordi- 
nary that  the  captain,  after  pledging 
me  never  to  repeat  the  offense  on  any 
ship  whatever,  and  extorting  a  set  of 
flash-lights  from  me  as  "hush  money," 
promised  to  lodge  no  complaint  when 
we  reached  port.  One  of  us  at  least 
has  attempted  to  stick  to  the  agree- 
ment so  far. 

The  flashlights  turned  out  beyond  all 


hopes.  That  the  first  ones  should  have 
been  good  was  to  be  expected;  but 
that  anything  was  left  of  the  camera 
and  the  film  it  contained  at  the  end  of 
the  Opium  Den  melee,  seems  incon- 
ceivable. The  machine,  however,, 
hardly  dampened  by  salt  water,  was 
found  with  one  of  the  still  sleeping 
smokers  curled  obligingly  around  it, 
and  the  fact  that  the  shutter  was 
closed,  the  box  unbroken  and  the  bel- 
lows, though  twisted  and  crushed,  un- 
punctured,  was  responsible  for  a  clear 
if  not  artistic  negative  being  preserved 
as  a  memento  of  the  queer  little  mix- 
up. 


THE    GUARDIAN 


Youth  journeyed  through  the  lighted  world,  and  saw 
Its  brilliance,  its  dark  shadows,  and  its  law, 
And  gaudy  curtains  open  wide  did  draw.    . 
And  Life  was  Joy. 

Soon  came  he  to  a  place  where  two  grey  eyes 
'Mid  blushes  met  his  own.    The  youth  with  sighs 
Heard  his  companion  whisper  of  the  prize. 
And  Life  was  Love. 

He  tarried;  and  the  days  sang  in  their  flight. 
But  sickness  entered.    And  the  stars  one  night 
Gathered  the  two  grey  eyes  to  be  their  light. 
And  Life  was  Grief. 

Forth  went  the  man,  his  manhood  dearly  bought, 
And  on  a  mountain's  side  deliverance  sought. 
But  Life  drew  close,  and  held  him  while  he  thought. 
And  Life  was  Hope. 

C.  L.  SAXBY, 


AADAAE 


By   /Aarian    Taylor 


MADAME  JEFFROY  looked 
very  lovely  as  she  sat  in  the 
luxurious  Palm  Garden  of  the 
Palace  Hotel.  It  formed  a 
brilliant  setting  for  her  slender,  al- 
most girlish  figure,  rich  golden  hair 
and  exquisite  complexion.  The  red 
velvet  of  the  chair  in  which  she  re- 
clined so  intensified  her  fairness  that 
more  than  one  passer-by  thought  she 
resembled  a  beautiful  lily. 

Seated  opposite  to  her  was  a  man 
of  massive  proportions;  not  exactly  a 
young  man,  but  one  magnificent  in  his 
prime.  An  iron  jaw  would  have  made 
his  face  too  dominating,  but  for  sen- 
sitive nostrils  and  a  quizzical  look  in 
the  kindly  steel  gray  eyes.  He  was 
scarcely  a  gentleman  born  and  bred, 
and  yet  John  McNeill  claimed  the  at- 
tention of  every  one  he  met,  not  be- 
cause he  had  wrested  from  Dame  For- 
tune a  clear  million  of  dollars,  but  on 
account  of  the  gripping  power  of  his 
personality. 

It  all  seemed  very  unreal  to  him, 
somehow.  Her  presence  with  him 
there  and  the  fact  that  she  was  so  soon 
to  be  his  wife! 

"Lucie!"  It  was  only  a  whispered 
word,  but  as  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his 
face  he  flushed  to  the  very  roots  of  his 
hair,  and  trembled  with  emotion,  for 
he  saw  adoration  in  their  depths. 

"John,  we  must  be  going,  or  we  will 
be  late."  With  hands  that  lingered 
lovingly  at  their  task,  he  drew  her 
silken  wrap  around  her  and  led  her  to 
the  waiting  automobile.  Soon  they 
were  in  the  Van  Ness  Theatre,  with 
the  rest  of  fashionable  San  Francisco, 
listening  to  the  annual  concert  of  the 
Bohemian  Club. 

Never  in  their  lives  had  music  af- 
fected them  like  this  presentation  of 


"The  Cave  Man."  Madame  had  been 
surfeited  with  everything  in  Paris; 
theatres  and  concerts  had  been  part  of 
her  life  there;  things  that  had  to  be 
gone  through  with  but  seldom  enjoyed. 
Now,  however,  Love  had  come  to  her 
at  last,  and  with  all  its  transforming 
power  made  the  beauties  of  music  and 
poetry  living  to  her. 

It  seemed  to  her  as  though  he  and 
she  stood  alone  in  the  universe  primal 
man  and  maid,  he  compelling  her  by 
the  sweet  force  of  the  male,  she  glory- 
ing in  her  subjection  as  the  female. 

To  John  McNeill,  who  had  known 
the  rugged  side  of  life  and  but  few  of 
its  luxuries  till  now,  this  experience 
stood  forth  in  letters  of  fire.  His  little 
Scotch  mother,  away  on  the  farm  in 
Lake  County,  still  thought  of  music 
as  belonging  to  the  flesh-pots  of 
Egypt,  and  John  smiled  as  he  thought 
of  her  and  wondered  how  she  would 
like  a  lady  from  Paris  as  her  daughter. 

"The  Dance  of  the  Fireflies"  thrilled 
his  blood  with  the  very  joy  of  living. 
He  would  have  laughed  aloud  had  he 
dared. 

"Lucie,"  he  whispered,  "that  music 
is  the  spirit  of  incarnate  youth.  Oh, 
it  speaks  to  you!"  She  shivered 
slightly,  and  had  he  noticed  he  would 
have  seen  how  tightly  her  hands  were 
interlocked. 

Much  disappointment  had  been  ex- 
pressed when  it  was  announced  that 
the  great  Eastern  basso  would  not  be 
able  to  sing,  and  "The  Flint  Song,"  by 
his  substitute,  was  awaited  with  but 
languid  interest. 

"Oh,  John!"  Lucie  could  not  help 
the  exclamation  as  the  splendid  voice 
rang  out.  Breathlessly  the  great  au- 
dience listened,  and  then  the  singer 
came  into  his  own  as  the  thunderous 


34 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


applause  swept  the  house  off  its  feet. 

"Youth  again,  dear  heart!  Why,  I 
heard  that  he  learned  that  wonderful 
song  in  a  night.  Never  again  must 
we  say  "A  prophet  is  without  honor  in 
his  own  country.'  " 

"John,  those  that  think  you  hard  in 
business  and  call  you  'Flint  McNeill' 
should  see  you  now:  they  would  have 
to  acknowledge  that  flint  produces  fire, 
for  you  are  fairly  glowing." 

But  it  was  the  passionate  love  duet 
of  the  cave  man  and  maid  that  thrilled 
them  to  a  white  heat  of  emotion,  an 
emotion  so  intense  that  it  hurt. 

When  it  was  over,  he  said:  "Lucie, 
let  us  not  go  to  Europe  for  our  honey- 
moon, but  to  the  country,  like  'The  Vir- 
ginian' and  his  bride.  Let  us  bathe  as 
did  they  in  the  flowing  streams,  and 
sleep  under  the  stars  of  heaven.  Let 
us  drop  all  the  artificialities  of  life, 
and  get  back  to  Nature." 

Her  face  looked  wan  as  she  an- 
swered :  "But,  John,  I  am  not  sure  that 
you  would  love  me  as  a  simple  country 
maid,  and  oh,  what  if  age  should  come 
upon  me!  Is  it  my  youth  and  beauty 
that  you  love,  or  the  personality  of  me, 
irrespective  of  anything  else?" 

He  laughed  like  a  boy,  and  in  the 
speeding  automobile  kissed  her  into 
silence. 

At  last  she  spoke  again :  "Do  not  let 
us  go  to  the  hotel  for  dinner,  but  to  a 
quaint  little  old-fashioned  place  that  I 
know  of,  and  be  Bohemians  ourselves 
just  for  to-night.  You  will  forget  that 
you  are  a  Nevada  millionaire,  and  I, 
that  I  am  the  young  and  beautiful 
Madame  of  Society." 

"Yes,  dear,  and  by  the  way,  I  forgot 
to  tell  you  that  I  have  to  go  to  Nevada 
on  special  business,  and  must  start  in 
the  morning." 

"Then  indeed  'we  will  eat,  drink  and 
be  merry,  for  to-morrow  we  die.' 
There,  you  see,  I  am  quoting  Scrip- 
ture," she  added,  a  feverish  flush  ris- 
ing to  her  cheeks. 

Never  had  he  seen  her  so  gay.  He 
was  enraptured  with  the  sparkle  of  her 
eye,  the  ready  wit  of  her  nimble 
tongue. 

"And  while  you  are  gone,  I  shall  run 


up  to  a  favorite  spot  of  mine,  and  you 
will  not  see  me  till  the  day  before  our 
wedding." 

"But  you  will  give  me  your  address, 
sweetheart?" 

"Nay;  send  your  letters  to  Tahoe 
Tavern,  but  I  shall  not  stay  there.  I 
do  not  know  myself  where  it  will  be.  I 
only  know  that  I  want  to  lie  and  dream 
by  day  in  an  aspen  glade  that  I  once 
saw,  the  sweetest  hiding  place  that 
mortal,  ever  found.  Now,  sir,  ask  no 
more  questions.  Remember,  I  have  not 
promised  to  obey  you  yet." 

"Well,  we  can  travel  together  any- 
way, militant  lady,  if  you  are  going 
north,  too." 

"No,  I  am  going  alone,  and  after  two 
weeks  of  keeping  company  with  my- 
self I  will  return  and  be  your  obedient 
wife  for  life.  You  know  a  wilful  wo- 
man must  have  her  way  sometime  or 
other,  and  better  before  marriage  than 
after." 

John  left  on  the  morning  train  rather 
puzzled  by  her  mood,  and  touched  to 
the  heart  by  a  sudden  and  unexpected 
fit  of  weeping  at  the  end  that  left  her 
all  spent,  and  made  him  anxious  about 
her.  The  brightness  of  her  youth 
seemed  quenched  as  she  waved  her 
last  farewell  to  him,  and  he  made  a 
stern  resolve  that  he  would  keep  all 
sorrows  from  her  in  future. 

Madame  took  the  evening  train  on 
the  same  day  so  that  she  might  sleep 
the  journey  away.  After  breakfast  at 
the  Tavern — where  her  lovely  face  and 
figure  attracted  much  attention — 
satchel  in  hand  she  wended  her  way  to 
Tahoe  City,  and  then  slowly  began 
her  search  for  a  stopping  place. 

^  At  ^  last  she  found  it.  An  ancient, 
dilapidated,  but  still  picturesque  house 
tumbling  down,  as  it  were,  into  the 
water.  The  garden  surrounding  it  a 
veritable  jumble  of  sweetness.  Flowers 
rioting  in  a  profusion  of  color  as 
though  trying  to  out-glory  the  Lake, 
which  lay  like  a  gigantic  and  splendid 
sapphire  at  the  feet  of  the  hoary- 
headed  monarchs  surrounding  it. 

She  rang  the  bell,  which  emitted  a 
wheezy  sound  as  though  asthma  of 
long  standing  had  robbed  it  of  its 


MADAME. 


35 


music.  An  old  and  very  fat  woman 
came  to  the  door  and  blinked  at  her 
out  of  eyes  of  faded  blue. 

"A  room!  Oui — ze  best  I  have.  I 
am  ze  Senora  Annette  Mendoza,  at 
your  service.  From  La  Belle  France. 
Oui,  Madame,  but  my  husband,  Juan 
Mendoza,  he  is  from  ze  Spanish  coun- 
try. And  you,  Madame,  are  you  not 
from  La  Belle  France,  too?  Non! 
But  ze  clothes  are  from  Paris?  Yes,  I 
thought  so." 

Throwing  open  the  door  of  her  best 
room  she  exclaimed  with  great  pride: 
"Regardez,  Madame!" 

Anxious  to  get  rid  of  the  garrulous 
old  woman  with  her  broken  English, 
Lucie  answered  quickly :  "That  will  do 
nicely.  I  will  pay  you  for  two  weeks 
in  advance,  and  now  leave  me  alone.  I 
want  to  rest." 

She  felt  strangely  tired,  now  that  her 
goal  was  reached.  She  might  be  re- 
covering from  sickness,  so  weak  did 
she  feel  as  her  strained  limbs  began 
to  relax. 

Locking  the  door,  she  took  off  her 
dress,  and  slipped  into  a  gossamer-like 
silken  kimono  she  had  brought  with 
her.  Then  with  great  deliberation  she 
washed  the  coloring  off  her  cheeks  and 
lips,  the  penciling  off  her  eyebrows, 
and  last  of  all  took  out  the  pins  that 
held  the  lovely  golden  hair  together. 
It  slipped  down  the  entire  length  of 
her  to  the  floor,  disclosing  her  own 
more  scanty  locks,  streaked  with  gray, 
that  had  hitherto  been  covered.  Her 
youth  fell  away  like  a  garment.  In- 
stead of  a  woman  of  twenty-eight,  one 
of  forty-five  stared  at  her  from  the 
mirror,  and  in  her  agony  she  tore  her 
handkerchief  to  pieces. 

'  'The  simple  life !  Back  to  Nature !' 
"Oh,  John,  John !"  she  moaned,  flinging 
herself  on  the  bed,  where  she  lay  con- 
vulsed with  suffering. 

The  hours  passed.  She  knew  not 
how  many,  but  at  last  she  was  roused 
by  the  Senora's  voice  speaking  through 
the  key-hole : 

"Madame,  will  she  not  take  ze  tea 
and  toast?"  Wearily,  and  with  feet 
that  dragged,  Lucie  went  to  the  door 
and  unlocked  it. 


"Mon  Dieu!  Mon  Dieu!  But  ze 
beautiful  hair,  where  ees  it?  Ah,  ma 
chere !  I  see !  You  are  old,  too.  That 
ees  it.  You  are  old,  too,"  and  laughter, 
hideous  and  discordant,  seized  the 
Senora  Mendoza  till  she  shook  like  a 
great  jellyfish. 

"Go;"  shrieked  Madame,  and  with 
frantic  hands  she  pushed  the  old  wo- 
man through  the  door. 

Early  next  morning,  before  any  one 
was  astir,  Lucie  crept  out  to  seek  the 
shelter  of  the  aspen  glade.  The  fever 
of  her  body  and  soul  craved  the  cool 
recesses  of  that  blessed  hiding  place, 
where  she  would  be  free  to  fight  her 
battle  alone. 

Stumbling  along  her  way,  she  ran 
into  a  small  Indian  encampment  where 
already  the  squaws  were  preparing 
breakfast.  A  papoose  gurgled  at  the 
feet  of  its  mother,  and  a  sob  broke 
from  Lucie's  lips,  for  had  she  not  seen 
a  little  child  once  put  its  chubby  arms 
around  John's  neck,  and  heard  it  lisp, 
"I  love  oo,  I  love  oo!"  And  the  holy 
look  in  his  dear  eyes  had  told  her  of 
his  hope,  some  day,  to  thus  hold  a 
child  of  his  own  and  hers  in  his  long- 
ing arms,  and  now 

She  found  the  aspen  glade  and  pene- 
trated to  the  very  heart  of  it.  Not  to- 
day were  the  happy  trees  dancing  in 
the  sunshine  as  of  yore.  In  the  gray 
of  the  early  morning  light  it  seemed, 
to  her  fevered  vision,  that  the  poor, 
quivering  things  were  suffering  with 
her,  and  she  felt  that  they  were  com- 
rades, friends. 

Her  mind  began  to  wander.  She  was 
a  girl  again,  being  dragged  to  the 
cheap  watering  places  of  Europe  by 
her  mother,  and  virtually  held  up  for 
sale  to  the  highest  bidder. 

Dieppe!  She  saw  again  the  gleam- 
ing stretch  of  sand  and  the  gay  casino. 
She  heard  once  more  the  harsh,  grat- 
ing voice  of  that  wizened,  wicked  old 
man,  Monsieur  Jeffrey,  owner  of  the 
big  chateau  on  the  cliff,  to  whom  she 
was  married  at  seventeen.  Shudder- 
ingly  she  recalled  the  unspeakable 
degradation  of  the  five  years  that  fol- 
lowed, mercifully  ended,  however,  by 
the  sudden  death  of  as  vile  a  creature 


36 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


as  ever  a  poor,  unsuspecting  child  had 
been  bound  to. 

His  last  malignant  act  was  to  will 
everything  away  from  her,  and  she 
was  thrown  penniless  on  the  world. 
Then  it  was  that,  becoming  hard  and 
bitter,  she  had  traded  her  youth  and 
beauty  for  luxury,  in  a  vain  attempt  to 
grasp  something  from  life. 

At  last  the  unexpected  happened. 
An  uncle  she  had  never  known  left  her 
his  fortune,  and  wearily  she  turned 
from  France  to  America,  leaving  the 
old  ways  and  the  old  loves  as  far  be- 
hind as  possible. 

Then  in  the  wonderful  city  of  the 
West,  lapped  by  the  waters  of  the 
Pacific,  she  had  met  John,  and  he  had 
taught  her  for  the  first  time  what  love 
really  meant.  She  knew  that  he  be- 
lieved in  her  with  all  the  strength  of 
his  loyal  nature,  and  that  to  him  deceit 
was  the  one  unpardonable  sin. 

"Keeping  company  with  herself" — 
she  shivered  as  she  recalled  her  words 
to  him — stripped  bare  of  shams  and 
hypocrisies,  body  and  soul;  seeing 
herself  a  whited  sepulchre,  she  real- 
ized that  her  dream  was  over.  Never 
could  she  marry  him,  nor  he  her,  with 
the  dead  years  lying  between  them, 
and  bowing  her  face  on  her  knees,  she 

wept  as  one  weeps  for  the  lost. 
*  *  *  * 

"I  tell  you  it's  true,  Hal:  I  saw 
Madame  Jeffrey  in  Paris  ten  years  ago, 
and  everybody  said  she  was  thirty- 
five  then,  though  she  looked  very  much 
younger.  And  yesterday  when  she 
passed  through  here,  so  marvelously 
does  she  fix  herself  up  she  actually  did 
not  look  a  day  older  than  then." 

"But,  Gilbert,  were  the  stories  true 
about  her?" 

"Why,  of  course ! !  Her  horses  were 
among  the  finest  ever  seen  in  the  Bois, 
and  what  made  the  men  so  wild  after 
her  was  her  air  of  utter  indifference,  a 
sort  of  remoteness  that,  in  spite  of  her 
life,  put  her  in  a  class  by  herself.  It 
was  said  that  an  unfortunate  marriage 
made  her  reckless,  so  perhaps  Madame 
is  to  be  more  pitied  than  blamed,  only 
I  wonder  if  that  Nevada  chap  knows  it. 
American  men  are  keen  enough  in 


business,  but  awful  fools  where  women 
are  concerned,  I'm  thinking." 

The  men  sauntered  on  without  no- 
ticing that  John  McNeill,  who,  stand- 
ing near  by,  had  heard  their  conversa- 
tion. At  first  he  had  felt  like  fighting, 
and  then  he  found  himself  listening  in 
spite  of  himself.  As  they  moved  away, 
he  laughed  in  scorn  at  the  very  absur- 
dity of  the  thing.  One  glance  at  Lucie's 
pure,  sweet  face  would  forever  dispel 
any  such  thoughts  as  these,  and  he 
was  on  his  way  to  her  now. 

He  had  not  been  needed,  after  all, 
in  Nevada,  and  what  a  delight  it  would 
be  to  come  upon  her — unawares,  per- 
haps— and  what  joy  to  him  to  see  the 
love-light  flame  in  her  eyes! 

It  was  evening  before  he  found  her; 
not  till  then  did  he  remember  the  as- 
pen glade  of  her  conversation.  The 
house  of  the  Senora  Mendoza  never 
once  occurred  to  him  as  a  place  in 
which  to  find  Lucie,  and  so  he  searched 
till  he  found  the  quivering  trees  of  her 
fancy. 

She  did  not  hear  him  coming,  so 
quietly  did  he  tread,  but  she  knew  in- 
stinctively that  he  was  there,  and 
raised  sombre  eyes  to  his  face  from 
which  all  blood  seemed  stricken,  and 
all  expression  obliterated.  Only  in  his 
burning  eyes  was  there  sign  of  life. 
They,  looking  beyond  the  body, 
searched  her  soul  relentlessly,  and  she 
faced  the  ordeal  as  one  from  whom  all 
hope  had  fled. 

Thus  might  two  souls  meet  and  look 
in  hades,  the  anguish  of  unutterable 
woe  upon  them.  Then  he  spoke:  "Is 
it  true?" 

And  she  answered  as  briefly :  "More 
than  true!" 

In  the  deathly  silence  that  followed 
he  thought  of  the  little  mother  on  the 
old  farm  and  what  she  would  say.  He 
could  see  her  hands  raised  in  horror, 
and  the  blood  of  all  his  Scotch  Cove- 
nanter ancestors  seemed  to  rise  in  pro- 
test against  the  woman  before  him. 
She  who  had  only  the  dead  ashes  of  a 
sinful  past  to  lay  upon  Love's  altar, 
she  who  had  stolen  his  heart  by  deceit. 

He  had  meant  to  make  up  to  her,  as 
far  as  he  could,  for  the  sorrows  of  her 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


37 


unhappy  early  marriage,  but  this 

She  read  the  verdict  in  his  eyes  as 
they  wandered  over  her  haggard  face 
and  disheveled  hair,  and  she  bowed 
her  head  to  the  dust. 

She  never  knew  when  he  left  her. 
She  did  not  hear  him  go.  Prone  on  the 
earth  she  lay,  till  ghostly  gray  mists 
crept  up  from  the  Lake  and  touched 
her  with  clammy  fingers,  and  night 
came  on  stealthy  foot  to  wrap  his  sable 
robe  around  her.  The  slender  trees 
were  writhing  and  twisting  like  lost 
souls  in  Purgatory,  and  only  the  stars, 
heaven's  harbingers  of  hope  to  the 
weary,  seemed  at  peace  with  the 
world. 

And  was  this  the  end  of  things  for 
her?  Was  there  no  ray  of  light  for 
such  as  she?  By  a  peculiar  trick  of 
memory,  she  thought  of  the  great 
white  cross  that  lies  athwart  the 


scarred  side  of  Mount  Tallac,  and  of 
all  that  the  emblem  stands  for. 

Never,  even  in  the  slightest  degree, 
had  she  been  a  religious  woman,  but 
then,  never  before  had  she  known  the 
need  of  an  awakened  soul. 

The  Via  Dolorosa,  whence  would  it 
lead  her?  With  illuminating  power, 
some  half-forgotten  words  came  back 
to  her: 

"As  the  rose,  so  may  we  arise, 
Purged  pure  by  pain  to  Paradise. 
From  our  dead  selves,  from  sin  to  pass 
Like    tall    white    lilies    from    dank 
grass." 

They  permeated  her  with  new  life. 
She  rose  from  the  damp  ground,  and 
throwing  up  supplicating  hands  to- 
wards Heaven,  waited  for  the  strength 
that  she  knew  would  be  vouchsafed  to 
her. 


JULY 


A  golden  haze — and  languid  breezes  rest — 

While  sunbeams  drain  the  poppies'  red  cups  dry, 

And  rows  of  ragweed  stand  so  grim  and  still, 
Where  leaves  unfold,  to  greet  the  fair  July. 

The  corn  waves  high  its  yellow  silken  plumes, 
And  cobwebs  pull  the  daisies'  caps  awry; — 

The  clovers  nestle  'midst  the  grasses  lush — 
And  time  lags  'neath  the  spell  of  warm  July. 

A  lily  lifts  her  chalice,  pearly  white — 

To  tempt  a  passing,  gorgeous  butterfly — 
And  cardinals  flame  beside  some  marigolds, 

Telling  of  dreams  that  'wakened  in  July. 

Rose  petals  lie  in  fragrant  rainbowed  drifts — 
But  no  one  asks  the  wherefore — nor  the  why; 

A  cricket  chirps,  and  goldenrods  their  torches  flash — 
While  bees  filch  honeyed  sweets  in  calm  July. 

Fringing  the  aisles — gleam  starry  aster  blooms, 
And  soft  the  brook  croons  Summer's  lullaby ; — 

A  drowsy  poppy  lets  her  red  glass  fall, — 
And  bares  her  heart  in  farewell  to  July. 

AGNES  LOCKHART  HUGHES. 


DE    PROFUND1S 


By  Genevieve  Cooney 


OUT  of  the  depths  have  I  cried 
unto  Thee!" 
Just  after  the  sundown  sig- 
nal had  been  fired  from  Fort 
Reliance   and  its  echoing  boom  had 
thundered  far,  far  over  the  vast  snow 
plains  of  Kaskatchawan,  the  village 
priest  of  Terrahorn  left  the  fort  and 
started  home  from  his  weekly  visit  to 
the  barracks     hospital.     The     shore 
road  of  Slave  Lake  was  desolate  and 
drear  as  he  turned  his  horse's  head 
away  from  the  sunset.    A  dull  murki- 
ness  lay  over  the  Northeast,  and  the 
wind  blew  threateningly  from  the  lake. 

After  a  four-mile  drive,  Father  Mc- 
Dougal  reached  home  only  in  time  to 
escape  the  fury  of  the  gale.  He  went 
into  the  church,  and  hung  a  lantern  in 
the  loft  window — he  called  it  Saint 
Anthony's  eye  watching  the  road  for 
lost  souls — and  bolted  the  windows 
securely.  Then  he  hurried  into  the  rec- 
tory. He  was  two  hours  late  for  tea 
and  his  motherly  old  housekeeper  had 
cautioned  him  most  earnestly  of  late 
about  the  danger  of  being  caught  in 
bad  weather — "he  with  his  good  health 
no  more  to  be  trusted  on  nor  the  mind 
o'  a  young  lass."  But  he  took  his  cold 
toast  and  tea  humbly  and  penitently 
as  Elizabeth  stood  in  the  doorway  and 
mildly  scolded  him. 

She  was  a  provincial  old  Scotch- 
woman, who  had  been  the  housekeeper 
for  the  Terrahorn  parish  for — no  one 
knew  how  long — longer  than  the  mem- 
ory of  any  one  in  the  valley,  and  the 
oldest  man  in  the  province  was  to  her 
but  a  mere  boy — something  to  be 
mothered  and  scolded. 

"Ye'll  hae  none  to  blame  but  yersel', 
I'm  thinkin',  when  ye  break  doon,  and 
its  beyon'  the  ken  o'  me  why  ye  will 
keep  runnin'  and  runnin'  in  a'  weathers 


wi'  not  a  thought  o'  yersel'.  It's  me 
thinkin'  the  sojers  up  at  the  fort  hae 
a  soft  snap  o'  it  wi'  ye  runnin'  to  them, 
savin'  their  souls.  It's  not  comin'  to 
the  kirk  they  be.  Here's  the  bacon 
dried  to  a  straw.  Ye'er  toast  cold  as 
the  mountain,  an*  ye'er  face  lookin' 
hungrier  nor  a  starved  fisherman." 

"It's  all  right,  'Lizbeth:  I'm  only 
just  now  getting  hungry,  and  you 
know  I  couldn't  neglect  my  boys  at  the 
fort  no  matter  how  severe  the  storm." 

"Well,  Heaven  give  ye  the  power 
to  know  best,"  she  added,  still  un- 
convinced. 

When  he  had  finished  his  tea  he 
went  to  his  study.  He  glanced  around 
the  room  to  see  that  it  was  not  too 
stiffly  in  order  to  be  comfortable, 
pulled  together  the  green  draw  cur- 
tains, shifted  the  reading  lamp  to  his 
liking  and  drew  his  big  easy  chair 
within  the  shade's  radiance.  Shortly 
his  eyes  fell  upon  an  old  acorn  picture 
frame  that  stood  in  the  lamp-shade's 
shadow.  A  boy's  face  looked  out  from 
it — a  young  little  face  with  eyes  that 
looked  out  upon  the  world  with  a 
half  challenging  and  wholly  self-re- 
liant look.  The  old  priest  brought  the 
picture  tenderly  towards  him,  and 
holding  it  close,  he  murmured  an  oft- 
repeated  prayer : 

"My  little  boy,"  he  spoke  to  the  pic- 
ture, "who  went  away  to  find  gold  in 
the  mountains  and  never  came  back 
to  me.  Five  years  since  you  went 
from  me — and  never  a  word.  My  lit- 
tle godson,  David  the  Missionary. 
Well,  some  day,  God  willing,  I  shall 
have  a  message — some  day  the  little, 
restless  soldier  will  come  back  to  me." 

Little  David,  "the  captain's  young- 
ster," was  seven  years  old  when 
Father  McDougal  took  him  from  the 


DE  PROFUNDIS. 


39 


fort,  an  orphan,  to  live  at  the  rectory. 
He  served  mass  every  morning,  went 
to  the  village  school  and  lived  quite 
as  any  other  boy  in  a  little  Canadian 
village.  As  he  grew  older  the  limits 
of  his  tiny  world  grew  too  confining. 
He  longed  for  more  avenues  of  inter- 
est, for  a  world  brighter  than  the  little 
church,  the  rectory,  Elizabeth  and  his 
guardian.  So  Father  McDougal's  fer- 
vent wish  that  his  godson  might  follow 
in  his  footsteps  seemed  far  from  being 
realized. 

"What  would  you  have  me  be, 
Father?"  David  would  often  ask  him. 
"Wouldn't  you  like  me  to  be  a  rich 
man  with  money  for  all  your  poor; 
better  horses  than  Lord  Putney's,  and 
the  finest  house  in  the  village  for  you, 
with  gardens  like  the  fort,  and  then 
I  would  build  a  church  like  the  pic- 
tures you  have  of  Saint  Peter's.  Father, 
you  know  you  want  me  to  be  a  great, 
rich  man — the  richest  in  the  province, 
and  where  could  I  find  wealth  in  Ter- 
rahorn?  Say  you  will  let  'me  go, 
Father — say  you  will  let  me  go." 

"My  little  son,"  the  priest  would  an- 
swer, "if  God  were  to  grant  me  a  re- 
quest that  would  make  me  more  happy 
than  anything  else,  He  would  give  my 
little  David  the  grace  to  take  up  His 
work  and  tell  to  men  the  story  of  the 
life  to  be." 

"Yes,  but  Father,  I  want  to  be  some- 
thing more  than — than  just  David,  the 
pastor's  boy." 

But  all  his  coaxing  and  pleading  to 
be  allowed  to  go  with  the  gold  seekers 
had  been  fruitless,  and  one  night  when 
Father  McDougal  was  away  for  a 
few  days  to  assist  at  a  consecration — 

David  ran  away! 

*  *  *  # 

The  sound  of  voices  outside  his 
door  broke  the  old  priest's  reverie. 
He  put  the  picture  away,  and  opened 
the  door,  to  find  Elizabeth  reluctantly 
bringing  a  strange  man  into  his  study. 

"You  are  welcome,"  said  Father 
McDougal  in  his  old-fashioned  way, 
bidding  the  man  draw  up  a  chair  by 
the  fire.  "It's  a  bad  night  to  travel." 

"Yes,  a  bad  night,"  answered  the 
newcomer,  looking  furtively  around 


the  room.  He  took  off  his  slouch  hat 
and  turned  down  the  high  collar  which 
had  almost  hidden  his  face.  "You  are 
Father  McDougal,"  he  asked,  rather 
timidly. 

"I  am." 

"You  are  pastor  of  the  Terrahorn 
Valley?" 

"I  am." 

"And  the  fort?" 

"Yes." 

"I  am  here  on  a  strange  errand.  It's 
a  new  one  in  my  line."  He  hesitated, 
and  there  was  something  about  the 
strange  man,  a  certain  penitence  in  his 
approach,  that  was  answered  by  a 
kindlier  tone  in  the  priest's  voice. 

"I  hope  I  may  be  of  service  to  you, 
and  you  will  accept  my  confidence — 
if  it  is  required — sir.  You  have  trav- 
eled some,  I  imagine,  in  the  storm. 
You  wish  lodgings  and " 

"No,  no,  thank  you,  not  that."  Some- 
how the  man  made  Father  McDougal 
think  of  an  animal  cornered  to  the 
hunter's  mercy,  and  yet  there  was 
nothing  about  him  to  suggest  fright  un- 
less it  was  the  timidity  of  his  knowing 
how  to  proceed. 

After  a  silence  that  seemed  ominous 
from  its  weight  of  unuttered  caution, 
he  said,  determinedly:  "Would  you 
risk  your  life  to  take  a  chance  on  sav- 
ing a  man's  soul — bringing  'em  back  to 
the  fold,  I  believe  you  call  it,  only  I 
ain't  sure  that  this  one  ever  had  a  fold 
even.  Savin'  souls  is  your  business, 
ain't  it?" 

"Yes,  saving  souls,  as  you  express 
it,  is  my  calling.  That  is,  it  is  the 
calling  of  my  life  to  speak  the  Word 
of  God  to  other  men."  After  a  mo- 
ment :  "Yes,  I  would  willingly  risk  my 
life  to  save  a  soul." 

"And  would  you  come  with  me  with- 
out knowing — without  asking  where 
to  speak  to  a  sinner?" 

Father  McDougal  searched  keenly 
the  face  of  his  questioner.  It  was  a 
face  which  told  nothing,  and  the  soul 
behind  it  was  well  hidden. 

The  man,  world-accustomed,  recog- 
nized the  look  which  said  plainly :  "Is 
this  a  trap?" 

"This  is  no  scheme — no  trap,"  he 


40 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


said.  "I  could  have  no  reason  for  ap- 
proaching you  like  this  except  what  I 
ask  of  you.  Will  you  go?" 

"But,  my  good  man,  I  can't  go  on 
such  an  errand  without  my  bishop's 
permission." 

"How  long  will  that  take?  What  is 
the  least  time  you  can  get  it  in?" 

"Is  the  man  dying?"  asked  Father 
McDougal. 

"No,  not  yet;  that  is,  not  quite." 

"He  is  in  immediate  danger,  you 
think?" 

"Yes.  I  think  you'd  say  he  was  in 
pretty  bad  shape — if  you  knew — if 
you  knew  the  whole  story." 

Father  McDougal  tapped  the  table 
with  his  spectacle  case  for  a  moment. 
"I  don't  like  the  mystery,"  he  said. 
"Seems  to  me  very  strange  you  can't 
tell  me  at  least  a  little,  since  you  come 
to  me — ask  me  to  take  this  risk  and — " 

"You  have  said  you  would  take  the 
risk  with  your  bishop's  permission — 
why  say  any  more  on  that  score.  Let's 
get  down  to  details.  My  time's  lim- 
ited, and  it  is  getting  late.  I've  come 
a  great  many  miles  to  see  you,  Father 
McDougal  of  Terrahorn."  He  repeated 
the  name  half  to  himself,  as  if  through 
its  long  harboring  in  his  memory  he 
had  become  only  subconscious  of  ut- 
tering it.  "As  far  as  I  can  see  there's 
no  one  else  will  do  for  this  job  but 
you.  I  may  not  impress  you  as  being 
the  sort  you'd  trust  at  first  sight,  but 
just  now — /  am  on  the  square."  His 
big  hand  came  down  palmward  on  the 
table,  and  after  a  steady  look  into  the 
face  of  his  host,  he  added,  almost  as 
an  entreaty:  "You'll  be  doing  a  heap 
of  good  if  you  come.  I'll  be  back  here 
to-morrow  night  for  your  answer.  If 
you'll  come,  be  ready  to  start  with  me 
then — and  here,  I'd  better  leave  you 
a  guarantee."  He  drew  a  bill  case 
from  his  coat  and  put  several  large 
bills  on  the  table.  "You'll  need  it,  and 
from  the  looks  of  the  town,  I  guess 
there's  youngsters  here — the  miners' 
kids,  that  don't  have  sugar  plums  all 
the  year — so  pass  it  around.  But  an- 
other thing — not  a  word  to  God,  man 
or  beast,  and  don't  explain  any  more 
to  your  superior  than  you  have  to." 


Surprise  had  left  Father  McDougal 
almost  speechless,  but  he  managed  to 
say :  "If  it  is  God's  will  I  shall  go  with 
you."  After  a  fervent  handshake  the 
man  was  gone.  The  old  priest  sat  for 
hours  before  the  fire,  numb  to  all  in- 
timate surroundings  save  the  pictured 
face  of  David  that  looked  up  at  him. 
The  study  seemed  to  still  hold  the 
presence  of  the  strange  man  who  had 
drifted  in  with  the  blizzard.  Father 
McDougal  took  off  his  glasses  and 
wiped  his  eyes.  They  were  getting 
unsteady — or  was  it  imagination — for 
surely  that  face  of  David  seemed  to 
say  plainly:  "Please  go — just  for  my 
sake." 

At  sundown  the  next  day,  Father 
McDougal  was  ready  for  his  journey 
of  mystery.  Very  reluctantly  Eliza- 
beth packed  his  bag,  a  bit  awed,  how- 
ever, by  the  unusual  event  that  had 
broken  into  the  simple  monotony  of 
their  lives. 

Just  after  dark  the  man  came,  a  look 
of  great  relief  on  his  face  when  he 
assured  himself  that  Father  McDougal 
was  really  going  with  him. 

A  team  of  horses  drove  them  to  the 
railway  station,  three  miles  away,  and 
during  the  ride  a  dull  silence  settled 
upon  the  two  unusually  different  men 
that  was  marred  only  by  a  great  sigh 
from  the  stranger  that  seemed  to  speak 
the  ending  of  a  long  trial — a  cry  of  re- 
lief from  a  great  pain. 

All  night,  all  day  and  again  all  night 
they  traveled.  At  rare  intervals  his 
silent  companion  would  look  in  at  the 
door  of  his  compartment  and  ask  if 
he  were  comfortable,  and  to  announce 
when  they  were  about  to  change  cars. 

As  near  as  Father  McDougal  could 
tell,  they  seemed  to  travel  south  and 
west  with  a  great  many  changes,  and  a 
seemingly  uncalled-for  precaution. 

Three  days  after  they  had  left  the 
little  Canadian  village  they  reached 
a  little  old  mining  post  in  the  moun- 
tains. The  railroad  seemed  to  go  no 
farther,  and  the  whole  place  breathed 
forth  the  atmosphere  of  final  effort. 
On  men's  faces  one  saw  the  shadow  of 
failure.  About  the  streets,  one  noticed 
the  remnants  of  forsaken  enterprises. 


DE  PROFUNDIS. 


41 


It  was  the  landing  place  of  hope  unful- 
filled. 

The  man  helped  Father  McDougal 
to  alight  from  the  train,  and  motioned 
him  to  the  only  seat  the  spot  afforded 
— an  old  truck  that  in  the  banishment 
of  prosperous  outlook  from  the  place 
had  emerged  with  only  three  rusty 
wheels. 

The  man  muttered  something  about 
a  "rig  expected,"  and  after  a  tedious 
wait  of  an  hour  or  more,  an  alien 
speck  of  color  crawled  on  from  the 
dim  landscape  of  the  hills  and  very 
slowly  emerged  into  shape.  The 
strange  man  muttered:  "Here  it 
comes,"  and  the  battered  old  covered 
wagon  hobbled  and  rattled  down  the 
hill.  The  man  seemed  much  relieved 
as  he  helped  Father  McDougal  climb 
to  the  seat.  Every  step  passed  in  the 
journey  seemed  mitigative  of  his  very 
apparent  disquietude. 

He  dismissed  the  man  who  had 
brought  the  wagon,  took  the  reins,  and 
once  more  the  old  horses  turned  to 
climb  the  trail  road  into  the  moun- 
tains. Long  after  dark  had  fallen, 
they  drew  up  near  an  old  shed,  and 
as  the  stranger  helped  Father  McDou- 
gal to  alight,  he  said:  "Now,  we'll 
have  to  walk  about  a  mile.  You  see, 
from  here  on  the  trail  gets  too  narrow 
for  the  horses — but  we'll  take  it  easy. 
If  you'll  just  light  this  lantern  while  I 
put  the  horses  inside  and  give  them  a 
feed."  Somewhere  in  the  distance  a 
coyote  howled,  and  was  answered  by 
an  echo.  The  man  spoke  in  tones  so 
low  that  even  the  echoes  would  not  find 
him,  and  taking  the  oil  lantern  from 
the  priest,  he  led  the  way  into  the 
trail.  A  boulder  jetted  ravine  sloped 
away  from  them  on  one  side,  and  let  in 
a  ray  of  moonlight  long  and  splendidly 
bright  like  a  silver  sword  thrust 
through  a  cloudy  shield,  and  left  for 
a  moment  in  a  mountain  crevice. 

At  last  the  two  men  came  to  an  end 
of  the  path  and  stood  before  a  per- 
pendicular wall  where  the  stones  jutted 
out  and  divided  the  huge  granite  into 
numerous  nooks.  Into  one  of  these 
the  stranger  led  the  way  and  knocked 
on  what  seemed  to  be  a  wooden  door. 


A  bolt  slid  back,  and  the  door  on 
hinges  was  pushed  open.  Father  Mc- 
Dougal followed  the  man  inside,  all 
the  while  watching  the  queer-looking 
creature  who  had  let  them  in.  He 
was  evidently  expecting  them,  as  a 
meal  was  set  upon  a  table  in  one  cor- 
ner. The  place  must  have  been  a  dis- 
carded entrance  to  a  railroad  tunnel 
which  had  been  partly  blasted  out  and 
never  used.  Buffalo  rugs  covered  the 
floor,  and  all  sorts  of  skins  were  stuck 
into  the  walls  with  miners'  candle 
picks.  The  priest's  gaze  wandered 
slowly  about  the  place  with  wonder 
only,  until  he  looked  upon  the  partition 
that  screened  the  rest  of  the  cave  from 
view.  Then  an  expression  of  aston- 
ishment that  was  almost  horror 
mounted  to  his  lips,  but  died  unuttered 
as  he  saw  several  gorgeous  vestments 
of  cloth  of  gold  and  silver  hung  across 
a  young  sapling  which  served  as  a 
pole.  He  turned  back  to  question  his 
host,  but  again  kept  silence.  He  would 
let  the  mystery  unfold  itself  in  its 
own  peculiar  way. 

"Well,  Esquie,"  said  the  man,  "we 
are  here  at  last.  .  You  see  I  got  him. 
This  is  the  Father  I  went  so  far  to  see. 
Give  us  something  to  eat,  and  be  quick 
— then  go  to  bed.  Come,  sir,  sit  down 
and  eat."  Father  McDougal  wondered 
at  the  change  in  the  man;  he  seemed 
to  have  left,  off  his  burden,  and  his 
voice  was  consonant  with  freedom. 
He  lifted  the  goblet  in  front  of  him  to 
his  lips,  but  before  he  had  touched  the 
drink,  Father  McDougal  uttered  a  lit- 
tle cry  and  detained  him.  "Don't 
drink,  please,"  said  the  priest — then 
halted  a  moment  for  composure.  He 
laid  a  restraining  hand  on  the  other's 
arm,  and  kindly  but  firmly  said:  "My 
good  man,  I  am  sure  you  will  please 
me  by  not  drinking  from  that  goblet. 
For  to  do  so  would  pain  me  greatly. 
This  is  a  communion  chalice  of  the 
Catholic  Church.  In  my  eyes  it  is 
sacred." 

The  man's  eyes  showed  fight — so 
long  was  he  accustomed  to  resent  bru- 
tally, but  the  look  faded  under  the 
quiet  strength  of  the  old  priest's  calm- 
ness, and  he  put  the  goblet  down. 


42 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


The  incident  finished,  was  forgotten, 
and  the  man  began  to  eat.  Suddenly 
he  pushed  back  his  plate,  arose  and 
began  pacing  the  floor. 

"This  cave,  my  dear,  old,  honest 
man,"  he  said,  his  voice  steady  with 
the  determination  of  a  great  effort,  "is 
the  treasure  house  of  dishonesty. 
Everything  in  it,  except  the  skins — 
yes,  even  they — was  stolen.  That  half- 
witted Esquimo  boy  was  stolen.  But 
that's  not  what  I  brought  you  here  to 
tell  you. 

"Five  years  ago  last  May  we  were 
operating — the  gang  and  myself — in 
the  Columbia  district.  We  fixed  a 
C.  P.  train  bound  for  Vancouver.  It 
was  a  big  job — had  Eastern  money  on 
board — lots  of  it.  We  hit  her  off  just 
the  other  side  of  Spencer's  bridge, 
when  she  was  coming  down  grade — 
opened  a  switch  and  she  slid  into  the 
rocks.  The  boys  began  to  pick  up 
goods  as  soon  as  she  quit  squirmin'. 
Two  of  the  boys  were  caught  in  their 
tracks.  Harry — he  was  once  a  French 
count — started  in  before  she  stopped, 
and  part  of  a  coach  rolled  over  on  him. 
Ted  was  burned  so  bad  that  he  died, 
so  that  left  Watkins  and  me  to  finish 
up.  Well,  the  coaches  caught  fire  be- 
fore you'd  be  wondering  how  it  hap- 
pened, and  oh,  God,  it  was  the  furnace 
of  hell.  Bad  as  I  have  been  all  my 
life,  little  notice  as  I've  taken  of  dying 
men  and  smoke — I  couldn't  stand  that. 
I  was  creeping  beside  a  coach  makin' 
my  get-away,  when  a  hand  waved  to 
me  from  a  burning  window — a  little, 
young  hand.  The  car  had  slid  off  its 
wheels  and  was  burning  up.  Then  a 
young  face  was  lifted  from  the  flames 
and  a  pair  of  eyes — a  boy's  eyes — 
looked  at  me.  God,  that  look!  It's 
been  with  me  ever  since.  I  don't  know 
what  made  me,  but  I  threw  down  the 
bag  and  lifted  him  out.  He  was  done 
for — cut  and  burned,  and  out  of  his 
head.  He  began  to  talk — tell  me 
things  as  though  I  was  some  one  he 
knew.  He  thought  I  was  you,  and 
that  you'd  come  to  hear  his  confes- 
sion. He  talked  of  Father  McDougal 
and  Terrahorn  and  'Lizabeth,  and  be- 
fore he  died  I  knew  his  whole  little 


story.  He'd  run  away  and  wanted 
your  forgiveness.  He  talked  about 
the  wealth  he  was  going  after.  Then 
his  mind  took  another  fancy,  and  he 
told  me  his  confession.  Oh,  God! 
When  I  think  of  it!  When — when  he 
stopped  and  his  eyes  were  closed  I 
took  him  down  to  a  sand  pit  and  buried 
him.  And  I  thought  that  would  be  all. 

"Man,  I  killed  that  boy — him  and 
the  others,  for — well,  for  the  junk  that 
you'll  find  behind  that  curtain.  I  put 
him  under  the  surface,  but  I  couldn't 
keep  him  there !  He's  lived  every  day 
since.  All  these  years,  every  day  and 
hour,  he's  stood  by  my  side  with  that 
little  voice  of  agony  crying  in  my  ear 
— always  your  name — 'Father  McDou- 
gal of  Terrahorn/  " 

The  man  staggered  in  his  walk.  His 
eyes  had  a  wild  look  and  the  old  priest 
tried  to  quiet  him.  The  Esquimo  boy 
crept  furtively  out  from  the  shadowy 
corner.  One  of  the  oil  lanterns,  too, 
flickered  as  if  trembling.  Father  Mc- 
Dougal laid  a  quieting  hand  on  the 
speaker's  shoulder.  "Pax  Vobiscum" 
he  murmured  softly. 

But  the  man,  unheeding,  went  on : 

"That  was  five  years  ago — five 
years — seems  more  like  fifty.  Under- 
stand, I'm  not  given  to  superstition — 
fairy  tales  or  religious  miracles,  and 
maybe  it  is  only  that  I'm  gettin'  old 
and  my  nerve  is  gone — but  whatever  it 
is,  it's  taken  my  reason  away,  for  I — 
I,  Bob  Crawford — am  afraid  of  every 
sound  I  hear.  For  four  years  I've  been 
the  last  of  the  gang.  From  that  night 
our  luck  turned.  That  next  year  we 
only  made  two  hauls  and  they — well, 
there  wasn't  any  killing  in  them.  That 
boy  was  the  last — to  think  it  had  to  be 
a  little  boy, 

"When  he  lay  dying  in  my  arms  be- 
side the  burning  car  and  the  cries  of  a 
thousand  agonies  came  out  of  the  burn- 
ing flesh,  I  lived  my  miserable  life 
over  again.  I  saw  myself  as  I  was  at 
this  boy's  age — I  ran  away,  too — I  saw 
what  I  might  have  been — God  help  the 
might-have-beens ! 

Well,  ever  since  then  I've  stood  still, 
and  when  I  did  move  it  was  to  run 
away  from  that  boy's  voice — from  the 


DE  PROFUNDIS. 


43 


look  in  his  eyes.  But  I  couldn't  escape 
him.  He's  been  the  only  jailer  this 
outlaw  ever  knew.  All  day  he  speaks 
to  me.  He  cries  to  me  in  the  dead  of 
night,  and  his  voice  holds  the  shrieks 
of  a  thousand  voices.  The  women  we 
widowed  and  the  little  kids  we  or- 
phaned shriek  at  me  through  that  boy's 
voice.  Sometimes  he  stands  before  me 
with  his  hands  outstretched,  begging 
for  something.  Oh,  God!  Can  you, 
old  man,  put  yourself  in  such  a  place 
and  not  end  it  all  ?  But  listen :  I  can't 
even  do  that.  Twice  I've  tried — but 
that  little  boy's  dead  fingers  comes  be- 
tween mine  and  the  trigger.  I  couldn't 
stand  it  any  longer,  and  so  I  thought 
I'd  look  you  up.  That  was  what  the 
boy  seemed  to  want.  I  can't  bring  him 
back  to  you.  I  can't  do  anything  to 
atone.  But  I  can  give  you  the  wealth 
he  wanted  to  find.  I  want  you  to  take 
it.  Perhaps  you'd  rather  give  it  back 
— some  of  it,  to  where  it  belongs.  I've 
kept  account  of  where  it  came  from — 
but  some,  most  of  it,  can't  get  back — 
we  took  it  from  dead  men.  You  see, 
I've  always  done  things  in  my  own 
queer  way,  and  I'll  have  to  stick  to  my 
own  queer  way  now — that's  why  I 
brought  you  up  here  to  tell  you  the 
story.  All  that  gold  church  stuff  is 
from  Guadalupe — perhaps  you  heard 
ten  years  ago  of  the  church  robberies 
in  Mexico — there  'tis.  There's  gold 
ore  in  the  corner  that  will  last  you  a 
hundred  years.  I'll  sell  it  to  you  for  a 
little  peace  of  mind." 

The  man  sank  on  to  a  bench — his 
eyes  half-closed,  glanced  from  the 
priest's  face  to  the  table.  "Water!" 
he  gasped. 

The  Esquimo  darted  out  from  the 
shadows  again,  and  taking  the  lantern 
and  a  bucket,  ran  out  to  the  spring. 
Father  McDougal's  trembling  hand 
touched  the  speaker's  shoulder  and  his 
head  sank  into  the  shelter  of  the 
priest's  arm.  His  hands,  too,  palsied 
by  the  great  strain  of  emotion,  hung 
limp  beside  him.  Minutes  passed. 
Somehow,  the  priest  thought  of  the  lit- 
tle confessional  at  home.  It  was  the 
moment  of  "Absolve."  Reverently  he 
lifted  the  golden  chalice  to  the  peni- 


tent's feverish  lips.  "Pace  Tua  Dom- 
ini" he  murmured  softly,  and  the  man 
drank. 

"My  son,"  said  the  old  priest,  with 
a  voice,  tear-laden,  "God  has  heard 
the  prayers  of  David  for  you.  My  lit- 
tle David,  the  missionary.  He  will 
give  you  peace."  He  patted  the  peni- 
tent's shoulder  reassuringly,  as  though 
the  man  of  crime  beside  him  were  only 
a  little  boy. 

The  Esquimo  boy  came  in,  set  the 
bucket  down,  and  went  back  to  his 
corner;  the  flickering  lantern  died  low; 
the  wind  moaned  through  the  moun- 
tain peak,  and  the  echoes  answered. 
The  priest  and  penitent  still  sat  in  the 
dull  light.  One  had  given  up  the  bur- 
den of  a  weary  heart,  and  the  other 
had  received  the  message  he  had  long 

awaited. 

*  *  *  # 

Father  McDougal's  new  helper,  John 
Baptiste,  brought  in  the  mail  and  laid 
some  letters  beside  the  pastor's  plate, 
and  then  went  back  to  his  work  on  the 
new  school  house.  Elizabeth  tiptoed 
into  the  sunny  breakfast  room  and 
scanned  the  addresses  on  the  letters. 
"That  will  please  him,  for  it  have  the 
stamp  of  America.  An  hour  since  Mass 
and  him  not  in  yet  for  a  drop  of  tea. 
Oh,  I'm  thinking  he'll  not  live  until  the 
last  nail  goes  into  that  building." 

"  'Lizabeth,  'Lizabeth,"  called  out 
Father  McDougal,  a  little  later,  "I 
have  a  letter — a  very  happy  letter 
from  my  friend  with  whom  I  took  the 
little  journey  a  year  ago  last  winter. 
Our  friend  who  gave  us  John  Baptiste 
and  the  new  school." 

"So ;  he  must  hae  been  a  queer  man 
— e'en  more  the  queer  than  John  Bap- 
tiste. I  nae  can  ferrit  out  the  mind  o' 
that  canny  Esquimo.  He  snoops  about 
till  the  dead  o'  night  like  a  Irish  fairy." 

"My  friend  is  very  happy,  at  last, 
'Lizabeth.  He  says  the  brothers  are 
very  kind  to  him,  and  he  has  plenty  of 
work  to  do  out  under  God's  open  sky. 
They  are  picking  cotton  just  now,  and 
he  finds  Kentucky  very  pleasant." 

After  reading  his  mail,  he  put  on  his 
hat  and  walked  over  to  the  church.  His 
face  wore  a  happy,  satisfied  look, 


44 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


which  spoke  the  near  completion  of 
his  life's  aim. 

Coming  out  of  the  church  that  even- 
ing, after  benediction,  he  paused  for 
a  moment  before  the  new  window.  The 
sunset  smiled  back  at  him  through 
the  colored  figure  of  the  great  mission- 
ary, and  his  eyes  rested  happily  on  the 
inscription,  "To  David,  the  Messen- 
ger." His  little  flock  of  people  passed 
him  on  their  way  home.  They  spoke 
to  him  lovingly,  and  yet  with  some- 
thing of  awe  in  their  voices.  He 
watched  them  shepherd-like  until  the 
last  one  had  turned  the  road. 


"The  good  Father  will  not  live  long," 
said  one  old  parishioner  to  his  neigh- 
bor, as  they  walked  together  slowly 
homeward. 

"True,  he  have  the  far-away  look  in 
his  eye,  like  them  that  see  the  end 
coming." 

"Maybe  'tis  the  boy  David  a-worry- 
ing  him,"  said  one. 

"Maybe,"  said  another. 

"  Tis  vera,  vera  strange  he's  not 
heard  a  word." 

"Maybe  he  have,  and  we  no  ken  o' 
it,"  said  one. 

"Maybe,"  said  another. 


THE     WHISPER     OF     THE     WIND 

From  the  West  the  wind  is  waking  and  a  rumble  fills  the  air, 
Like  the  growling  of  a  giant  routed  from  his  mountain  lair. 
'Tis  a  stamp  mill's  sullen  thunder,  mouthing  music  deep  and  low, 
And  it  sings  a  booming  chorus,  sings  a  song  of  long  ago. 
And  I  gaze  out  through  the  window  at  the  mocking  city  skies, 
For  my  heart  is  strangely  throbbing  and  a  mist  comes  o'er  my  eyes. 
As  a  vision  comes  before  me  of  the  days  no  longer  mine, 
When  I  used  to  swing  a  hammer  in  the  old  Eureka  mine. 

Twas  before  they  brought  inventions  to  undo  the  worth  of  men. 

And  you  had  to  be  a  miner,  not  a  rock-drill's  valet,  then. 

For  we  swung  the  heavy  sledges  and  our  partners  turned  the  drills, 

And  we  tore  the  golden  treasures  from  the  clutches  of  the  hills, 

We  were  men  then,  worth  the  naming,  we  were  men  of  brawn  and  steel, 

And  we  knew  the  joy  of  labor  and  the  glory  of  a  meal. 

In  our  iron  strength  rejoicing,  Friendship  linked  us  in  her  vine, 

When  I  used  to  swing  a  hammer  in  the  old  Eureka  mine. 

Listen !    How  the  old  mill  rumbles,  and  it  calls  to  hearts  of  men ! 

But  I'm  old  and  gray  and  broken,  like  a  bear  crushed  in  his  den! 

And  I  almost  wish  I'd  never  struck  it  rich  out  in  the  hills, 

But  was  out  there  with  my  partners,  still  a-poundin'  on  the  drills, 

'Cause  I'd  know  they  were  my  partners  just  because  they  cared  for  me, 

Not  a-thinkin'  of  my  bank-roll  like  so  many  folks  I  see. 

And  I  long  to  be  among  'em — calling  back  the  days  divine, 

When  I  used  to  swing  a  hammer  in  the  old  Eureka  mine. 

AL  H.  MARTIN, 


WITH  INTENT   TO    KILL 


By   Dewey   Austin    Cobb 


IT  SEEMED  a  house  of  mystery 
from  the  first.  Charlie  Kent,  my 
companion,  felt  it  as  surely  as  I 
did,  but  neither  could  quite  make 
out  why.  It  was  a  simple  brick  build- 
ing, only  one  story  high,  like  hundreds 
of  other  houses  of  the  well-to-do  in 
Maranham,  or  any  other  Brazilian  city. 
Neither  was  there  anything  strange 
about  its  location.  It  stood  at  the  end 
of  one  of  the  little  streets  which  radi- 
ate from  the  business  center  of  the 
city,  and  extended  to  a  deep  creek,  or 
canoe  path,  filled  and  almost  emptied 
by  every  tide.  The  bank,  some  twenty 
yards  from  the  house,  was  here  sloping 
and  afforded  a  landing,  where  small 
boats  could  be  beached.  In  brief,  it 
suited  me  for  our  two  weeks'  stay.  We 
had  tried  the  hotels,  and  found  them 
antique  and  unsanitary. 

We  had  rented  the  house  from  an 
elderly  Indian  woman  (whom  every 
one  called  Maria),  who  had  reserved 
two  back  rooms  for  the  use  of  herself 
and  an  old  negress,  who  lived  with  her 
as  companion.  We  were  told  that  the 
owner  was  absent  and  had  left  the 
premises  in  Maria's  care. 

Soon  we  decided  that  the  mystery 
was  not  about  the  house,  but  rather  the 
residents,  and  the  people  of  all  colors 
and  classes  who  came  and  went  at  all 
hours  of  the  night  and  day.  Nor  were 
we  long  in  deciding  that  some  graver 
interest  centered  there  than  we  were 
aware  of.  Canoes  would  come  to  the 
landing  at  night,  and  we  would  hear 
stealthy  footsteps  coming  up  our  path, 
and  then  the  murmur  of  subdued 
voices  in  the  back  rooms,  until  nearly 
daylight,  when  the  canoe  would  be 
paddled  away. 

My  companion  was  a  typical  Yan- 
kee drummer,  sent  to  the  Atlantic  ports 


of  South  America  to  sell  such  packing 
as  is  used  by  steamboat  companies  and 
railroads.  It  was  his  first  trip  to  the 
Spanish  American  States,  and,  as  he 
understood  neither  Spanish  nor  Por- 
tuguese, his  firm,  an  enterprising  Bos- 
ton house,  had  permitted  him  to  take 
me  along  as  interpreter.  His  ignorance 
of  the  language  and  ways  of  the  people 
made  our  secret  visitors  more  disquiet- 
ing to  him.  Maria  had  been  helpful  to 
us  in  every  way  possible,  procuring 
our  meals  sent  in,  and  seeing  to  or  do- 
ing our  laundry,  always  (be  it  added) 
refusing  pay  for  her  services.  Unfor- 
tunately for  us,  Charles  won  her  bitter 
enmity  early  in  our  stay. 

On  our  first  Saturday  night,  as  she 
marched  through  the  house  swinging  a 
lighted  censer  and  chanting  the  lugu- 
brious formula  prescribed  to  banish 
evil  spirits,  she  turned  suddenly  and 
saw  him,  as  he  swung  a  shoe  by  one 
string  and  followed  her  mockingly. 
Shocked  and  indignant  as  she  was,  I 
was  glad  he  could  not  understand  her 
remarks  upon  his  impiety.  She  never 
forgave  him,  though  her  devotion  to 
me  continued.  Charlie  became  almost 
afraid  of  her,  and  our  mysterious  call- 
ers, with  their  stealthy  ways,  added  to 
his  fears  of  poison  or  assassination. 

A  very  simple  event  threw  the  first 
light  upon  our  mysterious  residence. 
Maria  asked  me  one  day  for  permis- 
sion to  repair  an  ugly  rent  in  my  best 
coat.  Doubting  her  ability  to  do  it 
properly,  I  yet  let  her  take  it,  and  the 
next  day  she  returned  it,  repaired  with 
a  degree  of  dainty  skill  which  I  knew 
she  could  not  herself  possess. 

"Who  did  that,  Maria?"  I  asked. 
"Signora   Leona   Ellis — 'Branca'     her 
servants  call  her." 

"And  where  does     Signora     Leona 


46 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


Ellis  live?"  I  asked,  my  curiosity  at 
once  aroused. 

"In  the  White  House,"  she  replied 
and  hastily  left  the  room. 

Next  morning  I  learned,  by  question- 
ing the  boy  who  brought  in  our  break- 
fast, that  the  "White  House"  was  the 
local  name  for  the  city  jail,  and  that 
Signora  Leona  Ellis  was  the  owner  of 
the  house  we  lived  in,  and  that  she 
was  serving  an  eight  years  sentence 
there  for  shooting  her  American  hus- 
band. From  the  same  source  I  gath- 
ered the  information  (though  it  was 
given  with  reluctance,  probably  be- 
cause I,  too,  was  "Americano")  that 
she  was  the  only  child  of  a  prominent 
and  wealthy  stock  raiser  and  dealer, 
and  had  married  a  dissolute  young 
American  adventurer,  who  had  squan- 
dered all  her  property. 

The  "White  House"  was  in  sight 
from  the  landing,  a  low,  square  build- 
ing that  looked  like  a  barracks.  It 
stood  back  from  the  same  stream  our 
house  was  beside,  and  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  away. 

When  I  reported  all  this  to  Charles, 
he  was  greatly  excited.  "I  knew  there 
was  something  crooked !  You  look  out 
for  that  old  Indian.  She  don't  ;:urr 
round  you  for  any  good.  I  wouldn't 
trust  her  with  a  dead  cat!  She'll  poi- 
son both  of  us  yet!" 

"Well,  she  has  been  very  kind  so 
far,  and  you  will  find " 

"Find !  Yes,  I'll  find  you  stuck  like 
a  pig  some  morning." 

This  talk  took  place  Wednesday. 
The  English  superintendent  of  the 
steamship  yards,  whom  Charlie  must 
see,  was  due  to  return  from  Rio  on 
Thursday.  Charlie  would  call  on  him 
Friday,  and  we  hoped  to  take  the 
steamer  to  Bahia  on  Saturday. 

We  went  to  our  hammocks  early  that 
night.  We  slept  in  the  front  room. 
The  windows  had  solid  board  shutters, 
and  when  these  were  closed  and  the 
candle  extinguished,  the  room  was  as 
dark  as  Mammoth  Cave.  About  one 
o'clock  I  was  awakened  by  some  one 
gently  shaking  my  hammock,  and  be- 
fore I  could  speak,  a  hand  was  softly 
laid  upon  my  lips,  and  a  barely  audible 


voice  whispered  close  to  my  ear:  "Sh! 
It  is  Maria." 

I  v/as  more  than  startled.  All  that 
Charlie  had  said  flashed  through  my 
mind,  and  I  wonder  that  I  did  not  ex- 
claim aloud.  Instead  I  merely  asked 
what  was  wanted. 

"Branca  wants  to  see  you.  Come 
with  me.  Don't  talk.  Your  shoes  are 
outside." 

Now,  I  am  a  light  sleeper,  and  was 
all  the  more  amazed  that  she  should 
have  been  able  to  find  and  remove 
those  shoes  in  the  black  dark.  I  hesi- 
tated an  instant.  Should  I  wake 
Charlie?  If  I  woke  him  I  knew  his 
sturdy  fidelity;  he  would  go  with  me — 
and  probably  spoil  a  romantic  adven- 
ture! So  when  "Come"  was  repeated, 
I  stepped  softly  to  the  floor,  and, 
guided  by  a  hand  I  could  not  see, 
crossed  to  the  door.  It  was  unbarred, 
but  shut.  Maria  slowly,  and  without 
a  sound,  drew  it  open,  and  we  stepped 
out  into  the  dazzling  moonlight. 

Both  barefoot,  we  moved  silently 
as  ghosts.  Neither  spoke  until  we 
reached  the  boat  landing;  then  I 
asked : 

"Where  is  she?" 

"At  the  White  House,"  she  replied. 

"But  see  here,  I  can't  go  this  way," 
pointing  to  my  bare  feet  and  dia- 
phanous pajamas. 

"Espere  um  poco"  and  reaching  into 
a  canoe,  lightly  grounded  on  the  bank, 
she  drew  out  my  clothing  and  shoes. 

"How  on  earth  did  you  get  them 
here?"  I  exclaimed,  astonished. 

"It  took  me  an  hour.    Put  them  on." 

When  I  had  drawn  my  clothes  over 
my  pajamas,  she  handed  me  my  re- 
volver, merely  remarking:  "I  thought 
you  would  feel  safe  with  it." 

That  pistol  had  lain  on  the  floor 
within  easy  reach,  but  I  was  past  ask- 
ing explanations,  and  not  a  little  com- 
forted by  the  reflection  that,  had  mur- 
der or  robbery  been  part  of  the  pro- 
gram, she  need  not  have  taken  the 
trouble  to  awaken  and  arm  me. 

"Now  get  in  the  canoe,  and  put  on 
your  shoes."  I  obeyed.  Maria  shoved 
the  canoe  off,  sprang  in,  and,  taking  a 
paddle,  thrust  it  perpendicularly  into 


WITH  INTENT  TO  KILL. 


47 


the  water.  Not  once  did  she  take  it 
out  during  the  entire  trip,  but  the  boat 
sped  on  without  a  sound.  In  five  min- 
utes we  were  in  front  of  the  barrack- 
like  building,  white  and  lonely  in  the 
moonlight.  Running  our  bow  on  the 
low  beach,  in  the  shadow  of  some 
bushes,  we  got  out  as  quietly  as  we 
had  embarked.  Maria  touched  her 
lips  to  indicate  silence,  and  we  cau- 
tiously moved  towards  the  jail. 

To  my  surprise,  there  was  no  watch- 
man about.  The  only  sounds  to  be 
heard  were  the  cries  of  wild  creatures 
in  the  swamp  across  the  creek.  We 
went  to  the  end  of  the  building  farthest 
from  our  house,  then  through  a  gate, 
and  approached  a  high  but  narrow 
barred  window. 

"Where  are  the  guards?"  I  whis- 
pered. 

"She  has  seen  to  that.  They  all  love 
Branca.  She  can  do  anything  she 
wishes,  if  she  will  not  go  away!" 

The  moon  shone  full  on  the  unglazed 
window,  and  as  I  approached,  I  saw 
between  the  bars  the  movement  of  a 
figure.  Maria,  when  close  to  it,  said 
in  a  low  voice:  "Signora,  I  have 
brought  the  Americano." 

"Graces,  esta  bein"  replied  a  low 
voice.  And  with  this  meagre  introduc- 
tion, Maria  moved  back  a  few  paces, 
and  remained  silent. 

When  I  came  to  the  window,  the 
same  voice  said,  timidly :  "Thank  you, 
Signore;  it  was  kind  of  you  to  come." 
Then  a  face  appeared;  the  pallid  moon 
robbed  it  of  any  color  it  may  have  had 
by  daylight:  it  was  almost  ghastly. 

I  had  naturally  expected  to  see  a 
large,  masculine  woman,  in  prison 
garb,  with  a  voice  in  harmony  with  her 
looks.  Instead,  I  looked  into  the  timid 
face  of  a  slight,  gracefully-poised  lady, 
dressed  as  the  better  class  of  Brazilian 
women.  Notwithstanding  her  half- 
frightened  look,  she  was  handsome 
and  refined,  and  little  more  than  twenty 
years  of  age.  Like  most  of  her  coun- 
trywomen, her  hair  was  magnificent. 
It  was  dressed  high  on  her  shapely 
head,  and  looked  as  if  it  might  reach 
her  feet  when  she  was  standing.  Her 
eyes  were  deep-set,  large  and  pene- 


trating, and  as  they  were  raised  to  my 
face  for  an  instant,  while  she  spoke,  I 
felt  that  I  had  been  v/eighed  and  meas- 
ured, mentally  and  physically.  Her 
slender,  restless  hands  were  busy  with 
some  trinket,  while  she  gathered  cour- 
age for  further  words. 

After  a  moment's  silence,  her  eyes 
flashed  to  mine  again,  and  she  said  in 
a  voice  which  showed  distress : 

"Oh,  Signore !  What  must  you  think 
of  me !  I  did  not  realize  how  it  would 
seem  to  a  man.  But  I  am  so  unhappy. 
Maria  told  me  how  good  you  are,  and 
I  could  not  bear  to  lose  the  chance  of 
telling  one  American,  who  is  a  gentle- 
man, of  my  wrongs  and — crime! — 
they  call  it  a  crime !"  Her  manner  was 
like  a  frightened  school  girl's,  but 
there  was  an  intensity  and  passion  in 
her  voice  that  chilled  me. 

"You  can  trust  me,  Signora ;  perhaps 
I  can  help  you.  But  first,  are  you  not 
taking  great  risks?  Are  prisoners  al- 
lowed such  interviews  as  this?  Will 
they  not  punish  you  if  we  are  dis- 
covered?" 

"Never  fear;  no  one  will  come  near 
until  I  am  ready."  She  must  have 
noticed  my  surprise,  for  she  added: 
"They  treat  me  as  if  I  were  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house — only  I  promise  not 
to  go  away. 

"I  fear  my  story  will  be  tiresome  to 
you,  Signore,  but  your  countrymen 
only  hear  his  side  of  it,  and  they  think 
I  am  a  wicked,  revengeful  murderess. 
I  know  there  are  honorable  and  chival- 
rous Americans.  My  father  told  me 
of  many  that  he  had  met.  I  will  not 
have  them  think  so  ill  of  me.  I  want 
you  to  tell  them  the  truth." 

An  instant's  pause,  and  then,  with 
a  glance  vivid  as  lightning:  "Besides, 
there  is  a  way  in  which  you  can  help 
me — if  you  will." 

Something  in  that  electric  glance 
prevented  me  from  ignorantly  making 
any  promise  of  assistance,  and  she 
went  on: 

"My  father,  Ignace  Francisca, 
owned  a  large  plantation  twenty  miles 
from  Maranham.  Although  we  were 
so  far  from  town,  I  had  everything  I 
wanted.  There  were  many  children  to 


48 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


play  with,  and  I  always  had  my  pony 
and  could  ride  to  the  corrals  with  the 
vaqueros.  It  was  very  beautiful,  and 
I  was  happy.  If  I  could  only  have  re- 
mained a  child!"  Her  head  dropped 
an  instant  before  she  resumed :  "When 
I  was  twelve  years  old,  mother  died, 
and  everything  was  changed.  Maria 
— who  took  care  of  me — must  always 
keep  me  in  sight.  I  could  talk  to  no 
one,  and  go  nowhere.  I  was  a  prisoner. 
When  I  was  sixteen,  my  father  began 
to  tell  me  a  great  deal  about  some  of 
your  countrymen  he  had  met  at  the 
markets.  They  all  had  money,  and 
built  mills,  where  wonderful  machines 
did  all  the  work. 

"At  last  there  came  home  with  him 
a  young  American  whom  he  had  met 
at  the  steamer  landing,  and  father  said 
he  was  rich  and  prosperous.  I  could 
not  talk  with  him  unless  my  father 
was  present;  but  then  I  never  cared  to, 
for  I  feared  him.  He  had  such  bold 
ways ;  he  would  look  at  me  so  strange- 
ly that  it  made  me  blush  and  feel  as  if 
I  were  not  dressed  modestly. 

"I  have  heard  that  in  your  country, 
Signore,  girls  may  see  and  talk  with 
young  men  who  wish  to  marry  with 
them,  sometimes  even  alone,  and  so 
can  learn  if  they  like  them.  It  should 
be  so  everywhere,  surely,  for  it  is 
wicked  for  a  girl  to  be  obliged  to  give 
herself,  soul  and  body,  to  a  stranger. 
If  a  Brazilian  girl  is  known  to  see  her 
lover  clandestinely,  as  they  sometimes 
will,  she  loses  her  good  name. 

"I  never  talked  to  but  one  young 
man.  It  was  Miguel  Garges.  His 
mother  was  part  Indian,  but  his  father 
was  of  good  family.  We  had  been 
children  together,  and  he  was  like  a 
brother  to  me,  only  tenderer.  He 
worked  for  my  father,  who  trusted  him. 
When  I  was  twelve  we  were  not  al- 
lowed to  meet,  but  we  did  sometimes, 
and  we  wrote  little  letters.  Father 
found  this  out,  and  was  terribly  angry 
and  sent  Miguel  away.  No  one  but  an 
American  was  good  enough  to  marry 
me.  I  think  I  could  have  loved  Miguel 
if  I  had  seen  him  more. 

"The  next  time  John  Ellis  came,  he 
asked  my  father  for  my  hand  in  mar- 


riage. I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you, 
Signore,  but  oh,  I  was  so  lonely  and 
unhappy,  with  only  Maria  and  my 
father.  If  I  only  could  have  seen 
Miguel  sometimes,  it  all  might  have 
been  so  different."  She  brushed  away 
a  tear,  and  added:  "So  I  married  the 
foreigner,  and  he  came  to  live  with  us. 

"Within  a  month,  my  father  knew 
that  he  was  a  drunken  beast!  He  had 
nothing  but  what  he  had  borrowed  or 
stolen.  He  even  stole  some  old  silver 
which  was  my  mother's,  and  sold  it  in 
the  city.  He  was  cruel  to  me.  I  had 
always  been  respected  and  loved,  and 
the  brutal,  sneering  way  he  treated  me 
before  our  servants,  almost  drove  me 
mad.  But,  Signore,  it  is  as  easy  to 
escape  from  death  as  a  marriage  in 
Brazil,  and  I  bore  it  somehow. 

"One  day  father  and  he  rode  away 
to  see  to  some  trouble  among  the 
vaqueros  up  stream.  Just  at  sunset 
John  came  back  with  four  of  our  men, 
carrying  the  dead  body  of  my  father. 
He  said  his  horse  had  stumbled  and 
thrown  him  off,  breaking  his  neck; 
but  that  night,  as  I  dressed  the  body 
for  burial,  I  found  upon  the  throat  the 
distinct  print  of  a  braided  rawhide 
lariat.  John  had  brought  the  only 
braided  one  we  had;  all  the  others 
were  twisted  like  a  rope. 

"In  an  instant  I  realized  what  had 
happened.  John  had  fallen  behind, 
thrown  the  rope,  and  dragged  father 
from  his  horse.  Father  had  never 
fallen  or  been  thrown ;  he  used  to  boast 
of  it.  Besides,  one  of  the  men  told 
Miguel  later  that  John  had  been  coil- 
ing his  lariat  on  his  saddle  horn  when 
he  came  up  in  answer  to  a  cry  he  had 
heard.  But  nothing  could  be  proven. 
Even  if  one  of  the  men  had  seen  it  all, 
a  terror  of  John's  vengeance  would 
have  kept  him  silent. 

"Then  I  soon  learned  why  he  had 
married  me.  He  began  at  once  to  sell 
off  cattle  at  any  price  he  could  get, 
spending  the  money  in  drink,  gambling 
and  every  low  vice.  One  day  when  he 
was  in  town,  Miguel  called  on  me,  and 
told  me  what  he  had  heard  about 
father's  death,  and  that  John  had  a 
sweetheart  in  the  city,  and  had  had 


WITH  INTENT  TO  KILL. 


49 


when  he  married  me.  He  had  kept  her 
in  a  pretty  little  house  there,  ever 
since,  and  had  often  joked  about  me  to 
his  companions. 

"Signore,  I  think  I  went  mad  then. 
Everything  he  could  carry  away  or 
sell  was  gone.  Only  two  or  three  of 
the  worst  men  remained,  probably  to 
steal  for  themselves.  Father  had 
owned  many  firearms,  but  the  only  one 
left  was  an  old  shotgun,  which  had 
been  cut  off  to  little  more  than  the 
length  of  an  army  pistol.  This  I  loaded 
and  concealed  under  my  wraps,  and 
rode  to  town  on  an  eld  horse  too  poor 
to  have  been  sold. 

"I  started  out  intending  to  kill  him, 
Signore.  God  knows  I  wish  I  had  suc- 
ceeded. I  had  planned  that  he  should 
know  that  it  was  my  vengeance  which 
had  found  him,  but  by  some  evil 
chance  I  failed  in  both  purposes.  I 
cannot  remember  all  that  happened 
that  night.  I  know  I  walked  the  quiet- 
est streets  until  near  midnight.  At  last 
I  saw  him  staggering  toward  the  house 
on  the  Rue  das  Flores,  which  Miguel 
had  told  me  was  hers.  I  saw  him  stum- 
ble in.  No  one  greeted  him,  and  he 
made  no  light.  He  closed  the  door, 
but  did  not  lock  it.  I  waited  till  all 
was  still ;  then  quietly  entered.  The 
shutters  were  open,  and  the  moonlight 
enabled  me  to  see  everything.  She 
was  asleep  in  a  hammock ;  he  had 
thrown  himself,  without  undressing,  on 
a  couch. 

"I  remember  bending  over  my  rival 
to  see  how  she  looked,  but  she  was  lit- 
tle more  than  a  child,  and  seemed  so 
sweet  and  innocent  as  she  slept  that  I 
felt  the  great  evil  could  not  have  been 
here.  I  went  to  him  and  shook  him 
gently,  then  roughly,  but  he  only 
grunted — like  a  hog.  He  never  opened 
his  eyes.  It  made  me  so  wild  that  I 
struck  him  with  all  my  strength  on  his 
shoulder  with  the  gun,  and  the  shock, 
or  my  clenching  hand,  fired  it.  Ever 
since  that  night  I  have  cursed  the 
frenzy  that  led  me  to  strike  that  stupid 
blow,  and  so  only  shatter  his  shoulder 
with  the  shot  intended  for  his  evil 
heart." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and 


I  asked:  "How  about  your  arrest  and 
trial?" 

"I  supposed  I  had  killed  him,  and 
I  stood  watching  him  writhing  when 
the  officer  came  in.  He  had  heard  the 
shot  and  the  girl's  scream.  At  the 
trial  I  made  no  defense ;  I  simply  told 
my  story.  Then  the  judge  sent  me  here 
for  eight  years." 

"I  am  more  sorry  for  you,  Signora, 
than  I  can  tell.  You  said  I  could  help 
you.  How?" 

"Miguel  told  Maria  that  John  will 
come  to  this  city  to-morrow.  He  will 
come  to  you  and  ask  to  remain  while 
he  stays  in  town.  I  do  not  want  you 
to  receive  him." 

"How  do  you  know  he  will  come  to 
me?" 

"You  are  both  Americans,  and  he 
always  seeks  them  to  tell  his  story." 

"But  why  will  he  want  to  remain 
with  us  ?  We  cannot  keep  him." 

"Because  he  is  a  coward,  like  all 
villains ;  he  knows  that  there  is  danger 
here,  and  he  dares  not  face  it." 

I  was  surprised  at  this  sudden  turn 
of  things,  but  I  answered:  "Signora, 
after  what  you  have  told  me,  he  shall 
not  enter  my  house." 

"Thanks  and  thanks,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "You  promise  all  I  expected. 
Day  is  coming,  and  you  must  go. 
Good-night,  and  God  bless  you,  Sig- 
nore." 

She  thrust  a  cold  little  hand  through 
the  bars,  which,  when  I  took  it,  closed 
an  instant  on  mine  like  steel. 

The  next  day  was  an  anxious  one. 
Charlie  went  away  early.  It  was  a 
lonely  walk  to  the  shops,  and  he 
thought  he  would  spend  the  night  there 
if  he  could,  "to  hear  white  folks  talk," 
as  he  put  it.  I  asked  Maria  where 
Miguel  was,  and  if  Ellis  was  in  town. 
She  had  seen  neither,  so  I  went  away 
to  spend  the  day  in  the  quiet  gardens 
and  orchards  of  the  suburbs. 

When  I  returned  at  sunset,  my  heart 
sank  at  what  I  saw.  At  the  door  stood 
Charlie,  a  leveled  revolver  in  his  out- 
stretched hand,  while  over  his  shoul- 
der peered  as  evil  a  face  as  ever  I  saw. 
The  man  was  not  tall;  only  his  red 
hair  and  swinish  eyes  showed  above 


50 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


Charlie's  shoulder.  Dancing  wildly  a 
few  yards  in  front  of  them  was  an  in- 
sanely angry  man,  brandishing  a 
machete,  nearly  a  yard  long,  and 
swearing  murderously  in  Portuguese. 
Charlie  kept  his  pistol  aimed  at  his 
head,  and  motioned  him  away  with  the 
other  hand.  The  sneaking  creature 
behind  him  was  cursing  and  taunting 
the  murderous  visitor  and  daring  him 
to  come  on. 

When  I  came  up,  Miguel  (of  course 
it  was  he)  sullenly  withdrew  to  a 
canoe  and  paddled  away.  I  did  not 
reply  to  Ellis's  greeting,  nor  notice  his 
offered  hand,  and  he  soon  sneaked 
away  toward  the  city.  Then  Charlie 
explained,  in  his  characteristic  way: 

"You  see,  the  superintendent  had 
bought  a  year's  supply  of  packing  in 
Rio  while  I  was  cooling  my  heels  in 
this  howling  wilderness,  waiting  for 
him.  So  I  came  back  about  five,  and 
was  sitting  in  the  doorway,  thinking 
how  proud  my  firm  would  be  of  me 
when  I  wrote  them  the  nude  facts 
about  my  masterly  inactivity,  when  the 
red-headed  rascal  called  and  sat  down 
beside  me.  He  told  me  he  was  hunted 
by  an  assassin,  and  wanted  to  stay  all 
night  with  us.  I  didn't  like  his  looks, 
and  said  neither  yes  or  no,  and  then 
that  cream  colored  gent  got  out  of  a 
canoe  and  walked  half  way  up  to  the 
house.  When  he  spied  our  noble  fel- 
low-countryman, he  gave  a  growl  like 
a  bear,  flashed  that  cutlass  and 
charged.  Red-head  got  behind  me, 
and  begged  me  to  keep  him  off.  We 
don't  want  to  have  even  a  hog 
butchered  in  our  chateau,  so  I  pulled 
my  gun  and  hove  him  to,  and  began 
to  dance  and  say  things.  They  both 
coughed  up  a  lot  of  gibberish,  but  it 
didn't  seem  to  make  them  feel  any 
better,  and  they  kept  it  up  until  you 
chipped  in." 

When  I  told  him  Leona's  story,  he 
only  remarked:  "I  wish  I  had  known 
that.  I'd  have  chucked  red-head  out 
and  let  Mig.  finish  him." 

The  next  morning     we     took     the 

steamer  for  Bahia. 

*  *  * 

Eleven  months  later,  while  sitting  in 


a  friend's  office  in  New  York,  reading 
the  foreign  news  in  the  Herald,  I  came 
upon  a  paragraph  which  stated: 

"The  vast  increase  in  trade  has  made 
it  necessary  for  the  Amazonian  Steam- 
ship company  to  add  three  vessels  to 
their  line,  plying  between  Para  and 
the  South.  They  are  also  to  place 
several  tugs  on  the  Amazon,  for  towing 
the  fleets  of  sailing  vessels  between 
the  upper  river  and  foreign  ports.  The 
liners  will  be  built  in  England,  but  they 
hope  to  find  enough  suitable  tugs  in 
the  United  States,  the  general  intro- 
duction of  large  steam  grain  and  lum- 
ber barges  on  the  great  lakes  having 
effected  a  revolution  in  the  towing  in- 
dustry. An  agent  from  the  principal 
shipyard  and  regular  shops  at  Maran- 
ham  will  negotiate  these  purchases, 
and  is  due  to  arrive  in  New  York  by 
the  first  regular  steamer." 

It  was  a  simple  matter  to  look  up 
the  schedule  of  the  line,  and  to  meet 
the  boat  at  the  wharf,  and  find  my  man 
before  he  came  ashore.  It  required 
more  fact  to  make  his  acquaintance, 
without  a  specific  reason,  but  with  my 
knowledge  of  his  home  city  and  his 
language,  I  made  a  beginning,  and 
when  it  developed  that  we  had  several 
mutual  acquaintances  I  was  enabled 
to  'isolate  him,"  as  the  germ  hunters 
say.^ 

His  name  was  Joachim  Alveraz  and 
his  position  assistant  superintendent  of 
the  shipyard  of  which  our  elusive  Eng- 
lish friend  was  still  in  charge.  Al- 
though my  feeling  was  one  of  disap- 
pointment that  it  was  not  the  super- 
intendent himself,  I  soon  learned  that 
as  a  Brazilian  born  in  Maranham  he 
was  far  more  interested  in  local  mat- 
ters than  any  alien  could  have  been. 

At  the  first  lull  in  conversation,  I 
asked :  "Did  you  know  Signore  Ignace 
Francisca?" 

"Ignace  Francisca?"  he  exclaimed. 
"Has  not  our  line  taken  cattle  and 
horses  from  the  plantation  ever  since 
the  steamer  replaced  the  old  sailing 
coasters  ?  One  grand  man  was  Signer 
Ignace.  Many  Sundays  and  festas  have 
I  spent  with  him  and  his  charming 
family.  Signore,  do  you  know  him?" 


WITH  INTENT  TO  KILL. 


51 


"No;  he  was  dead  upon  my  visit 
to  Maranham;  but  we  spent  two 
weeks  in  a  house  which  must  have 
been  a  part  of  his  estate.  'The  House 
of  Mystery/  we  called  it." 

"The  House  of  Mystery?  I  never 
heard  a  house  so  called.  Where  was 
it?  Why  did  you  call  it  that?" 

I  gave  him  the  location,  and  told 
of  those  stealthy  nocturnal  visits  which 
had  given  us  so  much  uneasiness. 

"I  see.  It  is  very  simple,"  he  ex- 
plained. "I  know  the  house  and  its 
care-taker,  Maria.  By  our  laws,  a 
husband  has  rights  only  in  the  per- 
sonal property  of  the  woman  he  mar- 
ries; real  estate  remains  under  her 
control.  When  Leona  Francisca  went 
to  prison,  she  appointed  old  Maria  as 
her  agent,  or  at  least  to  act  as  messen- 
ger between  her  and  her  tenants,  as 
Maria  was  always  allowed  free  access 
to  her  in  jail.  There  were  many  small 
holdings  on  the  outskirts  of  the  planta- 
tion, as  well  as  some  city  houses. 

"Maria  was  anxious  lest  two  such 
wealthy  and  distinguished  tenants  as 
she  took  you  to  be  should  be  annoyed 
by  her  numerous  visitors,  many  of 
whom  were  from  the  country,  and 
therefore,  not  prepossessing  in  appear- 
ance and  manner,  she  hit  upon  the  silly 
expedient  of  requiring  them  to  call  at 
night,  when  she  hoped  you  would  not 
see  them." 

"Very  simple — like  most  mys- 
teries," said  I,  and  added:  "I  met  the 
daughter,  Signora  Leona,  once.  Is  she 
still  in  the  'White  House?'  " 

"Ah!  Much  has  changed  since  you 
knew  her  a  year  ago.  What  did  you 
know  of  her  unhappy  life  ?" 

I  related  without  comment  the  story 
she  had  told  me,  and  asked  him  to  fin- 
ish it.  Freed  from  his  involved  con- 
struction in  speaking  English,  it  was 
as  follows : 

"For  five  years,  that  which  some  call 
Providence,  but  I  call  Fate,  had 
worked  for  the  success  of  every  plot 
for  wrecking  the  life  of  Leona  Fran- 
cisca, until  she  had  been  dragged  down 
to  the  wretched  state  in  which  you 
found  her.  But  from  the  moment  John 
Ellis  turned  away  from  your  door, 


everything  changed,  and  though  many 
of  the  incidents  which  followed  were 
so  trifling  that  no  human  could  see  in 
them  any  significance,  under  the  guid- 
.ance  of  some  resistless  intelligence 
they  all  tended  toward  her  final  vindi- 
cation. 

"Ellis'  first  problem  was  where  to 
go  for  the  night.  He  knew  that 
Miguel  would  not  abandon  his  mur- 
derous purpose.  The  hotels  and 
saloons  could  be  entered  any  time  by 
any  one.  A  private  house  was  his 
only  hope.  As  you  know,  Signore,  in 
Maranham  no  one,  not  even  the  police, 
is  given  authority  forcibly  to  enter  a 
house  at  night,  under  any  circum- 
stances. After  he  had  squandered  his 
or  her  money,  his  true  character  had 
become  apparent  to  those  who  had 
toadied  to  him;  and  among  them  all 
he  knew  not  one  whom  he  dared  trust. 

"Cecilia  Campana,  the  sweetheart 
of  older  days,  still  occupied  the  little 
house  on  Rua  das  Flores,  supporting 
herself  as  best  she  could.  There,  as  a 
last  resort,  Ellis  went  and  was  ad- 
mitted. The  neighbors  heard  loud,  an- 
gry talk  until  nearly  daylight,  when 
he  stole  out  stealthily  by  the  back  way 
and  disappeared.  At  sunrise  Miguel 
called,  and  there  was  another  long  con- 
ference, and  then  about  nine  the  neigh- 
bors were  surprised  to  see  him  come 
out  with  Cecilia,  the  two  hastening  to 
the  office  of  the  Chief  of  Police. 

"The  story  told  that  official  was  soon 
known  throughout  the  city.  It  was 
very  simple.  Cecilia  had  first  come  to 
town  with  her  parents  to  spend  a  week 
during  All  Saints  Festa.  She  met  Ellis 
and  fell  an  easy  victim  to  his  wiles; 
he  spent  money  freely,  and  his  munifi- 
cence dazzled  her.  He  rode  to  her 
home  sometimes,  where  he  was  well 
received  by  her  highly  flattered  par- 
ents. This  intercourse  soon  led  to  a 
condition  of  affairs  in  which  the  village 
priest  was  consulted,  and  this,  in  turn, 
led  to  John  Ellis  being  confronted  with 
the  dilemma  our  Brazilian  laws  impose 
in  such  cases — marriage  or  jail. 
Neither  one  had  been  a  part  of  his 
plans,  but  owing  to  her  hitherto  irre- 
proachable character,  it  was  impossi- 


52 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


ble  to  introduce  any  doubts  as  to  his 
responsibility.  His  cunning  was  equal 
to  the  emergency.  He  cheerfully  con- 
sented to  the  marriage,  but  insisted 
that  the  ceremony  should  be  performed 
by  a  priest  of  his  own  faith.  There 
was  no  Protestant  minister  in  Maran- 
ham,  but  the  English  steamer,  which 
called  there  regularly,  always  had  a 
clergyman  among  its  officers.  As 
Protestant  marriages  are  binding 
everywhere  in  Brazil,  her  parents  con- 
sented to  bring  Cecilia  in,  and  take 
her  aboard  the  next  steamer,  due  then 
in  a  few  days.  Though  few,  if  any, 
outside  the  parties  concerned  knew  or. 
were  interested  in  it,  their  plan  was 
carried  out,  and  her  parents  went  home 
satisfied;  Cecilia  remained  with  him. 
He  possessed  himself  of  the  marriage 
certificate,  and  if  she  told  any  of  her 
few  acquaintances  of  the  strange  mar- 
riage, no  one  believed  her.  Nor  was 
the  situation  complicated  by  the  birth 
of  a  living  child;  the  doctor  had 
found  sufficient  reason  for  this  in  the 
bruises  which  indicated  that  she  had 
been  inhumanly  beaten. 

"During  Ellis'  long  illness,  Cecilia 
had  found  and  secreted  her  marriage 
certificate,  and  Miguel,  who  had  never 
known  of  its  existence  until  that  morn- 
ing, now  told  her  how  to  use  it.  The 
greatly  feared  Chief  of  Police  had 
long  known  Ellis  as  a  drunken,  unprin- 
cipled rascal,  but  when  Cecilia's  story, 
backed  by  a  perfectly  regular  marriage 
certificate,  was  brought  to  his  notice, 
he  had  something  tangible  to  go  ahead 
with.  If  Leona's  marriage  was  ille- 


gal, not  only  had  bigamy  been  com- 
mitted, but  John's  use  of  her  property 
was  simply  brazen  robbery.  The  Chief 
of  Police  at  once  set  the  machinery  of 
Justice  in  motion,  and  Ellis  was  ar- 
rested, brought  to  the  city  and  tried 
before  the  same  judge  who  had  sen- 
tenced Leona  for  shooting  him,  five 
years  before.  Oddly  enough,  too,  he 
was  given  her  sentence — eight  years : 
four  for  each  of  two  charges." 

"I  would  like  to  have  been  there  to 
hear  how  your  demonstrative  Maran- 
ham  people  took  the  news,"  I  ventured. 

"Took  the  news !  They  simply  went 
wild!  The  Commandant  had  to  send 
a  company  of  soldiers  to  keep  the  mob 
from  tearing  down  the  old  jail  to  set 
Leona  free.  When  they  found  they 
could  not  free  her  in  that  way,  peti- 
tions were  signed  by  every  one  who 
could  write,  and  a  messenger  sent  off 
with  it  to  the  President  at  Rio.  News 
that  the  petition  was  granted  was  tele- 
graphed back,  and  without  waiting  for 
official  documents,  the  people  began 
such  a  demonstration  as  no  woman 
ever  received  before  in  Maranham. 
The  Mayor,  with  a  guard  of  soldiers, 
went  to  the  jail  and  conveyed  Leona  in 
his  own  carriage  to  his  official  resi- 
dence, followed  by  practically  the  en- 
tire population. 

"A  better  ending  than  I  ever  thought 
could  come  to  such  a  sad  story,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"Not  quite  the  end,  Signore,"  he  con- 
tinued. "A  month  or  so  later  Miguel 
and  Leona  were  married  in  our  old 
cathedral." 


FORECASTS 

O  heart  o'erpowered  by  vague  and  vast 

Foreshadowings  cold  from  strange  heights  thrown; 

Bewildered,  walking  in  fear,  alone, 
No  guide  but  the  gleam  from  afar  forecast 

Down  ways  unknown; — 

How  pitiful,  destined  from  birth 

To  dust  and  the  dark,  didst  thou  not  feel 

The  lift  of  the  stars,  the  adored  ideal  !— 
Oh,  night  is  only  the  shadow  of  earth, 

But  the  stars  are  real! 

STOKELY  S.  FISHER. 


A  WHIFF  FROA  THE  FIT 


By    Isaac   Aotes 


DURING  the  early  days  on  the 
Texas  frontier,  I  was  a  member 
of  Captain  Sterrett's  Rangers, 
stationed  at  Lampasas.  One 
morning  in  May  a  report  came  that  In- 
dians had  been  seen  on  the  west  side 
of  the  Colorado,  and  Captain  Sterrett, 
with  fifteen  men,  myself  among  them, 
crossed  the  river  to  put  a  stop  to  their 
raiding,  but  after  scouting  around  for 
two  days  and  finding  no  trace  of  In- 
dians, we  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
there  was  little,  if  any,  foundation,  for 
the  rumors.  We  camped  one  after- 
noon two  miles  west  of  the  upper  Colo- 
rado River,  and  sent  out  three  scout- 
ing parties,  intending  to  return  to  town 
next  morning  if  we  saw  no  signs  of 
Indians. 

We  had  been  riding  pretty  hard  over 
rocky,  cactus  country,  and  my  horse 
had  gone  somewhat  lame,  so  I  was  not 
with  any  of  these  scouting  parties,  but 
remained  in  camp.  I  had  so  little  faith 
in  the  Indian  stories  that  as  soon  as  I 
had  staked  my  horse  I  took  my  Win- 
chester and  my  hound  Hero  and  went 
for  a  turkey  hunt.  We  had  with  us  a 
half  dozen  bloodhounds,  so  well 
trained  that  they  understood  and 
obeyed  us  at  the  slightest  movement  of 
the  hand,  and  even  at  a  look,  and  Hero 
was  the  largest  and  fiercest  in  the  pack. 
All  the  others  belonged  to  the  State, 
but  this  hound  belonged  to  me,  he  hav- 
ing been  given  to  me  when  a  very  small 
puppy. 

We  had  seen  a  drove  of  wild  turkeys 
a  short  time  before  we  made  camp,  but 
had  strict  orders  not  to  shoot  game  at 
this  time,  fearing  Indians ,  might  be 
near.  Now,  however,  the  danger 
seemed  so  slight  that  I  got  Captain 
Sterrett's  permission  to  go  back  and 
try  to  kill  one  or  two,  and  struck  out 


about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  to- 
wards where  I  had  seen  them,  my  Win- 
chester under  my  arm  and  the  hound 
at  my  heels.  I  took  the  hound  with 
me  because  I  thought  I  might  break 
the  wing  of  a  turkey  and  need  him  to 
run  it  down. 

My  Winchester  was  a  magazine  gun 
holding  twelve  shells.  The  magazine 
was  full,  but  I  carried  no  extra  shells, 
feeling  certain  that  I  would  not  need 
them.  I  also  had  my  pistol  belt  on, 
with  my  two  Colt's  six-shooters,  and 
the  belt  was  full  of  cartridges.  I  do 
not  know  why  I  carried  the  heavy 
belt  and  the  revolvers,  for  I  didn't  ex- 
pect to  use  them,  but  it  was  exceed- 
ingly lucky  for  me  that  I  did. 

I  went  due  north,  and  somewhat  up 
the  river,  keeping  my  eyes  open  for  the 
turkeys,  which  we  had  seen  perhaps 
two  miles  from  where  we  had  made 
camp.  I  saw  nothing  whatever  of 
them,  which  surprised  me  no  little, 
as  there  had  been  a  considerable  drove 
of  them,  and  they  hadn't  appeared 
much  frightened  as  we  passed,  and  I 
didn't  think  we  had  scared  them  clear 
out  of  that  part  of  the  country.  I  no- 
ticed, too,  as  I  went  along,  that  the 
hound  seemed  nervous,  and  apparently 
uneasy,  which  kept  me  on  the  alert, 
for  I  thought  possibly  there  might  be 
Indians  near,  and  they  had  scared  the 
turkeys  away.  So  I  began  to  watch  for 
Indians  as  closely  as  for  turkeys,  and 
turned  in  more  toward  j  the  river,  keep- 
ing my  Winchester  ready  for  quick  ac- 
tion. I  saw  nothing  of  either  Indians 
or  turkeys,  but  the  hound  continued  to 
hold  his  head  high  and  sniff  the  air 
suspiciously. 

I  reached  the  bank  of  the  Colorado 
just  as  darkness  gathered,  and  turned 
down  stream,  intending  to  go  back  to 


54 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


camp  along  closer  to  the  river,  and 
give  up  the  notion  of  killing  a  turkey. 
I  crept  along  as  rapidly  as  I  could 
through  the  bushes,  making  as  little 
noise  as  possible,  for  I  knew  I  would 
stand  little  show  if  attacked  by  a  band 
of  Indians,  though  I  was  well  armed, 
for  which  I  thanked  Heaven,  but 
cursed  my  luck  for  coming  out  without 
my  horse — in  fact,  for  coming  at  all, 
since  something  had  scared  the  turkeys 
away  and  I  was  returning  to  camp 
empty-handed  and  in  a  bad  humor. 
The  hound  walked  ahead  of  me  now, 
with  head  erect,  softly  sniffing  the  air. 
The  night  grew  dark,  but  the  moon 
was  rising,  and  when  it  got  above  the 
tree  tops  on  the  east  side  of  the  river, 
it  would  be  light  enough  to  see  better. 
As  I  proceeded,  the  bushes,  cacti  and 
briars  thickened,  so  being  familiar 
with  the  country,  I  could  make  better 
progress  by  getting  where  there  was 
less  undergrowth,  which  I  did. 

About  two  miles  from  camp  the 
country  became  more  elevated  and 
mountainous,  and  on  top  of  this  ele- 
vated plateau  the  vines,  briars,  chapar- 
ral, cactus,  catclaw  and  other  bushes 
were  so  thick  that  a  rat  could  scarcely 
get  through  them,  and  this,  with  the 
broken  nature  of  the  ground,  made 
traveling  impossible  except  by  walk- 
ing along  the  bank  of  the  river  near 
the  edge  of  the  water.  This  thicket 
came  right  up  to  the  edge  of  the  bluff, 
or  top  of  the  bank,  which  was  perhaps 
200  feet  high  at  this  point,  and  ex- 
tended out  a  mile  or  so  to  the  west  of 
the  river.  There  was  a  trail,  however, 
along  the  river  bank  about  one-third 
of  the  way  up  to  the  top,  made  by  man 
and  animals  to  avoid  going  through 
the  impenetrable  thicket.  So  when  the 
hound  and  I  arrived  at  the  edge  of  this 
thicket,  I  whistled  to  him  softly,  and 
turned  toward  the  river,  and  we  picked 
our  way  slowly  along  the  uneven  trail. 
It  was  a  difficult  path  to  follow  even 
in  the  day-time,  and  doubly  so  at  night. 
However,  the  moon  had  just  got  above 
the  tree  tops  by  now,  shining  full  on 
the  face  of  the  rocky  bluff,  so  the  dog 
and  I  had  not  much  trouble  in  making 
our  way  by  going  slowly. 


In  places  the  trail  was  not  more 
than  a  foot  wide,  so  that  I  had  to  lean 
over  to  the  right  to  avoid  the  danger 
of  falling  off  into  the  river,  or  dashing 
myself  to  death  upon  the  intervening 
rocks.  The  early  rains  had  raised  the 
river,  too,  which  was  perhaps  two  hun- 
dred yards  wide,  spread  out  among  the 
trees  on  the  east  side,  where  the  bank 
was  low  and  sloping.  The  bluff  was 
uneven,  some  places  being  perpendicu-, 
lar,  others  seemed  almost  to  lean  over 
the  water,  while  at  other  points  there 
was  some  incline  to  the  bank  away 
from  the  water.  This  made  the  path 
winding  and  sinuous,  bending  towards 
the  west  with  the  sloping  places  and 
back  toward  the  river  when  the  bluff 
became  perpendicular.  The  trail  was 
perhaps  400  yards  long,  after  which 
the  bank  gradually  became  gently 
slanting  again,  and  not  so  high. 

We  had  got  about  half  way  along 
the  trail,  creeping  in  and  out  along  the 
face  of  the  bluff,  into  pocket-like 
places  where  the  bank  sloped  a  little, 
then  back  around  sharp  corners  where 
the  rocks  jutted  out  perpendicularly 
over  the  water.  My  hound  was  walk- 
ing silently  as  a  ghost  three  or  four 
feet  ahead  of  me,  with  head  raised 
suspiciously,  and  I  could  hear  him 
drawing  the  air  into  his  lungs  in  short 
drafts.  I  imagined  once  or  twice  that 
I  heard  a  soft  growl  from  him,  but 
little  louder  than  the  purr  of  a  cat. 

I  had  just  rounded  a  sharp  corner  of 
perpendicular  rock,  and  had  turned 
west  a  little,  following  the  trail  as  it 
bent  around  along  a  slanting  portion  of 
the  bank,  and  had  reached  the  deepest 
part  of  this  pocket  in  the  bank  when 
suddenly,  as  unexpectedly  as  a  clap 
of  thunder  out  of  a  clear  sky,  I  heard 
the  cry  which,  whenever  it  rips  at  the 
ear-drums  of  an  old  frontiersman, 
throws  him  into  a  fever  of  nervous 
fear,  and  fills  his  heart  with  supersti- 
tious dread,  as  though  a  whiff  from 
hell,  hot  and  sulphurous,  blew  into  his 
face — the  scream  of  the  death  bird 
overhead.  It  was  sitting  somewhere 
on  the  rocks  above  me,  and  seemed  to 
scream  as  it  rose  to  fly — a  long  drawn 
out,  piercing,  wailing  cry,  unlike  any- 


A  WHIFF  FROM  THE  PIT. 


55 


thing  else  in  God's  universe.  I  dropped 
my  Winchester  close  beside  me,  threw 
my  back  against  the  rock  wall  in  a 
leaning  position,  and  with  a  sixshooter 
in  each  hand  tried  to  watch  the  two 
places  which  instinct  told  me  were  the 
danger  points — the  places  on  my  right 
and  left  where  the  trail  wound  around 
the  rock  which  jutted  up  perpendicu- 
larly over  the  water. 

The  effect  of  the  bird's  cry  on  my 
hound  was  as  marked  as  upon  myself. 
I  had  seen  him  fight  Mexican  lions, 
bears,  wildcats,  Indians  and  whole 
yards  full  of  other  dogs,  and  I  didn't 
think  he  could  utter  a  growl  or  other 
manifestation  of  anger  with  which  I 
was  unfamiliar.  But  his  growl  now 
was  so  rasping  and  saw-like  that  it 
thrilled  me  almost  as  much  as  had  the 
bird's  cry.  It  was  so  sudden,  so  sharp 
and  grating  that  it  seemed  every  nerve 
in  my  body  was  being  torn  out  by  red- 
hot  tongs.  There  was  another  element 
in  this  growl,  too,  which  I  had  never 
detected  there  before — fear — hopeless 
fear.  Quick  as  lightning  the  hound 
lunged  forward  as  the  form  of  a  big 
Comanche  Indian  started  to  slip 
around  the  jutting  angle  of  rock  ahead 
of  us,  and  sprang  full  at  the  Coman- 
che's  throat  as  he  drew  his  bow  to 
shoot  me.  He  hadn't  taken  the  dog 
into  his  reckoning.  My  revolver  al- 
ready pointing  rigidly  in  that  direction, 
I  pressed  the  trigger  mechanically,  and 
the  bullet  crashed  into  the  Indian's 
brain  about  the  time  the  hound's  teeth 
sank  into  his  throat. 

The  Indian  didn't  get  around  the 
rock  far  enough  to  use  his  long  bow, 
but  one  on  my  left,  who  was  following 
us,  did,  for  as  the  dog  caught  the  first 
Indian's  throat  I  heard  the  dull  throb 
of  a  heavy  bow  string  on  my  left,  then 
the  sharp  swish  of  the  arrow  and  a 
thud  as  it  struck  the  hound's  body. 
Quick  as  thought,  I  cut  loose  at  this 
second  Indian  with  my  left  revolver, 
and  with  a  death  yell  he  leaped  into 
the  air  and  shot  downwards  towards 
the  water  below,  working  his  arms 
wildly.  The  Indian  on  my  right,  with 
the  hound's  teeth  buried  in  his  throat, 
had  toppled  off  the  trail  and  went 


down  towards  the  water  with  a  yell, 
carrying  the  hound  with  him.  I  heard 
the  twang  of  two  more  bow  strings, 
but  the  arrows  didn't  come  near  me,  so 
I  supposed  the  Indians  were  shooting 
at  the  dog  as  he  fell.  I  didn't  have 
time  to  consider  whether  he  was  killed 
or  not,  or  to  listen  for  the  sound  of  his 
fall  to  decide  whether  he  fell  into  the 
water  or  not,  for  instantly  two  more 
Indians  showed  themselves  around  the 
rock  on  either  side  of  me,  doubtless 
trusting  that  my  ammunition  was  ex- 
hausted, and  that  they  would  make 
short  work  of  me,  but  before  they 
could  get  far  enough  around  the  jutting 
rock  along  the  narrow  trail  to  draw 
their  long  bows  I  cut  down  upon  them 
with  my  sixshooters,  and  each  Indian 
toppled  off,  and  with  a  wild  yell  shot 
downward. 

I  had  no  idea  how  many  more  were 
around  the  rock  from  me,  but  they 
seemed  to  realize  that  I  had  plenty  of 
ammunition,  and  that  while  they  had 
me  bottled  up,  I  had  the  advantage  oi 
them  in  one  way,  for  I  could  shoot 
them  before  they  got  around  the  rock 
far  enough  to  shoot  me  with  their  long 
bows.  Fortunately  the  trail  around 
these  rocky  corners  was  narrow  so  that 
only  one  Indian  could  slip  around  at  a 
time.  They  had  apparently  grown 
careful,  having  seen  four  of  their 
braves  picked  off  the  trail,  and  they 
were  not  disposed  to  risk  their  lives 
trying  to  storm  my  position,  but  I  was 
determined  not  to  let  them  get  the  idea 
that  my  ammunition  was  scarce,  so 
whenever  a  nose  or  a  hand  or  feather 
showed  around  the  angle  of  rock  on 
either  side  I  tried  to  shoot  it  off.  I 
wanted  them  to  know  that  I  was  armed 
with  revolvers,  for  at  this  time  the  six- 
shooter  was  something  new  in  Indian 
warfare,  and  they  dreaded  a  fight  at 
close  range  with  the  Rangers  armed 
with  revolvers  more  than  a  fight  at  a 
distance  with  rifles.  Then  I  hoped  my 
comrades  would  become  uneasy  about 
me  and  send  out  a  party  to  look  for 
me,  and  if  I  kept  shooting  they  would 
locate  me  and  come  to  my  rescue.  The 
Indians  must  have  realized  this,  too, 
for  they  probably  knew  the  Rangers 


56 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


were  camped  in  our     close     vicinity. 

I  noticed  that  when  I  shot  at  an  In- 
dian on  one  side  another  showed  him- 
self instantly  from  the  other  side, 
thinking  to  get  a  shot  at  me  before  I 
could  reload,  and  that  I  was  not  watch- 
ing both  corners,  but  after  trying  this 
once  or  twice,  they  found  I  had  plenty 
of  ammunition,  and  that  I  was  ready 
for  them  from  both  directions.  Had 
they  continued  to  come  rapidly  around 
the  rock  on  both  sides  of  me  they 
would  doubtless  have  overpowered  me, 
but  no  Indian  had  the  bravery  and 
moral  courage  to  expose  himself  where 
the  chances  for  getting  killed  were  so 
great.  He  is  a  cowardly  being  un- 
less he  has  much  the  advantage  of  a 
white  man.  And  they  were  especially 
afraid  of  the  Texas  Rangers  unless 
they  far  outnumbered  the  white  men. 

At  this  time  the  Indians  had  almost 
all  been  driven  out  of  the  State,  ex- 
cept a  few  scattering  bands  in  the 
West.  The  others  had  been  confined 
to  their  reservations  in  the  Indian  Ter- 
ritory, and  though  they  sometimes 
broke  away  from  restrictions  there  and 
came  on  a  raid  into  Texas,  it  was  a 
hazardous  thing,  for  the  Rangers 
and  settlers  handled  them  so  roughly 
that  they  never  made  raids  unless  in 
large  numbers,  and  as  the  tribes  were 
much  reduced  in  numbers,  the  Indians 
seldom  came  in  sufficient  numbers  to 
make  them  bold  and  defiant,  but 
slipped  into  the  State  in  small  bodies 
to  steal  horses,  burn  houses  and  mur- 
der women,  children  and  unprotected 
settlers,  and  get  back  to  their  reserva- 
tion before  the  Rangers  could  overtake 
them.  These  sneaking  habits  had 
made  them  cowardly  and  skulking. 
They  prowled  around  on  dark,  cloudy 
nights  and  stole  horses,  but  they  would 
not  stand  in  the  open  and  fight  the 
Rangers  armed  with  revolvers  and 
magazine  rifles  unless  they  outnum- 
bered us  at  least  six  to  one. 

So  the  Indians  were  afraid  to  charge 
my  position,  but  I  knew  they  hadn't 
given  up  the  fight.  I  knew  the  top  of 
the  bank  was  covered  thick  with  under- 
growth, but  I  didn't  know  just  how 
thick  at  this  particular  place,  or 


whether  an  Indian  could  get  through  it 
or  not.  Just  above  where  I  stood  a 
ledge  of  rock  extended  out  over  me,  so 
the  Indians  couldn't  shoot  me  from 
that  point,  even  should  they  gain  the 
top  of  the  bluff.  But  on  my  right  and 
left,  the  bank  being  slanting,  there  was 
nothing  to  prevent  them  from  shooting 
me  from  the  top  of  the  bank  at  these 
sides  if  they  could  reach  the  top  and 
get  through  the  undergrowth  to  the 
edges  overlooking  me.  So  while 
watching  the  trail  at  the  two  angles,  I 
also  searched  the  edges  of  the  bank  at 
the  top  closely  to  see  that  the  Indians 
didn't  creep  upon  me  from  that  direc- 
tion. I  had  been  along  this  trail  a 
number  of  times  during  daylight,  and 
had  also  tried  to  work  my  way  through 
the  thicket,  and  did  not  believe  an  In- 
dian could  get  through  it  without  cut- 
ting his  way  through  with  knife  or 
tomahawk.  The  top  was  perhaps  sev- 
enty-five feet  above  me,  and  protected 
as  I  was  by  the  overhanging  rock 
above  and  behind  me,  I  was  free  to 
give  all  my  attention  to  the  tangled 
edges  on  each  side  of  me,  and  to  the 
trail. 

I  began  to  fear  now,  as  the  Indians 
made  no  further  demonstrations  along 
the  trail,  that  the  top  of  the  bank  on 
my  right  and  left  was  to  become  the 
danger  point,  for  if  the  savages  gained 
the  brow  of  the  bank  and  got  through 
the  underbrush  to  the  edges  which 
overlooked  my  position  I  would  be  al- 
most at  their  mercy.  After  a  time  I 
fancied  I  heard  a  rustling  up  on  top 
somewhere,  as  of  the  breaking  of 
sticks  under  the  tread  of  some  one,  or 
a  cutting  sound,  as  if  the  Indians  were 
cutting  through  the  underbrush.  But 
the  sound  was  so  soft  that  I  couldn't 
tell  whether  it  was  real  or  imaginary. 

I  remained  in  this  state  of  suspense 
for  perhaps  twenty  minutes,  though  it 
seemed  a  month.  The  moon  rose  slowly 
in  the  east  over  the  river,  making  my 
position  more  dangerous.  My  heart 
began  to  sink,  but  just  about  the  time 
I  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  this 
was  to  be  my  last  fight  with  the  sav- 
ages,-a  sound  greeted  my  ears  so 
blessed  that  I  could  have  shouted  for 


A  WHIFF  FROM  THE  PIT. 


57 


joy.  The  roar  of  a  dozen  Winchesters 
shook  the  rocky  bluff,  coming  from  a 
point  down  the  river,  followed  by  the 
spiteful  barking  of  sixshooters,  the 
yells  of  the  Rangers,  the  deep  bellow- 
ing of  the  bloodhounds  and  the  cries 
of  the  Indians  just  around  the  corner 
of  rock  on  my  right.  The  Rangers 
had  crowded  upon  them  before  they 
could  turn  back  down  the  river,  and 
they  were  between  two  fires,  the 
Rangers  on  one  side  and  I  on  the  other, 
still  well  armed  and  in  a  position  to 
shoot  the  Indians  as  they  came  around 
the  elbow  in  the  trail  one  at  a  time. 

The  blood  tumbles  madly  through 
my  veins  even  yet  at  the  thought  of 
what  followed.  The  Indians,  driven 
forward  by  the  Rangers,  began  to  jump 
around  the  rock  in  the  face  of  my  flash- 
ing sixshooters,  as  I  faced  them,  firing 
as  fast  as  they  came  in  sight.  The 
trail  was  so  narrow  that  some  of  them 
fell  off  amid  terrified  yells,  in  their 
haste  to  get  out  of  reach  of  the 
Rangers.  But  all  who  got  around  the 
rock  had  to  face  my  sixshooters,  and 
amid  yells  they  tumbled  off  the  trail 
one  by  one  into  the  river  as  I  shot, 
their  bows  and  arrows  falling  with 
them,  and  the  Rangers  firing  at  them 
as  they  fell.  I  do  not  know  that  I  hit 
every  one  that  came  around  the  rock, 
but  I  shot  at  every  one,  and  though  I 
was  much  excited,  I  believe  I  hit  all 
of  them,  for  they  were  not  more  than 
ten  feet  from  me,  and  their  yells  as 
they  shot  downward  told  me  that  most 
of  them  were  mortally  wounded,  for 
it's  easy  to  tell  the  death  yell  of  an 
Indian  from  simply  a  yell  of  fear  or 
terror. 

In  a  minute  the  firing  was  over,  the 
Rangers  had  reached  the  narrow  part 
of  the  trail  and  crept  around  the  rock 
to  where  I  stood.  Captain  Sterrett  was 
the  first  to  reach  me,  clasping  his  big 
hand  upon  my  shoulder  and  feeling  me 
over  to  see  if  any  arrows  were  stick- 
ing into  me,  and  asking  me  in  short, 
jerky  accents  if  I  were  hurt. 

Of  course  I  told  him  no,  but  that 
there  were  more  Indians  on  the  other 
end  of  the  trail,  and  that  I  thought 
there  were  some  on  top  of  the  bluff. 


With  two  waves  of  his  hand  he  sepa- 
rated the  company,  one  part  taking  the 
trail  up  the  river,  the  other  going  back 
down  stream  to  a  point  where  the  bank 
sloped  enough  for  them  to  climb  to 
the  top.  I  went  with  the  party  up  the 
trail,  leading  the  way  myself  around 
the  angle  where  I  had  shot  at  least 
two  Indians  dead  and  wounded  several 
others,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  an  In- 
dian now,  not  a  sound  to  be  heard,  and 
after  going  to  the  end  of  the  trail  and 
seeing  and  hearing  nothing  whatever 
of  the  enemy,  we  turned  and  hurried 
back  over  the  trail  as  fast  as  we  dared, 
to  join  our  other  comrades. 

We  now  heard  shots  on  the  brow  of 
the  bluff.  The  other  party  had  arrived 
there  and  found  that  four  Indians  had 
been  cutting  holes  with  knives  through 
the  dense  thicket,  dragging  their  bows 
and  arrows  with  them  in  order  to  reach 
the  edge  of  the  bluff  to  the  right  of 
where  I  had  stood.  The  undergrowth 
was  so  thick  that  they  could  not  get 
out  any  way  except  as  they  went  in, 
which  they  had  begun  to  do  at  the  first 
firing  of  the  Rangers.  But  this  had 
taken  time,  and  the  Rangers  had 
reached  the  top  of  the  hill  as  the  In- 
dians were  nearly  out,  and  the  blood- 
hounds had  caught  them  like  rats  in 
their  holes,  and  the  sixshooters  soon 
did  their  deadly  work.  The  Indians 
had  gotten  within  six  feet  of  the  edge 
of  the  bluff  when  the  firing  of  the 
Rangers  begun. 

I  was  late  in  gaining  the  top  of  the 
bank,  for  I  found  that  I  was  weak  and 
unstrung.  When  I  reached  the  top  and 
found  the  fight  over,  I  sat  down  on  the 
ground.  Several  of  my  comrades  stood 
around,  questioning  me  about  the  in- 
cidents leading  up  to  the  fight.  As 
we  talked,  the  bloodhounds  came  near 
me,  and  I  suddenly  sprang  to  my  feet 
and  asked: 

"But  my  hound!    Where  is  he?" 

Captain  Sterrett  was  standing  near- 
est me,  and  I  saw  his  face  grow  harder 
and  more  grim  in  the  moonlight. 

"Dead."  he  said  briefly.  Then 
added :  "He  didn't  live  till  we  got  our 
horses  saddled.  There  were  three 
broken  arrows  in  his  body.  They  en- 


58 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


tered  at  right  angles  in  such  a  way  that 
the  feathered  ends  were  broken  off  by 
striking  against  bushes  and  things  as 
he  ran  to  camp  to  give  the  alarm,  and 
this  had  torn  and  lacerated  his  flesh, 
and  doubtless  hastened  his  death." 

I  sat  down  again,  more  quickly  than 
before,  with  almost  a  sob  in  my  throat. 
I  was  only  twenty-two,  and  had  raised 
the  hound  since  he  was  no  bigger  than 
my  fist. 


The  next  day  thirteen  of  the  Rangers 
under  Captain  Sterrett  followed  the 
remaining  Indians  north  to  intercept 
them  before  they  reached  the  Territory 
— while  I  and  another  Ranger  went 
to  Lampasas.  I  carried  the  body  of 
the  faithful  hound  with  me,  and  buried 
it  in  one  corner  of  the  yard  and  put 
a  slender  slab  of  marble  above  his 
grave,  bearing  the  inscription :  "Hero : 
He  Died  for  His  Master." 


TAHITI — NIGHT 


An  idle  isle,  with  lazy,  nodding  palms 

Set  round  about,  and  coral  reefs  afar 

Out  in  the  deep,  upflinging  milky  surf 

With  rumbling  crash.    A  long,  wide,  snowy  beach 

Caressed  to  slumber  long  as  Time  is  long 

Beneath  the  Southern  Cross.    At  night,  far  out, 

The  rows  on  rows  of  lights  from  passing  ships, 

Sea-shouldering  vessels  making  for  their  ports 

Beyond  the  great  world's  edge ;  the  smoky  flame 

Of  phosphorus  upthrown  about  their  prows; 

And  leaping  fishes,  glowing  with  pale  fire, 

And  falling  back  into  the  sea  once  more 

With  muffled  splash  and  warm  sparks  flying  wide. 

The  shadows  creep  and  rustle  to  the  shore 

And  all  the  night  seems,  sighing,  to  awake 

From  drowsy  slumber,  murmuring  words  of  love 

And  languorous  passion,  indolent  amorousness. 

The  trade  wind  whispers  through  the  shifting  leaves, 

And  cool  streams  tinkle  in  the  velvet  dark 

Through  hidden  glades,  or  widen  into  pools 

With  many  stars  there  set  in  ebony, 

Giving  back  gleam  for  gleam  to  those  above 

Through  patterned  shadows  of  low-leaning  trees. 

Canoes  drawn  up,  with  paddles  leaning  on, 

And  grass-thatched  huts  half-hidden  in  the  shade — 

Low  murmurs,  once  a  cry,  then  laughter,  song; 

The  firelight  flickering  over  golden  skin; 

Above  it  all,  the  kindly,  brooding  night. 


HAROLD  MILLER. 


AURiEL 


By   Walter   Frederick 


MURIEL  they  called  her  when 
she  lay  in  her  crib,  a  red- 
faced  little  baby  with  pretty, 
dimpled  hands  and  an  aston- 
ishing appetite  for  a  well-behaved  lit- 
tle Miss.  Her  face  was  not  pretty. 
What  baby's  is,  in  the  first  weeks  of  its 
existence — the  putty-face  stage — ex- 
cept in  the  mind  of  the  fond  mother? 

But  what  mattered  that  to  Muriel? 
Not  any  more  than  it  troubled  her  that 
she  was  not  any  too  well  born.  She 
had  not  had  the  choice  of  her  parents. 
If  she  had,  she  would  scarcely  have 
chosen  good-for-nothing  John  Ramsey 
and  Fanny  Woeman,  on  whose  past  we 
will  not  comment. 

But  little  Muriel  knew  nothing  of 
that,  even  when  she  grew  up  to  girl- 
hood, as  she  did,  in  a  small  pioneer 
town  in  the  Northwest.  The  district, 
a  pine-logging  country  with  a  rough, 
hand-to-mouth  population,  was  not  the 
place  for  niceties,  and  if  a  family  made 
a  living  and  kept  out  of  jail,  there  was 
nothing  said  and  no  questions  were 

asked. 

*  *  *  * 

Muriel  was  now  a  pretty  girl  in  her 
'teens ;  school  had  given  her  little ;  she 
had  scant  aptitude  for  learning,  and 
soon  dropped  out  to  spend  her  time  at 
home,  and  here  and  there,  as  the 
rather  pleasure-loving  nature  and  shift- 
less, unsteady  manner  of  life  of  her 
parents  brought  it  to  pass. 

The  examples  she  had  before  her 
were  not  the  best,  and  while  she  was 
still  a  pure  and  sweet-minded  thing, 
the  education  she  was  receiving  in  this 
company,  with  its  lack  of  stability  and 
responsibility,  its  levity  and  general 
shiftlessness,  was  sure  to  tell  in  time. 

As  is  usual  with  this  type  of  people, 
Muriel  developed  early,  and  even  at 


seventeen,  had  her  little  affairs 
d'amour,  which,  as  any  person  with 
half  an  eye  could  see,  might  at  any 
time  bring  her  to  harm,  if  not  to  grief. 

About  this  time,  good  people  noticed 
the  attractive  little  Miss,  for  she  was 
fast  becoming  a  fetching  blonde,  and 
all  the  more  engaging  because  demure 
and  serious-minded  in  the  midst  of  a 
frivolous  environment,  and  they  de- 
cided, if  possible,  to  remove  her  from 
harm's  way.  But  how  should  it  be 
done? 

It  happened  that  a  young  woman  of 
their  acquaintance  was  about  to  start 
for  a  training  school  for  nurses.  She 
was  prevailed  upon  to  take  Muriel  with 
her,  and,  perchance,  to  have  her  also 
accepted  as  a  candidate,  in  which 
event  everything  seemed  easy  and 
Muriel's  future  assured. 

This  plan  was  successful,  for  the 
girl  welcomed  the  change,  as  people 
of  this  class  are  apt  to  do,  trusting  in 
chance  to  better  their  condition,  not 
considering  deeply  any  project,  and 
easily  swayed  by  any  plan  that  pleases 
their  fancy. 

Muriel  was  now  a  nurse  in  training. 
Preliminary  education  was  not  de- 
manded, although  the  course  itself  was 
thorough  and  full  of  hard  work  and 
study.  It  was  at  this  stage  of  her  ex- 
istence that  I  met  her.  I  had  gone  to 

Trinity  Hospital  in  M to  6e  cured 

of  a  severe  case  of  influenza.  As  an 
unmarried  man,  I  had  no  home  but  my 
bachelor  quarters,  and  no  one  to  care 
for  me  there,  so  to  the  hospital  I  went, 
and  as  a  "light  case,"  a  novice  was  as- 
signed to  me,  and  this  novice  was 
Muriel.  As  I  learned  the  story  of  her 
life  from  her  nurse  friend  and  pro- 
tector later  on,  my  impressions  of  her 
at  this  time  were  purely  personal  and 


60 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


quite  unspoiled  by  any  knowledge  of 
her  hereditary  qualities. 

I  remember  her  as  she  first  stepped 
into  my  room  and  was  introduced  by 
the  superintendent  as  Miss  Ramsey, 
"who  will  attend  to  your  wants." 
Dressed  in  a  novice's  neat  suit,  her 
long,  beautiful  auburn  hair  fairly 
bursting  from  her  white  cap,  her  tread 
light,  and  hands  as  dimpled  as  when 
she  lay  a  kicking  baby  in  her  cradle, 
she  was  more  an  excitant  than  the  ideal 
of  a  caretaker  and  a  soother. 

Well,  to  make  the  story  of  a  short 
stay  still  shorter,  I  remained  there  a 
week,  and  when  I  considered  that  I 
was  sufficiently  cured,  and  since  the 
presence  of  so  charming  a  girl  in  so 
close  proximity  is  always  perilous  for 
a  bachelor,  it  was  just  as  well  that  I 

left  the  hospital  when  I  did. 

*  *  *  * 

Once  back  at  my  work,  which  had 
piled  up  sufficiently  in  my  absence  to 
keep  me  strenuously  at  it  for  some 
time,  I  saw  no  more  of  Trinity  for  a 
year  or  two,  except  that  I  had  seen 
Miss  Hastings,  Muriel's  protector  and 
friend,  in  passing,  from  time  to  time. 
And  so  it  was  natural  when  my  friend 
John  went  to  the  hospital  with  a  severe 
case  of  typhoid  I  should  ask  to  have 
him  assigned  to  Miss  Hastings'  ward. 

As  I  attended  John  often  and  staid 
long  hours,  especially  during  the  crisis 
week  when  his  fever  ran  up  to  a  hun- 
dred and  four,  and  life  hung  in  the  bal- 
ance, it  came  about  that  Miss  Hastings 
and  I  sat  together  often,  and  since 
Muriel  was  a  common  acquaintance  of 
ours,  our  talk  quite  naturally  turned  on 
her.  Thus  it  happened  that  Miss  Hast- 
ings, who,  because  of  recent  experi- 
ences, was  full  of  the  subject,  told 
me  the  story  of  Muriel's  life,  as  I  have 
in  part  retold  it  above. 

The  narrative  was  interrupted  by 
frequent  ministrations  to  John:  ice- 
packs, medicine,  cold  immersions  to 
keep  the  fever  down,  or  a  delirious 
call  from  him  for  his  red  slippers  so 
he  might  go  home.  Between  these 
calls  I  got  the  following  snatches  of 
narrative : 

"Muriel  left  shortly  after  you  were 


here.  Let's  see :  that's  two  years  ago 
now,  is  it  not  ?  She  tired  of  the  stren- 
uous and  secluded  life  of  a  nurse  in 
training,  and  took  a  position  with  one 
of  her  former  patients  as  a  traveling 
companion.  That  did  very  well  for  a 
few  months,  but  Muriel  finds  it  very 
distasteful  to  stay  long  at  any  one 
piece  of  work,  and  GO  when  the  family 
returned  for  a  time  to  Chicago,  the 
monotony  of  life  began  to  tell  on  her. 
At  her  request,  she  was  granted  a 
vacation  to  visit  her  old  home,  which 
she  did.  Once  there,  she  seems  to  have 
fallen  in  with  the  manner  of  life  of  her 
people,  and  I  don't  know  what  it  was 
that  led  her  to  remain  there  when  her 
leave  had  come  to  an  end.  I  wrote  her 
often,  but  nothing  seemed  worth  while 
— the  uselessness  and  aimlessness  of 
existence,  except  for  passing  pleas- 
ures, seemed  to  act  like  lead  in  her 
veins.  At  all  events,  she  was  not  to 
be  got  away  by  any  sort  of  argument, 
when  lo  and  behold!  within  a  few 
weeks  I  received  a  letter  from  her 
stating  that  she  was  to  be  married. 

"And  to  whom?  Would  you  ever 
suppose  that  a  girl  as  dainty  and  with 
as  good  taste  as  Muriel  seemed  to 
have,  would  throw  herself  away  on  a 
shiftless,  rough,  raw  woodsman,  a 
drinker,  a  roustabout  who,  by  sheer 
brute  force  of  his  person  succeeded  in 
attracting  her? 

"It  was  only  later  that  I  learned  how 
meanly  she  had  married,  when  com- 
plaints and  lamentations  from  Muriel 
began  to  fill  my  mail.  And  when  pres- 
ently a  child  was  to  be  born  to  them, 
Muriel  begged  me  to  come  to  her, 
which  I  did,  as  my  winter  vacation. 

"And  there  I  found  her,  living  in  a 
house  unfit  for  any  one,  away  from  her 
kind,  on  the  edge  of  a  clearing,  un- 
cared  for  by  her  rough  spouse,  who 
was  away  for  weeks  together  on  hunt- 
ing trips,  or  working  on  some  short  job 
as  necessity  drove  him  to  it. 

"I  started  to  make  her  as  comfort- 
able as  possible  under  the  circum- 
stances. Her  baby  was  a  plump  little 
girl,  as  pretty  a  child  as  any  one  could 
wish  for,  and  it  went  to  my  heart  to 
think  of  the  life  that  awaited  her. 


MURIEL. 


61 


Well,  we  struggled  along  as  we  might 
for  about  two  weeks,  when  in  utter 
desperation  at  the  lack  of  even  the  or- 
dinary comforts  of  food  and  clothing, 
I  proposed  to  her  what  one  hesitates 
at  any  time  to  suggest  to  a  married 
woman,  I  proposed  that  she  quit  her 
home,  if  such  we  might  call  it,  and 
come  with  me  where  she  might  make 
a  living  for  herself  and  babe. 

"Muriel,  as  easily  led  as  ever,  ac- 
quiesced at  once.  I  learned  the  time 
of  the  next  train,  and  we  set  to  work 
packing  up  her  few  portable  belong- 
ings. The  undertaking  was  perilous, 
especially  for  me.  Jake  was  a  great, 
rough  brute.  He  might  return  from 
his  hunting  trip  at  any  time — he  might 
be  drunk  into  the  bargain.  But  I 
thought  the  prize  was  worth  the  haz- 
ard, and  I  took  the  risk. 

"Wrapping  up  the  little  one,  whom 
we  later  named  Muriel,  like  her 
mother,  as  best  we  might  against  the 
bitter  cold  of  a  winter  day  in  the 
Northwest  we  started  to  make  our  way 
to  the  station,  a  mile  or  two  distant. 
We  arrived  there,  finally,  after  much 
hard  walking  and  carrying,  and  sure 
enough,  at  the  station,  among  the 
rough  group  stood  Jake  in  his  hunting 
togs,  and  as  loud  and  coarse  as  ever. 

"We  slipped  into  the  station  build- 
ing the  back  way,  let  the  station  mas- 
ter, whom  I  had  spoken  to  on  my  ar- 
rival, into  our  secret,  and  begged 
him  to  help  us. 

'  'No,  ma'am,  not  on  your  life,'  said 
he.  'If  she  -is  going  to  run  away  from 
her  husband  she  can  do  so,  but  I  won't 
have  anything  to  do  with  the  matter.' 
So  there  we  were.  I  had  my  hands 
full.  Retreat  was  out  of  the  question, 
and,  mind  you,  Muriel  was  the  worst 
of  my  troubles. 

"  'Oh,  Hattie,  what  shall  I  do?  Jake 
is  a  bad  man.  You  don't  know  how 
bad.  What  shall  I  do?' 

'  'Do  nothing,'  said  I,  "but  keep 
quiet  and  trust  to  good  fortune.  He'll 
never  come  in  here.  There'll  be  a 
way  out  yet/ 

"  'But  I'm  awful  afraid.  What  will 
Jake  do?  He's  been  drinking,  too. 
Oh,  let  me  go  out  and  tell  him  every- 


thing. Or  let  me  tell  him  that  we  came 
to  meet  him.  Anything,  or  he'll  kill 
us  all.' 

"'Muriel,'  said  I,  'I'm  older  than 
you.  You  let  things  to  me.  You  go 
and  sit  down  there  and  keep  the  baby 
quiet.' 

"  'But,  Hattie,  I'm  an  awful  burden 
to  you.  I'll  tell  you  what.  You  go 
and  leave  me  here.  I'll  get  along 
somehow.  Go  now,  Hattie,  do.' 

"With  this  sort  of  thing  we  had 
spent  a  harrowing  half  hour,  when  the 
train  whistled.  I  had  bought  the  tick- 
ets and  stood  ready  to  take  any  chance 
that  offered  itself.  Now  I  was  stand- 
ing by  the  window.  I  saw  Jake  go  by 
us  forward  to  the  express  car.  'He  is 
bringing  a  carcass  down  from  his 
hunting  trip,'  said  Muriel.  As  he 
stepped  into  the  car  to  help,  I  snatched 
the  baby,  and  pushing  Muriel  on  ahead 
rushed  into  the  car,  turned  the  key  in 
the  lock,  and  got  out  of  the  range  of 
sight. 

"Within  a  few  moments  the  train 
was  in  motion.  We  had  left  Jake,  with 
the  carcass  of  a  deer  on  a  truck,  be- 
hind us,  and  I  got  up  to  let  in  the  con- 
ductor, who  was  in  a  fury  at  being 
locked  out  of  his  own  train.  Within 
eight  hours  we  were  once  more  in 
Trinity,  where  I  put  up  my  wards  to 
await  what  might  be  found  for  Muriel 
to  do. 

"A  few  days  later  we  found  a  posi- 
tion for  her  as  a  housekeeper.  She 
took  her  baby  with  her,  and  was  per- 
fectly content  to  live  again  in  proper 
circumstances  and  among  civilized 
people. 

"This  went  well  for  about  six 
months.  I  went  to  see  her  often.  Lit- 
tle Muriel  had  grown  to  be  a  charming 
little  thing,  and  was  the  delight  of  the 
entire  family.  Muriel  did  her  work 
well,  and  was  liked  by  all.  She  seemed 
content  in  that  no  complaint  came  from 
her  lips,  and  her  face,  worn  by  care 
when  she  came,  was  beginning  to  show 
its  old-time  oval,  and  her  long  hair 
was  as  pretty  as  ever. 

"Now  it  happened  that  as  my  train- 
ing was  at  an  end,  I  was  to  leave  for 
a  month's  trial  service  as  surgical 


62  OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 

nurse  at  the  General  Hospital  at  C — .  to  learn  from  the  family  that  she  had 

Before  I  did  so  I  admonished  Muriel  left,  as  far  as  they  knew,  for  her  old 

to  write  me  often  and  to  think  of  the  home,  which  was  true,  as  I've  learned 

future  of  her  little  one.  since. 

"The  rest  of  the  story  is  soon  told.         "What  is  to  be  done?    Muriel  has 

When  I  returned  at  the  end  of  my  not  written  me.     She  has  gone  back 

month — let's  see,  that  was  last  week  to  Jake,  and  that's  all  I  can  tell  you 

Friday — I  called  her  up  at  once,  only  about  her." 


HER     MINIATURE — 1778 


Painted  on  ivory  olden,  set  in  a  golden  frame, 
I  wonder  what  was  her  story,  what  was  her  name, 

Betty  or  Barbara,  Sally  or  Sue? 
Oh,  but  her  tender  eyes,  liquid  and  brown, 
Smile  from  the  shade,  my  Miniature  Maid, 

Of  her  clustering  curls,  and  a  knot  of  blue 
Is  brave  at  the  breast  of  her  high-waisted  gown. 

Maid  of  the  nut-brown  tresses,  maid  of  the  dresses  quaint, 
Flower  of  an  Old  World  garden,  fragrant  and  faint, 

I  fancy  a  perfume  arises,  a  row 
Of  cinnamon  pinks,  red  roses  a-nod, 
Verbena  and  phlox,  the  borders  of  box, 

With  gillyflowers,  pansies  and  poppies  a-blow, 
In  such  a  gay  garden  her  little  feet  trod. 

Her  voice  to  a  tinkling  spinnet,  fresh  as  a  linnet's  note, 
Trilled  as  she  joyously  caroled,  look  at  her  throat, 

Round,  and  as  white  as  the  leaf  of  a  rose, 
By  glimmer  of  candle,  or  glow  of  the  fire, 
She  sews  fine  seams,  with  innocent  dreams, 

Of  bright-eyed  beauty,  and  balls  and  beaux, 
Or  the  rollicking  laugh  of  a  fox-hunting  squire. 

Brown  eyes  of  light  and  laughter,  did  she  fade  soon  after,  sleep, 
Leaving  only  a  picture  for  some  one  to  keep, 

Or  hair  turning  silver,  from  silver  to  snow, 
Live  to  be,  wearing  a  rustling  brocade, 
And  rare  point  lace,  with  an  old-time  grace, 

Somebody's  grandma,  I  wish  I  could  know, 
Your  great-great-granddaughter,  my  Miniature  Maid. 

LUCY  BETTY  McRAYE. 


THE   DELECTABLE  FOUNTAINS 


By  John    Wright   Buckham 


LEADERS  of  "Pilgrims'  Pro- 
gress"— if  there  be  such  any 
longer — may  have  wondered  of 
the  whereabouts  of  the  Delect- 
able Mountains  to  which  Christian  and 
Hopeful  came  towards  the  end  of  their 
pilgrimage,  "to  solace  themselves  with 
the  good  of  these  Delectable  Moun- 
tains." They  have  been  found — as 
far  as  they  have  local  existence — in 
the  sun-bathed,  flower-girt  mountains 
of  the  Coast  Range  of  California,  not- 
ably those  that  stretch  away  from  the 
silver  waters  of  San  Francisco  Bay. 
From  canyon  to  crest,  these  hills  are 
filled  with  delight — infinitely  delect- 
able throughout  the  long  year.  No 
bleak  reign  of  snow  and  ice  comes  to 
break  rudely  in  upon  their  serenity. 
They  sleep  under  the  summer  suns, 
smile  at  the  gracious  gift  of  the  rain, 
and  break  forth  into  singing  at  the 
touch  of  spring  with  unfailing  and 
perpetual  charm.  There  is  no  month  in 
the  year  in  which  flowers  may  not  be 
gathered  upon  their  sides,  nor  in  which 
one  may  not  "loaf  and  invite  the  soul," 
basking  in  some  sunny  spot,  or  retreat- 
ing to  a  shady  nook — as  the  season 
suggests.  And  yet  these  hills  are 
never  the  same  for  long.  There  is 
constant  change,  subtle  but  real.  No 
mistake  is  more  unwarranted  than  that 
the  California  year  is  monotonous. 
In  the  city  it  may  be,  perhaps — 
better  so  than  the  from-blister-to-bliz- 
zard  changes  of  cities  in  other  climates 
— but  on  the  hillsides  there  is  no 
monotony.  To  the  untrained  eye,  that 
must  have  its  seasons  marked  in  vivid 
green,  blazing  red  and  blank  white, 
the  California  seasons  may  seem 
blurred  and  indistinct;  but  to  a  sensi- 
tive eye  that  delights  in  delicate  and 
subtle  changes  of  expression,  monot- 


ony is  as  unknown  as  on  the  face  of 
a  lover. 

There  are  but  two  marked  and  con- 
trasted seasons  in  California — the 
green  and  the  gold.  The  two  pass  into 
one  another  with  gradations  too  sub- 
tle for  exact  analysis,  yet  too  real  to 
be  unnoted.  The  season  of  the  green 
begins,  sometimes  earlier,  sometimes 
later,  in  that  elsewhere  dreary  time  of 
foreboding  called  "the  fall."  There 
is,  to  be  sure,  what  may  be  called  a 
fall  in  California,  but,  as  Henry  Ward 
Beecher  said  of  the  Genesis  story,  it  is 
a  "fall  upward."  When  the  last  fruits 
have  ripened,  and  the  year  is  at  the 
summit  of  its  golden  glory,  and  while 
yet  the  chaparral  glows  with  rich 
shades  of  dark  red  and  brown,  come 
the  first  refreshing  rains  of  the  season 
with  music  and  dancing — and  all 
Nature  rejoices  at  the  summons  of  a 
new  springtime.  Then  is  fulfilled  the 
prophecy  that  is  written:  "The  plow- 
man shall  overtake  the  reaper."  An- 
other gentle  rain,  and  another,  and  an- 
other, interspersed  with  periods  of 
brilliant  sunshine  smiling  upon  a 
fresh-bathed  world,  and  then  appears 
a  veil  of  green  as  delicate  as  gauze, 
spread  over  the  fair  outline  of  the  hills. 
Under  the  ampler  rains  of  December 
and  January,  the  green  spreads  and 
deepens  until  it  becomes  a  rugged 
and  substantial  garment  that  clothes 
the  whole  landscape  with  gladness. 
Spring  may  delay,  waiting  loyally  for 
the  returning  of  the  lengthening  days, 
but  it  has  taken  possession  and  its 
badge  of  promise  is  upon  the  broad 
breast  of  the  earth. 

Now  comes  marching  triumphantly 
in  the  gallant  procession  of  the  flow- 
ers, led  by  the  beautiful  flowering 
currant,  the  hanging  arbutus  of  the 


64 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


West.  In  the  laurel-shaded  arroyos, 
beside  the  sweet-voiced  streams,  the 
trillium  bursts  through  the  soil,  bl Ash- 
ing red  before  the  lovely,  fragile 
milkmaid,  pale  and  pink  by  turns. 
Amidst  the  tangled  vines  and  ferns, 
the  brilliant  blue  of  the  hounds-tongue 
catches  the  eye,  and  on  rare  days  one 
comes  upon  the  exquisite  brown  mis- 
sion-bells, calling  the  flowers  to  wor- 
ship. Higher  up  the  side  of  the  ar- 
royo  the  zygadene  lifts  its  lustreless 
stars  proudly  in  the  air,  and  the  beau- 
tiful shooting  star  poises,  as  if  ready 
for  flight,  upon  its  slender  stem.  Here 
and  there  the  Indian  paint-brush 
dashes  the  hillside  with  spots  of  brave 
color.  In  the  open  field  and  hillside 
there  is  a  riot  of  bloom  and  beauty. 
The  mustard  sprinkles  living  sunshine 
over  great  fields  of  gold,  and  the  but- 
ter-cups outdo  the  display  with  a  more 
golden  gold.  When  the  eye  tires  of 
this  splendor  it  rests  with  quiet  pleas- 
ure upon  the  myriad  beds  of  broidaea, 
or  cluster  lily,  with  their  rich  purple 
glow,  or  seeks  out  the  delicate  beau- 
ties of  the  portulaca  and  clover  hidden 
in  the  grass. 

More  splendid  and  wonderful  grows 
the  array  as  the  season  advances.  The 
lupines  form  great  masses  of  rich  lilac 
on  southern  slopes,  the  tall,  bending, 
pink  hollyhocks  adorn  the  fields,  and 
on  the  very  summits  of  the  Delectable 
Mountains  the  tender  mariana  (nemo- 
phila  insignis)  opens  its  innocent  blue 
eyes,  most  winsome  and  heavenly  of 
all  the  flowers  that  grow,  while  the 
graceful  tidy  tips  and  the  delicate 
cream-cups — another  of  our  choicest 
flowers — tempt  one  to  gather  great 
armfuls  of  these  trophies  of  the 
heights.  Yet  all  these  yield  willing 
homage  to  the  queen  of  the  wild  flow- 
ers, who  reigns  triumphant  and  un- 
equaled  on  the  hillsides,  the  match- 
less copa  de  oro,  the  golden  poppy 
(eschscholtzia  Calif  or  nica.) 

"The  gold  that  knows  no  miser's  hold, 
The  gold  that  banks  not  in  the  town, 
But  careless,  laughing,  freely  spills 
Its  hoard  far  up  the  happy  hills — 


Far  up,  far  down,  at  every  turn — 
What  beggar  hath  not  gold  to  burn?" 

— Joaquin  Miller. 

Now  comes  the  crest  and  summit  of 
the  year.  About  the  first  of  May,  the 
splendor  reaches  its  zenith.  The 
stream  of  life  and  beauty  flows  full 
to  the  very  banks.  The  wild  oats  on 
the  hills  sway  in  the  summer  breeze. 
The  bay  takes  on  a  more  captivating 
sheen  of  blue.  Above,  below,  around, 
all  is  perfection.  The  birds  are  in 
fullest-throated  melody.  In  the  ar- 
royos the  great,  gnarled,  out-stretching 
live  oaks  have  taken  on  a  foliage^as 
fresh  as  youth  itself- — age  renewing 
its  youth  could  not  have  a  more  per- 
fect symbol — the  maples  and  the  buck- 
eyes are  clothed  in  richest  raiment, 
the  ceanothus  has  lighted  its  blue  fires 
and  sends  back  greetings  to  the  sky. 
A  day  spent  on  the  hills  at  this  sea- 
son is  the  consummation  of  bliss  and 
leaves  one  with  a  richer  vision  of  life. 
Edward  Rowland  Sill  has  beautifully 
described  it  all — no,  not  all — in  his 
poem,  "Field  Notes,"  which  he  might 
better  have  called  "A  Day  on  the  De- 
lectable Mountains." 

Enters  now,  gently,  reverently,  rest- 
fully,  the  decline  of  the  year,  the  sea- 
son of  the  Gold.  The  wild  oats  and 
grass  and  flowers  ripen  and  recline  to 
Mother  Earth.  The  scarlet  bugler 
lifts  its  head  above  them,  and  the 
beautiful  godetias  adorn  dry  places 
with  their  satin  sheen.  The  mimuli 
are  still  in  bloom,  and  the  wild  asters 
and  golden  rod  begin  to  appear.  The 
atmosphere  of  ripeness  and  repose 
settles  upon  the  landscape.  The  sun 
reigns  supreme  through  cloudless  days 
and  transmutes  everything  into  his 
own  hue  and  likeness.  Some  of  the 
fairest  and  most  characteristically 
Californian  pictures  of  the  year  now 
appear.  The  blending  of  green  and 
gold  afforded  by  the  oaks  and  laurels 
sets  off  the  tawny  hillsides  and  forms 
a  harmony  of  which  the  eye  never  tires 
until  the  season  of  the  Gold  gives  way 
to  that  of  the  returning  Green. 


Sham  battle. 


YERBA  BUENA  ISLAND  NAVAL 
TRAINING  STATION 


By   Fred  A.  Hunt 


ABOUT  MIDWAY  between  San 
Francisco  and  Oakland,  in  the 
Bay  of  San     Francisco,    rises 
Yerba     Buena     (good     herb) 
Island,  commonly,  and     inaccurately, 
known  as  Goat  Island,  where  are  lo- 
cated a  light-house  and  fog-horn  sta- 
tion, a  torpedo  station  (under  the  juris- 
diction of  the  U.  S.  Army),  a  detach- 
ment of  the  U.  S.  Marine  Corps,  a 
light-house    dock  where    is  kept  a  be- 
wildering array  of  buoys,  nun  buoys, 
whistling  buoys,  spars,  etc.,  and  the 
United  States  Naval  Training  Station. 
With   the   latter   this   article   has    its 
especial  illuminative  properties. 
Like     a     crouching     lion     are     the 


outlines  of  Goat  Island,  and  its  bold 
headland  makes  a  prominent  feature 
of  the  magnificent  topography  of  San 
Francisco  Bay.  Of  its  history  earlier 
than  the  Civil  War  epoch,  but  little 
is  known,  save  that  the  name  Goat 
Island  was  given  it  because  of  the 
large  herds  of  goats  that  were  pas- 
tured there,  and  whose  proprietors  fur- 
nished milk  and  goat  meat  to  the  occu- 
pants of  the  settlements  about  the  Bay. 
The  primary  military  establishment  on 
the  Island  was  an  infantry  canton- 
ment, which,  about  1870,  was  changed 
to  an  artillery  post,  and  it  so  remained 
until  all  the  buildings  were  destroyed 
by  fire,  when  its  general  occupancy  by 
3 


United  States  training  ship  Pensacola. 


the  government  ceased,  only  the  south- 
eastern end  being  utilized  as  the  light- 
house station,  and  a  small  fraction  of 
the  northeastern  extremity  being  de- 
voted to  the  housing  of  materials 
needed  by  the  torpedo  section  of  the 
Engineers'  Department. 

It  appeared  to  be  L  matter  of  uncer- 
tainty among  the  government  officials 
as  to  what  would  be  the  most  feasible 
and  practical  use  to  put  this  prominent 
and  advantageous  site.  Many  propo- 
sals were  made  for  its  purchase  from 
the  government  by  private  citizens  and 
corporations,  but  they  were  all  re- 
jected, and  the  United  States  main- 
tained what  was  generally  character- 
ized as  its  useless  tenure,  until  1898, 
when  it  became  a  recognized  fact  that 
sailors  for  our  navy  were  almost  un- 
procurable, and  the  consequent  need 
for  a  place  where  youths  could  be 
trained  to  man  our  war  vessels  impera- 
tive and  urgent.  Senator  George  C. 
Perkins  had,  through  various  sessions 
of  Congress,  urged  the  establishment 
of  a  training  station,  and  in  1898,  when 


the  war  clouds  were  densely  gathering, 
such  a  station  for  the  Pacific  Coast  was 
decided  upon.  On  April  12,  1898, 
President  Benjamin  McKinley  signed 
the  executive  order  setting  apart  a 
goodly  portion  of  Goat  Island  as  a 
Naval  Training  Station,  and  officially 
designated  the  island  as  "Yerba  Buena 
Is1and."  During  that  year,  preliminary 
surveys  were  made,  plans  drawn  and 
prospecting  for  a  water  supply  devel- 
oped; these  being  under  the  super- 
vision of  Civil  Engineer  Franklin  C. 
Prindle,  U.  S.  Navy,  and  Captain 
Francis  W.  Dickins,  U.  S.  Navy,  as- 
sistant chief  of  the  Bureau  of  Naviga- 
tion, the  latter,  in  October,  1898,  per- 
sonally visiting  Yerba  Buena  in  con- 
nection with  this  duty. 

On  March  25,  1899,  Captain  Henry 
Glass  brought  the  Pensacola  down 
from  Mare  Island  Navy  Yard,  with 
five  apprentices  (who  had  been  en- 
listed for  a  course  of  training  as  a 
nucleus  for  the  new  training  school) 
and  took  command  of  the  station.  Ex- 
cavations were  made,  and  an  immense 


/.  Holding  the  regular  sports  on  the  island.     2.  Boat  drill.     3  Setting  up 
exercises  on  the  main  field. 


68 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


plaza,  or  training  and  drill  ground, 
leveled,  in  the  course  of  which  an  an- 
cient Indian  cemetery  was  demolished 
that  lay  between  the  barracks  and  the 
officers'  quarters.  Shortly  thereafter, 
eight  boys  were  under  instructions  in 
the  formative  process.  Thereafter  the 
growth  of  the  institution  was  rapid. 

The  first  building  to  be  placed  under 
construction  was  the  barracks;  for 
their  completion  $74,000  had  been  ap- 
propriated, but  the  erection  ultimately 
totaled  $85,000.  In  this  commodious 
edifice  there  is  comfortable  housing 
for  five  hundred  apprentices,  and  the 
largest  drill  hall  (three  hundred  by 
sixty  feet)  on  the  Pacific  Coast;  the 
gallery  around  it  is  occupied  by  the 
hammocks  of  the  lads  who  are  becom- 
ing accustomed  to  the  duties  and  rou- 
tine of  naval  life.  Immediately  after 
the  erection  of  the  barracks,  officers' 
quarters  were  built  at  an  approximate 
cost  of  $100,000. 

During  the  fiscal  year  ending  June 
30,  1899,  there  were  at  the  station 
sixty-two  youngsters,  who  were  quar- 
tered on  the  Pensacola,  pending  the 
completion  of  the  barracks.  On  Janu- 
ary 10,  1900,  the  barracks  were  com- 
pleted and  accepted,  and  were  for- 
mally occupied  on  February  2d  of  that 
year.  On  January  23d,  the  command- 
ant's house  was  completed,  and  the  of- 
ficers' quarters  on  March  23d.  In  this 
fiscal  year  the  training  station  mater- 
ially advanced  in  its  work  of  "making" 
sailors,  there  being  three  hundred  and 
ninety-two  apprentices  there,  from 
various  parts  of  the  country.  All  of 
the  apprentices  must  be  Americans. 
As  a  Washington,  D.  C.,  despatch  an- 
nounced: "American  citizenship  is  to 
l>e  an  unbroken  rule  governing  all 
future  enlistments  in  the  naval  service, 
and  instructions  to  that  effect  have 
been  sent  to  naval  officers  on  recruit- 
ing-duty in  various  parts  of  the  coun- 
try and  at  the  naval  stations.  The  only 
departure  from  the  rule  will  be  in  cer- 
tain cases  of  those  enlisted  as  cooks, 
stewards  and  mess  attendants,  where 
foreigners,  such  as  Japanese,  are  found 
to  be  of  special  value,  added  to  which 
circumstances  it  has  been  found  there 


are  not  enough  Americans  applying  for 
these  positions." 

The  third  year  showed  an  increase 
to  five  hundred  and  eighty-four  ap- 
prentices, with  a  daily  average  of  one 
hundred  and  ninety-six  present;  the 
absentees  being  on  cruise,  etc.,  under 
instruction.  Of  this  aggregate,  the 
Puget  Sound  district  furnished  thirty- 
seven.  But  the  work  and  value  of  the 
Station  was  materially  augmented  this 
year  by  an  order  from  the  Bureau  of 
Navigation  that  the  Station  should  be 
utilized  as  an  educational  point  for 
landsmen  as  well  as  apprentices; 
therefore,  on  September  15th,  a  ren- 
dezvous was  instituted  at  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  enlistments  were  taken  at 
the  Station  and  at  Los  Angeles,  with 
the  result  that  five  hundred  and  ninety 
landsmen  were  instructed  during  the 
year;  four' hundred  and  twenty-nine  of 
whom  were  sent  to  different  ships  on 
the  Pacific  Station.  This  addition  of 
landsmen  made  the  total  number  of 
youths  at  the  Station  one  thousand  one 
hundred  and  seventy-four. 

From  that  time  the  Station  has 
steadily  increased  in  popularity,  at- 
tendance and  efficiency  in  the  needful 
training  work.  On  July  10,  1903,  Rear- 
Admiral  William  H.  Whiting  took 
command  of  the  Station,  he  being  suc- 
ceeded in  the  fall  of  1905  by  Captain 
Charles  P.  Perkins,  U.  S.  Navy.  Under 
the  direction  of  the  commandant,  Cap- 
tain C.  A.  Gove,  the  training  station 
has  progressed  in  prestige  and  recog- 
nized efficacy,  so  that  its  excellent 
reputation  has  been  maintained,  and 
in  many  instances  improved  upon. 

The  routine  of  duty  is  naturally  and 
necessarily  comprehensive.  Reveille 
6  a.  m.;  bath,  6:20;  breakfast,  7  a.  m.; 
inspection  of  underwear,  8  a.  m;  sick 
call,  8:30;  at  9  quarters  are  sounded, 
and  the  battalion  forms  on  the  drill- 
ground  in  front  of  the  barracks,  at 
which  time  inspection  is  had,  and  woe 
is  the  portion  of  the  slovenly  or  untidy 
attendant.  At  9:25  the  dismiss  is 
sounded,  and  at  9:35  the  bugle  again 
assembles  the  lads  for  practical  train- 
ing in  the  manual  of  arms,  seamanship, 
signaling,  schooling,  gunnery,  swim- 


70 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


ming,  compass  instruction,  boxing,  etc. 
At  10:25  dismiss  is  sounded,  and  at 
10:35  once  more  they  are  assembled 
for  instruction  or  drill  (in  both  infan- 
try and  artillery  methods)  until  11 :20; 
from  that  time  until  11 :55  they  are  at 
liberty.  At  11:30,  "mast"  is  held, 
when  those  who  are  reported  as  amen- 
able to  punishment  are  arraigned  be- 
fore the  commandant,  which  is  techni- 
cally known  as  "being  brought  to  the 
mast."  At  11 :55  mess  formation  finds 
them  in  ranks  again,  and  in  attend- 
ance at  this  duty  they  are  always 
prompt.  After  mess,  and  until  1  p.  m. 
they  have  liberty;  at  that  hour  drill  is 
again  taken  up,  lasting  until  1 :55.  At 
2:10  they  have  their  fourth  period, 
and  until  2:55,  and  at  3:10  p.  m.  they 
have  their  fifth,  and  last,  period,  last- 
ing until  4  p.  m.  Afc  4:05  p.  m.  they 
march  to  the  bag-room  and  scrub 
clothes  until  4:30  or  5  p.  m.,  when 
they  are  at  liberty  until  5:25  p.  m., 
when  mess  formation  is  again  sounded 
for  supper,  and,  after  that  pleasurable 
duty,  the  remainder  of  the  naval  day  is 
their  own,  and  until  8 :40,  when  "ham- 
mocks" is  sounded  and  the  lads  march 
to  the  gallery,  hammocks  slung  and 
unlashed  (everything  is  "tied"  in  the 
navy),  and  their  respective  occupants 
speedily  in  them.  Then  tattoo  is 
sounded,  followed  shortly  afterward 
by  taps,  and  quietude  reigns  until 
reveille  of  the  ensuing  day. 

During  their  periods  of  rest  or  re- 
creation, there  are  abundant  opportuni- 
ties for  the  lads  to  amuse  or  profitably 
to  enjoy  themselves.  There  is  an  ex- 
cellent library  of  nearly  six  hundred 
volumes  of  standard  works,  as  well  as 
some  fifty  magazines  and  the  daily 
papers  from  the  principal  Coast  cities. 
In  the  library,  school  is  also  held,  un- 
der the  special  supervision  of  the  chap- 
lain. The  library  is  also  the  general 
correspondence  room.  In  appropriate 
localities  are  pool  and  billiard  tables, 
boxing  gloves,  Indian  clubs,  punching 
bags  and  other  gymnastic  accessories, 
and  for  those  of  musical  taste  there  is 
a  piano  that  seldom  lacks  a  performer, 
and  then  the  lads  who  can  sing,  or 
think  they  can  sing,  make  the  environs 


melodious  or  discordant,  as  the  case 
may  be — but  they  amuse  themselves, 
and  others.  There  is  a  good  orchestra 
and  dramatic  club,  and  a  variety  of 
enjoyable  impromptu  entertainments 
are  continually  being  provided.  Base- 
ball and  football  clubs  of  the  Station 
have  rendered  good  accounts  of  them- 
selves in  contests  with  other  teams.  On 
Sundays  divine  service  is  held,  where- 
at a  very  good  choir  takes  a  prominent 
and  effective  part. 

Necessarily,  minute  and  scrupulous 
attention  is  paid  to  the  physical  train- 
ing of  the  lads,  that  they  may  be  trans- 
formed from  the  stiff-jointed  and 
drum-stick  legged  landsmen  to  the 
alert  and  supple  man-o'-war'smen. 
Likewise  is  rigorous  supervision  exer- 
cised as  to  their  moral  education,  for 
Uncle  Sam  wants  men  in  his  navy  who 
have  sound  minds  in  sound  bodies. 
And  those  who  take  pains  to  perfect 
themselves  in  their  studies  and  instruc- 
tions provided — and  for  which  the  lads 
receive  pay  during  their  curriculum — 
discover  themselves  on  the  road  to 
rapid  promotion  and  remunerative 
positions — in  which  they  have  a  life 
tenure  until  retired  or.  pension — or  ad- 
vanced to  more  responsible  and  better 
compensated  rank.  As  the  recruiting 
officer  of  the  Station  remarked: 
"There  is  no  place,  in  any  business  or 
profession,  where  a  boy  who  has  no 
aptitude  for  special  study,  or  the  capa- 
bility for  tireless  application,  can  so 
rapidly  advance  as  in  the  United 
States  Navy ;  nor  where  the  increasing 
monetary  compensation  is  so  sure, 
swift  and  definite."  Unquestioning 
and  implicit  obedience  is  the  corner- 
stone of  the  efficiency  of  the  navy;  it 
must  be  exacted — and  it  is. 

THE  PENS  AC  OLA. 

A  prominent  feature  of  the  Station 
is  the  United  States  Receiving  ship 
Pensacola,  whose  construction,  to- 
gether with  that  of  the  Hartford, 
Brooklyn,  Lancaster  and  Richmond, 
was  authorized  by  the  Act  of  March  3, 
1857.  These  were  among  the  first 
first-class  screw  sloops-of-war,  and 
were  all  of  something  over  two  thou- 


72 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


sand  tons  burthen,  about  two  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  in  length,  forty-three  feet 
beam  and  sixteen  feet  draught.  The 
Hartford  was  Admiral  David  Glasgow 
Farragut's  flagship  at  New  Orleans 
and  Mobile,  while  the  Brooklyn,  Ricji- 
mond  and  Pensacola  were  part  of  his 
squadron  and  participants  in  his  not- 
able victories.  The  Pensacola  was 
built  at  the  Pensacola  Navy  Yard, 
Florida,  from  the  designs  of  John  Len- 
thall,  and  was  completed  just  before 
the  guns  at  Fort  Sumter  sounded 
around  the  world.  From  the  Navy 
Yard  she  sailed  for  Washington  to  re- 
ceive her  stores,  armament  and  equip- 
ments, after  which,  about  August  1, 
1861,  she  was  put  into  commission  un- 
der the  command  of  Captain  Henry 
W.  Morris,  with  Lieutenant  (now  Rear- 
Admiral)  Francis  A.  Roe,  as  executive 
officer.  Shortly  afterwards,  the  latter 
officer  was  ordered,  with  five  hundred 
seamen,  to  occupy  Fort  Ellsworth,  near 
Alexandria,  and  there  remained,  on  the 
left  of  General  George  Brinton  Mac- 
Clellan's  line,  until  the  Army  of  the 
Potomac  went  to  the  Peninsula,  when 
Lieutenant  Roe,  with  his  detachment, 
returned  to  the  Pensacola.  The  vessel 
then  started  for  her  field  of  action  as 
part  of  the  fleet  of  Admiral  Farragut, 
President  Lincoln  and  his  Cabinet  be- 
ing honored  guests  aboard  the  warship, 
and  so  remained  until  the  Rebel  bat- 
teries along  the  Potomac  were  neared, 
when  they  disembarked  and  returned 
to«  Washington. 

Her  passage  down  the  Potomac 
River  was  an  exciting  and  dangerous 
one,  as  the  river  was  commanded  (on 
the  Virginia  bank)  for  nine  miles  by 
a  line  of  Confederate  forts  and  bat- 
teries, whose  strict  orders  were  not  to 
permit  the  passage  of  any  vessel.  Of 
these,  the  Pensacola  ran  the  gantlet, 
and  escaping  serious  injury,  went  to 
Hampton  Roads,  and  then  to  the  West 
Gulf  blockading  squadron,  with  Flag 
Officer  Farragut  on  the  Hartford,  ar- 

1.  Captain  C.  A.  Gove,  the  com- 
mandant. 2.  The  church  pennant,  the 
only  flag  that  ever  flies  over  the  Stars 
and  Stripes. 


1 


Preparing  for  a  holiday  dinner. 


riving  off  the  Mississippi  delta  March 
7,  1862.  The  fleet  assembled  in  the 
lower  river,  and  on  April  24th  went  up 
the  river,  supported  by  Captain  David 
P.  Porter's  mortar-boats,  and  partici- 
pated in  the  action  at  Forts  Jackson 
and  St.  Philip,  the  latter  guarding  the 
north,  the  former  the  south  bank  of  the 
river.  Captain  Bailey  led  the  "Column 
of  the  Red"  in  the  Cayuga,  closely  fol- 
lowed by  Captain  Morris  with  the  Pen- 
sacola.  The  armament  of  the  latter 
comprised  one  eleven-inch  and  one 
twenty-inch  smooth-bore  gun,  one  one- 
hundred,  and  one  eighty  pounder  rifled 
gun,  and  two  twelvepound  howitzers, 
in  addition  to  her  broadside  batteries. 
As  the  "Column  of  the  Red"  ap- 
proached Fort  St.  Philip,  its  desig- 
nated point  of  attack,  the  Pensacola 
opened  with  her  starboard  broadside, 
and  compelled  the  gunners  on  the  bar- 
bette battery  to  fly  to  cover,  shortly  re- 


turning to  their  posts,  as  the  ship 
moved  past,  and  reopened  fire,  when 
the  Pensacola  stopped  her  .way  and 
again  drove  the  gunners  at  the  fort's 
guns  from  their  stations;  the  opposing 
force  being  at  such  short  range  that 
their  vivid,  profane  vocabulary  was 
easily  audible  one  to  the  other.  Then 
the  Pensacola  veered  off  to  mid-river, 
and  her  guns  thus  no  longer  training 
on  the  fort,  the  Confederates  venge- 
fully  riddled  the  Pensacola  with  a 
quartering  fire.  The  vessel  was  shortly 
afterward  charged  by  the  rebel  ram 
Manassas,  the  ram  being  skillfully 
eluded  by  Lieutenant  Roe,  who  was  on 
the  bridge  of  the  Pensacola,  and  who 
gave  the  Manassas  a  broadside  as  she 
passed  that  punctured  the  shell  and 
carried  away  her  flagstaff.  Meanwhile 
the  Hartford  had  run  aground  in  try- 
ing to  avoid  a  fire-raft,  which  was 
pushed  up  against  her,  and  in  a  short 


74 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


time  the  Hartford's  port  side  was  blaz- 
ing half-way  to  the  tops;  the  flames 
subsequently  were  extinguished  with- 
out any  cessation  in  the  fire  of  the 
ship's  guns. 

The  morning  revealed  a  scene  of 
wrack  and  desolation.  Many  disman- 
tled vessels  of  the  enemy's  fleet  floated 
clumsily  down  the  river,  while  several 
of  Farragut's  ships  were  more  or  less 
disabled,  three /of  >  them  being  unable 
to  advance  five  miles  up  the  river  to 
"the  quarantine  station,  where  the  fleet 
made  its  'rendezvous.  In  the  contest 
the  Pensacola  had  four  men  killed  and 
thirty-three  wounded,  and  suffered 
much  damage  to  her  hull  and  rigging. 

On  April  25th,  Farragut  sailed  up 
the  river — the  Pensacola  being  an  in- 
teger of  the  squadron — and  engaged 
and  silenced  the  batteries  at  Chalmette 
and  receiving  the  surrender  of  New 
Orleans  (Nowelle  Orleans)  on  his  ar- 
rival. Two  days  subsequently,  Forts 
Jackson  and  St.  Philip  lowered  the 
Stars  and  Bars.  On  the  arrival  of 
General  Benjamin  Franklin  Butler 
(yclept  "Spoons"  Butler)  and  his  com- 
mand, Admiral  Farragut  refitted  his 
fleet  for  an  advance  up  the  Mississippi 
to  Vicksburg,  there  to  effect  a  junction 
with  Commodore  Davis'  Mississippi 
squadron.  Being  too  severely  injured 
to  accompany  the  Admiral,  the  Pensa- 
cola was  sent  to  the  marine  docks  for 
repairs.  These  being  completed,  she 
remained  on  duty  in  the  Gulf  of  Mex- 
ico for  two  years,  occasionally  serving 
as  flagship  for  the  squadron. 

After  the  Civil  War  the  Pensacola 
was  thoroughly  repaired  and  refitted, 
and,  under  the  command  of  Captain 
John  L.  Worden,  in  August,  1866, 


sailed  for  the  Pacific  Ocean,  remaining 
here,  usually  a"s  the  flagship,  until  the 
latter  part  of  1883,  when  she  again 
went  to  the  Atlantic  under  the  flag  of 
Rear-Admiral  Henry  Erben.  Once 
more  she  underwent  repairing  and  re- 
fitting at  the  Norfolk  Navy  Yard,  and 
was  commissioned  for  duty  as  the  flag- 
ship of  Rear-Admiral  Samuel  R. 
Franklin,  and  under  the  command  of 
Captain  George  Dewey.  On  her  re- 
turn- from  European  duty,  she  was  sent 
on  a  special  trip  to  Africa,  and  was 
then  again  transferred  to  the  Pacific, 
and  on  March  25,  1899,  was  brought 
from  Mare  Island  Navy  Yard  by  Cap- 
tain (afterwards  Rear-Admiral)  Henry 
Glass  to  Yerba  Buena,  and  anchored 
in  the  bight  (where  she  now  is)  be- 
fore the  training  station,  the  command 
whereof  being  then  taken  over  by 
Captain  Glass. 

Relative  to  the  Pensacola,  Admiral 
Dewey  wrote:  "My  great  interest  in 
the  Pensacola  is  not  due  alone  to  the 
fact  that  I  commanded  her  for  three 
years,  but  dates  back  to  the  Civil  War 
days  when,  in  the  famous  river  fight 
below  New  Orleans,  I  was  attached  to 
the  frigate  Mississippi,  which  was  im- 
mediately astern  of  the  Pensacola,  our 
bowsprit  almost  over  her  top  sail.  Be- 
cause of  our  close  proximity,  the  most 
friendly  feeling  existed  between  the 
officers  and  crews  of  the  two  ships. 
*  *  *  During  my  command  of  her,  I 
took  some  trouble  to  learn  the  meaning 
of  the  word  Pensacola,  and  learned 
that  its  original  Indian  meaning  was 
'bay  of  plenty.'  Evidently  this  signi- 
ficance was  known  to  the  builders  of 
the  ship,  as  her  gangway  headboards 
were  carved  with  the  'horn  of  plenty.'  " 


Bird's-eye  view  of  a  western  section  of  San  Francisco. 

OUR    EXPECTANT   HOSTESS 

(San  Francisco,  the  city  that  will  receive  and  entertain  the  streams  of 
visitors  from  all  parts  of  the  world  during  the  period  of  the  Panama-Pacific 
Exposition,  1915.) 

By  Helen  Lockwood  Coffin 


OF  ALL  the  sisterhood  of  Ameri- 
can cities,  San  Francisco  is  the 
busiest  just  now.  She  is  set- 
ting her  house  in  order  and 
getting  ready  for  company.  It  is  no 
ordinary  spring  upheaval  which  occu- 
pies her  attention.  She  is  building  ad- 
ditions, making  alterations  in  the  liv- 
ing room,  extending  the  dining  room, 
modernizing  the  kitchen,  and  "land- 
scaping" the  grounds.  She  cannot 
take  a  day  off  to  do  it  in,  either,  but 
must  keep  to  her  regular  routine  of 
three  meals  a  day,  send  her  children 
to  school,  and  her  "men  folk"  to  work. 
Then,  too,  she  is  continually  practic- 
ing her  vocation  as  hostess.  Each 
day  brings  guests — important  ones, 
too,  capitalists  whom  she  desires  to 
interest  to  the  point  of  investment, 
and  whose  interest  waits  on  appetite. 
For  the  ultimate  company  for  whom 
San  Francisco  is  getting  ready  is  no 
more  nor  less  than  the  World  at  Large, 
and  these  transients  are  the  advance 
guard,  sent  to  spy  out  the  land. 

It  is  a  queer  sort  of  house  this  sis- 


ter has,  built  after  an  original  plan  of 
her  own.  It  is  rambling,  hap-hazard, 
upstairs  and  down,  full  of  unexpected 
turns  and  mysterious  corners  and  se- 
cret passages.  The  main  hall  runs  on 
the  "bias"  through  the  center,  with 
corridors  branching  off  in  a  maze  on 
either  side.  The  whole  thing  is  set 
on  a  corner  lot,  with  all  four  sides  open 
to  the  world,  and  yet  there  are  only 
two  entrances,  a  front  and  a  side. 
Through  these,  most  formally  and 
politely,  must  all  guests  and  even  the 
family  enter  and  depart.  There  is 
a  fence  of  water,  breaker-high  and 
dangerous,  to  protect  the  grounds  from 
trespassers.  But  once  within  the  gates 
the  hostess  blows  away  conventionali- 
ties with  a  breeziness  that  is  quite 
characteristic. 

For  hers  is  the  breeziest  house  in 
the  world.  Good  ventilation  is  one 
of  her  hobbies,  and  if  one  cared  to 
pick  flaws  in  the  plan  of  her  house, 
this  is  a  good  place  to  begin.  In  the 
raw  fog  of  a  gray  afternoon  there  is 
almost  too  much  ventilation,  and  one 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


is  tempted  to  slam  down  the  win- 
dows. But  there  are  no  windows.  And 
next  morning,  when  the  sun  comes  out 
warm  and  bright,  and  the  breeze  has 
dozed  down  to  a  mere  whisper,  the 
most  shivery  guest  of  the  night  before 
has  only  the  warmest  praise  for  a 
hostess  who  has  no  roof  but  the  sky, 
no  walls  but  the  atmosphere. 

The  ridiculous  little  bit  of  a  ther- 
mometer which  she  uses  only  regis- 
ters the  ten  degrees  between  fifty  and 
sixty.  Having  no  need  for  any  other 
figures,  she  has,  in  an  unusual  spasm 
of  economy,  done  away  with  them. 
Never  can  you  keep  calendar  by  the 
feel  of  the  weather  out  here.  July 
Fourth  and  January  First  frequently 
register  the  same  degree.  Every  day 
is  an  outdoor  day,  and  family  and 
guests  live  in  the  open,  their  faces 
show  it — they  are  tanned  and  rosy 
and  fresh.  They  play  all  the  outdoor 
games  the  world  has  ever  known,  and 
every  new  one  as  soon  as  it  is  in- 
vented. They  play  everywhere — in 
and  on  the  ocean,  up  the  mountains, 
in  the  parks,  over  the  smooth  roads. 
No  small  part  of  this  sister's  time  is 
taken  up  with  the  planning  and  equip- 
ping of  courts  and  links,  and  yachts 
and  speedways.  Those  are  direct  re- 
sults of  the  life  outdoors,  and  then 
there  are  also  by-products. 

One  of  these  is  hunger,  and  another 
hobby  of  this  hostess  is  the  guests' 
dining  rooms.  Instead  of  just  one, 
there  are  nobody  knows  how  many. 
Some  hoary  statistician  from  the  East 
began  to  count  the  collection.  He  got 
as  far  as  the  forty-fourth,  after  the 
two  thousandth,  and  then  he  lost  count. 
Once,  another  man  of  methodical  bent 
tried  to  classify  them  according  to 
nationality.  French,  Spanish,  Mexi- 
can, Chinese,  Japanese,  American, 
Bohemian — he  got  that  far  and  then 
stopped,  not  because  there  were  no 
more  to  count,  but  because  for  the  mo- 
ment he  could  think  of  no  more 
nationalities.  Each  public  dining  room 
has  its  name,  not  a  name  that  means 
anything  special,  but  just  one  that  is 
tagged  to  it,  as  children  will  do  in 
play. 


During  the  feast  there  is  music- 
That  is  another  hobby  of  the  hostess,, 
and  everything  that  is  done  in  her 
house  is  done  to  music.  They  eat 
to  it,  sleep  to  it,  work  to  it,  play  to  it.. 
The  tiniest  cafeteria  has  its  orchestra,, 
as  surely  as  its  baked  beans  and  mac- 
caroni.  Orchestrions  keep  the  wait- 
ing throngs  in  the  Ferry  Building, 
sweet  tempered  until  their  ships  come 
in.  You  can  take  your  choice  of  music 
— a  phonograph  or  a  pipe  organ;  rag- 
time or  a  symphony  concert, .  musical 
comedy  or  a  grand  opera.  Listen  to 
whatever  you  please,  all  kinds  are 
provided.  You  set  the  pace,  and  what, 
you  want  you  can  have. 

That's  the  sort  of  a  hostess  she  is: 
her  house  is  Liberty  Hall.  She  keeps, 
a  "weather  eye"  out  to  see  what  is 
your  desire,  provides  the  ways  and 
means,  and  then  slips  away  into  the 
background.  That's  the  tantalizing; 
charm  of  her.  Seeking  her  is  like 
playing  a  game  of  Blind  Man's  Buff 
with  Alice  in  Wonderland.  You  can- 
not put  your  finger  on  her,  and  yet: 
you  know  she  is  right  there,  for  all 
about  you  the  unblinded  are  shouting : 
"That's  San  Francisco!"  Sometimes 
it's  a  breeze  that  saucily  lifts  a  man's 
hat  and  whirls  it  away.  As  he  runs, 
after  it,  he  says:  "That's  San  Fran- 
cisco!" Sometimes  it  is  a  shout  of 
laughter,  rising  spontaneously  from 
the  passing  crowd.  "Hear  that?'* 
smiles  somebody  at  you.  "That's. 
San  Francisco!"  Again,  it  is  some- 
body getting  up  bravely  after  a  bad 
fall,  and  dancing  away  as  if  unhurt. 
"What  do  ycm  know  about  that?"  they 
ask  you  proudly.  And  you,  having- 
learned  the  game  by  this  time,  reply: 
"That  is  San  Francisco!" 

That  is  the  lure  of  this  city,  al- 
ways to  lead  you  on,  making  you  try 
to  find  her,  chasing  after  her  up  the 
hill  and  down,  out  to  sea  and  in  again, 
to  give  you  always  and  everywhere  a 
hint  of  her,  but  never  the  Lady  her- 
self. There  is  nothing  more  tangible 
than  a  mischievous  breeze,  a  bit  of 
gay  laughter,  a  sunbeam,  a  faith  that 
moves  mountains,  a  supreme  bravery 
that  dares  to  begin  again.  And  yet, 


San  Francisco  Exposition,  1858.    (From  an  old  print  made  at  the  time.} 


how  people  love  her — as  she  was,  as 
she  is,  and  as  she  is  to  be  again.  They 
are  homesick  for  her  when  they  go 
away,  their  eyes  soften"  when  they 
hear  her  name.  They  cast  their  for- 
tunes in  with  her,  and  win  or  lose  with 
her.  Her  little  faults  and  manner- 
isms, her  jewels,  her  gowns,  her  fra- 
grances— not  one  would  they  have 
changed.  They  try  to  tell  you  why 
they  love  her,  but  they  can't.  "San 


Francisco  is  different,"  they  begin, 
and  let  it  go  at  that.  It  is  a  rule  of 
the  game  not  to  tell,  you  must  find 
out  for  yourself — and  by  experience. 

The  enticement  begins  with  the  fer- 
ries. Instead  of  coming  with  a  rush 
of  cinders  and  dirt  into  a  crowded  and 
still  dirtier  station,  San  Francisco 
takes  the  tired  Overlander  into  a 
clean  and  quiet  ferry  boat,  and  gives 
him  a  delightful  and  refreshing  ride 


San  Francisco  Exposition,  1860. 


The  Union  Ferry  Building  during  a  night  illumination. 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


over  the  sparkling  bay.  The  boat  it- 
self is  restful,  plenty  of  room  to 
stretch  in  after  the  narrow  confines  of 
the  Pullman;  comfortable  seats  fore 
and  aft,  with  good  salt  air  to  breathe 
and  creature  comforts  of  grill  and 
"  shine"  for  those  so  disposed.  To  be- 
guile the  time,  she  unrolls  her  scenery 
and  lets  him  look  at  the  pictures.  Her 
particular  "treat"  is  to  use  the  Golden 
Gate  as  a  frame  and  exhibit  to  him 
some  charming  marine  views  therein. 
Or  if  he  is  more  of  a  merchant  than 
an  artist,  she  shows  him  her  ships  and 
wharves;  for  the  warrior  she  has  bat- 
tle-ships, a  navy  yard,  and  a  govern- 
ment military  prison,  with  the  prom- 
ise of  more.  She  is  true  from  the 
very  beginning  to  her  motto  of  "Every 
man  to  his  taste."  There  is  a  variety 
and  spice  in  the  life  of  her  bay,  moun- 
tains in  the  background,  cities  and 
towns  grouped  picturesquely  along  the 
shores,  lights  and  life  and  buoyancy, 
people  from  everywhere  in  the  garb 
they  wear  when  at  home.  And  al- 
ways beckoning  is  the  goal  of  the 
Ferry  Building,  wide  at  the  base  and 
slender-towered,  with  the  cabalistic 
symbols  "1915"  blazoned  in  lights  by 
night  and  in  white  letters  by  day,  for 
those  who  sail  to  read. 

It  is  a  wise  and  clever  move  to  pre- 
cede the  rush  and  confusion  of  the 
Ferry  Building  with  that  quiet,  re- 
freshing trip  across  the  bay.  Every- 
body who  goes  or  comes  to  the  city 
must  perforce  make  highway  of  the 
ferries.  There  are  700,000  people  in 
•a  radius  of  twenty  miles  from  the  City 
Hall  who  do  not  live  in  San  Fran- 
cisco. The  three  home  towns  of  Ala- 
meda,  Berkeley  and  Oakland,  shelter 
about  250,000  of  these.  Counting  five 
to  the  average  family,  and  one  of  the 
five  a  wage-earner,  in  the  big  city, 
gives  a  regular  army  of  50,000  passing 
through  the  Ferry  Building  twice  each 
day.  Remember  that  this  is  a  tourist's 
country,  and  add  them  to  the  num- 
ber; add  also  the  wives,  mothers, 
sweethearts  and  babies — the  irregu- 
lar commuters — and  you  may  have 
some  faint  conception  of  a  Ferry 
Building  crowd.  The  upper  decks  of 


the  ferries  are  connected  by  "moat 
and  drawbridge"  with  the  upper  floor 
of  the  building,  so  that  the  throngs 
pour  in  and  out,  upstairs  and  down, 
at  the  same  time.  One  end  of  the  long 
structure  is  Santa  Fe;  one  is  Southern 
Pacific;  in  the  middle  are  the  locals. 
Gateways  by  the  dozens  are  labeled 
with  the  names  of  all  the  towns  and 
cities  in  the  vicinity,  with  now  and 
then  an  "Overland."  Flowers  are  for 
sale  everywhere,  and  not  only  flowers, 
but  packages  of  seeds.  There  is  a  re- 
ceptacle where  those  so  minded  may 
deposit  flower,  gifts  for  the  hospitals. 
It  .is  a  fragrant  welcome  San  Fran- 
cisco gives  her  guests.  Upstairs  are 
the  exhibition  rooms  of  the  California 
Development  Board,  more  flowers,  and 
fruits,  and  trees,  a  country  fair  in  it- 
self. Another  long  corridor  is  filled 
with  mineral  specimens.  It  is  quite 
conceivable  that  many  a  country 
cousin,  bound  for  the  Fair  of  1915, 
will  become  side-tracked  in  the  upper 
rooms  of  the  Ferry  Building  and  go 
home  contented,  assured  that  he  has 
seen  the  Only  Fair,  the  Biggest  and 
Greatest,  and  all  there  is  of  it. 

Outside,  the  Ferry  Building  empties 
its  crowds  directly  and  precipitately 
upon  the  sidewalk.  All  of  the  cars  in 
the  city,  except  a  few  cross-lines, 
swing  around  the  circle  just  outside 
this  walk.  You  are  supposed  to 
know  where  you  are  going,  how  to 
get  there,  and  when  to  get  off.  Woe 
upon  you  if  you  ask  a  question!  That 
stamps  you  immediately  as  not  being 
a  "Native  Son,"  and  beyond  that  dis- 
grace there  are  no  depths  to  go.  One 
of  the  first  things  San  Francisco  does 
to  a  stranger  is  to  develop,  or  create, 
a  pride  in  his  birthplace.  In  self- 
defense,  the  alien  at  once  proves  up 
as  a  Native  Son  of  Somewhere,  and 
joins  the  Pennsylvania  Club  or  the 
Illinois  Club,  or  whichever  he  calls  his 
own,  and  begins  hurrahing  for  its  corn, 
or  its  coal,  or  its  scenery,  or  whatever 
it  has  that  he  can  be  proud  of;  he  has 
to  "blow  his  own  horn,"  and  blow  it 
long  and  loud.  San  Francisco  is  too 
busy  with  her  own  to  help  him,  even 
with  one  blast. 


•Q 

•H 

1 
| 


82 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


Liberty  Hall  has  its  drawbacks, 
just  at  first.  "Nobody  knows,  nobody 
cares,"  where  you  go,  or  what  you  do, 
or  how  you  get  there.  Until  you 
learn  not  to  ask  questions,  there  are 
many  hard  bumps  ahead  of  you.  Once 
I  had  to  go  to  Berkeley  for  the  first 
time.  It  was  not  my  fault,  only  my 
misfortune,  that  I  had  never  been  be- 
fore, and  I  was  conscious  of  deserving 
some  credit  for  making  good  the  de- 
ficiency at  the  earliest  opportunity.  I 
hunted  up  a  gate  marked  "Berkeley," 
and  tried  to  pass  through.  A  crabbed 
ticket-taker  growled:  "Where's  your 
ticket?" 

Of  course  I  didn't  know  where  it 
was,  and  he  growled  again:  "Git  it, 
can't  you?  And  don't  delay  traffic!" 
When  I  found  a  local  window  where 
people  were  buying  tickets,  I  asked 
the  man  in  charge  how  much  it  was 
to  Berkeley,  and  he  snapped:  "Same 
as  it  always  was!"  I  tried  to  explain 
that  this  was  my  first  offense,  but  he 
was  so  cross  I  gave  it  up.  Ask  one 
of  the  conductors  of  a  waiting  street 
car:  "Does  this  car  go  to — "  and  he 
interrupts  by  shouting:  "All  aboard," 
grabs  you  by  the  arm,  hauls  you  up 
the  steps,  and  extracts  the  exact  fare 
from  you. 

"Exact  fare!"  What  an  imp  of 
Satan  is  the  elusive  nickel,  diving 
down  into  the  most  inaccessible  parts 
of  the  handbag  and  refusing  to  betray 
its  whereabouts,  while  the  conductor 
stands  impatient  with  one  hand  on  the 
cord  of  the  cash  register  and  the  other 
outspread  for  your  fare,  and  all  the 
Native  Sons,  with  their  fares  ready, 
wait  behind  you  and  throng  the  steps 
and  impede  traffic.  And  no  sooner  do 
you  find  the  nickel  and  crowd  into  the 
car  than  it  is  time  to  get  off.  This  is 
as  full  of  excitement  as  getting  on. 
All  the  cars  go  up  Market  street,  at 
least  for  enough  blocks  to  make  con- 
fusion and  danger.  Market  street  is 
the  main  hall  in  this  sister's  house 
which  I  mentioned  a  while  back,  and 
the  one  cut  on  the  "diagonal."  The 
car  tracks  are  in  the  middle  of  this 
very  wide  street.  On  either  side  is 
the  usual  city  traffic.  Somebody  spent 


a  day  counting  the  traffic  once :  19,106 
vehicles  passed  that  day,  and  3,826 
were  electric  cars.  He  didn't  count 
the  people  on  foot.  Nor  did  he  take 
notice  of  the  singular  custom  the 
streets  have  of  grouping  socially  to- 
gether on  a  corner  when  they  come 
"a-biasing"  across  Market  street,  three 
or  four  in  a  bunch.  You  never  can 
tell  where  anything  is  going  when  it 
turns  a  corner.  Nobody  but  a  Native 
Son  can  cross  the  street  in  dignity  and 
order.  He  swings  along,  under  the 
nose  of  this  horse,  just  behind  that 
touring  car,  rubbing  shoulders  with 
two  or  three  dray  horses.  It  takes 
more  than  a  bevy  of  streets  to  discon- 
cert him.  Even  the  riveting  machines 
and  steam  pile  drivers,  which  are  busy 
in  every  block,  do  not  upset  him.  He 
has  plenty  of  time  to  watch  them, 
stopping  right  in  the  middle  of  traf- 
fic to  see  how  thing?  are  doing. 

He  loves  each  rasp  of  the  rivet,  or 
he  is  no  loyal  San  Franciscan.  He 
overflows  to  the  merest  stranger:  "Six 
years  ago  this  was  nothing  but  ruins 
— now  look  at  it!  Fine  business — 
eh?" 

It  is  fine  business!  Never  can  you 
get  even  with  a  Native  Son  by  pretend- 
ing that  it  isn't.  The  only  way  to  em- 
barrass him  is  to  ask  him  something 
about  his  city  that  he  doesn't  know. 
After  some  experimenting,  I  have 
found  an  efficient  and  dependable 
weapon.  I  simply  ask  him  to  please 
direct  me  to  the  Public  Library.  In- 
variably he  says:  "What's  that?" 
Then  he  wrinkles  his  brow,  shakes  his 
head,  and  finally  confesses:  "You've 
got  me!  Sure!  Of  course,  there  is 
one  somewhere,  but  blest  if  I  know 
where!"  And  off  he  goes.  So  great, 
I  may  remark  in  passing,  is  the  educa- 
tional influence  of  a  public  library. 
Another  equally  efficient  weapon  is  to 
ask  to  be  directed  to  a  church — any 
church.  Armed  with  these  two  ques- 
tions, I  dare  face  any  crowd  of 
Natives. 

Once  I  found  a  street-car  conduc- 
tor who  was  different,  but  he  was  a 
Native  Son  of  Ireland,  with  a  bit  of 
the  blarney  still  about  him,  and  a  big, 


84 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


warm  heart  under  his  uniform.  Usu- 
ally, if  you  ask  a  conductor  if  his  car 
goes  through  an  interesting  part  of  the 
city  he  growls:  "How  do  I  know?  I 
ain't  doing  this  for  my  health."  But 
this  one !  He — by  the  way,  he  wasn't 
a  conductor,  only  a  motorman — he 
lifted  his  cap  from  a  thatch  of  the  red- 
dest kind  of  curls  and  said:  "If  it's 
sights  ye  want,  ye'll  be  afther  comin' 
wid  me."  His  car  is  one  of  the  tiniest, 
as  if  "sights"  were  not  attracting  the 
biggest  crowds  yet  in  San  Francisco. 
A  sign  almost  as  big  as  the  car  itself 
sets  forth  enticingly  such  destinations 
as  "The  Beaches,"  "The  Presidio."  A 
typical  Western  street  car  this,  with 
a  small  enclosed  space  in  the  middle 
and  the  ends  open,  the  seats  in  these 
open  ends  facing  the  street,  and  up 
two  steps  from  the  road.  The  motor- 
man has  a  narrow  camping  ground  in 
an  aisle  between  the  backs  of  the 
seats  at  the  front  end,  and  we  sat  near 
him  on  what  he  told  us  was  "the  foin- 
est  side  for  to  see."  There's  a  spice 
of  danger  in  these  seats — nothing  to 
hold  on  by,  only  two  steps  between 
you  and  the  pavement,  and  the  trip  is 
a  series  of  mad  dashes  down  steep 
hills  and  a  leisurely  crawling  up 
steeper  ones,  varied  now  and  then  by 
sudden  and  unexpected  turning  of 
corners. 

For  a  few  blocks  we  went  through 
the  market  section,  then  through  Italy, 
touching  a  corner  of  China.  We 
frankly  found  this  interesting,  and 
thereby  disappointed  the  motorman. 
"Just  you  wait,"  he  prophesied.  "Keep 
your  eyes  glued  straight  ahead  of  you 
and  you'll  see  something."  Keeping 
glued  to  something  sounded  safe  and 
encouraging  in  this  uphill,  downhill, 
nothing  to  hang  onto  trip,  so  we 
meekly  did  as  we  were  bid.  And  then 
suddenly  our  eyes  beheld  the  Glory. 
We  came  upon  it  at  the  top  of  a  hill. 
Below  us  was  spread  the  bay,  and 
through  the  Golden  Gate  frame  was 
also  a  glimpse  of  the  "real"  ocean. 
Along  the  shore  was  "The  Most  Won- 
derful, Largest,  Greatest,  and  Most 
Beautiful  International  Exhibition 
Ever  Held  in  Any  Country" — in  em- 


bryo. Just  now  it  is  only  a  wide  strip 
of  600  acres  of  salt  marsh,  being  filled 
in  rapidly  by  prosaic  and  noisy 
dredges.  "There's  the  site.  Right 
forninst  ye!"  pointed  the  motorman, 
dramatically.  It  was  on  the  tip  of  our 
tongues  to  exclaim  that  that  wasn't  the 
sort  of  a  sight  we  meant.  Then  our 
eyes  caught  the  wide  reach  of  waters 
and  back  of  it  the  mountains,  at  our 
feet  tier  after  tier  of  streets,  tumbling 
down  into  the  water  in  a  picturesque 
scramble,,  and  over  it  all  the  sparkle 
of  the  brightest,  warmest  sunshine  that 
ever  danced  over  the  world.  From 
there  on  out  to  the  Presidio  our  souls 
were  fed  with  beauty. 

There  is  beauty  in  the  Presidio,  too,, 
but  one  forgets  that  in  the  face  of  so 
much  more  serious  considerations. 
Beats  there  a  heart  so  dead  that  it  does 
not  quicken  to  martial  music?  The 
most  peaceful  little  mouse  in  the  world 
carries  her  heart  in  her  throat  when  a 
real  soldier  goes  by.  And  the  Presidio 
woods  are  full  of  them ;  it  is  the  largest 
military  reservation  within  the  city 
limits  in  the  country.  In  these  khaki 
and  olive-green  days  a  soldier  does  not 
look  particularly  inspiring  or  roman- 
tic, or  even  very  brave.  He  is  of  the 
earth  earthy,  and  his  business  is  only 
a  trite  and  mechanical  part  of  the 
day's  work.  Still,  there  is  a  thrill  in 
watching  the  khaki-clad  sentinel  at 
the  Presidio  patrol  his  beat  with  his 
gun  over  his  shoulder,  ready  for  war. 
War!  That  seems  the  furtherest  pos- 
sible remove  from  this  placid  place, 
with  the  sunny  outlook  over  the  ocean. 
And  yet  those  laughing  waters  cover 
the  most  formidable  fortifications. 
San  Francisco  boasts  of  being  the  best 
fortified  city  in  the  country.  There  is 
the  Navy  Yard,  too,  you  know,  down 
on  Mare  Island. 

"Fortified  against  what?"  you  ask, 
scanning  the  horizon  for  an  enemy. 
And  somebody,  of  course,  will  tell  you, 
"Against  the  Yellow  Peril."  They  are 
more  afraid  of  that  out  here  than  they 
are  of  germs.  You  begin  to  wonder 
what  the  Yellow  Peril  really  is,  and  the 
next  thing  you  do  is  to  go  down  to 
Chinatown  and  find  out.  As  this  is 


Street  scene  in  the  Chinese  Quarter,  rebuilt  after  the  big  fire. 


86 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


the  largest  Chinese  settlement  in  the 
United  States,  it  is,  of  course,  the  best 
place  to  study  the  Peril,  short  of  China 
itself.  Chinatown  occupies  one  of  the 
most  attractive  and  valuable  sites  in 
the  city,  to  the  chagrin  of  typical  San 
Franciscans,  who  want  the  best  of 
everything  for  themselves.  And 
Chinatown  they  cannot  have,  for  the 
Chinese  have  read  their  title  clear,  and 
not  even  an  earthquake  can  loosen 
their  hold  on  it.  In  Chinatown  are 
many  hints  of  an  older,  higher  civili- 
zation than  ours.  Watch  the  women  in 
their  native  dresses,  convenient  and 
comfortable  trousers  and  trig  little  hip- 
length  coats,  trimmed  with  braid  in 
military  fashion;  hair  sleekly  oiled  and 
ornamented  with  pins  and  combs,  but 
no  hat  monstrosities.  They  trot  around 
on  normal-sized  feet  and  shop  for 
their  families  with  despatch  and  an 
air  of  comfort  which  puts  our  fussy 
and  fashionable  skirtings,  hats  and 
shoes  in  the  barbarian  class.  Their 
babies  are  round-faced,  roly-poly  pic- 
tures of  perfect  health,  free  from  ade- 
noids and  anemia  and  nerves  gone 
wrong.  Their  men  move  around  on 
quiet,  slippered  feet  as  if  stirring  up 
trouble  was  the  last  thought  they  had. 
Underground,  of  course,  things  are  dif- 
ferent, but  even  then 

There  is  another  underground  peril 
of  which  nobody  speaks,  but  of  which 
there  is  continual  thought.  It  is  the 
sort  cf  peril  against  which  there  are  no 
fortifications.  A  few  years  ago  it  arose 
in  its  might  and  worked  havoc  un- 
thinkable. But  nobody  names  it.  To- 
day they  speak  of  "the  fire,"  those  a 
bit  braver  mention  "the  great  disas- 
ter." They  have  done  all  they  can 
to  prevent  its  return.  At  regular  and 
frequent  intervals,  reserve  reservoirs 


of  water  from  the  ocean  are  to  oe 
found  at  the  street  intersections,  each 
reservoir  outlined  on  the  pavement 
with  red  brick.  There  are  one  hun- 
dred of  these  cisterns,  each  with  a 
capacity  of  75,000  gallons.  There  are 
also  ninety-three  miles  of  pipe  for  a 
high-pressure  system,  two  fire-boats, 
two  storage  reservoirs  on  the  highest 
point  in  the  city,  and  two  salt-water 
pumping  stations.  "Never  again  can 
anything  cut  off  the  water  supply," 
they  tell  us.  All  of  the  new  buildings 
are  fire-proof  and  modern,  built  with 
particular  care  to  withstand  the  shock 
of  another  "disaster."  Barring  a  few 
twisted  wires  here  and  there,  several 
untouched  ruins  up  on  California 
street,  and  now  and  then  a  forsaken 
lot  keeping  guard  over  its  dead  memo- 
ries, there  are  no  records  of  that  April 
day  seven  years  ago. 

No  visible,  tangible  records,  no  ref- 
erence to  it  in  the  talk  of  the  day; 
everybody  is  forgetting  it  as  fast  as 
they  can.  If  you  look  closely,  you  can 
see  how  tightly  they  have  set  their 
teeth  to  keep  from  talking  of  it,  how 
grim  and  determined  they  are  not  to 
remember.  I  think  that  is  what  makes 
these  people  so  gruff  and  impatient 
with  those  who  ask  questions :  they 
are  afraid  they  will  break  in  on  this 
hallowed  ground.  Then,  too,  there  is 
a  nervous  shock  in  such  an  experience, 
and  it  takes  time  to  recuperate.  And 
again,  they  come  of  sturdy  stock  that 
is  not  used  to  crying  when  hurt,  and 
does  not  quite  know  how  to  take  sym- 
pathy. So  they  make  a  hard  little  shell 
for  defense  and  pretend  they  don't 
care — they  sing  and  laugh  and  play 
and  dance.  "For  to-morrow  they  die !" 
No!  Because  yesterday  they  died, 
and  To-day  they  are  alive  again! 


TMt  OUTLAW  TRAIL 


By  Edwin  L.  Sabin 


THE  OLD   Outlaw  Trail     leads 
from  Utah  southeast    on    down 
across  New  Mexico  to  the  far 
sanctuary  of  the  Pecbs  and  the 
lower  Rio  Grande:  an  historic,  if  ill- 
begotten  byway  of  over  a     thousand 
miles. 

Only  a  mere  bridle-path,  faintly 
hoof-marked,  was  the  old  trail  at  its 
best,  devious  and  winding,  yet  even 
cunningly  lessening  the  distance  be- 
tween two  points — the  point  of  de- 
parture, fearfully  behind,  and  the 
point  of  arrival,  hopefully  before. 
Scarcely  even  a  bridle-path,  in  many 
of  those  better  places,  is  the  old  trail 
to-day.  For  it  is,  as  a  rule,  neglected, 
and  Time  and  Nature  together  are  ob- 
literating it  and  its  secrets. 

However,  this  morning  of  April, 
1910,  it  awakened  in  its  most  lonely 
recesses  to  a  new  sensation;  upon  the 
abandoned  wood  road  forming  one  link 
— between  Burrows'  Hole  and  the 
Frenchman's  cabin — was  lying,  lax 
and  motionless,  a  woman. 

Through  a  cleft  of  the  timber  the 
sun  shone  down  upon  her.  A  pine- 
squirrel  scolded  at  her,  striped  chip- 
munks scurried  past  her.  A  white 
horse,  saddled  and  bridled,  cropping 
the  scant  grass  of  the  roadside,  grazed 
near  her.  But  in  her  khaki  skirt  and 
blouse,  and  high-laced  boots,  with  red 
kerchief  about  her  throat,  gauntlets 
upon  hands,  hat  gone,  she  lay  cuddled 
and  inert  where  thrown.  Her  hair  was 
of  pure  blonde — fluffy  and  golden ;  her 
complexion,  while  fair  and  tinted, 
showed  that  her  face  was  accustomed 
to  the  sun,  which  aroused  her  not. 

The  old  trail  was  being  awarded 
other  touches  of  human  life,  for  far- 
ther up  were  riding  on,  down  through 


the  timber,  approaching  the  spot  of 
the  woman,  two  men. 

A  Westerner  probably  would  notice 
first  the  horses — their  color,  style  and 
marks.  The  one  was  a  long-legged, 
high-shouldered  bay,  with  blazed  fore- 
head and  left  fore-foot  white;  brand, 
quarter  circle  D  on  the  left  hip,  a  KP 
on  the  left  shoulder.  The  other  horse 
was  a  fly-bitten  roan,  lean  but  chunky; 
brand,  a  diamond  and  a  Bar  U  on  the 
right  shoulder,  with  ear-mark  of  a 
swallow-fork.  As  for  the  riders,  by  his 
weather-worn  face  and  stooped  poise 
the  man  on  the  bay  was  well  past  his 
prime.  A  black  hat,  slouched  and 
stained,  was  upon  his  head,  a  black 
shirt  was  open  at  the  throat,  dusty 
jeans  and  rusty  boots  completed  his 
attire.  His  wrinkled  leathery  visage 
was  drawn  and  tired,  his  eyes  were 
bloodshot  from  the  dust  and  fatigue. 
The  man  on  the  roan  was  much 
younger,  and  was  swarthy,  with  the 
intensely  black  eyes  and  the  thin  mus- 
tache as  black,  of  the  type.  He  pre- 
sented the  broad-brimmed,  straight- 
brimmed,  leather-bound  hat,  the  ban- 
danna handkerchief  loosely  knotted, 
the  checkered  shirt,  the  brass-studded 
chaps,  the  high-heeled  boots  of  the 
cow-puncher. 

From  the  cartridge  belt  of  the  elder 
dangled  a  six-shooter ;  the  younger  ap- 
parently was  unarmed.  They  rode 
steadily  and  hard,  at  trot  and  fast 
walk.  It  looked  as  though  the  old 
days  of  the  outlaw  trail  had  revived. 

"You  know  it?"  asked  the  younger 
man. 

"Know  it!"  The  elder  spat,  and 
wiped  his  lips  and  scraggly  gray  mus- 
tache with  the  back  of  his  hand.  "You 
are  right,  I  know  it.  It's  a  trail  that 


THE  OUTLAW  TRAIL. 


89 


a  man  who  has  rode  it  never  forgets. 
No,  not  if  he's  rode  it  as  I've  rode  it 
once  or  twice,  with  a  posse  close  be- 
hind." 

"When  was  the  last  time,  Ben?"  in- 
vited the  other,  casually. 

The  elder  glanced  at  him  sidewise, 
with  a  dart  of  suspicion. 

"There  are  some  things  I  don't  re- 
member," he  said,  "and  some  things 
I  do." 

The  other  laughed  easily. 

"One  of  which  is  the  trail,  eh?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I  didn't  expect  to  ride 
it  again,  this  way:  but  I  remember 
it." 

"A  fellow  never  can  tell  what  he'll 
do." 

"No.  But  the  outlaw  trail  only  has 
the  one  ending,  my  boy,  if  you  foller 
it  long  enough.  Better  men  than  you 
or  I  have  pushed  a  hoss  over  this  trail 
with  gun  loose  and  eyes  in  the  back 
of  their  head,  making  for  the  Pecos; 
and  what  was  the  end?  Why,  bullet, 
knife  or  rope.  That's  the  end  of  the 
outlaw  trail  to  the  man  who  rides  it 
too  fur.  And  what  too  fur  is  you 
don't  know  till  you  get  there.  Then 
you  know  mighty  quick." 

"You're  a  cheerful  campanero"  re- 
torted the  younger,  with  half  a  laugh, 
half  a  sneer.  "What's  the  matter  with 
you?  Afraid  of  this  sheriff  of  Rico? 
Who's  he,  anyhow?" 

"He?  Bah!  They  say  he  loves  to 
play  the  lone  hand,  but  that  breed's 
petered  out.  We'll  never  see  him. 
There's  the  law,  though;  and  the  law 
never  quits.  If  it  ain't  the  law  of  man 
it's  the  law  of  God.  When  you've 
lived  the  time  I  have,  you'll  know  it, 
too." 

"Well,  there's  many  a  good  buck 
dies.  But  you've  been  over  the  trail 
before,  and  you're  going  over  it  again. 
I  savvy  that  much.  Where  are  we?" 

"A  third  of  the  way  to  the  French- 
man's cabin.  We  can  make  that  by 
dark.  Then  the  trail  swings  to  the 
east,  and  forty-eight  hours  more  ought 
to  put  us  in  the  Glorietta  country, 
where  all  the  sheriffs  'twixt  Denver 
and  the  coast  couldn't  find  us." 

"It's  the  border  for  me,"  quoth  the 


younger.  "Or  mebbe  South  America. 
I'm  told  a  boss  vaquero  gets  big 
money  down  there.  The  cow-puncher 
is  played  out  up  here,  same  as  the 
hold-up.  This  is  my  first  and  last  trip 
over  the  trail." 

"There's  always  a  first  trip  and  a 
last,"  responded  the  other,  gloomily. 
"And  sometimes  they  ain't  much  sepa- 
rated, either." 

The  younger  scowled  upon  him. 

"You  are  cheerful,  to  show  a  man 
out.  There's  twenty  thousand  to 
divide.  Brace  up." 

Conversation  lapsed.  The  younger 
man  hummed,  with  enforced  light- 
heartedness : 

"The  sheriff  followed  hard  and  fast,  a 

muy  hombre  he, 
He  had  a  posse  at  his  back,  a  rifle 

at  his  knee; 
But  when  we  turned  our  sixes  loose 

we  let  the  sheriff  know 
It  took  a  Jim  Dandy  to  bring  us  from 

Mexico." 

As  he  sang,  mutteringly,  his  roving 
black  eyes  gazed  sharply  right  and 
left,  and  occasionally  he  glanced  be- 
hind. He  sat  his  roan  lithely  and 
straightly,  vigilant  in  this  bearing,  also 
— and  about  him  was  a  certain  wild, 
picturesque  attractiveness.  But  his 
companion,  old  and  stolid,  and  pro- 
saic in  garb,  rode  mechanically,  as  if 
interested  in  only  the  trail  before,  and 
a  destination. 

The  trail  was  but  a  faint  line  wind- 
ing through  the  timber  and  down  the 
slope  from  the  pas-s  above.  Young 
pines,  twenty  inches  high,  had  sprung 
up,  interrupting  evidence  that  it  was 
a  route  long  untraversed.  At  the  bot- 
tom of  the  slope,  where  the  trail 
merged  with  the  wood  road  link,  turn- 
ing in  the  elder  rider  reined  back 
sharply,  and  by  his  sudden  halt, 
halted  his  partner  also. 

"It's  a  woman,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes.  Got  throwed.  There's  her 
hoss." 

"These  are  her  tracks,  I  reckon.  Go 
ahead — I'll  cover  you." 

The  older  man  rode  slowly  forward, 


90 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


alert;  he  stopped  beside  the  lax  form 
and  waved  his  hand  back  at  his  com- 
panion. 

"Come  along,"  he  called. 

The  other  joined  him,  and  together 
they  sat,  for  a  moment,  gazing  curi- 
ously down  upon  the  crumpled  khaki. 

"Hurt?" 

"Just  fainted,  looks  like." 

The  younger  swun^  from  the  saddle, 
and  dropped  his  lines. 

"What  you  going  to  do?" 

"Bring  her  to.  Why?  You  wouldn't 
leave  her  this  way,  would  you  ?" 

"I  sure  would,"  answered  the  elder, 
grimly.  "She'll  come  to,  of  herself; 
somebody'll  find  her  that  can  tend  to 
her  better  than  us.  We  can't  stop  for 
her.  And  it  may  be  a  trap.  Climb  on; 
let's  get  out." 

"It  ain't  a  trap;  it's  a  sure  faint,  all 
right,"  quoth  the  younger.  "The  hoss 
throwed  her.  She's  a  good  looker,  too. 
I'll  just  put  her  in  the  shade,  anyway. 
Say — she  is  pretty,  ain't  she!" 

The  elder  clambered  grudgingly 
down. 

"We'll  put  her  in  the  shade,  but  we 
won't  stay.  I'll  help  carry  her  over. 
That's  all.  Grab  her  feet." 

But  at  the  first  touch,  the  woman 
opened  her  eyes  and  stared  upwards 
into  abashed  faces.  They  were  round, 
blue  eyes,  innocent  and  appealing, 
distinctively  feminine. 

"Oh!"  she  sighed.  She  struggled, 
and  sat  erect.  "Who  are  you  ?  What 
are  you  doing?" 

The  younger  man  swept  off  his  hat 
with  a  free,  gallant  gesture,  and 
showed  white  teeth  as  with  bold  eyes 
he  surveyed,  admiringly,  yet  inso- 
lently, her  mantled,  bewildered  coun- 
tenance. The  older  man  vented  a 
grunt  of  distaste. 

"Your  hoss  throwed  you,  didn't  he? 
There  he  is,  and  here  we  found  you. 
There's  nothing  to  be  scared  of.  Ain't 
hurt,  are  you?  We  were  going  to 
carry  you  over  into  the  shade.  Ready 
to  be  lifted?" 

"No;  I  don't  think  I'm  hurt,"  she 
said,  tentatively  stirring — and  with 
womanly  intuition  removing  a  glove  to 
finger  her  hair.  "I  must  have  fainted. 


I  remember  pitching  out  of  the  sad- 
dle, and  that's  all." 

"Hoss  run  away?"  queried  the 
younger  man,  his  smile  and  mien  still 
insolent,  while  ingratiating. 

"Yes.     Something   frightened   him. 

"I  believe  he  smelt  a  bear.  He  ran 
in  here,  and  by  that  time  I  was  so 
weak  I  fell  off." 

"Where  might  you  be  coming  from, 
ma'am?"  inquired  the  older  man. 

"From  Placerton."  She  essayed  to 
stand;  the  younger  man  promptly 
helped  her  up.  "Thank  you,"  she  ac- 
knowledged, brightly;  and  she  con- 
tinued: "I  was  going  down  to  Red 
Top." 

"Mebbe  you'd  rather  go  along  with 
us,  then,"  suggested  the  young  man, 
his  gaze  bolder,  enkindled  by  her  fig- 
ure as  she  stood. 

"Shut  up,"  growled  his  partner. 
"What's  ailing  you?  This  is  no  time 
for  fooling." 

Her  eyes  had  widened,  startled. 

"With  you?"  she  stammered.  "Why, 
are  you  going  to  Red  Top,  too?" 

"Sure,"  responded  the  younger  man, 
readily.  "I'll  just  ketch  your  hoss  and 
we'll  be  off,  if  you  can  ride.  How 
about  it?" 

"W-well "  she  faltered,  hesi- 
tantly. She  glanced  from  one  to  the 
other;  her  color  heightened;  she 
laughed  nervously.  "I  don't  know 
where  my  hat  is.  Back  on  the  trail 
somewhere." 

"Never  mind  your  hat,  when  you 
have  hair  like  that." 

The  older  man  followed  the  speaker 
to  the  woman's  horse,  which  had  wan- 
dered. 

"You  fool,"  he  grumbled.  "Leave 
her  be.  We  don't  want  no  woman. 
What's  ailing  you?  We  got  to  reach 
the  Frenchman's  cabin  by  dark.  She 
can  find  Red  Top  for  herself;  and  if 
she  can't,  she  can  go  back  to  Placer- 
ton.  This  trail  don't  hit  either  of  'em, 
and  I'm  damned  glad,  too." 

"So  am  I,"  answered  the  other,  suc- 
cinctly. 

"You  mean  you're  going  to  take  her, 
just  the  same?" 

"Sure."     And  he     added,     signifi- 


"She  stood  looking  eagerly  into  the  distance.' 


92 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


cantly:  "She's  seen  us,  now — and  she 
is  too  pretty  to  leave,  anyhow.  Not  for 
no  sheriff  to  pick  up." 

"I  don't  care  about  her  prettiness. 
But  there's  more  than  one  way  to  stop 
her  mouth  besides  taking  her  with 
us." 

"Not  for  me,"  laughed  the  other, 
picking  up  the  white  horse's  lines. 
"She  comes.  I'll  take  care  of  her.  She 
is  too  pretty  for  any  one-hoss  sheriff 
of  Rico."  He  led  away  the  mount. 
Ben  followed,  grumbling. 

The  woman  had  been  watching  them 
— her  face  momentarily  grew  pinched 
and  troubled,  and  she  knitted  her 
brows  thoughtfully.  But  when  the 
younger  man  returned  with  her  horse, 
she  smiled  upon  him  frankly  and 
friendly. 

"Haven't  I  seen  you  both  before?" 
she  asked. 

"No,  ma'am,"  replied  the  elder, 
quickly.  "We're  strangers,  just  pros- 
pecting through." 

"And  now  we've  struck  it  rich, 
hey?"  supplemented  the  other. 

She  flushed.  His  meaning  was 
evident. 

"Yes:  fool's  gold,"  muttered  the 
other.  "Well,  let's  be  getting  along," 
he  said.  He  mounted  his  black  horse. 
His  companion  waited  for  the  woman, 
and  to  her  foot  gave  his  hand,  hoisting 
her  into  the  saddle  with  a  vigorous, 
virile  lift. . 

"Which  way?"  she  asked. 

"Down  the  trail." 

"Is  it  far,  as  we  go?" 

"Some." 

"My  husband  will  be  worried." 

"Your  husband!  Say,  you  ain't 
married,  are  you?" 

They  were  riding  side  by  side,  she 
and  the  younger  man,  with  the  elder 
leading,  taciturn  and  disapproving. 

"Yes.  Don't  I  look  it?"  she  de- 
manded, gaily.  "My  husband's  a 
minister." 

"You  married  to  a  sky-pilot?" 

"Surely."  Her  tone  was  of  smart 
defiance.  "Why  not?" 

"You  ain't  that  kind,"  admiringly. 

"Why  ?  What  kind  am  I,  would  you 
think?" 


"A  plumb  man's  kind.     My  kind." 

"You're  awful  fresh,  on  short 
notice.  I'm  going  to  ride  with  your 
partner." 

She  spurred  ahead.  But  under  her 
simulated  displeasure  was  a  flattering 
graciousness  and  fellowship.  A  more 
sophisticated  man,  one  more  accus- 
tomed to  skilled  womanhood,  would 
have  been  made  suspicious  by  her  so 
ready  acquiescence,  opposed  to  woman 
nature.  Her  adaptation  of  her  speech 
to  his  was  at  variance  with  her  char- 
acter, one  would  have  supposed.  But 
he,  her  self-appointed  custodian,  left 
behind,  chuckled  to  himself,  congratu- 
latory, triumph  filling  his  shallow 
heart,  his  judgment  foiled  by  her  blue 
eyes. 

She  drew  up  beside  the  older  man, 
who  jogged  on  with  scarce  a  nod  in 
recognition  of  her  presence. 

"I'd  rather  ride  with  you,"  she  vol- 
unteered; "if  you  don't  mind." 

"I  can  stand  it  if  you  can.  Why, 
what's  the  matter  with  him?" 

"Oh,  he's  just  young  and  foolish. 
He  doesn't  approve  of  my  choice  of 
a  husband." 

"Married,  are  you?  Where's  your 
home?" 

"Kansas  City." 

"Where's  your  husband?" 

"I — don't — know."  And  she  hesi- 
tated again  in  pretended  confusion. 
"And  I  don't  care,"  she  resumed,  with 
sudden  heat.  "He's  in  Kansas  City,  I 
guess.  I  told  that  other  man  he  was 
a  minister;  but  I  can  tell  you  that  he 
and  I  don't  agree.  He's  so  narrow; 
and  he's  jealous.  I  shouldn't  think 
he'd  be  jealous  of  me,  should  you? 
Just  because  I  want  to  have  a  good 
time?" 

She  opened  wide  her  blue  eyes, 
compelling  her  companion  to  look  up- 
on her  ere  he  answered.  He  shot  a 
glance  askant,  and  flushed  under  his 
wrinkled  skin. 

"Well,"  he  admitted,  "I  don't 
know." 

"You  do,  though.  You  think  I'm 
silly  to  say  such  things.  But  some- 
how I  feel  like  telling  you.  You  re- 
mind me  of — a  friend  I  once  had.  I 


THE    OUTLAW   TRAIL. 


93 


always  did  get  on  with  older  men  the 
best." 

"Ought  to  have  married  one,  then." 

"I  shall — next  time,"  she  returned, 
daringly.  She  sighed.  "They're  all 
right." ' 

"I  ain't  as  old  as  you  might  think." 

"Let's  see."  She  pondered.  "You're 
fifty?" 

"Yes,  I'm  fifty.  Mebbe  you  would 
not  believe  me  if  I  said  I  was  over 
sixty." 

"I  wouldn't.  Are  you,  really?  The 
idea!  You  don't  look  it.  Anyway,  a 
man  is  as  old  as  he  feels,  and  a  wo- 
man as  old  as  she  looks.  If  I  looked 
as  old  as  I  feel  I'd  be  taken  for  one 
hundred." 

"I'm  right  vigorous.  I'm  as  young 
as  any  young  feller  of  forty." 

"And  you  know  a  lot  more,  be- 
sides," she  encouraged. 

He  grunted. 

"When  do  we  get  there?"  she  asked 
presently. 

"Where?" 

"Red  Top." 

"We  don't  get  to  Red  Top  before  to- 
morrow morning,"  he  answered, 
shortly. 

"Oh!"  she  gasped,  her  alarm  burst- 
ing to  the  surface.  "Where  do  we 
stop  to-night,  then  ?" 

"There's  an  old  cabin  ahead,  if  we 
can  make  it.  Ain't  afraid,  are  you?" 

"Not  with  you  about.  He  wouldn't 
hurt  me,  anyway.  He's  just  fresh." 

"He'd  better  not  get  too  fresh." 

The  individual  under  discussion 
hailed  them  from  behind. 

"Say,  I'm  lonesome!" 

With  a  little  laugh  she  dropped 
back. 

They  camped  that  night  in  the 
Frenchman's  cabin,  and  supped  on 
bacon,  butterless  bread  and  creamless 
coffee  from  the  spare  supplies  borne 
in  the  men's  slickers  behind  the  sad- 
dles. Thirty  years  before  had  the 
cabin  been  erected,  of  logs  chinked, 
to  house  a  recluse  prospector;  but 
the  rusted  stove  was  still  serviceable, 
the  roof  was  fairly  staunch,  and  there 
was  a  bunk. 


"What  a  lark!"  exclaimed  the  wo- 
man. 

The  moon  rose  gloriously,  flooding 
aslant  through  the  pines;  and  standing 
outside,  the  woman  uttered  an  ejacu- 
lation of  delight. 

"How  beautiful !"  she  called,  rap- 
turously. "Somebody  come  and  see." 

The  younger  man  came. 

"It  sure  is,"  he  agreed.  "Want  to 
take  a  walk?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"N-no,  I  guess  not.    I'm  tired." 

"I  know  you,"  he  declared,  famil- 
iarly, attempting  to  pass  his  arm 
around  her.  She  deftly  eluded  him. 

"Don't  go  too  far,"  she  warned,  de- 
cisively. "I'm  not  so  tired  I  can't 
stand  alone." 

"I  know  you,"  he  repeated.  "You 
ain't  any  minister's  wife,  I  bet.  You're 
one  of  that  opery  troupe  that  showed 
in  Placerton  last  week." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"I  saw  you  there.  You  did  a 
dance.  You  don't  fool  me.  I  savvy 
that  hair.  Thought  it  was  a  wig  or 
something  then;  but  now  I'm  wise." 

"Don't  be  so  sure,"  she  retorted, 
teasingly.  "Maybe  I'm  both.  Maybe 
I'm  a  minister's  wife  and  on  the  stage, 
too." 

"You  can  be  anything  you  want  to, 
I  reckon,"  he  cajoled,  with  bald  gal- 
lantry. "Say,"  and  he  lowered  his 
voice,  with  a  quick  backward  glance 
into  the  cabin,  where  the  older  man 
was  washing  the  few  dishes.  "How'd 
you  like  to  keep  on  with  me,  and  see 
old  Mexico  and  South  America  ?  And 
live  like  a  queen?  I've  got  the  stuff 
— ten  thousand;  and  he's  got  another 
ten  thousand." 

Her^  face  blanched;  she  stiffened, 
and  surveyed  him  full  with  flashing 
eyes  and  dilated  nostrils.  She  stamped 
her  foot. 

"How  dare  you!"  she  berated. 
"What  do  you  take  me  for?  Your 
words  are  an  insult.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed." 

"Now,  cut  that  out,"  he  ordered,  in- 
dulgently, but  tensely.  "It  don't  go, 
my  dear." 


94 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


"I  demand  to  be  shown  the  road 
to  Red  Top,  at  once." 

He  laughed,  flatly. 

"You  do,  do  you?  Red  Top's  thirty 
miles  across  the  divide.  What  do 
you  want  to  go  there  for,  anyway.  Lis- 
ten!" He  playfully  pinched  her  arm. 
"You  throw  in  with  me,  girl.  Drop 
that  husband  business  and  the  show 
business  and  we'll  see  the  world.  I 
can  always  get  money.  That's  the 
life,  ain't  it?" 

Her  fire  had  died,  apparently.  No- 
body but  she  knew  what  a  hopeless- 
ness and  despair  had  quenched  it. 
She  shifted  to  her  previous  tactics. 
She  gazed  down  prettily,  winking  as 
if  in  debate,  and  about  to  yield.  With 
her  toe  she  traced  eccentric  figures  in 
the  pine  needles. 

"But  what  about  Red  Top?"  she 
asked,  vaguely.  "They're  expecting  me 
at  Red  Top — my  friends  are.  And 
this  isn't  my  horse." 

"We'll  stop  at  Red  Top  on  our  way 
back  from  South  America,"  he  prof- 
fered. "Savvy?" 

"And  leave  the  horse?"  She  was 
very  innocent. 

"Sure?"  He  laughed  gleefully,  and 
pinched  her  arm  again.  "Say,  you're 
all  right,"  he  vouchsafed.  "I've  had 
you  sized  up.  We  can  travel  to- 
gether, I  reckon.  That  Red  Top's 
all  a  joke,  ain't  it?  You  bet,  we'll 
leave  the  hoss  when  we  pass  back  this 
way;  we  won't  stop  now.  There's  a 
sheriff  somewhere's  behind — a  leetle 
sheriff,  trying  to  earn  his  wages.  Ever 
see  a  sheriff  killed?" 

"Oh,  no!"  she  shuddered. 

"We  may  have  to  kill  this  one,  if 
he  gets  too  close.  Well,  I  got  to  go 
and  tend  to  them  animals."  He  contin- 
ued in  an  undertone :  "You  keep  mum. 
If  I  had  his  ten  thousand,"  with  a  jerk 
of  the  head  indicating  the  man  inside 
the  cabin,  "we'd  give  the  old  boy  the 
slip  and  light  out  immediately.  But 
we  need  him  on  the  trail  a  while  yet. 
You  want  to  watch  him,  though.  If 
he  goes  to  troubling  you  I'll  fix  him," 
and  he  tapped  his  chest  suggestively, 
and  swaggered  off,  whistling. 

The  woman  re-entered     the  cabin, 


lighted  by  a  candle.  The  older  man 
was  scouring  the  skillet. 

"Oh,  are  you  done  ?"  she  exclaimed. 
"I  intended  to  help  you." 

"No  use  soiling  your  hands,"  he 
answered,  rather  gruffly.  "What  you 
been  doing?  Viewing  the  scenery 
with  him?" 

"Only  out  in  the  moonlight,  in  front. 
It's  a  perfectly  lovely  night." 

"Suppose  so." 

"I  thought  you'd  come  out,  too." 

"Me?"  He  grunted:  "I  was  busy, 
cleaning  up.  What  was  he  saying? 
Filling  you  with  his  big  talk?" 

"He  bothered  me  awfully,"  she  ap- 
prised in  confidence.  "Don't  you  tell 
him,  though.  He  wants  me  to  go  off 
to  South  America  with  him.  The  idea." 

Her  auditor  grunted  again,  con- 
temptuously. 

"He  does,  does  he?  Suppose  you 
said  you'd  go." 

"No,  I  didn't  say.  But  I'm  afraid  of 
him — he  talks  so  queer.  Has  he  got  a 
lot  of  money?" 

"No  more  than  I  have.  He?  And 
what  he  has  won't  keep.  I'm  old 
enough  to  hang  on  to  what  I've  cached 
away.  I'll  show  him  through  far 
enough  by  this  trail,  and  then  I'm  go- 
ing to  circle  back  and  develop  a  little 
mineral  property  I  have  up  in  the 
mountains.  You  think  this  is  a  pretty 
night,  do  you?  Wait  till  you've  been 
with  me,  where  my  mine  is.  That's 
country.  You  can  see  a  hundred  miles, 
and  the  deer  come  and  eat  out  of  your 
hand.  This?  Naw!  South  America, 
he  said,  did  he?  He'll  get  about  as 
fur  as  San  Anton',  and  there  he'll  stop 
and  you'll  be  on  the  street. .  You  pack 
with  me.  We'll  double  on  the  sheriff. 
He'll  never  know;  he'll  keep  right 
on  after  the  single  trail,  and  they'll 
be  two  fools  together.  Say — you're 
a  voodiville  actress,  ain't  you  ?  Didn't 
I  see  you  in  Placerton?  I  remember 
your  hair.  You  come  with  me.  We'll 
put  in  our  summers  up  in  the  hills  and 
winters  we'll  go  wherever  you  like. 
That  mine'll  be  our  bank.  Of 
course,  I've  got  ten  thousand  now, 
cash;  but  we'll  want  more  than  that. 
What's  ten  thousand  to  a  woman  like 


THE  OUTLAW  TRAIL. 


95 


you?  And  I'm  old  enough  to  know 
it." 

"What  will  he  do,  though  ?  I  had  to 
half  promise  him." 

"Who?" 

"That  other  man." 

"Him!  If  he  bothers  you  more,  I'll 
plant  him  away,  and  the  sheriff,  too. 
'T won't  be  the  first  planting  this  trail's 
knowed." 

"Where  does  it  go  to?" 

"It  goes  to  hell,  begging  your  par- 
don. He's  young  and  smart,  and  he's 
bent  on  traveling  it.  But  I've  learned." 
The  speaker's  ears  were  keen,  for  he 
abruptly  warned :  "Just  keep  quiet  and 
lay  low;  and  when  the  time  comes, 
you  and  I'll  throw  in  together." 

She  nodded.  The  young  man  sud- 
denly stepped  in.  He  cast  a  quick 
glance  from  one  to  the  other.  But 
the  elder  man  was  clumping  over  to 
hang  up  the  skillet,  and  the  woman 
was  idly  perusing  a  ragged  bit  of  an 
old  paper  novel. 

That  night  the  woman,  under  a  sad- 
dle-blanket and  fully  dressed  against 
the  frosty  air,  occupied  the  bunk;  the 
two  men  extended  themselves  side  by 
side  in  the  opposite  corner,  near  the 
stove.  When  one  stirred  the  other 
was  watchful;  and  their  charge  slept, 
by  spells,  in  security. 

All  the  next  day  they  traveled,  fol- 
lowing the  trail.  The  night  was  spent 
in  a  ruinous-  shack  nameless  but  wel- 
come, as  a  mere  shelter,  at  the  forks 
of  the  Little  Blue. 

And  dawned  the  third  day.  It 
found  the  woman  thin  and  wan,  but 
merry,  her  spirits  so  constant  that 
neither  of  her  escorts  could  doubt  her 
sincerity.  Each  was  absorbed  in  his 
plans,  which  included  her.  Each 
fancied  himself  her  confidant.  There 
was  something  snaky  and  servile  in 
the  promptitude  with  which  the 
younger  helped  her  out  of  and  into  the 
saddle ;  there  was  something  grotesque 
in  the  eagerness  with  which  the  elder 
sprawled  to  procure  for  her  water,  in 
his  battered  hat,  from  springs;  there 
was  something  pitiful  in  the  pleased 
readiness  with  which  she  accepted  the 
touch  and  the  drink — both  naturally 


repugnant  to  her  or  to  any  clean  wo- 
man. 

And  between  the  two  men  there  was 
a  kind  of  armed  neutrality — a  cautious, 
triumphant  neutrality:  a  slow  match 
burning  towards  a  magazine.  Mean- 
while the  woman  chatted  and  bantered 
and  passed  from  the  one  to  the  other, 
placating  and  flattering  and  •  alluring 
by  words  and  eyes  and  figure.  In 
either  of  the  twain  lay,  she  knew,  dan- 
ger; but  in  both  lay  safety. 

She  had  a  second  game  under  way. 
For  once  she  discarded  a  torn  page 
from  the  old  paper  novel;  and  again 
she  threw  down  a  fragment  from  a 
torn  underskirt;  and  again  she  slyly 
dropped  her  handkerchief — not  the  red 
but  a  lacy  v/hite ;  and  she  had  a  subtle 
trick  of  glancing  hastily  back,  from 
curves,  and  of  using  hands  promi- 
nently in  hair  or  at  throat,  when  a 
vista  chanced  to  outspread  behind  or 
at  the  side.  And  once  her  eyes  emitted 
a  sudden  sparkle,  as  of  success. 

But  the  fatuous  men,  her  escorts, 
noted  not;  they  had  each  other,  and 
their  plans,  and  her,  to  absorb  them. 
And  frequently  they  jeered  of  the 
sheriff  of  Rico;  to  threaten  him,  to 
curse  him,  to  make  light  of  him. 

So  the  three  traveled  southward, 
while  the  .old  Outlaw  Trail  wound 
steadily  toward  the  fastnesses  of  the 
Glorietta  and  of  the  Pecos  country  be- 
yond. 

Noon  came. 

"There's  the  peak,"  quoth  the  elder 
man.  "That's  Robber's  Roost."  He 
pointed.  Twenty  miles,  through  the 
transparent  atmosphere,  over  the  tim- 
bered horizon  uplifted  the  jagged  crest 
of  a  heavily  wooded  mountain — the 
storied  first  absolute  haven  of  hunted 
men  from  the  North.  "And  this  here's 
Bandit's  Spring."  He  dismounted, 
stiffly.  "Reckon  we  can  have  a  bite 
and  a  swig,"  he  said,  "if  Mister  Sheriff 
will  give  us  time." 

"Oh,  good!"  cried  the  woman.  She, 
too,  dismounted — swinging  lightly 
down  before  the  younger  man  could 
help  her. 

The  trail  here  traversed  a  secluded 
basin,  sunny  and  lush  and  fragrant, 


96 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


wherein  flourished  immense  primeval 
pines  and  spruces.  The  air  was  warm 
and  still;  the  ground  was  soft,  elastic, 
covered  with  bushes  and  fallen  fronds 
and  the  debris  of  rotted  trunks. 

"Want  a  drink?"  asked  the  older 
man,  kneeling  at  the  spring,  which 
welled  and  trickled  as  he  cleared  away 
the  gathered  stuff  that  obstructed  a 
long  unused  cavity. 

The  woman's  eyes  blazed  into  a 
dark  blue;  a  vivid  red  sprang  into  the 
center  of  each  cheek.  She  touched 
the  younger  man,  and  pointed  signifi- 
cantly. He  comprehended.  There 
was  not  a  second's  delay.  His  right 
hand  darted  to  his  chest  and  out  again. 
The  flat,  compact  automatic  pistol  now 
in  it  spoke  viciously — once,  twice, 
thrice.  With  a  gasping  "Ugh!"  the 
kneeling  man  toppled  forward,  and 
lurched  face  downward,  his  fingers 
twitching  vainly  at  his  holster  and  his 
six-shooter.  But  they  soon  ceased. 

Swift  as  the  assassin  had  been,  the 
woman  was  as  swift.  She  had 
stepped  behind,  as  if  fearfully;  but 
the  third  shot  had  not  echoed,  when 
her  arms  were  about  him,  pinioning 
him. 

"Quick,  Dick!  Dick!"  she  screamed, 
shrilly.  "Dick!  Dick!" 

They  struggled,  writhing,  weaving 
back  and  forth.  The  man  uttered  an 
oath — his  last.  At  a  sharp  crack  he 
drooped,  limp,  his  head  suddenly 
ghastly.  She  let  him  slip,  hurling  him 
away  from  her  with  violent  disgust. 

There  was  the  snapping  of  a  dried 
branch,  and  another  man  came  run- 
ning. She  looked,  wildly,  and  he 
caught  her  just  in  time. 


"Little  girl,  little  girl!!"  he  panted, 
soothingly.  "Thank  God!!" 

His  aquiline  visage  was  ashen,  save 
where  scratch  and  perspiration  disfig- 
ured it;  his  eyes  glowed,  his  breast 
heaved.  So  precipitously  had  he  come 
that  even  yet  a  slight  smoke  wafted 
from  his  carbine  muzzle.  He  held  her 
tightly. 

"Dick!!"  she  moaned.  "They  didn't 
hurt  me.  But  I  had  to  lie.  I  had  to  do 
something,  Dick.  They  were  two  men 
and  I  was  a  woman.  Oh,  if  I  hadn't 
sighted  you,  near,  I  don't  know  what 
would  have  happened.  I  couldn't  have 
stood  it  much  longer." 

"It's  all  over  with,  pet." 

"They're  dead,  aren't  they?  I 
couldn't  tell  them  I  was  your  wife.  If 
they  had  suspected  I  was  the  sheriff's 

wife I  told  them  the  first  thing 

I  could  think  of.     If  they'd  suspected 

I  was  your  wife,  Dick I  had  ta 

wait,  and  make  them  believe " 

"Of  course,  pet.  There,  there,  my 
brave  little  girl." 

"Have  you  followed  long?" 

"Thirty  hours." 

"They're  old  Gardiner  and  Mexican 
Pete,  aren't  they?  I  knew  them  from 
their  pictures." 

"Old  Gardiner  and  Mexican  Pete,, 
sure,  pet." 

"They  were  threatening  you,  Dick, 
They  hated  you  so.  They  might  have 
killed  you;  they — Gardiner  did — . 
knew  the  trail  so  well.  I  had  to  go 
with  them,  and  pretend,  and  wait. 
They  insulted  me,  Dick,  but  they  were 
two  men,  and  I  was  just  a  woman,  and 
the  sheriff's  wife." 

And  she  fainted. 


The    Great   White    Throne;    Day   of 
Judgment   /Misunderstood 

By  C  T.  Russell,  Pastor  Brooklyn  and  London  Tabernacles 


THE  FALSE  view  of  the  Day  of 
Judgment   began   to   be    intro- 
duced in  the   Second   Century 
and  human  fear  and  supersti- 
tion  continually  made   it  worse   and 
worse.     The  Bible,  on  the  contrary, 
represented  it  as  a  period  of  glory  and 
blessing.    The  Psalmist's  declaration, 
calling  upon  humanity  and  all  crea- 
tion to  rejoice  because  the  Lord  would 
come  to  judge  the  earth  in  righteous- 
ness and  the  poor  with  equity  (Psalm 
98:9),  is  worthy  of  note. 

A  Blessed  Judgment  Day. 

According  to  the  Bible,  the  world's 
Judgment  Day  will  be  the  world's  time 
of  opportunity  for  coming  to  a  knowl- 
edge of  God  and  then  being  tried, 
tested,  or  judged,  as  to  their  willing- 
ness to  serve  and  obey  God  and  His 
righteous  government.  Those  found 
heartily  obedient  will  be  granted 
everlasting  life  with  every  joy  and 
blessing  appropriate  to  man  in  his  per- 
fection. Those  rebellious  to  the  light 
of  the  righteousness  of  Jehovah  will 
be  destroyed  in  the  Second  Death 
without  hope  of  any  future  whatever. 

That  will  be  the  time  when  all  the 
heathen  will  have  their  trial,  after 
they  shall  all  be  brought  by  Mes- 
siah's Kingdom  to  a  clear  knowledge  of 
the  Truth.  That  will  be  the  time  when 
the  great  masses  of  Christendom  will 
for  the  first  time  hear  of  the  real 
character  of  God  and  His  require- 
ments of  them.  Although  some  of 
them  may  have  been  in  churches  oc- 
casionally and  may  have  seen  Bibles 
occasionally,  nevertheless  the  eyes  of 


their  understanding  were  darkened. 
They  saw  not;  they  heard  not;  they 
understood  not.  The  god  of  this  world 
blinded  them  (II  Corinthians  iv,  4.) 

That  Judgment  Day,  the  thousand 
years  of  Messiah's  Kingdom,  will  not 
only  bind  Satan,  but  chase  away  with 
the  glorious  beams  of  the  Sun  of 
Righteousness  all  the  darkness,  super- 
stition and  error  of  the  world. 

The  Church  will  not  be  judged 
during  that  thousand-year  Judgment 
Day,  because  her  trial,  her  judgment, 
takes  place  now — during  this  Gospel 
Age.  The  saintly  few  who  will  gain 
the  great  prize  of  joint-heirship  with 
the  Redeemer,  Messiah,  will  be  His 
Queen  and  sit  with  Him  in  the  Great 
White  Throne  of  Judgment  mentioned 
in  the  text;  as  the  Apostle  declares, 
"Know  ye  not  that  the  saints  shall 
judge  the  world?"  (I  Cor.  vi,  2; 
Psa.  45.9.) 

Former   Views   Were   Erroneous. 

Our  former  and  very  unreasonable 
view  was  that  man,  "born  in  sin, 
shapen  in  iniquity,"  depraved  in  all 
of  his  appetites,  would  be  condemned 
of  God  in  the  Judgment  Day  on  ac- 
count of  this  heredity  and  environ- 
ment, for  which  he  is  not  responsible. 
The  theory  was  that  the  heathen  also 
would  be  damned  in  that  Judgment 
Day,  because  they  did  not  know  and 
did  not  accept  "the  only  name  given 
under  heaven."  The  theory  was  also 
that  the  masses  of  civilized  society 
would  in  that  Judgment  Day  be 
damned  because  they  did  not  live  per- 
fectly, notwithstanding  their  heredity. 

4 


98 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


.  Now  we  see  that  the  death  sentence 
was  upon  Adam  and  all  of  his  race, 
who  were  in  his  loins  when  he  sinned. 
We  see  that  they  could  not  be  put  on 
trial  a  second  time  until  released  from 
the  first  sentence.  We  see  that  their 
release  will  be  at  the  Second  Coming 
of  Messiah  in  the  glory  of  His  King- 
dom, when  He  shall  cause  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  Lord  to  fill  the  whole  earth 
and  open  all  the  blinded  eyes.  Then, 
because  of  having  satisfied  the  claims 
of  Justice  against  the  race,  the  Great 
Redeemer,  as  the  Mediator  of  the  New 
Covenant,  will  grant  the  world  of  man- 
kind another  judgment  or  trial — addi- 
tional to  the  one  given  to  Adam,  in 
which  they  all  failed  and  from  the 
penalty  of  which  failure  Jesus  re- 
deemed them. 

True,  the  measure  of  light  and 
knowledge  now  enjoyed  and  wilfully 
sinned  against  will  work  as  a  corre- 
sponding degradation  of  character;  all 
downward  steps  will  need  to  be  re- 
traced. 

"The  Great  White  Throne." 
Rev.  20:11. 

Symbolically,  the  whiteness  of  the 
throne  indicates  the  purity  of  the  jus- 
tice and  judgment  which  will  be  meted 
out  by  the  Great  Redeemer  as  the 
Messiah-King.  The  heavens  and 
earth  which  will  flee  away  from  the 
presence  of  that  throne  are  not  the  lit- 
eral, but  the  symbolical.  The  eccle- 
siastical heavens  and  the  social  earth 
of  the  present  time  will  not  stand  in 
the  presence  of  that  August  Tribunal. 
The  people  will  not  be  judged  nation- 
ally nor  by  parliaments  and  systems 
in  society,  but  individually.  The  judg- 
ment or  trial  will  not  merely  test  those 
living  at  the  time  of  the  establishment 
of  the  Kingdom,  but  will  include  all 
the  dead. 

The  books  of  the  Bible  will  then  all 
be  opened — understood.  All  will  then 
see  that  the  Golden  Rules  laid  down 
by  inspiration  through  Moses  and  the 
Prophets,  Jesus  and  His  Apostles,  are 
the  very  ones  which  God  will  require 
of  men  in  the  future  and  which  Mes- 


siah will  then  enable  the  willing  and 
obedient  to  comply  with  by  assisting 
them  up  out  of  their  sin  and  degrada- 
tion. The  judgment  of  that  time,  the 
test,  will  not  be  of  faith,  for  knowledge 
will  be  universal  and  all  the  darkness 
and  obscurity  created  by  ignorance 
and  superstition  will  have  passed 
away.  The  test  at  that  time  will  be 
of  works,  whereas  the  tests  of  the 
Church  at  the  present  time  are  of  faith. 

Another  Book  of  Life  Opened. 

Pastor  Russell  declared  that  -  the 
Lamb's  Book  of  Life  alone  is  open  now 
and  only  those  called  to  be  mem- 
bers of  the  Bride  class  and  who  accept 
the  call  are  written  therein.  But  in 
the  great  day  of  the  world's  trial  or 
Judgment,  another  book  of  life  will  be 
opened.  A  record  will  be  made  of  all 
who,  by  obedience,  show  themselves 
worthy  of  everlasting  life  on  the 
human  plane,  and,  if  faithful,  they 
will  eventually  be  accepted  of  the 
Father  to  life  eternal.  All  the  incor- 
rigible, all  those  who  after  the  most 
favorable  opportunities,  will  not  give 
their  hearts  to  the  Lord  and  be  obedi- 
ent to  the  laws  of  the  Messianic  King- 
dom "shall  be  destroyed  from  amongst 
the  people."— Acts  3:19-21. 


GOD  IN  THE  HOAE 

"As  for  me  and  my  house  we  will 
serve  the  Lord." — Joshua  24:15. 

DO  NOT  understand  us  to  teach 
that  the  world's  opportunity 
for  life  everlasting  or  death 
everlasting  is  now.  "God  hath  ap- 
pointed a  Day  in  which  he  will  judge 
the  world,"  grant  the  world  a  judg- 
ment or  trial  or  test.  That  great  Day 
is  future.  It  is  the  Day  of  Christ,  a 
thousand  years  long.  It  will  be  a  glori- 
ous opportunity!  Present  right  doing 
and  right  thinking,  or  wrong  doing  and 
wrong  thinking  will  have  much  to  do 
with  the  condition  of  every  man  and 
woman  at  that  time.  He  or  she  will 
enter  upon  that  Day  of  blessing  and 


THE  GREAT  WHITE  THRONE. 


99 


opportunity  either  from  a  higher  or  a 
lower  standpoint,  proportionately  as 
he  or  she  has  acted  wisely  and  con- 
scientiously at  the  present  time. 

But  nothing  that  the  world  can  do 
can  interfere  with  God's  great  proposi- 
tion, that  a  full  opportunity  for  life  or 
death  eternal  shall  then  come  to  every 
member  of  the  race,  because  Christ 
died  for  the  ungodly.  The  only  class 
to  whom  present  life  means  life  or 
death  eternal  is  the  Church.  And  by 
the  Church  we  mean,  not  church  at- 
tendants, nor  outward  professors,  but 
those  who  have  entered  into  a  cove- 
nant with  God  through  Christ  and  who 
have  been  made  partakers  of  the  Holy 
Spirit,  tasting  of  the  good  Word  of 
God  and  the  powers  of  the  Age  to 
come.  If  these  should  fall  away,  the 
Apostle  forewarns  us,  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  renew  them  again  unto  re- 
pentance. And  there  will  be  no  hope 
for  them  with  the  world  in  the  world's 
trial  Day  because  they  already  have 
enjoyed  their  share  of  the  merit  of 
Christ's  death. 

A   Great  Privilege. 

When,  therefore,  we  speak  of  God 
and  the  home,  we  have  in  mind  a 
family  composed  exclusively  of  saints 
who  daily  and  hourly  are  following 
their  great  Redeemer's  footsteps  in 
self-denial,  in  sacrifice,  in  the  narrow 
way  which  leads  to  glory,  honor  and 
immortality  and  association  with  the 
Redeemer  in  His  glorious  Kingdom 
which  is  to  bless  the  world  for  a  thou- 
sand years. 

We  believe  the  Bible  teaches  that 
there  are  many  of  the  world  who  are 
reverential,  kind  and  just  to  a  large 
degree,  who  are  not  saints,  who  have 
not  presented  their  bodies  living  sac- 
rifices to  God,  who  have  not  been  be- 
gotten of  His  Holy  Spirit,  and  not, 
therefore,  members  of  that  "little  flock 
to  whom  it  is  the  Father's  good  pleas- 
ure to  give  the  Kingdom" — in  joint- 
heirship  with  their  Redeemer  and 
Head.  To  this  latter  class  our  Master 
evidently  referred  v/hen  He  said  to 
His  followers,  "Let  your  light  so  shine 


before  men  that  they  may  see  your 
good  works  and  glorify  your  Father 
which  is  in  heaven." 

To  live  righteously,  soberly  and 
godly  in  this  present  world  to  the  ex- 
tent of  one's  ability  is  what  every  one 
should  do — no  less.  To  live  a  life  of 
sacrifice — to  lay  down  our  lives  for  the 
brethren,  for  the  truth,  in  the  service 
of  the  Lord,  is  another  matter,  which 
justice  does  not  require,  and  which  the 
Bible  nowhere  enjoins  upon  mankind. 
It  is  pointed  out  as  a  privilege  to  those 
who  desire  it,  and  glory,  honor  and  im- 
mortality on  the  spirit  plane  is  the  re- 
ward attached  to  this  invitation  or 
High  Calling.  It  is  the  selection  of 
this  special  class  of  consecrated  ones 
that  is  the  particular  order  in  the 
Divine  program  at  the  present  timer 
because  the  faithful,  the  Elect,  the 
"overcomers"  of  this  class  are  to  be 
the  associates  of  the  Redeemer  in  His 
great  work  of  uplifting  the  world  and 
restoring  all  the  willing  and  obedient 
to  human  perfection,  to  an  earthly 
Eden  home,  everlasting,  in  which 
God's  will  shall  "be  done  on  earth  as 
it  is  done  in  heaven." 

An  Inundation  of  Unbelief. 

In  our  day  the  shackles  of  ignorance 
and  superstition  are  breaking.  Men, 
women  and  children  are  beginning  to 
think  for  themselves.  They  no  longer 
believe  the  fairy  tales  of  childhood. 
The  dreadful  hobgoblins  and  night- 
mares of  the  Dark  Ages  respecting 
purgatory  and  eternal  torture  are 
doubted  by  all,  and  by  the  great  mass 
totally  disbelieved.  What  have  they 
now  to  attach  them  to  the  Almighty, 
since  they  have  never  been  taught  the 
love  of  God,  the  lengths  and  breadths 
and  heights  and  depths  passing  all 
human  understanding?  This  is  the 
world's  great  need — to  know  God  as 
He  really  is,  a  Father,  a  Friend,  a  God 
of  love!  And  to  thus  know  Him  the 
people  need  to  be  taught  how  seriously 
they  were  mistaught  in  the  past  along- 
the  lines  of  hell  and  purgatory. 

How  could  they  ever  truly  love  and 
worship  a  God  of  injustice  and  of  hate 


100 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


—one  inferior  to  themselves — one  who 
knew,  foreordained  and  prepared  for 
their  torture  before  they  were  born. 
They  must  see  that  these  things  taught 
by  the  creeds  of  the  Dark  Ages  are 
wholly  at  variance  with  the  Bible,  else 
they  will  never  come  back  to  the  Bible 
nor  be  able  to  see  its  teachings  in  their 
true  light.  They  must  be  taught  that 
the  sin  and  death,  sorrow  and  trouble 
all  around  us  are  the  wage  or  penalty 
of  Father  Adam's  disobedience.  They 
must  learn  that  God  purposes  a  bless- 
ing and  uplifting  which  will  be  as 
world-wide  as  the  curse. 

Many  religious  leaders  to-day  deny 
that  there  is  a  personal  God  and  as- 
cribe everything  to — a  great  Nothing, 
which  they  designate  Nature-god.  Is 
it  surprising,  in  view  of  the  fact  that 
these  teachings  are  being  promulgated 
in  the  universities,  colleges  and  theo- 
logical seminaries,  in  the  high  schools 
and  even  to  some  extent  in  the  com- 
mon schools — is  it  any  wonder  that 
the  rising  generation  is  losing  its  God  ? 


Awakened  Parental  Responsibility. 

It  is  high  time  that  parents  realize 
the  true  situation — it  is  almost  too  late 
now.  The  seeds  of  unbelief  already 
sown  in  the  minds  of  the  rising  genera- 
tion are  being  watered  continually  and 
are  growing.  All  who  love  their  fami- 
lies, all  who  love  mankind  in  general, 
should  awaken  to  the  fact  that  a  world 
that  has  lost  its  God  must  of  necessity 
be  an  unhappy  world.  Platonic 
philosophy  may  serve  the  purposes  of 
the  few,  but  surely  cannot  serve  the 
masses  of  our  race.  A  godless  world 
will  ere  long  mean  a  discontented 
world,  an  unhappy  world,  and  by  and 
by,  a  world  of  anarchy  and  strife.  This 
is  what  our  world-wide  education  is 
leading  to.  Few  of  our  race  can  stand 
an  education  which  recognizes  no  God, 
no  revelation  of  Him,  no  responsibility 
to  Him,  and  no  hope  of  a  future  life 
which  will  be  effected  by  the  conduct 
of  the  present. 


^     fe#\  *»,,,.  «•«-*-•-,.  Jl^**..- 


THE    TURN    OF    A    COIN 


*  By  Harry    Klipper 


WITH  GOD'S  HELP,  will  reach 
you  by  Friday.  Can  you  hold 
out?" 

The  eyes  of  the  imprisoned 
two  met — each  instantly  grasped  the 
situation — and  Cowery's  glance  fell 
first.  They  knew — such  circumstances 
tend  to  make  all  minds  acute.  Cow- 
ery's glance  fell  first :  instinctively  his 
gaze  dropped  to  the  little  mite  of  pro- 
visions that  lay  between  them.  Pos- 
sibly there  was  enough  to  save  one, 
but  the  tidings  just  sent  down  was  as 
good  as  a  death-warrant  to  the  other — 
both  could  not  last  till  Friday. 

The  younger  man — he  had  been 
foreman  before  the  cave-in — there  was 
no  distinction  now — raised  his  eyes  to 
where  a  little  water  oozed  from  out  the 
slimy  side,  near  his  companion;  then 
sought  the  tiny  aperture  above,  where 
the  faintest  gleam  of  light  showed. 
Somewhere,  far,  at  the  end  of  its  in- 
calculable zigzagging  course,  this  hole 
met  the  pure  air  of  earth — and  up 
there,  ever  keeping  vigil,  a  very  pretty, 
very  sweet  young  girl — his  betrothed 
of  a  week.  ...  That  picture  had 
nerved  him  through  the  past  three 
days. 

The  black,  cavernous  eyes  of  the 
other  man  were  as  unfathomable  as  an 
abyss.  Motionless  as  Wesley,  he  sat 
in  thoughts  of  his  own.  Neither  spoke, 
yet  both  men  were  tortured  by  hunger 
and  suffering.  Wesley's  left  arm  was 
broken — Cowery's  left  leg. 

Wesley  looked  at  his  fellow  pris- 
oner. Somehow,  now  since  the  mes- 
sage from  above,  he  hated  the  man, 
with  a  hatred  never  known  before.  Life 
could  not,  thought  he,  hold  so  much  to 
this  miner  (he  knew  him,  a  single, 
solitary  individual) — and  yet 

"I — I  guess  we'd  better  toss,     and 


have  it  over  with!" 

The  other  nodded  silent  assent.  They 
had  long  before  come  to  an  agreement 
oh  the  inevitable  situation.  Yet  nei- 
ther was  in  any  sense  a  stoic.  They 
were  just  normal,  hard-laboring  men, 
and  living  was  sweet. 

Wesley  raised  the  coin  between  his 
thumb  and  forefinger — its  fall  meant 
the  remaining  food — life,  probably,  for 
one.  A  bullet  from  Wesley's  revolver 
would  end  it  all  for  the  loser — by  his 
own  hand. 

Cowery  took  a  bit  of  candle  from  his 
pocket,  and  heedless  of  the  risk,  lit  it, 
then  stuck  the  end  into  the  mud,  where 
its  light  would  enable  them  to  see. 
There  was  a  stipulation  in  this  game 
of  life  that  the  coin  must  often  turn — 
for  death  lay  on  the  ether  side ! 

"Well!"  interrogated  the  lover. 

"Heads,"  muttered  Cowery. 

In  an  instant  the  pale,  strong-cut 
countenance  of  the  younger  man  grew 
tenser,  his  hand  trembled  the  slightest, 
and  flip!  the  gold  had  cast  its  shadow 
on  the  low  wall  of  the  cave-in,  and, 
spinning  slowly,  returned. 

Eager  as  an  unweaned  pup's,  Cow- 
ery's eyes  followed  the  course  of  the 
coin — and  read  its  face  the  second  it 
fell.  In  his  eyes  there  sprang  the  hor- 
rible look  of  the  lost !  His  hand  silently 
reached  for  the  foreman's  revolver. 

But  suddenly  he  drew  it  back. 

Wesley  had  not  looked — had  not 
dared  to  look!  His  gaze  was  on  the 
ground,  his  body  motionless  as  a 
sleeper  in  the  tomb. 

Cowery  drew  back.  His  black,  rov- 
ing eyes  snapped — and  suddenly 
gleamed  like  a  smoldering  fire. 

And  from  out  the  dirty  coat  a  grimy 
hand,  directed  by  a  cowardly  heart, 
again  stole — and  turned  the  coin. 


"The  Book  of  Job,"  with  an  introduc- 
tory   essay    advancing    new    views, 
and  explanatory  notes  quoting  many 
eminent  authorities  by    Homer    E. 
Sprague,  Ph.  D.,  formerly  Professor 
of   Cornell   University,     afterwards 
President     of     the     University   of 
North   Dakota   and  lecturer  of  the 
Drew  Seminary,  editor  of  many  an- 
notated masterpieces,  etc. 
The  world's  greatest  literature  ought 
not  to  be  merely  the  luxury  of  the  few 
but  a  joy  and   an   inspiration  to   the 
many.    The  editor's  aim  in  the  prepar- 
ation of  the  present  work  has  been  to 
popularize  for  the   average  man  and 
woman  "The  Book  of  Job,"  admittedly 
the  finest  literary  creation  of  Semitic 
genius.    How  to  make  it  instantly  and 
permanently   attractive  has   been   the 
problem.    After  twenty  years  of  study 
the  editor  gives  us  a  new  version,  a 
more    faithful    translation,   aiming   to 
show  the  parallelisms  of  thought  and 
expression,  yet  to  preserve  the  poetical 
beauty  of  the  epic.  Avoiding  the  bond- 
age of  rhyme,  he  adopts  the  stately 
iambic  metre,  with  rare  deviations  to 
make  sound  reproduce  sense.    As  far 
as  possible,  a  concise  literal  transla- 
tion  is  given;   but  some  half   dozen 
euphemisms  replace  expressions  that 
offend  delicacy. 

An  introductory  essay  advances  the 
theory  that  the  "Book  of  Job"  is  an 
allegory  of  man's  past,  present  and 
future,  and  that  the  main  object  of  the 
discussion  between  Job  and  his  three 
"friends"  was  the  refutation  of  the  too 
prevalent  hard-and-fast  doctrine  of  the 
Old  Testament  that  worldly  prosperity 
measures  merit.  It  further  proposes  a 
more  hopeful  solution  of  the  mystery 


of  undeserved  suffering  in  the  light  of 
the  doctrine  of  Evolution,  a  solution 
first  suggested  as  to  man's  spiritual 
nature  by  the  Founder  of  Christianity 
to  the  astonished  ruler  of  the  Phari- 
sees who  came  to  consult  him  by  night, 
"Ye  mUvSt  be  born  from  above;"  and 
further  expanded  by  Saint  Paul  so  as 
to  include  all  created  things  in  the 
throes  of  Evolution,  involving  even 
the  immanent  God.  It  accounts  for 
Job's  inconsistencies  by  the  fact,  often 
overlooked,  that  at  times  his  unparal- 
leled sufferings  affected  his  reason, 
paroxysms  of  the  wildest  frenzy  al- 
ternating with  lucid  intervals  of  per- 
fect sweetness  and  light. 

The  explanatory  notes  are  very 
numerous,  yet  stated  with  the  utmost 
conciseness  upon  almost  every  dis- 
puted point.  They  are  up  to  date. 
They  stimulate  rather  than  supersede 
thought.  Like  all  the  masterpieces  the 
editor  has  annotated,  the  work  is  well 
adapted  to  private  study,  but  is  espec- 
ially fitted  for  use  in  schools,  Bible 
classes  and  colleges.  It  is  really  a 
variorum  edition  in  the  most  compact 
possible  form. 

Flexible  cloth;  12mo;  $1.25  net;  by 
mail,  $1.35.  Sherman,  French  &  Co., 
Publishers,  6  Beacon  street,  Boston, 
Mass. 

"The  Turning  of  Griggsby,"  by  Irving 

Bacheller. 

"The  Turning  of  Griggsby"  is  as 
conversationally  persuasive  as  the  au- 
thor's "Keeping  Up  with  Lizzie"  or 
"Charge  It."  The  reader  never  stops 
to  think  whether  the  plot  is  running 
smoothly :  he  simply  reads  and  enjoys. 
Mr.  Bacheller 's  stories  really  have  the 


THE  REALM  OF  BOOKLAND. 


103 


leisureliness  and  the  sprightliness  of 
the  happily  inspired  talk  that  makes 
some  hours  of  life  memorably  pleas- 
ant. The  story  supplies  the  proper  at- 
mosphere and  the  proper  mood;  it 
changes  the  subject  opportunely;  it 
is  jocose  just  long  enough  to  give  you 
the  full  flavor  of  humorous  incident, 
and  earnest  in  just  the  right  measure 
to  convince  you  of  its  genuineness. 

Twenty  years  after  the  death  of 
Daniel  Webster,  the  Websterian  age 
was  in  full  swing,  and  in  the  little 
North-country  village  of  Griggsby,  as 
in  countless  other  places,  men  in 
beaver  hats  and  tall  collars  were  play- 
ing Daniel  Webster.  Of  course,  Web- 
ster wasn't  in  fact  the  "sublime  toper" 
of  popular  tradition,  but  powers  of 
indulgence  and  reckless  wit  were  con- 
ferred upon  him  in  a  way  to  excite 
the  wonder  and  emulation  of  the  weak. 
Whisky  and  statesmanship  were  the 
two  sides  of  greatness;  eloquence  was 
its  chief  manifestation.  In  the  words 
of  Daniel  W.  Smead — auctioneer, 
musician  and  horseman — Griggsby 
was  a  "Vesuvius  of  oratory,  full  of 
high  and  grand  emotion,  mingled  with 
smoke  and  fire  and  thunder."  It  is 
through  the  eyes  of  Uriel  Havelock, 
a  boy  who  came  to  Griggsby  from  a 
stumpy  farm  on  the  edge  of  the  forest 
ten  miles  away,  that  the  reader  sees 
the  picturesque  follies  of  the  Web- 
sterian age.  The  follies  were  bad 
enough  in  all  conscience;  Mr.  Bachel- 
ler  good-humoredly  strips  the  glamor 
from  them,  and  reveals  the  underlying 
evil  as  perhaps  it  has  never  been  re- 
vealed before.  The  women  were  for 
the  most  part  domestic  slaves;  the 
men  were  in  many  cases  lofty-man- 
nered brutes,  with  resounding  tongues 
and  callous  consciences.  The  example 
of  the  "leading  lights"  was  ruinous 
to  the  young.  Young  Havelock  might 
have  succumbed  to  the  evil  influence 
of  the  "leading  lights"  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  Florence  Dunbar.  Now,  Florence 
was  in  love  with  Ralph  Buckstone, 
son  of  Colonel  Buckstone,  Congress- 
man and  local  great  man.  That  is, 
she  loved  Ralph  with  the  school-girl 
side  of  her  nature,  while  to  Uriel  she 


gave  charmingly  the  affectionate  in- 
terest and  admiration  of  a  girl-woman. 
Ralph  had  saved  her  from  drowning 
once,  and  didn't  dare  to  tell  her  his 
love  because  he  was  afraid  of  her 
gratitude.  And  there  you  have  the 
sentiment  of  the  story,  frank  and  shy 
and  genuine. 

Published  by  Harper  &  Bros., 
Franklin  Square,  New  York. 

"The  Price  of  Inefficiency,"  by  Frank 
Koester. 

The  book  is  said  to  lay  bare  in 
searching  analysis  and  startling  deduc- 
tions national  ills  and  weaknesses,  due 
to  inefficiency,  governmental  or  non- 
governmental, and  largely  responsible 
for  the  high  cost  of  living  and  other 
harsh  conditions.  .  It  stands  also  for 
specific  remedies  for  the  staggering 
cost,  admittedly  amounting  to  millions 
annually,  of  avoidable  waste.  The 
author,  an  engineer  of  international 
reputation,  and  now  an  American  citi- 
zen, writes,  not  as  an  outsider,  but  as 
one  who  has  cast  his  lot  here.  His 
treatment  shows  the  analytical  mind 
of  the  scientist  and  the  philosophical 
breadth  of  the  thinker.  Comparisons 
with  the  methods  and  results  of  other 
countries  give  force  and  point  to  both 
his  constructive  and  destructive  criti- 
cism- 
Published  by  Sturgis  &  Walton 
Company,  New  York. 

"My  Memoirs,"  by  Marguerite  Stein- 

heil. 

That  mysterious  human  document 
recently  published  under  the  title  "My 
•Memoirs,"  is  not  interesting  merely  as 
an  account  of  the  ghastly  double  mur- 
der of  which  the  author  of  that  book, 
Madame  Marguerite  Steinheil,  was  ac- 
cused and  acquitted.  Its  sketches  of 
the  artists  and  men  of  letters  who  were 
Madame  Steinheil's  friends  and  ad- 
mirers are  to  the  last  degree  graphic 
and  lively.  Here  is  one  of  Zola. 
Madame  writes: 

"Zola  lacked  in  conversation  what 
he  lacked  in  writing:  delicacy,  refine- 
ment, lightness.  He  was  heavy,  pon- 
derous and  rather  aggressive. 


104 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


"I  teased  him  one  day :  'How  is  the 
chase  after  human  documents  going 
on?'  I  asked. 

"  'Quite  well,  Madame.  I  hunt  my 
quarry  everywhere,  and  all  day  long. 
Human  documents,  slices  of  life, 
searching  character-studies,  that  is  all 
there  is  in  literature.' 

"  'But  what  of  the  writer's  person- 
ality? Is  that  of  no  account  what- 
ever?' 

"  'It  shouldn't  be.  I  try  to  eliminate 
my  personality  from  my  books.'  ... 

"'And  don't  succeed?'  I  asked 

"  'I  have  the  misfortune  of  being 
possessed  of  a  temperament  which  I 
cannot  altogether  get  rid  of,  alas,' 
came  the  pompous  reply. 

"Another  time,  after  re-reading  'La 
Terre,'  I  told  him :  'You  are  a  pessi- 
mist, Mr.  Zola !  You  see  only  one  side 
of  life,  the  ugly  and  animal  side;  and 
but  one  kind  of  people,  the  bad  kind. 
And  to  cap  it  all,  you  exaggerate.  You 
believe  yourself  a  realist,  but  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  you  are  an  idealist 
.  .  .  with  an  ugly  ideal!' ' 

Published  by  Sturgis  &  Walton  Co., 
New  York. 


"The  Walled  City:  A  Story  of  the 
Criminal  Insane,"  by  Edward  H. 
Williams,  M.  D.,  formerly  Assist- 
ant Professor  of  Pathology  ana  Bac- 
teriology, State  University  of  Iowa; 
formerly  Assistant  Physician  at  the 
Matteawan  State  Hospital  for  In- 
sane Criminals;  Assistant  Physician 
at  the  Manhattan  State  Hospital  for 
the  Insane,  etc. 

This  book,  unlike  any  other,  for; 
general  reading,  is  written  out  of  ex- 
pert medical  knowledge,  but  is  not  a 
scientific  disquisition. 

Dr.  Williams  presents,  in  a  manner 
not  attempted  heretofore  by  a  compe- 
tent writer,  a  picture  of  the  every-day 
life  of  those  within  the  "Walled  City" 
— an*  hospital  for  the  sick-minded  of 
criminal  tendencies.  The  book  deals 
with  the  social  life  of  the  insane,  the 
amusements  provided  for  them,  the 
care  taken  to  prevent  their  escape — 


these  features  of  their  lives  being 
often  curiously  interesting.  Few  per- 
sons, aside  from  those  directly  con- 
cerned with  the  care  of  the  insane, 
have  more  than  the  vaguest  concep- 
tion of  what  these  unfortunates  are 
like,  or  how  they  are  cared  for.  Yet 
his  subject  is  of  vital  importance  to 
each  of  us,  since  the  collective  popula- 
tion of  these  institutions  is  greater 
than  that  of  all  the  universities  and 
colleges  in  the  general  population. 
The  book  will  be  a  revelation  to  most 
intelligent  readers. 

Cloth,  12mo,  250  pages,  8  full-page 
illustrations,  $1.00  net;  by  mail,  $1.11. 
Funk  &  Wagnalls  Company,  Publish- 
ers, New  York. 


"Educational  Dramatics,"     by  Emma 
Sheridan  Fry. 

The  growth  of  interest  in  the  drama 
is  apparent  on  every  side.  We  have 
the  formation  of  the  Dramatic  Society, 
the  Educational  Dramatic  League,  etc., 
which  are  devoted  to  the  study  of  the 
theory  and  analysis  of  drama.  Mean- 
while the  Educational  Players,  under 
the  competent  leadership  of  Mrs. 
Emma  Sheridan  Fry,  are  not  idle. 
Their  months  of  preparation  and  quiet 
endeavor  are  bearing  fruit.  On  April 
5th  they  gave  a  performance  of  "The 
Mystery  of  Time,"  and  this  perform- 
ance was  repeated  at  the  Colony  Club 
on  the  afternoon  of  Friday,  April  llth. 
So  active  are  the  Educational  Players, 
and  so  great  is  the  interest  in  their 
work,  that  they  are  to  issue  shortly 
the  first  handbook,  "Educational  Dra- 
matics," by  Mrs.  Fry,  a  guide  for 
amateur  actors,  embracing  the  proper 
presentation  of  plays,  stage  business, 
etc.,  with  valuable  hints  as  to  the  cor- 
rect interpretation  of  characters.  This 
will  be  followed  by  numerous  other 
publications  in  the  near  future,  in- 
cluding a  text  book  by  Mrs.  Fry,  and 
her  arrangement  of  "Twelfth  Night," 
"A  Winter's  Tale,"  etc. 

Published  by  Moffat,  Yard  &  Com- 
pany. 


Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


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Simple— Stylish— Serviceable— Strong 

FIRST— It's  a  purse. 

SECOND — Release  a  button  and  it  becomes  a  hand  bag  or  music  port- 
folio. 

THIRD — Release  the  button  again,  and  behold,  it  is  a  capacious  shop- 
ping bag. 

Three  separate  bags  for  three  separate  purposes  all  in  one. 

The  folds  in  the  bag  are  so  cunningly  tucked  away  and  the  bag  is  so  light 
and  compact,  that  the  most  prying  eye  can't  detect  that  the  SAMADO  is 
three  bags  in  one. 

Packages,  dress  goods,  change,  letters  to  post,  railroad  tickets,  any  and 
every  article  of  fair  size  can  be  carried  safely  and  conveniently  in  the 
SAMADO. 

You  just  enlarge  the  bag  to  meet  your  needs  as  you  go  along.  If  you  only 
have  use  for  a  purse,  a  purse  it  stays.  If  you  want  more  room,  a  simple 
series  of  clasps  (like  those  on  a  glove)  does  the  trick. 

Every  woman  who  shops,  markets  and  travels  should  own  a  SAMADO. 
It's  the  "biggest,  little"  convenience  for  busy  women  that  was  ever  invented. 

Get  one  and  enjoy  real  comfort,  complete  ease  of  mind  and  freedom  from 
arm-strain. 

The  material  is  the  finest  quality  of  Pantasote  Leather.  The  workman- 
ship couldn't  be  excelled. 

Smallest  or  purse  size  is  10  inches  long  x  5  inches  deep.  Largest  or  shop- 
ping bag  size  measures  10  inches  long  x  16  inches  deep. 

Regular  price  of  "SAMADO"  Bag 

Regular  subscription  price  for  Overland  Monthly  (1  year) 

How  to  get  DOTH  now  for  $1.75 

Fill  in  the  following  order  and  send  with  $1.75,  and  Overland  Monthly  will 
be  mailed  you  for  one  year,  including  a  SAMADO  bag. 

OVERLAND  MONTHLY, 

21  Sutter  Street,  San  Francisco. 

As  per  your  special  offer  for  $1.75  enclosed,  send  one  SAMADO  bag  to 
the  following  address,  and  OVERLAND  MONTHLY  for  one  year. 

Name 

Address  . 


Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


BEST  IN  THE  WORLD! 


Add  a  Teaspoonful  to  a  Cup  of  Salad- 
Dressing ;  a  Tureen  of  Soup ;  or  Pour 
it  Over  a  Rarebit,  a  Steak,  or  Fish. 

LEAtPERRINS 


SAUCE 


THE     ORIGINAL    WORCESTERSHIRE 


Used  by  all  Chefs  in  Leading  Clubs,  Hotels  and 
Restaurants.  Have  a  Bottle  on  the  Table  as  well 
as  in  the  Kitchen.  It  Adds  that  Final  Touch 
of  Rare  Flavor  to  Many  Dishes.  Try  It! 

SOLD     BY     GROCERS     EVERYWHERE 


vose 


This  VOSe  style  of  Home 
Grand  is  a  splendid  grand 
piano,  suited  for  any  home 
and  sold  at  a  reasonable 
price.  The  tone,  touch  and 
magnificent  wearing  quali- 
ties of  the 


Vose  Pianos 


are  only  explained  by  the 
exclusive  patented  feat- 
ures and  the  high-grade 

material  and  superb 
workmanship  that  enter 
into  their  construction. 


We  deliver,  when  request- 
ed, direct  from  our  factory 
free  of  charge,  and  guaran- 
tee perfect  satisfaction. 


Liberal  allowance  made   for  old 
pianos.     Time  payments  accepted. 


FREE — If  you  are  interested  in  pianos  let  us  send  you  our 
bean-Hfully  illustrated  catalog  that  gives  full  information. 


vose  &  SONS  PIANO  co. 

189  Boylston  Street  Boston,  Mass. 


Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


The  Two  Most  Famous  Hotels  in  the  World 


The  Sun  Court  of  the  Palace  HoteF,  San  Francisco 

The  only  hotels  anywhere  in  which  every  room  has 
attached  bath.  All  the  conveniences  of  good  hotels  with 
many  original  features.  Accommodations  for  over  1OOO. 


The  Fairmont  Hotel,   San   Francisco 

European   Plan.      $2.5O  per  day,  upward— Suites  $1O.OO,  upward 

Under  Management  of  Palace  Hotel  Company 


Please    Mention    Overland    Monthly   When  Writing   Advertisers. 


xlll 


HOTEL  CUMBERLAND 

NEW  YORK 

Broadway  at  54th   Street 

Near  50th  Street  Subway  and  53d  Street  Elevated 

"Broadway"  Cars 
from  Grand  Central 
Depot  pass  the  door. 
Also  7th  Avenue  Cars 
from  Pennsylvania 
Station. 

New  and  Fireproof 
Strictly  First-Class 
Rates  Reasonable 

$2.50 
With  Bath 

and  up 

Send   for  Booklet 

Ten  minutes'  walk  to  30  theatres 

H.    P.    STIMSON 

Formerly  With  Hotel  Imperial 


A  Skin  of  Beauty  is  a  Joy  Forever.     . 
DR.  T.  FELIX  GOURAUD'S 

ORIENTAL  CREAM 


or  Magical  Beautifier 


PURIFIES 

as  well  as 
Beautifies 
the  Skin. 
No  other 
Cosmetic 
will  do  it. 


Removes  Tan,  Pimple*, 
Freckles,  Moth  Patches, 
Rash  and  Skin  Die- 
eases  and  every 
blemish  < 
beauty,  and  de- 
fies detection. 
It  has  stood 
the  test  of  *5 
years;  no  other 
has,  and  is  so 
harmless  •* 
taste  it  to  be 
sure  it  is  prop- 
erly made. 

Accept  no 
counterfeit  of 
similar  nan 
The  d  i  s  t  i  n- 
guished  Dr.  L,.  A.  Sayre  said  to  a  lady  of  the 
haut-ton  (a  patient):  "As  you  ladies  will  use 
them,  I  recommend  'Gouraud's  Cream'  as  the 
least  harmful  Of  all  the  skin  preparations." 

For  sale  by  all  druggists  and  fancy  goods 
dealers. 

Gouraud's  Oriental  Toilet  Powder 

For  infants  and  adults.  Exquisitely  perfumed. 
Relieves  skin  troubles,  cures  sunburn  and  ren- 
ders an  excellent  complexion.  Price  25c.  by  mall. 

Gouraud's    Poudre  Subtile 

Removes  Superfluous  Hair.    Price  $1   by  mall. 
FERD  T.  HOPKINS,  Prop'r,  37  Great  Jones  St. 
New   York   City. 


i  r 


Hotel 

St. 

Francis 

SAN 
FRANCISCO 


Under  the 

management  of 

JAMES  WOODS 


EUROPEAN     PLAN 
From  $2.00  op 


Named   after    the    patron    saint   of  its    city,   this   Hotel    expresses   the   comfortable   spirit    of 

old   California    Hospitality 


XIV 


Please  Mention  Over/and  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


Hitchcock  Military   Academy 

San  Rafael   Cal. 


One   of  the  Four  Main  Halla 


A  HOME  school  for    boys,    separate    rooms,    large 
campus,  progressive,  efficient,  thorough,  Govern- 
ment   detail    and    full    corps     of     experienced 
instructors,   accredited  to  the  Universities. 

Id'eally  located   in    the    picturesque    foothills   of 
Marin    County,     fifteen     miles     from    San     Francisco. 

Founded   1878. 
Catalogue   on    application. 

REX  W.  SHERER  and  S.  J.  HALLEY,  Principals 


J 


Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  Wi»en  Writing  Advertisers. 


Coral  Builders  and  the  Bell  System 


In  the  depths  of  tropical  seas  the 
coral  polyps  are  at  work.  They  are 
nourished  by  the  ocean,  and  they 
grow  and  multiply  because  they 
cannot  help  it. 

Finally  a  coral  island  emerges 
from  the  ocean.  It  collects  sand 
and  seeds,  until  it  becomes  a  fit 
home  for  birds,  beasts  and  men. 

In  the  same  way  the  telephone 
system  has  grown,  gradually  at 
first,  but  steadily  and  irresistibly. 
It  could  not  stop  growing.  To  stop 
would  mean  disaster. 


The  Bell  System,  starting  with  a  fe\ 
scattered  exchanges,  was  carried  for 
ward  by  an  increasing  public  demanc 

Each  new  connection  disclosed  , 
need  for  other  new  connections,  an< 
millions  of  dollars  had  to  be  pourei 
into  the  business  to  provide  til 
7,500,000  telephones  now  connected 

-And  the  end  is  not  yet,  for  thi 
growth  of  the  Bell  System  is  stil 
irresistible,  because  the  needs  of  th< 
people  will  not  be  satisfied  except  b; 
universal  communication.  Thesysten 
is  large  because  the  country  is  large 


AMERICAN  TELEPHONE  AND  TELEGRAPH  COMPANY 
AND  ASSOCIATED    COMPANIES 

One  Policy  One  System  Universal  Service 


Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


KELLY-  SPRINGFIELD 
AUTOMOBILE    TIRES 


In  buying  motor  car 
tires,  put  your  faith  in 
a  name  that  for  four- 
teen years  has  stood 
for  definite  knowledge 
of  road  requirements 
and  the  quality  to  meet 
those  requirements— 

Kelly-Springfield 


Kelly -Springfield    Tire    Co 

489   Golden   Gate   Ave.,   San   Francisco,   Cal. 

CHAS.  W.  FLINT,  Pacific  Coast  Manager 
Oakland  Agents,     KELLY-SPRINGFIELD  TIRE  SHOP,     172  12th  Street 


Please    Mention    Overland    Monthly    When    Writing    Advertisers. 


xvii 


The   German  Savings 
and  Loan   Society 

(The  German  Bank) 
Savings  Incorporated  1868        Commercial 

526  California  St.,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

Member   of   the  Associated  Savings  Banks  of  San  Francisco 

The  following  Branches  for  Receipt  and  Payment 

of  Deposits  only: 

MISSION  BRANCH,  2572  Mission  St.,  Between  21st  and  22nd 
RICHMOND  DIST.  BRANCH,  S.  W.  Cor.  Clement  and  7th  Are. 
HAIGHT  ST.  BRANCH,  S.  W.  Cor.  Haight  and  Belvedere 


December  31,  1912: 

Assets 

Capital  actually  paid  up  in  cash 
Reserve  and  Contingent  Funds    • 
Employees'  Pension  Fund 
Number  of  Depositors 


$53,315,495.84 

1,000,000.00 

1,706,879.63 

148,850.22 

-      59,144 


Office  Hours:  10  o'clock  a.  m.  to  3  o'clock  p.  m.,  except 
Saturdays  to  12  o'clock  m.  and  Saturday  evenings  from  6:30 
o'clock  p.  m.  to  8  o'clock  p.  m.  for  receipt  of  deposits  only. 


The    Handling   of  the    Raw    Milk    used    in  the    preparation  of 

•yCu£>    J&Crrc£c>ns 

EAGLE 


MILK 

THE  ORIGINAL 


is  entirely  by  scientific  methods.      Immediately  after  being  taken 
(torn  the  cows  the  milk  is  removed  to  the  Milk  House,  entirely 
separated  from   barns  or  other  buildings,  where 
it  is  promptly  cooled.      Every  precaution  is 
taken  to   insure  an  absolutely  pure   product. 
\        As  a  Food  for  Infants  and  General  House- 
hold  Purposes  Eagle  Brand  Has  No  Equal. 

Send  for  "  Borden's  Recipes," 
"  Where  Cleanliness  Reigns  Supreme," 
"My  Biography,"  a  book  for  babies. 

BORDEN'S  CONDENSED  MILK  CO. 

Est.  1857       "Leaders  of  Quality"      New  York 


TRAVEL      VIA 

WESTERN   PACIFIC 

SEE   THE 

GRAND   CANYON 

OF   THE 

FEATHER    RIVER 

"LENGTH     IN     MILES    ONE    HUNDRED    AND    FOUR, 
WIDTH    ONE  TO   TWENTY  AND    OFT   TIMES    MORE" 

THROUGH 
STANDARD  AND  TOURIST  SLEEPING  CARS 

BETWEEN 
SAN  FRANCISCO,  KANSAS  CITY,  ST.  LOUIS,  OMAHA  AND  CHICAGO 

v  I  A 

SALT  LAKE  CITY,  COLORADO  SPRINGS  AND   DENVER 
ELECTRIC  LIGHTS  ELECTRIC  FANS  UNION   DEPOT 

TICKET     OFFICES: 

665  Market  Street,  Palace  Hotel,  Phone  Sutter  1651 
Market  Street  Ferry  Building,  Phone  Kearny  4980 

1326  Broadway,  Oakland,     Phone  Oakland  132 
3rd  and  Washington,    Oakland,   Phone  Oakland  574 


xviii 


Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


The  OVERLAND  MONTHLY'S 

MONEY-SAVING    CLUBS   FOR    1913 


W 


E    HAVE    secured    unusually  favorable  clubbing    arrangements  with    the   leading    magazines   and 
recommend  the  following  special  offers: 

REMEMBER   THESE   PRICES   ARE    GOOD   ONLY    IN    THE    UNITED    STATES    AND    ITS    INSULAR    POSSESSIONS 


Regular  Clubbing 

Price  Rate 

OVERLAND    MONTHLY  $1-50 

McCall's  -50                $1-70 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY  $1.50 

Harper's  Bazar  1-25                   2.25 

OVERLAND    MONTHLY  $1.50 

McCall's  -50 

Modern    Priscilla  1.00                   2.35 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY  $1.50 

Business  1-50                   2.40 

OVERLAND    MONTHLY  $1.50 

Field   &  Stream  1-50                  2.40 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY  $1.50 

Ladies'  World  .50 

McClure's  1-50                  2.40 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY  $1.50 

Metropolitan  1-50 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY  $1.50 

Woman's   Home  Companion  1.50                   2.50 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY  $1.50 

Ladies'    World  .50 

Modern   Priscilla  1.00 

Pictorial    Review  3.00 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY  $1.50 

Review  of   Reviews  3.00                  3.00 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY  $1.50 

Everybody's  1-50 

Delineator  1-50                  3.55 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY  $1.50 
Cosmopolitan 

or    Good    Housekeeping  1.50 

American  1-50                  3.55 


OVERLAND   MONTHLY 
Current    Opinion 

OVERLAND    MONTHLY 
McClure's 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY 
Everybody's   Magazine 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY 
Lippincott's 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY 
Black   Cat 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY 
House  &  Garden 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY 
Cosmopolitan 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY 
Housekeeper 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY 
Sunset 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY 
Pearson's 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY 
Boys'  Magazine 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY 
Travel 

OVERLAND   MONTHLY 
Pictorial    Review 

OVERLAND    MONTHLY 
American    Messenger 


Regular 
Price 

$1.50 
3.00 

$1.50 
1.50 

$1.50 
1.50 

$1.50 
3.00 

$1.50 
1.00 

$1.50 
3.00 

$1.50 
1.50 

$1.50 
1.00 

$1.50 
1.50 

$1.50 
1.50 

$1.50 
1.00 

$1.50 
3.00 

$1.50 
1.00 

$1.50 
.50 


Clubbing 
Rate 


3.75 
2.35 
2.10 
3.05 
2.05 
3.75 
2.10 
2.05 
2.35 
2.25 
2.05 
3.10 
2.05 
1.75 


ON    ALL   THE   ABOVE   COMBINATIONS,  THE   ORDER   MUST   BE   SENT   DIRECT    TO   THE  OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


The  OVERLAND  MONTHLY, 

21  Sutter  St.,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

Gentlemen: 

Enclosed  please  find  S__ . 


Na. 


Address. 


.Special  Clubbing  Offer  for  whicb  you  may  send  me 


Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


Quality 

Is 
Economy 


You  will  Save  Money 
on  the  Varnishing  by 
using  Murphy  Varnish, 


Murphy  Varnish  has  no  waste. 
It  flows  easily  and  smooths  itself. 
It  gives  a  firm  and  fine  Finish 

* 

with  fewest  gallons  and  least  work. 

Painters  bank  on  its  Uniformity. 
With  the  same  treatment  they 
always  get  the  same  results. 
Every  gallon  is  like  the  sample. 

Owners  appreciate  its  Durability. 
They  are  Friends  to  the  Contractor 
who  gives  them  a  Finish  that 
saves  the  cost  of  Re-finishing. 


Murphy  Goods  are  handled  by  the  following  Pacific  Coast  Firms: 

CALIFORNIA  GLASS  &  PAINT  CO.,  Los  Angeles.        RASMUSSEN     &     CO.,    Portland 
JONES  &  DILLINGHAM,  Spokane,  Wash.  WATERHOUSE  &  LESTER  CO., 

C.    G.    CLINCH    &  CO.,    San    Francisco  Los  Angeles,  'San   Francisco,  Oakland 

The  varnish  Murphy  Varnish   Company    NEWANRI5: 

1  hat  Lasts  FRANKLIN    MURPHY,  President  CHICAGO, 

Longest  Associated  with  Dougall  Varnish  Company,  Limited,  Montreal,  Canada  ILLS. 


Pleas*  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


Here  is  a  REAL  Necessity 

Needed  in  every  home,  by  every  man  and  woman,  young 
or  old,  rich  or  poor.  Something  the  bachelor,  the  house- 
wife or  the  traveler  has  been  longing  for  and  it  is  so  good 
that  you  will  wonder  how  you  ever  lived  without  it. 


The  De  Luxe 
Garment  Strap 


The  wearing  apparel  of  two  persons 
can  be  hung  on  one  strap  —  your 
clothes  are  "out  of  the  way"  and  don't 
need  continual  pressing — gives  you 
extra  space  and  more  comfort  while 
traveling  and  saves  two-thirds  the 
space  in  your  clothes  closet  at  home. 
Can  be  carried  in  the  vest  pocket 
when  not  in  use. 





For  Bale  by  dealers  or  mailed  post-paid  for  FIFTY  CENTS 

Is  Guaranteed  to  Meet  "With  Your  Approval  or  Your  Money  Returned 

Descriptive  Booklet  Mailed  Upon  Request 

Manufactured  By 

F.  A.  MARRIOTT,  21  Suttcr  St,  San  Francisco,  CaL 


Please  Mention  Overland  Monthly  When  Writing  Advertisers. 


xxl 


$1.00 


brings 
'(his  cut 

glass  water  set 
to  your  home. 


Una-quart 
water  piten 
six  half-plat 

ln«h  Beveled 
Mirror. 


$1. 


THIS  GENUINE  CUT  GLASS  WATER  SET 

Is  unsurpassed  for  its  distinctive  character.  Positively  guaranteed  in 
every  particular.  Order  quick— allotment  is  small.  Send  $1.00  for  on* 
year's  subscription  to  COMMON -SENSE  MAGAZINE.  Afterwards 
you  may  pay  $1.00  a  month  for  eleven  months,  which  completes  the 
payments  on  both  water  set  and  Magazine.  Our  object  is  to  introduce 
the  Magazine  into  every  home.  Address  Dept.  75. 

Common-Sense  Pub.  Co.,  Chicago,  111. 

ONT  V  sfl%  ^        A  Perfect  Time. 
vi^-i-fl.    **^     I     Keeper.    Calling 
the  Hour  and  the 
Half-Hour.  Nearly 
Two  Feet  High,  14  Inches  Wide,  in 
Solid  Walnut  Case. 

The  Inlaid  Woods  of  Ash,  Ebony 
and  Mahogany  Ornaments  are  put 
together  with  minute  care. 

You  never  had  such  an  oppor- 
tunity to  get  so  beautiful  ana  use- 
ful an  ornament  for  your  den  or 
your  home — on  such  easy  terms — = 
mail  us  Ji.oo  for  one  year's  sub- 
scription to  COMMON  -  SENSE, 
aflerwirds  you  may  pay  fi.oo  a 
month  for  8  months,  which  com- 
pletes the  payments  on  both  the  clock 
and  the  magazine. 

Common-Sense  Publishing  Co. 
Dept.  75.  91  Library  Court.  CHict£a 


ALLEN'S  PRESS  CLIPPINGS 

ARE  MONEY  MAKERS 


DAILY  SERVICE  OF  ADVANCE  NEWS  cov- 
ering all  building  operations,  electrical,  mining, 
machinery,  water  systems,  contracting,,  concrete 
work,  bridges,  wharves,  railroads,  sewers,  pav- 
ing and  grading.  Fire  Department  Supplies, 
Bond  and  Investment  News,  Incorporations  and 
Business  Changes. 

NEWSPAPER  CLIPPINGS  of  all  kinds- 
Business,  Personal,  Political,  Trade,  Fraternal 
and  Religious — from  the  press  of  California, 
Oregon,  Washington,  Montana,  Idaho,  Nevada, 
Utah,  Arizona,  New  Mexico,  British  Columbia, 
Alaska,  Hawaii  and  Manila. 


88    FIRST    STREET,    SAN    FRANCISCO. 
Telephone    Kearny   392. 


TYPEWRITERS 

753  FACTORY    REBUILT  GFl 


SUMMER   BARGAINSI 

Our  entire  stock  is  offered  at  below-list-priees  for  the 
summer  only  You  can  .save  as  much  as  $75  by  buying 
now,  and  have  your  choice  of  all  the  leading  models. 
Factory  Rebuilt  Typewriters  are  machines  that  have  been 
stripped- down  to  the  frame,  and  built  up  again  with 
new  and  retinished  parts  by  skilled  workmen  in  our 
factories. 

They  are  trademarkcd  and  guaranteed  just  like  new  machines. 
Back  of  this  guarantee  is  an  organization  as  big.  a§  strong, 
id  as  responsible  as  any  company  making  nexv  machi 
xclusively 

Write  for  Summer  Price  List 
and    Illustrated   Catalogue 

American  Writing  Machine  Co.,  Inc. 

/  *46  Broadway,  flew  York 

'^          716  So.  Sprint  St.,  Los  Angeles  ^ 


We  Have  Paid  Thousands  of  Dollars 

:eur  Song  Writers.    You  may  be  able  to 
;e  a  steady  seller  and  share  in  future  profits. 


arrange 
music, pub 

advertise,  sec 

copyright  in  your  name  ~"^% 
and  pay  you  50  per  cent  of 
profits  if  successful.  Past 


JSend  us  your  poems  or  melodies  for  onlj 
Original  squ 


juare  deal  offer.  Accep  . 
ance  guaranteed  if  available 
Largest,  Most  Sue- 
cessf  ul     Music 
Publishers 
of  the 

.n't  delay- write  today  for  subscription  to' on?*+^  i.  \  I       **        I        I 
:  Song  Writer's  Magazine- -valuable  illustrated  boolc 
wn  song  writing  and  examination  of  your   work  — 

OUGDALE  CO.,  iS4Dugdale  Bldg.,  Washi 


rience  not  necessary,  Hund: 

tuals  from    delighted   song 


Illustrated    Catalogue   on    Application. 

Office  and  Factory:  1714  Market  St.,  San  Franclec* 
•ranch:    1022   San    Pedro   Street,    Lee   Angelec. 
1200  8.  Main  St.,   Los  Angeles. 


EVERY    WOMAN 


is  interested  and  should  know 
about  the  wonderful 

MARVEL 

Whirling  Spray 

DOUCHE 


Ask'  your  druggist  for  it. 

If  he   cannot   supply   the 

MARVEL,  accept  no  other 

but    send   stamp    for   illustrated 

book.      Address 

MARVEL    CO. 
44  East  23d  Street,  New  York 


Gouraud's  Oriental  Beauty  Leaves 

A  dainty  little  booklet  of  exquisitely  perfumed 
powdered  leaves  to  carry  in  the  purse.  A  handy 
article  for  all  occasions  to  quickly  improve  the 
complexion.  Sent  for  10  cents  in  stamps  or  coin. 
F.  T.  Hopkins.  37  Great  Jones  St.,  N.  T. 


New — Useful 

A   GREAT   SUBSCRIPTION   OFFER 


Pulls  the  nail  out 
straight  without  a 
block. 


ou 


USE  ONLY 
ONE  HAND 
FOR  HIGH 
NAILING 


Double  Claw 
Hammer 

Nails  higher  without  a  strain. 
Worth    ten    times    more     than     the 

common  hammer.. 
It  holds    the    nail    to    start    driving 

high,  low  down  or  far  across. 

RETAILS  FOR  $1.50 

Special  Offer— Subscribe  for  Overland 
Monthly  for  one  year  and  get 

BOTH  FOR   $2.00 

Overland  Monthly  for  one  year  Si.  50 )   d^O  A  A 
Double  Claw  Hammer  reg.  price  1.50$  «|w«"" 

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WORK  APRON,  SLEEVE  AND  filVPM 
CAP  PATTERN  Ul  V  Ell 

These  three  useful  articles  are  something  every 
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Tell  us  which  you  want.    Help  us  introduce  our  new 
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Does  not  make  the  neck  sore.    Every  person  wants  one.    We 
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xxiv 


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XXV 


"Weary  of  Waiting  to  Get  Well" 

No  wonderyou  are  weary !  Give  yourself  a  chance  togetwell,  by  letting  the  great, 
universal  vitalizer  and  restorer,  Oxygen ,  deliver  you  from  both  disease  and  drugs. 
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It  is  easier  to  get  well  than  it  is  to  get  sick 

Write  for  our  Free  Book — tells  you  how  and  why  thousands  have  have  been  restored 
to  vigorous  health,  without  drugs  or  medicines. 

Dr.  H.  SANCHE  &  CO.,  Inc.      Dept.  14,     489  Fifth  Ave.,  New  York 
61  Fifth  St.,  Detroit,  Mich.     364  W.  St.  Catherine  St.,  Montreal,  Can. 


TEN  CENT  MUSIC:  Popular  and  Classic 


Why  pay  from  25c  to  75c 


a  copy  for  your  music  when  you  can  get  the  same  and  better  in  the  CEN- 
TURY EDITION"  for  only  lOc  a  copy  postpaid.  Positively  the  only  difference 
is  the  price. 

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refund  the  money: 

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00 


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xxxvii 


WATER    PIPE 

Hotasphaltum  dipped,  newthreadsand  couplings;  2nd  hand 
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For  Beginners  and  others 

1.  The  names  of  3  firms  who  will  print  you  circulars 
(your  own  copy  free). 

2.  Address  of  firm  who  will  furnish  you  letterheads 
free. 

3.  How    you   can    get   envelopes  (your  .return  card 
printed)  free. 

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mailed. 

5.  10  firms  who  furnish  you  with  circulars  your  name 
printed  on  free. 

6.  A  big  combination  of  several   hundred  papers  and 
magazines  in  which  you  can  insert  your  ad  at  a  very  low 
cost. 

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exchange,    story,    mail    order   magazine   and    mailing 
directory.  . 

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circulars. 

17.  Plan  to  have  your  ad  inserted  in  papers  at  less  than 
publisher's  price. 

18.  All  of  the  17  articles  and  much  more  valuable  in- 
formation for  25  cents.    Money  order,  coin  or  stamps. 
Yes,  25  cents.    That's  all.    But  send  now  to 

Melvin  C.  Churchill,  Houston,  Texas 


You  like  to   HUNT   and    FISH, 
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then  surely  you  will  en- 
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57    Federal    St.,    Boston,    Mass. 


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xxlx 


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f.     MARRIOTT,     Publisher 

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xxxi 


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Tenement  Tommy" 


Asks  for 


A  Square   Deal 


H1 


E  lives  in  New  York's  stuffy  tenement 
district,  the  most  congested  spot  in 
America. 

In  his  sultry  three-room  home  there  is 
scarcely  space  to  eat  and  sleep.  His  play- 
ground is  the  blistering  pavement  of  the  ill- 
smelling  streets,  hemmed  in  by  scorching 
brick  walls. 

No  trees,  no  grass,  not  even  a  whiff  cf 
fresh  air,- — in  the  only  world  Tommy  know?. 
Ash  cans  are  his  background,  and  the  rattle 
and  roar  of  traffic  his  environment. 

Tommy's  widowed  mother  is  broken  with 
worry  ;  his  sisters  and  brothers  are  as  pallid 
and  frail  as  he.     The  winter  struggle  has 
sapped  their  vitality.  They  are  starving  for  air. 
No  medicine  will  help  Tommy.   What  he, 
his  mother  and  the  other  children  need  are : 
a  chance  to  breathe  something   pure    and 
fresh, — a    taste    of  sunshine    and    outdoor 
freedom, — an  outing  in  the  country  or  at  the  seashore. 
But  between  Tommy  and  his  needs  stands  poverty, 

^  '*$$.       the  result  of  misfortune.    He  must  suffer  just  as  if  it  were 

TJ  ^   all  his  fault. 

And  that  is  why  Tommy  appeals  for  a  square^deal. 
Nor  does  he  wish  you  to  forget  his  mother,  or  his  "paL " 
and  their  mothers, — all  in  the  same  plight. 

This  Association  every  summer  sends  thousands  of  ''Tenement 
Tommies",  mothers  and  babies  to  the  country  and  to  Sea  Breeze,  its  fresh 
air  home  at  Coney  Island.  A  dollar  bill,  a  five  dollar  check,  or  any 
amount  you  care  to  contribute,  will  help  us  to  answer  Tommy's  appeal. 
Send  contributions  to  Robert  Shaw  Minturn,  Treasurer,  Room  204, 
105  East  22nd  Street,  New  York  City. 


NEW  YORK  ASSOCIATION  FOR  IMPROVING 
THE  CONDITION  OF  THE  POOR 


SUGGESTIONS 

A  lawn  sociable  bjr 
your  class,  Sunday 
School  or  Club. 

A  card  party  at  your 
summer  hotel  or 
camp. 

A  subscription  among 
your  friends. 


R.  FULTON  CUTTING,  President 


t 


^iimmmiimiimmminmmiiiiimimniiiiimiiiiimmmimiimiimiiiimimm 


You    Can    Go  Everywhere 
In  a  Detroit   Electric 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  places  you  can  go  in  a  Detroit  Electric,  quickly,  comfortably,  silently,  surely  : 

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To  the   shops  and  stores  To  the   bal    game  To  the  theatre 

To  school  with  the   children        To  the  farm  To  church 

To  the   parks  To  your  down  town    club         To  a  picnic  in  the  country 


In  fact  there  is  no  place  within  a 
radius  of  30  to  50  miles  where  you  can't 
go  with  a  Detroit  Electric.  (And  that 
means  60  to  100  miles  round  trip  without 
recharging). 

Observe  that  by  no  means  are  all 
the  places  listed  above  on  city  boulevards. 
Detroit  Electric  automobiles  are  for  much 
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These  are  the  days  that  call  you  out 
into  the  open,  away  from  asphalt  pave- 
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can  answer  the  call  and  go 
out  where  the  violets  bloom 
— confident  that  you  have 


ample   power,  free  from  worry  over  punc- 
tures   or    mechanical   troubles. 

For  city  use  nothing  approaches  a 
Detroit  Electric  for  convenience,  luxury 
and  privacy.  It  is  the  Ideal  Town  Car. 

Detroit  Electrics  offer  many  exclusive 
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Vision  body  with  curved  glass  rear  panels, 
silent,  direct  shaft  drive  "Chainless,"  alum- 
inum body  panels,  special  Detroit  Electric 
motors,  our  own  Detroit  Electric  lead 
battery  and  other  points 
of  superiority. 

Let  our  dealers  dem- 
onstrate to  you  Detroit 
Electric  merit. 


SOCIETY'S  TOWN  CAR 

Anderson    Electric    Car    Company 

Detroit,  Mich.,    U.   S.  A. 

'  Coast  Representatives  of  the  Detroit  Electric 

California  Electric  Garage,   Los  Angeles,  Cal.       Kendall  Auto  Co.,  Pasadena,  Cal. 
United   Electric  Vehicle  Co.,  Oakland,  Cai.  The   Electric  Garage,  San   Diego,  Cal. 

Reliance  Automobile  Co.,  San   Francisco,  Cal.       L.   J.   Kitt,  Stockton,  Cal. 
Fred  T.   Kitt,  Sacramento,  Cal.  Broadway  Automobile  Co.,  Seattle,  Wash. 

Frank  C.    Riggs,   Portland,  Ore.  Woods  Motor  Co.,   Ltd.,  Victoria,   B.  C. 


first  came  the  Safety  Razor, 
eliminating  the  dull  blade  and 
all  danger  of  cutting  oneself. 
And  this  reduced  the  discom- 
fort  of  shaving 


Next  came  the  stick,  the  powder,  and 
the  cream,  providing  a  more  convenient 
method  of  producing  a  lather,  thus  reduc 
ing  the  unpleasant  features  of  the  sh 


S6«B 


Now  comes 

of  1OO%  delight 


MENNENS 

New  Shaving  Cream 


A  new  kind  of  shaving  cream  that  puts  an  end  to  all  smarting 
and  irritation  of  the  skin— providing  a  quick,  easy,  comfortable  shave 
for  even  the  man  with  the  tenderest  skin  or  the  toughest  beard. 

100%  Efficient.  No  lengthy  working  up  of  the  lather;  no 
mussy  "rubbing  in"  with  the  fingers;  just  a  half-inch  of  cream, 
a  few  strokes  of  the  brush,  and  a  generous  lather —  instantly. 

100%  Comfortable.  No  "rubbing  in"  to  irritate  the  skin;  no  free 
caustic  to  burn  and  smart  the  face;  a  cool  finish,  and  a  healthy  skin. 

100%  Convenient.  The  large  hexagonal  screw  top  is  "man's  size." 
It  fits  the  fingers;  easy  and  quick  to  come  off  and  go  on ;  can't  roll 
away  when  you  put  it  down ;  the  cream  is  locked  in  the  tube — sanitary. 


Go  to  the.  nearest  druggist  today.  Ask 
for  Mermen's  new  shaving  cream,  25 
cents.  If  yon  would  prefer  to  try  before 
you  buy,  write  rts  for  a  free  sample; 
or  for  10  cents  we  it-ill  send  you  our 
Demonstrator  size,  good  for  50  shaves. 

GERHARD  MENNEN  COMPANY 

92  Orange  Street  Newark,  N.  J. 


Destiny  of  the  red  man.    A.  A.  Weiman,  sculptor.  — See   Page    133 


Sacajamea,  the  Bird  Woman.    Alice  Cooper,  sculptor. — See   Page    133 


The  coming  of  the  white  man.    Herman  A.  McNeil,  sculptor.    — See    Page    133 


Pack  train  of  a  surveying  party,  Navajo  trail,  Arizona. 


upn/titi 

AUGll  1913 
AtttATU  ft  iLJUi 


OVERLAND 


Founded  1868 


MONTHLY 


BRET  HARTE 


VOL.  LXII 


San  Francisco,  August,  1913 


No.  2 


The  last  hitch  on  a  stubborn  pack. 


THE  AULE 

as  a 
"AOVIE" 

of  the 

WESTERN 

TRAILS 

By    James    Davis 


MONSTROUS  steam  engines 
daily  cross  the  continent, 
drawing  over  firmly-bedded 
rails  that  are  evenly  graded 
with  the  finest  of  surveyor's  instru- 
ments, many  million  tons  of  the  vari- 
ous commodities  that  contribute  to- 
wards our  present  mode  of  living.  To- 
day, the  great  Shasta  Route  connects 
San  Francisco  with  other  commercial 
centers  in  Oregon  and  Washington. 
Long  trains  steam  over  the  plains  of 
the  Sacramento  Valley,  and  eventu- 
ally become  lost  in  the  upper  canyon 
where  the  mountains  make  progress 
slower,  and  traffic  more  expensive. 
From  the  small  way  stations,  the 


method  of  transportation  changes. 
Here  the  small  towns  in  the  interior 
employ  heavy  freight  wagons  hauled 
by  four  and  six  horse  teams.  Five  or 
six,  and  often  more  of  such  wagons, 
may  be  seen  at  a  single  view,  winding 
back  and  forth  slowly,  trudgingly, 
over  the  "double  S,"  turns  that  wind 
the  wagon  road  to  the  crest  of  the  foot- 
hill barrier. 

Follow  any  of  the  wagons  from  the 
stations  near  Shasta,  and  it  will  lead 
you  to  some  sequestered  mountain 
town,  nestled  as  it  v/ere  at  the  foot  of 
the  gigantic  Klamath  Mountains. 

"So  this  is  the  end  of  the  world?" 
you  will  say  half-affirmatively.  "Here 


110 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


"Where's  your  bell:'" 

is  where  the  road  surely  terminates." 
Before  you  rise  great,  forest-covered 
peaks,  with  here  and  there  a  bare  spot 
where  protrude  the  pinnacles  of  gran- 
ite cliffs,  of  metamorphosed  stratas 
that  represent  countless  years.  You 
are  amazed  to  gaze  upon  it,  but  to 
cross  that  barrier  with  all  that  cum- 
bersome bulk  that  you  saw  loaded  in 
the  wagons,  the  very  impracticability 
as  it  appears  to  you  at  first  thought 
will  bring  a  smile  of  incredulity. 

It  is  true,  however,  that  no  barrier 
is  invincible  before  man's  genius,  or 
his  lust.  The  thirst  for  gold  has  led 
the  Pioneer  where  nothing  else  could 
have  warranted  his  venture.  His  am- 
bition has  wormed  a  tiny  path  over  the 
lowest  gap  that  he  might  look  over 
the  fortress  of  Nature  into  the  treas- 
ured stream  beds  beyond,  and  upon 
the  gold  bearing  veins  that  shoot  into 
the  heart  of  the  black  slate  and  por- 
phyry belts.  But  after  all,  the  richest 
placer  or  quartz  mine  is  worthless  to 


a  starving  man.  Some  one  must  be 
employed  to  carry  him  supplies,  to 
equip  him  with  clothing,  implements 
and  food.  Here  is  where  the  packer 
comes  into  prominence,  for  it  is  he  who 
must  daily  battle  with  what  the  season 
sends  him,  and  there  is  no  one  better 
qualified  to  occupy  the  van  than  this 
seasoned  frontiersman  who  has  quit 
the  riata  and  the  steer  to  take  up  the 
lash  rope  and  the  mule. 

Shortly  after  the  discovery  of  gold 
in  California,  the  miners  entered  into 
the  region  between  Mt.  Shasta  and 
the  coast.  They  built  trails  over  the 
passes  to  the  camps  which  they  estab- 
lished in  the  heart  of  that  seemingly 
impenetrable  region.  At  that  time, 
many  hundreds  of  miners  worked  the 
bars  of  the  well  known  rivers,  and 
it  took  a  proportionate  number  of 
packers  to  supply  their  needs.  The 
outfits  worked  all  through  the  open 
season,  furnishing  supplies  of  many 
varieties.  At  that  time  such  men  as 
Domingo  and  Sacramento  headed  the 
.big  Spanish  outfits  in  which  there 
were  often  as  many  as  sixty  or  seventy 
mules  to  the  string.  At  the  present 
time  the  number  has  diminished  to 
twenty  or  thirty.  Twenty-seven  mules 
will  keep  three  active  packers  busy. 
In  every  outfit  there  is  generally  the 
"boss  packer,"  the  "second  packer," 
and  the  "bell  boy." 

The  freight  to  be  transported  to  the 
camps  is  unloaded  at  the  packer's 
corraL  Here  the  muleteers  "put  up" 
their  loads,  which  means  an  appor- 
tionment of  packs.  Every  mule  is 
loaded  with  two  "side  packs,"  each 
weighing  150  pounds.  These  "side 
packs"  are  composed  of  smaller  pack- 
ages lashed  together  tightly  with  a 
cargo  rope,  and  may  be  boxed  goods, 
sacked  beans,  dried  fruit,  codfish  or 
whisky.  A  day  is  usually  spent  in  this 
preparation.  The  morning  after  the 
loads  are  ready,  the  boss  calls  his  men 
out  at  dawn  to  saddle  the  string  of 
mules  that  are  not  always  easily  han- 
dled after  the  brief  rest.  As  soon  as 
a  mule  is  rigged  up,  he  is  tied  to  his 
assigned  load  in  the  cargo.  The  whole 
string  is  placed  into  position  in  this 


/.  When  the  immigrant  quits  the  city  for  the  mountains.  2.  All  tightened 
and  ready  for  the  start.  3.  Unwieldy  machinery  and  "crazy"  shaped  mer- 
chandise never  daunts  a  resourceful  packer. 


Putting  the  last  hitches  on  a  blindfolded  mule. 


same  way,  and  when  the  time  comes 
to  load,  the  well  regulated  order,  com- 
bined with  the  dexterity  of  the  pack- 
ers, makes  it  possible  to  load  a  mule 
per  minute. 

On  an  average  a  loaded  train  drives 
fifteen  miles  a  day.  The  "bell  mare" 
is  the  leader  of  the  outfit,  and  many  of 
the  younger  animals  become  so  at- 
tached to  her  that  it  is  impossible  to 
separate  them  'from  her.  These  are 
known  as  "bell  sharps." 

As  soon  as  the  outfit  reaches  the 
camp  grounds,  the  mules  are  unloaded 
and  the  cargo  fixed.  While  the  boss 
and  the  second  packer  are  stripping 
off  saddles,  the  bell  boy  begins  work 
in  the  culinary  department.  He  is  ex- 
pected to  have  "chuck"  ready  by  the 
time  the  saddles  are  off  and  the  mules 
have  been  started  towards  the  night's 
range. 

In  camp,  the  bell  boy  gets  break- 
fast while  his  two  companions  rustle 
mules.  This  may  seem  a  hard  task, 
but  in  most  instances  mule  rustling 


is  comparatively  easy.  Sportsmen 
who  spend  their  tiny  two  weeks'  vaca- 
tion in  the  woods  cannot  realize  how  it 
is  possible  to  get  such  an  outfit  on 
the  trail  and  in  motion  in  such  short 
time.  The  boss,  upon  finding  the  bell 
mare,  takes  hold  of  the  clapper  and 
beats  the  bell  so  that  it  may  be  heard 
at  a  great  distance.  At  the  same  time 
he  gives  the  packer's  call,  which  is 
very  soon  answered  from  a  dozen  dif- 
ferent directions  by  the  braying  "long 
ears."  With  the  aid  of  the  dog  that 
accompanies  every  outfit,  the  mules 
are  soon  in  camp  lined  up  to  the 
semi-circle  of  saddles. 

So  well  do  these  stubborn  creatures 
become  trained  to  the  business  of 
working  under  difficult  circumstances 
that  such  top  packs  as  heavy  pipes, 
huge  cooking  ranges,  and  long  pieces 
of  lumber  are  carried  to  camps  that 
are  themselves  stilted  upon  the  pre- 
cipitous mountain  side  like  over- 
hanging swallows'  nests.  These  mule 
trains  penetrate  the  remotest  spots  in 


A  mule  train  on  the  last  swing  into  camp. 


the  mountains,  and  frequently  take 
many  chances  of  being  dashed  to  de- 
struction by  the  heavy  burdens  that 
they  must  carry. 

Although  the  system  can  hardly  be 
supplanted  by  a  better  one  for  the 
same  conditions,  yet  it  is  not  an  inde- 
structible one.  There  are  times  when 
mule  after  mule  is  "hung  up"  on  the 
trail  by  some  unforeseen  contingency, 
and  in  the  most  perilous  portion  of  the 
trail  the  whole  train  will  be  thrown 
into  consternation.  In  one  instance 
where  a  careless  stranger  had  tied 
the  loose  halter  rope  to  the  mule's 
saddle,  rather  than  the  usual  way  of 
tying  it  about  his  head,  the  animal 
was  caught  by  a  wind-fall,  and  not 
being  able  to  free  itself  caused  a 
block  that  plunged  six  mules  over  a 
precipice.  Another  similar  occurrence 


caused  five  mules  heavily  laden  with 
pipe  to  jump  over  a  brink  into  a  deep 
hole  in  the  torrent  beneath  them.  The 
water  being  very  deep,  the  animals 
were  turned  on  their  backs  and  the 
two  packers  had  to  dive  into  the  scram- 
bling mass  in  a  vain  attempt  to  free 
the  drowning  creatures. 

Every  year  many  thousand  pounds 
are  in  this  way  carried  far  into  the 
interior,  rendering  possible  the  pur- 
suits of  the  gold  seekers  that  go  farther 
than  any  other  class  of  people  in  the 
search  for  honest  money.  Where  a 
rich  vein  gives  promise  of  perma- 
nence, the  prospector  imports  a  stamp 
mill  to  crush  his  ore,  and  here  again 
he  employs  the  packer.  A  quartz 
mill  with  its  heavy  rock  breaker  jaws, 
its  ponderous  stamps,  its  huge  mortar 
bed,  requires  no  small  amount  of  skill 


On  the  roof  of  a  continent:  the  trail  over  a  Sierra  divide. 


on  the  part  of  the  packer.  In  some 
cases,  as  in  packing  the  Huntington 
mill,  the  packs  were  exceptionally  un- 
wieldy. The  muller  ring  weighs 
about  450  pounds.  Until  a  very  few 
years  ago,  it  had  always  been  handled 
as  a  top  pack.  Since,  however,  the 
muleteers  have  invented  the  scheme  of 
placing  the  mule  within  the  circle  of 
the  ring,  thus  eliminating  even  dan- 
ger incident  to  the  ordinary  side  pack 
load. 

Again,  a  train  of  mules  have  per- 
formed the  difficult  feat  of  packing 
heavy  steel  cables  weighing  several 
tons.  Here  the  mules  are  loaded  as 
single  units,  each  carrying  two  coils 
of  the  long  wire,  and  attached  to  an- 
other to  the  front  or  the  rear,  with  a 
similar  load.  By  adopting  this  method 
the  whole  thing  may  be  loaded  on  a 
train  and  the  most  difficult  trails  and 
the  steepest  mountains  become  as  ac- 
cessible as  the  treeless  plains  to  the 
freight  train  and  its  engine,  or  the  au- 
tomobile. 

It  is  not  an  uncommon  sight  to  see 
twenty  or  thirty  mules  heavily  loaded 
with  lumber,  scaling  a  rugged  cliff 
trail  up  to  a  tiny  hole  in  the  ground 
where  some  prospector  has  run  down 
a  lead  or  trace  of  gold.  Nor  is  it 


uncommon  to  see  returning  from  such 
a  treasure  cavern  a  whole  string 
loaded  with  sacks  of  ore,  plodding 
toward  an  apparatus  fifteen  miles 
away,  where  the  gold  may  be  sepa- 
rated from  its  crystallized  vaults. 

The  trains  are  continuously  on  the 
trail  from  the  time  the  warm  spring 
sun  rots  the  snow  on  the  highest 
passes,  until  the  same  barriers  are 
again  locked  in  the  arms  of  a  silent 
white  force.  Many  days  are  spent  in 
the  cold,  mountain  meadows,  where 
night  after  night  is  spent  by  the 
packers  on  the  frozen  ground,  sleep- 
ing in  damp,,  repulsive  saddle  blan- 
kets. The  season-worn  mules,  gaunt 
from  the  long  siege  of  work  and  the 
scarcity  of  food,  seem  racking  before 
the  inevitable  alpine  blizzard.  The 
vigor  with  which  we  first  saw  them  is 
gone,  and  now  from  their  glaring, 
greenish  eyes  shines  the  light  that  be- 
trays torture.  Although  the  packer 
cringes  before  the  same  power,  yet  the 
season  never  disheartens  him.  He 
meets  the  most  strenuous  day  with 
a  grim  smile,  and  is  always  ready  with 
a  jovial  song,  or  a  stinging  practical 
joke.  The  bell  boy  is  usually  the 
"goat"  when  more  susceptible  material 
is  not  present,  though  frequently  an 


116 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


adventurous  traveler  falls     into     the 
meshes. 

To  a  packer,  an  overcrowded 
chicken  roost  is  a  license  to  enter.  A 
packer  who  is  always  blessed  with  a 
most  voluptuous  appetite  possesses  a 
strange  fascination  for  friers.  But 
even  in  such  ventures  as  raiding 
chicken  roosts  he  avails  himself  of 
any  and  all  opportunities,  at  all  haz- 
ards, to  obey  his  master,  the  king  of 
the  practical  joke.  - 

Whenever  the  boss  had  a  good  "nip" 
he  would  run  out  the  line  on  his  reel 
about  as  follows: 

"We  had  three  outfits  in  Trinity  Cen- 
ter that  night.  It  was  Fletcher's  first 
trip.  He  was  a  big,  raw-boned  sort  of 
a  kid  who  wanted  to  be  in  it  all,  but 
was  timid  and  chicken-hearted,  so  he 
worried.  We  had  been  getting  chick- 
ens all  along,  so  I  told  Fletcher  it  was 
up  to  the  bell  boy  to  get  them  that 
night.  He  agreed  to  it.  Well!  Flet- 
cher took  Carter  along  with  him.  Car- 
ter was  the  neatest  of  the  lot  when  it 
came  down  to  chickens,  and  he  knew 
how  the  kid  was,  so  he  went  out  ex- 
pecting some  fun.  They  had  with 
them  a  grain  sack  in  which  to  carry 
home  the  spoils.  The  night  was  as 
dark  as  pitch,  but  not  too  dark  for 
Carter's  cat-eyes  to  locate  the  roost. 
Carter  went  in  to  get  the  birds,  leaving 
Fletcher  at  the  door  to  hold  the  sack, 
and  incidentally  to  give  warning  in 
case  the  owner  happened  around. 
Every  time  Carter  would  bring  a 
chicken  to  be  stuffed  into  the  sack 
Fletcher  would  urge,  nervously :  "That 
is  enough,  Carter!  that  is  enough!' 
To  which  Carter  would  remark : 

"  'Be  gosh,  he's  fat,  Charley.'  Then 
he  would  plunge  the  chicken  into  the 
sack,  and  remark,  as  he  turned  to 
search  for  another:  'Fine  pullet!  Fine 
pullet!' 

"  'Come  on,  that's  plenty!'  Fletcher 
would  whisper. 

"  'Just  felt  of  another  one  in  there.' 

"'No!  we  can't  use  so  many;  no 
need  of  wastin'  'em,'  the  bell  boy 
whined. 

"  'Oh,  but  she's  talking  to  me,'  Car- 
ter would  reply. 


"Well,  this  kept  up  until  twelve 
chickens  were  in  the  sack,  then  the 
pressure  got  too  strong.  Carter  went 
back  for  the  thirteenth  chicken,  but 
when  he  returned  to  the  door,  Fletcher 
had  fled. 

"The  next  morning  Fletcher  began 
bragging  about  the  exploit.  Well,  we 
let  him  go  on.  We  didn't  say  any- 
thing. We  put  the  chickens  on  old 
Mose  and  Tricksy,  because  it  was  al- 
most impossible  to  catch  either  on  the 
trail. 

"Late  that  afternoon  I  rode  up  to  the 
head  of  the  train,  and  announced  to 
Charley  that  the  Sheriff  was  at  the 
rear  of  the  outfit  with  two  warrants.  I 
told  him  they  were  not  sure  about  one 
of  the  men,  but  Fletcher  was  in  the 
mesh,  because  a  deputy  had  heard 
him  blowing  about  the  raid,  when  the 
birds  were  being  loaded. 

"Well,  sir,  Fletcher's  face  got  as 
pale  as  a  ghost.  His  words  stuck  in 
his  throat,  and  before  long  he  was 
•  crying  like  a  baby.  'God !'  he  mut- 
tered between  sobs,  'think  of  my 
mother  and  sister.  Say,  boss,'  he 
would  say  in  calm  moments,  'It's  an 
awful  disgrace  to  think  a  fellow  would 
steal — even  chickens.' 

'  'Yes,'  I  agreed.  And  my  sympa- 
thies would  all  go  out  to  Charley,  who, 
noting  my  serious  mien,  would  sob 
like  a  baby  over  the  gravity  of  the 
situation. 

'  Til  tell  you.  Charlev.  I'll  keep  him 
back  there,  and  you  get  off  and  catch 
the  chicken-mules,  take  them  off  and 
hide  them.'  The  next  hour  Fletcher 
spent  in  trying  to  catch  the  snorting 
sharps,  but  it  was  useless. 

;< 'How  about  it — all  right  now?'  I 
asked  as  I  rode  up  again. 

'  'No!    Can't  catch  'em.' 

'  'Run  them  into  the  timber,'  I  then 
suggested.  At  this  remark  the  horizon 
seemed  to  clear. 

'  Til  do  it,'  he  said,  excitedly. 

"Not  being  able  to  run  the  bell- 
sharps  away  from  the  bell-mare,  this 
plan  failed,  so  Fletcher  tried  rolling 
the  mule  over  a  precipice.  Even  this 
failed.  Finally  we  couldn't  hold  out 
any  longer,  because  Charley  was  des- 


THE  MULE  AS  A  "MOVIE"  OF  THE  WESTERN  TRAIL         117 


perate.  By  this  time  he  was  begging 
to  be  relieved,  so  he  could  take  to  the 
woods  to  evade  arrest. 

"Carter  took  my  big  buckskin,  and 
hurried  to  the  front.  He  rode  up  be- 
side Fletcher,  and  said,  nervously,  but 
sincerely:  Tull  that  bell  off  that  yel- 
low mare,  and  let's  hit  for  the  brush.' 

"By  this  time,  camp  was  not  far 
away,  and  Fletcher  had  determined  to 
make  a  stand.  Til  kill  him,'  he  said, 
digging  the  spurs  into  his  pony's 
flanks. 

"Carter  and  Fletcher  raced  for  the 
old  '30,'  but  Carter's  horse  was  faster 
— and  when  the  rear  of  the  outfit  drew 


tains.  "It  happened,"  said  this  packer, 
"that  we  stopped  at  Jackson  Lake  to 
spend  a  day  fishing  for  lake  trout. 
We  took  all  day  priming  our  friend 
with  local  bear  stories.  By  the  time 
evening  came  on  our  charge  was 
somewhat  shaky,  because  we  had  told 
him  to  keep  on  the  alert,  as  one  was 
likely  to  come  down  out  of  the  timber 
any  time  to  feed  around  the  lake. 
Just  at  dusk,  Ticknor,  on  pretext  that 
he  was  going  down  to  get  the  mules,, 
managed  to  get  above  the  lake,  where 
he  began  to  roll  boulders  like  a  bear 
that  was  in  search  of  ants." 

"'That's  a  bear  now!'   said  Brad, 


Playing  circus  on  the  kitchen-jack. 


into  camp,  Carter  was  trying  to  con- 
vince his  accomplice  that  it  was  need- 
less to  add  murder  to  chicken  stealing. 
It  took  six  hours  .to  show  that  fellow 
that  it  was  all  a  farce.  Fletcher  never 
plucked  another  bird  from  that  day." 
The  bell  boy,  though  by  far  the 
best  prey  for  such  ventures,  is  not  the 
only  one  who  suffers  from  the  humility 
of  ignorance.  A  certain  retired  packer 
was  once  returning  from  a  trip  into 
New  River,  a  mining  camp  in  Trinity. 
He  had  with  him  on  this  trip  a  likely 
looking  individual,  whose  ambition 
was  to  see  a  bear,  wild,  in  the  moun- 


hitting  for  the  dark  underbrush  with 
long  strides. 

The  traveler,  who  had  armed  him- 
self with  a  sharp  hatchet  beforehand, 
made  good  use  of  our  advice  to  al- 
ways run  up  hill  to  escape  from  Bruin, 
and  scurried  over  the  gigantic  boul- 
ders of  the  talus  slope  at  the  right  of 
the  lake  like  a  native  chipmunk,  and 
very  shortly  reached  the  crest.  Here 
were  several  stunted  cedars  with  huge 
trunks  of  several  feet  in  diameter,  and 
about  seventy-five  feet  in  height.  The 
traveler  swung  lightly  up  one  of  these 
that  appeared  most  suitable  because 


118 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


of  its  size  and  accommodations  in 
the  way  of  branches. 

At  twelve  o'clock  that  night,  the 
packers  had  begun  to  worry.  Their 
calls  up  to  this  time  had  brought  no 
reply.  At  last  an  answer  battling 
with  the  murmur  of  the  night  wind 
reached  their  ears.  The  two  men  be- 
gan the  search  upon  the  mountain 
side.  Their  calling  now  brought  re- 
peated answers  that  were  audible 
enough  for  a  conversation. 

"'Where  are  you?'  Ticknor  roared 
at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

"  'I  am  up  here ! !  I'm  all  right  and 
safe!  How  are  you  fellows?'  came 
the  reply.  'Did  you  see  the  bear?' 

"The  two  packers  returned  to  camp 


and  slept  soundly  until  daylight,  when 
they  were  aroused  by  a  man  yelling 
at  the  top  of  his  voice  calling  for 
help. 

"We  ascended  the  cliffs  as  hur- 
riedly as  we  could,'  said  Brad,  'and 
upon  reaching  the  top  we  were  hailed 
by  a  human  figure  who  sat  perched  at 
the  top  of  the  tallest  cedar,  in  a  tuft 
of  boughs.  The  tree  was  shorn  of  all 
its  limbs  except  these  very  few  at  the 
top. 

"  'What  ye  doin'  up  there  ?'  I  asked. 

"  'Oh,  I  knew  he  couldn't  get  up 
after  I  cut  off  all  the  limbs,'  he  said, 
triumphantly,  'but  you  know  I  can't 
get  down  now.  Do  you  think  it's  safe 
to  come  down  ?'  " 


PRIAEVAL    ECHOES 


The  rank  weeds,  tall,  now  over-spread  the  field 

Where  once  the  wheat  grew  green  abundantly. 

In  serried,  strong,  straight  symmetry  they  stand 

Defiant  pagans,  unregenerate. 

Their  lithesome  lines  in  ecstasy  a-lilt 

To  lift  oblation  lavish  to  the  sun; 

Lift,  too,  my  soul,  unlike  the  plants  of  man. 

Unprized  by  him;  deemed  useless,  save  to  stir 

The  wrath  of  thrifty  husbandman,  or  chance 

To  pique  the  civic  pride  of  urbanite ; 

And  yet  to  me,  a  dweller  in  the  field, 

No  grant  of  growing  grain  by  labor  tilled; 

No  formal  garden  gay  with  gaudy  bloom; 

No  hand-trained,  trellised  bower  by  man  e'er  made; 

Could  bring  such  whispering  poetry  as  these. 

To  me,  akin  to  dust  from  which  they  rise,  . 

And  to  the  sun,  toward  which  they  ever  leap; 

They  are  the  link  which  rivets  certainty 

To  that  far  time  when,  thrilling  with  accord, 

I  heard  proud  pagan  Pan  in  Arcady 

Play  on  his  primal  pipes  a  palinode. 


LANNIE  HAYNES  MARTIN, 


A  California  Wildcat  treed  by  hounds     Photographs  taken  by  the  author. 


PROBABLY  no  animal  in  the 
world,  large  or  small,  is  known 
under  as  great  a  variety  of 
names  as  the  mountain  lion  of 
the  temperate  west  coasts  of  North 
and  South  America.  In  the  American 
and  Canadian  Northwests,  he  is  called 
the  cougar  and  "sneak-cat;"  in  such 
parts  of  the  South  as  he  is  found,  pan- 
ther, or  "painter;"  the  Southwest  and 
Mexico,  Mexican  lion  or  leone  Mexi- 
cana;  and  in  South  America,  puma  and 
an  endless  number  of  Spanish  names. 
This  assortment  is  possibly  due,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  many-named  among 
his  human  brethren,  to  his  notoriously 
bad  character ;  for  it  is  a  fact  that  the 
police  dockets  show  that  the  criminal 
with  the  worst  record  is  invariably  the 
one  with  the  greatest  number  of 
aliases.  Certain  it  is  that  his  character 
is  bad.  It  is  not  the  big,  bluff,  open 
badness  of  the  grizzly,  nor  the  cun- 
ning, half-playful  badness  of  the  fox, 
but  a  mean,  sneaking,  cowardly  and 


often  vindictive  and  murderous   bad- 
ness that  is  entirely  his  own. 

Almost  impossible  to  hunt  by  stealth 
and  take  unawares,  he  is  himself  the 
most  stealthy  of  hunters,  and  rarely 
takes  his  prey  but  by  surprise.  He  is 
admirably  fitted  to  pursue  and  to  avoid 
pursuit.  So  soft  of  foot  is  he  that  he 
runs  over  the  dried  leaves  of  the  cot- 
tonwood  and  sycamore  without  making 
a  sound.  He  has  not  any  of  the  jerki- 
ness  of  action  of  other  quadrupeds, 
but  runs  with  a  stealthy,  gliding  step 
that  carries  him  on  with  the  swift, 
smooth,  undulating  movement  of  a 
snake.  Of  a  uniform  color  from  tip  to 
tip,  save  for  a  slight  shading  on  back 
and  belly,  he  presents  little  to  distin- 
guish him  from  the  fawn  and  brown 
of  the  rocks  and  dead  grass  over 
which  he  preferably  moves.  But  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  hunting  him  by 
ordinary  methods  lies  in  the  fact  that 
he  rarely  goes  by  day  from  his  lair 
in  a  cave  or  thicket.  Often,  when  he 


120 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


The  author  with  the  skin  of  a  jaguar 
shot  with  a  revolver,  near  Panama. 

has  gorged  himself  on  a  cow  or  deer, 
he  will  lie  for  three  days  or  more, 
seeking  neither  meat  nor  drink.  His 
ability  to  endure  hunger  and  thirst  is 
remarkable,  especially  in  the  arid  re- 
gions where  scarcity  of  water  makes 
scarcity  of  prey.  On  the  desert  he 
will  often  go  over  a  week  without  food 
or  water,  and  yet  show  the  lack  of 
neither  in  his  appearance. 

Wherever  the  mountain  lion  makes 
his  lair  within  striking  distance  of  a 
settled  country,  1ie  feeds  principally 
upon  stock  killed  and  carried  off  from 
the  nearby  ranches.  Young  pigs  are 
his  choice,  and  it  is  due  to  his  weak- 


ness for  them  that  he  is  most  often 
detected  and  shot.  Owing  to  the 
fleshiness  of  a  pig's  neck,  its  wind  is 
not  as  easily  shut  off  in  the  grip  of  the 
powerful  jaws  as  is  that  of  many 
larger  animals,  and  squeals  and  a  com- 
motion in  the  pig-pen  will  bring  out 
the  mountain  rancher  with  his  gun 
quicker  than  any  other  alarm.  Lambs 
and  calves  also  suffer  heavily  from 
cougars,  and  even  the  old  animals  are 
not  exempt  from  attack.  When  the 
animal  killed  is  too  heavy  to  carry  off, 
the  lion  drinks  his  fill  of  blood,  usu- 
ally sucking  from  the  jugulars  in  the 
throat.  li  there  is  not  enough  blood  to 
satisfy  him,  he  will  lunch  further  upon 
the  carcass  itself,  picking  about  and 
eating  only  the  choice  portions.  Once 
leaving  a  carcass  he  rarely  returns  to 
it  except  in  seasons  of  scant  food  con- 
ditions, and  many  a  lion-killed  cow 
and  deer  is  left  for  the  coyotes  to  ban- 
quet upon. 

Deer  are  usually  killed  from  am- 
bush, most  often  being  sprung  upon 
from  a  tree  and  ridden  to  their  death 
with  a  pair  of  cruel  jaws  biting 
through  their  spines  and  the  claws  of 
the  powerful  hind  legs  tearing  their 
flanks  to  ribbons.  They  are  occa- 
sionally pursued  in  the  open,  and 
neither  white-tail  nor  black-tail,  nor 
even  the  fleet-footed  antelope,  can  es- 
cape the  dash  of  a  full-grown  male  or 
female  cougar.  The  latter's  agility  is 
no  less  than  that  of  the  famed  cheetah 
or  Indian  hunting  leopard,  and  with 
its  very  considerable  weight  behind 
it,  the  impact  of  its  spring  is  something 
tremendous. 

Two  Wyoming  hunters  tell  of  seeing 
a  full-grown  buffalo  cow  knocked  to 
the  ground  by  an  infuriated  mother 
mountain  lion  whose  lair  the  latter  had 
unwittingly  approached.  The  buffalo 
succeeded  in  shaking  off  its  assailant, 
which  was  shot  by  the  hunters.  In 
California,  the  cougar  is  known  to  at- 
tack all  kinds  of  big  game  with  the 
exception  of  the  grizzly.  A  long- 
horned  steer  will  over-match  him,  but 
an  ordinary  cow  falls  easy  prey  if  the 
lion  is  hungry  or  fierce  enough  to  per- 
sist in  its  attack. 


COUGAR,  JAGUAR  AND  BOB-CAT  HUNTING 


121 


In  all  of  the  Western  cattle  dis- 
tricts the  presence  of  mountain  lions 
keeps  the  cowboys  on  the  qui  vive  to 
protect  the  young  and  weak  of  their 
herds,  and  instances  are  by  no  means 
uncommon  of  full-grown  animals  fall- 
ing a  prey  to  these  miscreants.  On  a 
trip  which  I  once  made  down  the 
Hardy — an  offshoot  of  the  Colorado 
near  the  latter's  mouth  in  Lower  Cali- 
fornia— I  passed  in  my  boat  a  couple 
of  fine  old  steers  that  had  become 
mired  in  endeavoring  to  ford  a  treach- 
erous slough.  On  reaching  the  first 
cattle  camp  I  at  once  reported  the  cir- 
cumstance, and  we  set  out  to  the  res- 
cue of  the  unfortunate  animals  with 
a  four-mule  team  and  drag  chains.  On 
reaching  the  first  of  the  mired  beasts, 
a  huge  red  "stag,"  he  was  lassoed 
around  the  horns,  and,  with  some  diffi- 
culty, dragged  to  firmer  ground.  The 
vaquero  who  was  in  charge  of  the  work 
called  my  attention  to  a  multitude  of 
tracks  along  the  bank,  converging  and 
intermingling  at  the  point  where  the 
steer  was  stuck,  and  as  we  rode  on  to 
the  next  bend,  where  my  map  located 
the  other  animal,  he  explained  that 
more  often  than  not  the  unlucky  beasts 
which  became  fast  in  the  river  mud, 
unless  discovered  and  pulled  out,  fell 
victims  to  lions  and  coyotes.  He  was 
describing,  in  his  excitable,  gesticula- 
tive  Spanish  way  the  sufferings  of  the 
helpless  beasts  under  the  jaws  and 
pa'ws  of  their  assailants,  when  we 
pushed  through  a  runway  in  the  "car- 
risa"  and  came  upon  as  graphic  an  il- 
lustration as  ever  narrator  was  given 
for  his  story — the  second  of  the  steers 
killed  and  eaten  to  the  mudline  by 
voracious  carnivora. 

A  solitary  coyote  skulking  back  into 
the  tules  was  the  only  sign  of  life  ap- 
parent beyond  the  circling  buzzards; 
but  some  great  four-inch  tracks,  well 
preserved  in  the  firm  mud  of  the  up- 
per bank,  gave  clue  to  the  real  perpe- 
trators. The  lower  steer  was  saved 
through  his  having  worked  out  from 
the  shore,  leaving  twenty  feet  of  clear 
water  between  his  bloating  sides  and 
the  ever- watchful  lions.  For  the  next  /.  A  Colorado  hunter  and  his  quarry. 
few  days  a  patrol  was  sent  out  along  2.  A  New  Mexico  wildcat  just  shot. 


122 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


the  river  to  report  on  any  further  trou- 
ble, and  one  morning  a  vaquero  rode 
in  with  a  great  yellow  inert  mass 
lashed  on  behind  his  high-seated 
Mexican  saddle,  from  which  a  tawny 
tail  dangling  along  the  ground  was 
setting  the  pony  on  his  tiptoes  with 
nervous  excitement.  The  man  had 
found  the  animal  sneaking  away  from 
the  carcass  of  the  mired"  steer,  and 
after  failing  in  an  endeavor  to  rope  it, 
had  dropped  it  with  one  shot  from  his 
automatic  pistol. 

Scientists  have  declared  that  the 
wonderful  agility  of  members  of  the 
cat  tribe  is  due  to  the  unusual  length 
and  fineness  of  the  fibre  of  their  mus- 
cles, in  both  of  which  particulars  the 
latter  are  said  to  infinitely  surpass 
those  of  man  or  other  animals.  The 
stories  told  of  the  remarkable  jumps 
made  by  cougars  seem  almost  beyond 
belief,  and  many  are  no  doubt  grossly 
exaggerated.  It  is  claimed  that  a  lion 
running  from  the  hounds,  in  the  moun- 
tains back  of  Santa  Barbara,  leaped 
a  clear  eighty  feet  from  the  brink  of 
one  side  of  a  ravine,  which  was  per- 
pendicular, to  the  other  side,  which 
was  sloping.  The  flying  animal  struck 
on  a  slide  of  rock  at  a  point  estimated 
to  be  about  twenty  feet  lower  than 
the  place  from  which  it  jumped,  and 
was  so  much  jarred  that  it  fell  in  en- 
deavoring to  climb  into  an  oak  a  few 
hundred  yards  farther  up  the  moun- 
tain, and  was  torn  to  pieces  by  the 
dogs.  The  fact  that  this  jump  was 
"down  hill"  would  make  it  seem  a 
possibility  that  eighty  feet  in  a  lineal 
direction  was  covered — but  one  would 
feel  much  surer  if  he  had  been  there 
himself. 

Almost  all  writers  on  the  subject 
agree  that  the  cougar  will  not  take 
the  trouble  to  hunt  small  game,  though 
they  are  said  occasionally  to  feed  on 
foxes  and  porcupines  if  nothing  else 
offers.  Chickens  are  generally  con- 
sidered immune  as  far  as  lions  are 
concerned,  and  farmers  rarely  calcu- 
late on  guarding  against  anything  but 
coyotes  and  wild  cats.  An  exception 
to  this  rule,  however,  fell  under  my 
notice  at  my  ranch  in  the  Simi  Valley, 


Southern  California,  a  couple  of  win- 
ters ago.  vSeveral  of  my  tenants  were 
raising  chickens  and  turkeys  quite  ex- 
tensively, and  with  ten-foot  meshed 
wire  fences  interlaced  with  barbed 
wire,  seemed  to  feel  quite  confident 
that  their  poultry  was  safe  against  any 
four-footed  creature  that  might  come 
down  from  the  rugged,  brush-covered 
mountains  to  the  north.  One  night, 
however,  a  great  commotion  was 
heard  in  one  of  their  hen-houses,  and 
the  men  rushed  out  to  find  several 
dozen  dead  chickens,  the  yard  and 
house  intact,  and  nothing  to  show  what 
was  responsible  for  the  trouble.  This 
was  repeated  several  times — always  at 
different  points — and  still  no  clew  was 
gained  as  to  what  kind  of  a  beast 
could  get  over  a  ten-foot  fence  with- 
out leaving  some  mark  of  its  coming 
or  going.  Never  once  was  a  chicken 
found  eaten,  nor  were  feathers  found 
near  by  to  indicate  that  any  had  been 
carried  off.  The  mysterious  animal 
seemed  simply  to  run  amuck  and  claw 
and  bite  the  terrified  poultry  for  its 
own  pleasure. 

About  this  time  I  was  spending  a 
week  with  the  family  of  one  of  the 
tenants,  shooting  quail.  One  night, 
just  as  the  lights  had  been  put  out, 
we  heard  the  family  dog,  a  young 
setter,  come  whimpering  across  the 
yard  and  scratch  and  whine  at  the 
door.  A  moment  later  there  came  a 
thump  and  a  crash  from  the  hen-house, 
and  then  a  bedlam  of  squawks  and 
cackles,  rising  above  the  sound  .of  a 
hundred  and  fifty  pairs  of  wings  flop- 
ping and  beating  against  the  sides  and 
roof  of  the  little  building.  I  was 
still  dressed,  and  seizing  my  shotgun, 
burst  from  the  door,  followed  closely 
by  the  farmer  and  his  son.  The  moon 
was  more  than  three-quarters  full,  and 
shone  brightly  on  the  seat  of  disturb- 
ance, revealing  almost  at  once  a  board 
ripped  from  its  place  on  the  side  of 
the  coop  which  opened  into  the  wire- 
fenced  yard. 

As  I  rushed  up  to  the  fence,  out  of 
this  opening  shot  a  long,  yellow  body, 
and  without  seeming  to  touch  the 
ground,  flew  full  into  the  side  of  the 


/.  A  Texas  mountain  lion.  The  animal  pictured  here  was  one  of  the 
largest  ever  killed,  weighing  two  hundred  and  forty  pounds.  2.  An  Arizona 
lion  that  paid  the  penalty  of  a  bad  record  on  the  cattle  ranges.  3.  A  .gray 
lynx  of  the  Rockies  (mounted.) 


124 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


doubly  staked  and  braced  wire  netting. 
The  taut  wire  threw  it  off  like  a  cata- 
pult, and  it  darted  back  into  the 
screaming  din  of  the  coop  to  land  with 
a  thump  against  the  opposite  side.  Out 
it  came  again,  apparently  wild  with 
terror,  and  this  time  I  gave  it  both 
barrels  of  No.  6  through  the  wire. 
Bang!  Bang!  boomed  the  farmer's 
gun  behind  me,  and  Bang!  Bang !^ and 
again  Bang!  exhausted  the  half-filled 
chamber  of  the  boy's  "pump-gun"— 
seven  charges  of  bird-shot  in  all,  fired 
at  under  four  paces. 

Once  more  the  gleam  of  yellow 
flashed  against  the  wire,  and  once 
more  it  was  sent  sprawling.  Then  it 
came  straight  at  us,  and  we  all  beat 
a  hasty  retreat  while  it  flattened  itself 
against  the  wire  and  bit  and  clawed 
desperately  at  the  unyielding  meshes. 
Suddenly  the  roving  yellow  eyes 
caught  sight  of  the  top  of  the  hen-coop 
and  it  dropped  back  to  the  ground, 
crouched  for  a  moment,  and  then  went 
sailing — no  other  word  quite  does  jus- 
tice to  that  easy,  effortless  leap— off, 
and  out,  and  back  to  the  mountains. 

There  was  a  big  hunt  next  day,  in 
which  the  whole  countryside  joined, 
but  never  again  was  the  midnight 
marauder  even  sighted.  It  had  evi- 
dently entered  the  yard  by  jumping 
over  the  coop,  and  in  its  efforts  to  en- 
ter the  latter  had  clawed  off  a  loose 
board.  When  discovered,  it  was  un- 
able, in  its  fright,  to  locate  the  top 
of  the  wire  to  jump  at,  and  as  a  con- 
sequence spent  a  disagreeable  minute 
or  two  in  the  yard.  Why  the  shot, 
small  as  it  was,  did  not  have  more  ef- 
fect at  the  close  range,  I  am  at  a  loss 
to  understand,  unless  it  was  that  most 
of  it,  owing  to  our  excitement,  went 
wild. 

About  thirty  chickens  were  killed  in 
the  brief  space  of  time  the  lion  was  in 
the  coop.  The  latter  was  about  twenty 
feet  square  and  ten  feet  high,  and  I 
have  often  thought  since  what  a  fine 
chance  some  biograph  company 
missed  in  not  being  able  to  expose  a 
film  on  that  frightened  lion  as  he 
raged  around  and  lashed  about  in  that 
almost  solid  mass  of  fluttering  fowls. 


There  is  a  widespread  idea  that  the 
cry  of  a  cougar  resembles  that  of  a 
child  in  distress.  I  have  heard  the 
cry  of  that  animal  on  a  number  of 
occasions  in  many  parts  of  North  and 
South  America,  and  if  the  popular  be- 
lief is  well  founded,  I  will  only  say 
that  the  child  must  be  in  very  great 
distress  indeed,  and  I  beg  to  be  deliv- 
ered from  a  nursery  full  of  them.  The 
cry  is  really  as  piercing  as  the  sound 
made  by  an  electric  car  in  rounding 
a  sharp  and  insufficiently  greased 
curve,  and  is  almost  as  loud  and  rau- 
cous. The  sound  is  about  the  same 
as  the  wail  of  the  ordinary  tomcat  on 
his  nocturnal  rounds,  and  bears  about 
the  same  ratio  in  volume  to  the  cry 
of  the  latter  as  its  maker  does  to  the 
torn  in  size.  Any  fear  it  will  engender, 
however,  must  be  imaginary,  for  of 
danger  to  man  from  a  cougar  there  is 
little.  . 

I  have  often  been  asked  whether  or 
not  the  cougar,  unprovoked,  will  at- 
tack a  man.  There  are  practically  no 
well  authenticated  cases,  in  my  knowl- 
edge, to  show  that  it  will.  An  instance 
is  cited  of  a  negro  that  was  killed  in 
Mississippi  many  years  ago  by  a  pan- 
ther, and  in  Montana  and  Wyoming 
one  occasionally  hears  tales  of  lions 
following  lone  travelers  for  miles,  to 
finally  circle  ahead,  ambush  and  kill 
them.  It  is  difficult  to  trace  one  of 
these  stories  down,  though  it  is  a  com- 
mon occurrence  to  have  a  cougar  dog 
one's  footsteps  and  approach  quite 
near  him  if  the  country  is  rough  and 
brushy.  It  is  related  that  a  butcher 
in  Calaveras  County,  California,  was 
once  carrying  a  quarter  of  beef  behind 
him  on  his  horse  as  he  rode  from  one 
town  to  another  just  at  dusk.  Sud- 
denly there  was  a  rush  from  the  road- 
side, and  a  cougar  sprang  upon  the 
meat,  and  by  its  own  weight  and 
through  the  plunging  of  the  fright- 
ened horse,  succeeded  in  dragging  it 
to  the  ground.  As  soon  as  the  intrepid 
butcher  could  rein  in  his  horse,  he 
returned  to  the  spot  of  attack  and 
despatched  the  foolish  brute,  which 
steadfastly  refused  to  leave  its  plun- 
der, with  his  revolver.  The  animal 


/.  An  unusual  photograph — a  mired  steer  which  was  killed  by  a  mountain 
lion  a  few  hours  after  the  "snap"  was  taken.  2.  Morning's  bag  of  mountain 
lions  shot  by  government  scouts  in  Yellowstone  Park. 


126 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


proved  to  be  a  young  one,  hardly  more 
than  half-grown,  and  had  evidently 
not  yet  learned  when  and  where  to 
fear. 

There  probably  are  cases  when  men 
have  been  attacked  by  cougars,  but 
they  are  not  sufficiently  numerous  to 
more  than  prove  the  rule  to  the  con- 
trary. The  fact  that  that  animal  so 
often  follows  man's  trail  is  most  likely 
due  to  an  inherent  desire  for  bloodshed 
that  is  somewhat  more  than  neutral- 
ized by  inherent  cowardice. 

I  once,  inadvertently,  gave  a  cou- 
gar ample  chance  for  an  attack,  had  it 
been  so  minded,  and  though  I  should 
not  care  to  go  through  the  experience 
again,  I  have  no  doubt  that  the  result 
would  be  the  same.  My  ideas  on  the 
subject  were  not  as  firmly  fixed  at  the 
time  of  the  incident  as  they  are  now, 
and  as  a  consequence  I  experienced  a 
very  bad  quarter  of  an  hour. 

It  happened  in  Oak  Creek  Canyon, 
Arizona,  in  the  spring  of  ninety-eight, 
just  at  the  time  when  the  last  of  the 
season's  storms  come  in  rains  in  the 
valley,  hail  and  sleet  in  the  foothills 
and  lower  spurs,  and  snow  on  the 
higher  mountains.  I  was  camped  in 
the  canyon,  well  inside  the  boxed-in 
stretch.  The  cook  had  deserted  a  week 
before,  and  my  companion,  a  well- 
known  archaeologist  of  Boston,  had 
gone  out  to  Jerome  for  a  few  days  to 
settle  by  telegraph  some  business  that 
needed  his  attention  in  the  East. 

Late  one  afternoon  the  air  became 
close  and  stuffy,  the  breeze  died  out, 
and  great  black  clouds  came  wheeling 
down  from  the  veiled  summit  of  Mount 
Franklin.  Soon  the  thunder  began 
to  roll  and  rumble  among  the  crags 
and  echo  with  deep  reverberations 
through  the  canyon,  while  the  light- 
ning, flashing  vividly,  shot  in  zigzag 
lines  from  cliff  to  cliff.  Then  the  rain 
came  in  torrents,  and  I  retreated,  sup- 
perless,  into  the  tent,  which  chanced 
to  be  under  the  tallest  and  thickest 
pine  on  a  little  bench  at  the  bend  of 
the  river. 

The  thunder  roared  louder  than 
ever,  and  pulling  in  the  tent  flap,  I 
looked  out.  The  lightning  was  leap- 


ing from  pole  to  pole,  and  heavens 
and  earth  were  ablaze  with  its  shud- 
dering light.  Suddenly  it  flashed  up- 
on me  that  lightning  always  struck  the 
tallest  trees,  and,  grabbing  my  arms: 
full  of  blankets,  I  rushed  out  into  the 
rain,  not  stopping  until  I  was  in  a  clear 
space,  well  beyond  the  range  of  the 
big  pine. .  Then  I  rolled  up  in  the 
blankets — there  must  jhave  been 
nearly  a  dozen  of  them — one  after  the 
other,  making  a  big,  half-soaked  bun- 
dle, almost  as  high  as  it  was  long.  My 
arms,  head  and  shoulders  were  out  of 
the  main  wrappings,  but  I  protected 
them  somewhat  with  the  loose  end  cf 
the  last  blanket. 

At  the  end  of  a  half  hour  the  rain 
ceased,  and  the  heavens  began  clear- 
ing, but  the  thunder  and  lightning 
were  still  busy,  and  I  was  afraid  to 
trust  myself  in  the  tent  under  the 
big  pine.  Congratulating  myself  on 
not  being  wet  through,  I  was  just  get- 
ting ready  to  unroll,  when  out  of  the 
darkness  beyond  the  end  of  the  blan- 
kets came  an  ear-splitting  yell.  I  had 
never  heard  the  cougar's  voice  up  to 
that  moment,  but  I  was  not  deceived 
in  it  for  a  moment.  It  is  at  this  stage 
in  the  story-book  tales  of  cougars  that 
the  kind-hearted  traveler  usually 
starts  out  with  the  condensed  milk- 
can  to  succor  the  distressed  child. 
Brute  that  I  was,  I  felt  no  such  im- 
pulse. I  knew  where  the  distressed 
child  was,  but  I  also  knew  that  it  was 
wrapped  fully  eighteen  inches  thick  in 
warm  Navajo  blankets,  and  was  very 
loth  to  expose  its  shivering  frame  to 
the  elements. 

Twice  more  sounded  the  cry,  and 
twice  more  I  restrained  myself  from 
starting  on  the  errand  of  mercy.  It 
seemed  to  be  coming  nearer  and 
nearer,  though  I  could  have  sworn 
that  the  first  cry  had  sounded  from 
just  beyond  my  feet.  Again  that 
siren  shriek!!  This  time  it  was  so 
near  that  I  thought  I  detected  the 
blankets  vibrating  in  sympathy,  and 
it  was  not  for  several  seconds  that 
I  traced  that  phenomenon  to  my  trem- 
bling knees. 

For  several  long  moments  I  waited 


COUGAR,  JAGUAR  AND  BOB-CAT  HUNTING 


127 


in  breathless  anxiety,  wondering  if 
the  monster  would  begin  at  my  feet 
and  eat  me  up  by  inches,  or  merci- 
fully kill  me  first  by  starting  in  on 
my  head.  At  last  my  ears,  strained 
to  catch  the  slightest  sound,  detected 
his  step  as  the  cushioned  feet  were 
drawn;  one  after  the  other,  from  the 
sticky  mud.  Then  he  crept  into  my 
range  of  vision.  "Thank  heaven,  it 
will  be  the  head,"  I  thought,  and 
waited,  with  humped  shoulders,  for 
the  impact  of  his  deadly  pounce.  I 
could  barely  make  out  the  outline  of 
his  body,  so  that  the  fiery,  vitreous 
eyes  seemed  moving  all  alone  through 
the  darkness.  Now  they  passed  be- 
hind and  out  of  my  range  of  vision, 
but  still  the  spring  was  not  made. 
Now  they  gleamed  on  my  right,  still 
moving  about  the  bundle  in  a  circle. 
Now  they  disappeared  beyond  my 
horizon  of  blankets,  and  I  realized 
that  the  worst  was  to  happen  after 
all — I  was  to  be  eaten  from  the  feet 
upwards.  At  this,  the  overwrought 
nerves  gave  way,  and  the  big  chest- 
ful  of  air  I  had  been  holding  so  long 
went  ripping  out  through  my  vocal 
chords  in  one  wild  yell.  That  was 
the  true  cry  of  the  distressed  child 
at  last;  would  no  one  come  to  its 
aid?  ^ 

As  if  in  answer  to  my  call,  I  heard 
some  one  breaking  through  the  brush 
at  top  speed,  and  my  heart  beat  high 
with  hope.  Then  I  perceived  that  the 
sounds  were  retreating.  My  pre- 
server had  seen  the  lion  and  turned 
back!  All  I  suffered  in  the  next  ten 
minutes  I  will  not  attempt  to  describe, 
but  at  length,  reassured  by  the  silence, 
I  rolled  out  from  my  blankets  and 
found  myself  alone.  The  cougar  had 
evidently  had  no  idea  that  the  funny- 
looking  bundle  contained  a  man,  and 
at  the  first  intimation  that  such  was 
the  case — my  cry  of  distress — must 
have  taken  flight,  and  it  was  his  re- 
treating steps  that  I  had  first  taken 
for  those  of  a  deliverer.  The  wary 
beast  certainly  missed  the  chance  of 
its  life  by  its  flight,  for  I  doubt  very 
much  if  a  young,  fairly  fat  and  entirely 
eatable  boy  was  ever  laid  out  quite  so 


One  of  the  leading  hounds  used  in  the 
chase  to  round  up  the  "cats" 

helplessly  under  the  nose  of  a  hungry 
cougar. 

In  hunting  the  cougar  the  only  sat- 
isfactory method  is  to  run  it  down 
with  dogs,  tree  and  shoot  it.  Even 
this  can  hardly  be  called  a  satisfactory 
method,  however,  for  unless  the 
hounds  can  be  put  upon  a  hot  trail 
they  will  usually  lose  it  for  that  of 
a  wild  cat,  coon  or  coyote.  The 
greater  part  of  these  animals  killed 
on  the  Pacific  Slope  has  been  run 
down  while  the  dogs  were  following 
the  scent  of  a  wild  cat  or  coyote. 
Some  few  have  been  ambushed  and 
killed  by  mountain  ranchers,  and  oc- 
casionally one  is  slain  by  a  quick  snap 
shot  in  a  chance  encounter. 


128 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


The  cougar  is  more  generally  dis- 
tributed over  the  Pacific  Coast  than 
any  other  kind  of  big  game,  and 
while  its  killing  is  encouraged  by  a 
heavy  bounty,  it  is  holding  its  own 
better  than  the  deer,  protected  though 
the  latter  is,  by  the  most  stringent 
laws.  If  there  comes  a  time  when 
the  game  of  this  country  is  extinct, 
it  will  be  pretty  safe  to  venture  that 
the  cougar  will  have  been  one  of  the 

very  last  species  to  succumb. 

*  *  *  * 

The  habitat  of  the  jaguar,  roughly 
speaking,  is  all  of  tropical  North  and 
South  America,  over  which  it  is  found 
quite  as  generally  as  is  the  mountain 
lion  in  the  rougher  districts  of  the 
temperate  and  sub-arctic  regions  of 
those  continents.  In  Mexico  the 
jaguar  is  occasionally  encountered  as 
far  north  as  the  thirtieth  parallel,  and 
even  across  the  American  boundary, 
while  in  Paraguay  and  the  Chaco  de 
Argentine  it  is  as  frequently  met  with 
as  far  to  the  south.  In  both  of  these 
border  zones  the  cougar  is  also  found, 
and  hybrid  specimens  of  these  two 
closely  related  members  of  the  cat 
tribe,  though  rare,  are  not  unheard  of. 

The  jaguar  is  much  more  heavily 
built  than  the  mountain  lion,  and 
many  specimens  which  I  have  seen 
in  American  and  European  zoos  ap- 
peared far  more  powerful  than  the 
best  of  the  African  leopards  in  ad- 
joining cages.  While  quite  as  cun- 
ning in  its  operations  as  the  cougar, 
the  jaguar  is  a  far  more  formidable 
antagonist  than  the  former,  and  among 
the  natives  of  tropical  America  the 
fear  of  it  is  scarcely  less  than  that  of 
the  Bengalese  of  the  East  Indian  tiger. 

In  a  number  of  months  spent  in  the 
forests  of  the  Amazon,  Orinoco  and 
Upper  Parana,  there  was  hardly  a 
night  in  which  my  rest  and,  to  a  cer- 
tain extent,  my  equanimity,  was  not 
disturbed  by  the  cries  of  prowling 
jaguars,  yet  in  all  of  that  time  I  had 
not  more  than  two  or  three  transient 
glimpses  of  that  elusive  animal.  My 
men — whether  Venezuelans,  Paraguay- 
ans, Argentines,  Brazilians  or  Indians 
— were  never  without  apprehension- 


however,  and,  while  lax  enough  in  the 
performance  of  their  regular  duties, 
never  needed  encouragement  in  keep- 
ing the  camp  fire  blazing  on  the  hot- 
test of  nights. 

Authentic  instances  of  unprovoked 
attacks  on  men  by  jaguars  are  as  hard 
to  trace  down  as  those  concerning  cou- 
gars, but  of  the  fact  that  an  angered 
"tigre"  will  show  fight  I  had  an  am- 
ply satisfying  demonstration. 

One  morning  in  November  of  a  cou- 
ple of  years  ago,  while  spending  a 
month  on  the  Isthmus  watching  the 
progress  of  the  Panama  Canal  work, 
I  chanced  to  encounter  in  the  brush, 
not  a  hundred  yards  from  a  construc- 
tion spur  of  the  railway,  a  very  sizable 
jaguar  which,  for  some  reason,  had  ex- 
tended his  nocturnal  round  into  a  day- 
light promenade.  By  the  merest 
chance,  luckily,  in  addition  to  a 
machete  for  cutting  underbrush — the 
inseparable  companion  of  any  one 
straying  from  the  beaten  track  in  this 
part  of  the  tropics — and  my  camera, 
I  had  an  automatic  pistol  stuck  in 
my  belt,  and  it  was  the  reassuring 
presence  of  the  latter,  no  doubt,  that 
inspired  me  with  sufficient  courage  to 
try  for  a  picture. 

In  my  experience  with  a  number  of 
the  several  members  of  the  cat  family 
there  is  always  a  moment  immedi- 
ately following  that  in  which  one  of 
them  is  surprised  by  the  sudden  and 
unexpected  appearance  of  a  man,  in 
which  the  animal  remains  perfectly 
motionless,  principally,  no  doubt,  in 
the  hope  of  escaping  observation.  The 
first  move  is  almost  invariably  up  to 
the  man,  and  if  he  will  stand  still,  or 
only  move  slowly  and  quietly,  the 
beast  may  often  be  held  for  a  minute 
or  more  before  it  takes  alarm  and 
breaks  away  in  flight. 

My  approach  over  the  damp  earth 
of  a  well  cleared  path  through  the 
brush  had  been  almost  noiseless,  and 
I  doubt  very  much  if  the  animal  in 
question  was  aware  of  my  presence 
an  instant  before  I  brought  up  with 
a  jerk  on  discovering  his.  My  pistol 
was  my  first  thought,  and  this  once  in 
hand,  my  second  thought,  probably 


COUGAR,  JAGUAR  AND  BOB-CAT  HUNTING 


r 

suggested  by  the  picturesque  pose  of 
my  scowling  vis-a-vis,  was  my  cam- 
era. The  latter  was  a  small,  short- 
focus  folding  affair  which,  beyond  ex- 
tending the  bellows,  needed  no  ad- 
justment whatever.  The  path  and  the 
surrounding  jungle,  though  heavily  in 
shadow,  as  far  as  direct  sunlight  was 
concerned,  were  pervaded  by  that 
powerfully  actinic  reflected  light 
which  often  renders  it  possible  to 
make  instantaneous  exposures  in  the 
tropics  under  conditions  which  would 
be  considered  quite  prohibitive  in 
other  latitudes.  The  distance  was 
about  twenty-five  feet. 

The  click  of  the  spring  which  ac- 
companied the  running  out  of  the  bel- 
lows caused  my  subject  to  drop  to  a 
threatening  crouch,  which  action  de- 
flected my  attention  from  the  camera 
to  the  pistol,  and  left  me  in  apprehen- 
sive doubt  for  eight  or  ten  seconds  as 
to  whether  or  not  he  was  going  to  fly, 
and  if  so,  whether  at  me  or  from  me. 
The  idea  also  suggested  itself  to  me 
that  perhaps  I  had  best  anticipate 
him  in  the  flying  act,  in  which  event 
my  line  of  flight  was  already  pre-de- 
termined.  But  while  nervously  finger- 
ing the  trigger  of  my  pistol,  I  wav- 
ered in  resolve,  the  tenseness  gradu- 
ally left  the  sinewy  figure  before  me, 
and  it  slowly  resumed  its  standing 
position,  though  an  angrily  switching 
tail  and  back-laid  ears  indicated  that 
distrust  and  suspicion  were  by  no 
means  dispelled. 

With  the  slowest  of  movements,  I 
again  transferred  the  camera  to  my 
right  hand,  centered  the  motionless 
yellow  and  black  figure  in  the  finder, 
and,  with  the  pistol  still  held  ready, 
used  the  thumb  of  my  left  to  press  the 
button.  On  the  quivering  ears  of  that 
poor  jaguar  the  click  of  the  shutter 
must  have  fallen  like  the  roar  of  one 
of  the  big  blasts  up  in  the  Culebra 
Cut.  He  immediately  started  to  bolt, 
and  thus  assured  that  I  was  not  the 
worst  frightened  object  present  after 
all,  my  faltering  courage  came  back 
with  a  rush,  my  twitching  forefinger 
closed  down  on  the  trigger  of  the  pis- 
tol, and  almost  before  I  was  aware 


129 


of  it,  three  bullets  had  been  fired  after 
the  fleeting  form  of  my  late  subject. 

The  shots  were  discharged  with  the 
pistol  still  in  my  left  hand,  and  with 
no  attention  whatever  to  aim,  which 
may  account  in  a  measure  for  the  fact 
that  a  subsequent  post-mortem  failed 
to  show  where  any  of  them  took  effect. 
They  came  close  enough,  however,  to 
lead  the  very  capricious  beast  at 
whom  they  were  directed  into  a  belief 
that  there  was  a  matter  behind  him 
that  required  prompt  attention. 
Wheeling  about  as  though  set  on  a 
pivot,  he  launched  his  body  into  the 
air,  and  had  already  made  one  stu- 
pendous leap  in  the  direction  of  the 
spot  he  had  instinctively  diagnosed 
as  the  seat  of  trouble,  and  was  just 
rising  for  another  when,  more  care- 
fully than  before,  though  from  a  hand 
which  I  daresay  shook  no  less  than 
when  it  was  holding  the  camera,  I 
discharged  in  quick  succession  the 
three  cartridges  that  still  remained  in 
the  clip. 

One  of  the  bullets  went  wild,  but 
either  of  the  other  two  "soft-noses"" 
that  went  mushrooming  into  the 
breast  of  the  animal  would  have  been 
quite  sufficient  in  itself  to  have  elimi- 
nated him  ultimately  as  a  serious  trou- 
ble factor.  Being  a  cat,  however,  he 
died  reluctantly,  and  the  energetic 
mass  of  fur,  paws,  jaws  and  claws 
that  came  clumping  down  at  my  feet 
had  more  than  a  little  life  left  in  it, 
the  immediate  necessity  'for  letting  out 
which  as  a  precautionary  measure  in- 
volving some  wildly  indiscriminate 
slashings  with  the  big  machete  that 
almost  ruined  what  would  otherwise 
have  been  one  of  the  prettiest  hides 
that  ever  came  out  of  Panama. 

As  might  have  been  expected  un- 
der the  circumstances,  the  negative 
was  a  failure.  A  sympathetic  inspec- 
tion of  a  print  from  ii  by  a  person  who 
knew  where  to  look,  might  have  re- 
vealed a  couple  of  light  dots,  which, 
however,  bore  about  as  much  resem- 
blance to  a  couple  of  goose-berries 
with  the  sun  shining  upon  them  as  to 
the  vitreously  gleaming  fire-ball  orbs 
of  the  infuriated  "tigre."  The  rest 


130 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


of  the  animal  might  have  been 
searched  for  in  vain,  and  not  a  single 
one  of  three  different  brands  of  patent 
intensifier,  nor  even  a  combined  bath 
of  all  three  of  them  mixed  together, 
would  induce  my  jaguar,  or  at  least 
such  impression  of  him  as  was  on  the 
film,  to  change  his  spots. 


The  several  varieties  of  the.  lynx- 
wildcat  branch  of  the  genus  feline 
have  about  the  same  general  habitat  as 
the  mountain  lion,  and  though  differ- 
ing greatly  in  physical  particulars, 
most  of  the  temperamental  peculiari- 
ties of  their  long-tailed  relatives  as 
weil.  There  is  a  popular  idea  that 
the  lynx  is  only  an  over-sized  species 
of  the  ordinary  tabby  cat,  and  as  such 
scarcely  more  formidable  than  a 
husky  "torn;"  but  one  who  has  had 
first  hand  experience  of  him  will  not 
hesitate  to  agree  with  the  Chilkat  Mis- 
sion Indian  poet  who  wrote : 

"There's  nothing  so  wild  as  the  wild- 
cat— 

The  tame  cat's  as  tame  as  a  child; 
But  he  steals  all  the  cream  from  the 

wild-cat. 
And  that  makes  the  wild-cat  wild." 

Though  the  explanation  of  the  man- 
ner in  which  that  animal  has  become 
so  ferocious  may  not  stand  the  light 
of  scientific  research. 

The  bob-cat  has  been  well  described 
as  "a  pair  of  jaws  upon  two  paws." 
The  cougar,  after  fastening  upon  his 
prey,  does  nine-tenths  of  his  execution 
with  his  marvelously  developed  hind 
legs;  his  little  gray  brother,  because 
of  the  almost  abnormal  concentration 
of  power  at  the  forv/ard  end,  uses  his 
slender  hind  legs  only  as  props  for 
the  real  executive  department  at  the 
other  extreme.  A  thirty-pound  bob- 
cat, cornered,  will  best  a  trained  bull- 
terrier  of  the  same  weight  four  times 
out  of  five,  and  can  usually  reduce 
two  or  three  ordinary  bear  dogs  to 
ribbons  in  half  a  minute.  A  fifty- 
pound  cat,  if  it  can  be  made  to  fight, 
will  outmatch  anything  that  breathes 


of  within  twenty  pounds  of  that 
weight. 

I  recall  several  rather  ticklish  mo- 
ments spent  in  prodding  snarling  bob- 
cats from  swaying  tree-tops  in  endeav- 
oring to  make  them  jump  to  the  wait- 
ing dogs,  but  my  only  bob-cat  ex- 
perience with  a  real  thrill  in  it  oc- 
curred on  the  ground,  and  with  no 
eager  pack  at  hand  to  create  a  diver- 
sion. It  happened  on  a  boat  trip 
which  I  made  down  Hardy's  Colorado 
several  years  ago,  after  a  misunder- 
standing with  my  Indian  rowers,  which 
left  me  with  three  or  four  days  of 
floating  >and  paddling  to*  do  quite 
alone.  The  incident  chanced  the  morn- 
ing after  the  desertion  of  the  capri- 
cious Cocopahs. 

After  getting  my  breakfast  upon  the 
bank,  I  had  pushed  the  big,  square- 
ended  scow  into  the  sluggish  current, 
and  for  half  an  hour,  a  victim  of  pure 
contentment,  laid  on  my  back  and 
smoked  without  making  a  move  or  a 
sound.  Ducks  came  spinning  down 
the  river  in  tight  little  flocks  of  a 
dozen  or  two — teal,  mallard,  widgeon, 
spoonbill,  red-heads — flying  hard  and 
low,  and  offering  fine,  sporty  shots.  A 
beaver  slapped  the  water  with  his  tail 
in  front  of  me,  and  my  eyes  were 
just  quick  enough  to  glimpse  a  score 
of  brown  bodies  scurrying  from  the 
bank  into  the  water  and  under  a  great 
pile  of  drift.  A  moment  later  I  caught 
sight  of  a  moving  object  that  was 
running  along  the  edge  of  the  water  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  ahead,  coming  in 
my  direction.  At  first,  on  account  of 
its  size,  I  took  it  for  a  mountain  lion, 
but  its  darker  color  and  "high"  way 
of  running  told  me  that  it  must  be 
a  wild-cat  or  a  lynx,  even  before  it 
showed  me  a  side  view  and  a  short 
tail.  But  what  a  cat  it  was!! 

On  he  trotted  to  me  and  down  I 
floated  to  him — he  was  getting  big- 
ger every  moment.  I  pushed  a  hand- 
ful of  cartridges  into  my  rifle,  and  got 
a  bead  across  the  side  of  the  boat 
without  showing  more  than  the  top  of 
my  head.  At  a  hundred  yards  some- 
thing seemed  to  smell  wrong  to  him, 
and  he  turned  and  looked  behind. 


COUGAR,  JAGUAR  AND  BOB-CAT  HUNTING 


131 


Nothing  appearing  out  of  the  way  in 
that  direction  he  again  came  trotting 
on,  but  glancing  suspiciously  from 
side  to  side.  Another  hundred  feet 
and  he  espied  the  boat  and  brought  up 
short,  front  legs  braced  out  straight, 
head  in  the  air,  and  hind  legs  doubled 
up  for  a  whirling  jump  of  retreat.  I 
was  waiting  for  a  shoulder  shot,  but 
was  forced  to  content  myself*  with 
what  offered. 

Straight  into  the  air  he  sprang  at 
the  bite  of  the  bullet,  just  as  a  tuna 
leaps  when  hooked,  to  come  down  with 
a  splash  into  the  water  several  feet 
from  the  bank.  Quite  confident  that 
the  shot  had  been  fatal,  I  threw  the 
gun  aside  and  sprang  to  the  oars, 
watching  over  my  shoulders  as  I 
rowed.  For  a  moment  the  grey  mass 
floated  as  though  lifeless,  and  then, 
revivification  coming  with  the  cold 
touch  of  the  water,  it  commenced  to 
flop  and  bite  and  snarl,  beating  the 
water  to  a  foam  in  its  struggles,  and 
before  I  had  covered  half  the  distance 
it  had  rolled  to  a  footing  in  the  mud, 
and  a  second  later  went  bounding 
wildly  up  the  bank  and  into  the  com- 
pact jungle  of  "carrisa." 

The  boat  went  spinning  back  into 
the  stream  as  I  leapt  to  the  spongy 
bank,  but  I  took  after  the  lynx,  trust- 
ing to  a  propitious  current  to  land  it 
on  my  side  of  the  river.  A  trail  of 
water  and  blood  led  up  the  bank,  and 
following  this,  I  plunged  into  the 
close-growing  "carrisa,"  not  doubting 
that  I  had  a  long  and  difficult  chase 
ahead.  Imagine,  then,  my  surprise  at 
being  greeted  with  such  a  sputtering 
yell  as  only  an  animal  shot  through 
the  lungs  and  mad  with  pain,  anger 
and  fear  can  utter,  and  feeling  the  rip 
of  claws  on  my  puttees  and  the  rather 
more  tangible  grip  of  a  pair  of  jaws 
upon  one  of  my  knees.  Frightened  as 
I  was,  I  still  had  enough  undissipated 
instinct  of  self-preservation  to  shorten 
up  my  hold  on  my  rifle  and  fire  point 
blank  into  the  spiteful  ball  of  sput- 
tering energy  about  my  feet. 

Springing  back  as  I  shot,  I  regained 
the  open,  to  bring  up,  almost  para- 
lyzed with  consternation,  on  noting  the 


appearance  of  my  legs,  especially  the 
left,  upon  which  the  cat  had  been  the 
busiest.  The  legging  was  splashed 
with  blood  from  top  to  bottom,  and 
the  knee  was  weltering  in  gore.  For 
a  moment  I  would  have  sworn  that 
the  leg  was  half  amputated,  and  that 
only  the  excitement  was  keeping  me 
up — I  had  heard  of  such  cases — but  a 
hasty  examination  showed  that  the 
blood  was  not  my  own,  and  that  the 
knee  was  hardly  more  than  nibbled. 

Then  came  the  extremely  disagree- 
able task  of  following  my  quarry  into 
the  jungle  of  cane  grass.  I  have  no 
recollection  of  hating  to  do  anything 
quite  so  much  in  all  my  life,  especi- 
ally after  the  shock  of  the  first  en- 
counter, but  he  was  too  great  a  prize 
to  lose,  and  I  finally  managed  to  force 
my  reluctant  feet  upon  the  trail.  I 
took  no  more  chances  of  stepping  upon 
the  wounded  animal,  but  felt  my  way 
along,  inch  by  inch,  poking  the  gun 
ahead  at  every  step  to  find  a  clear 
space  for  my  foot. 

I  would  never  have  located  him  but 
for  the  fact  that  the  first  shot  had 
pierced  his  lungs,  the  constant  cough- 
ing enabling  me  to  keep  the  right 
direction.  Several  times  I  came  close 
upon  him,  and  heard  the  crash  of 
his  blind  dash  away,  but  could  not 
locate  him  closely  enough  for  even  a 
chance  shot.  Finally,  his  retreat  took 
him  in  a  circle,  and  he  broke  from 
the  "carrisa"  into  the  comparative 
open  of  the  river  bank,  where  I  suc- 
ceeded in  cornering  him  between  an 
overhanging  willow  and  the  water. 
His  chest  was  pierced  by  my  first  shot 
and  the  second  had  broken  his  back 
and  destroyed  the  usefulness  of  his 
hind  legs;  yet  he  valiantly  reared  him- 
.self  on  his  powerful  forepaws,  and, 
with  hate  and  fury  glittering  from  eyes 
that  were  already  glazing  in  death, 
awaited  my  approach.  After  snapping 
him  with  a  small  camera — the  same, 
by  the  way,  which  figured  in  the 
Panama  jaguar  incident  three  years 
later — which  I  chanced  to  have,  se- 
cured to  my  belt  after  breakfast,  I 
despatched  him  with  a  third  bullet, 
and  went  in  search  of  my  boat. 


r    // 


LEGENDS    OF   AOUNT    SHASTA 


By  Lizzie  Park  Fleming 


LYING  in  unbroken  masses  across 
Northern  California,  the  Sierra 
Nevada,  Cascade  and  Siskiyou 
Mountains      mingle      together. 
From  out  of    the    wilderness,  Mount 
Shasta,  one  of  the  great  views  of  the 
world,   lifts   his   head   above   the   fir 
trees  that  fringe  the  timber  line. 

Shasta  was  not  always  as  docile 
as  now;  at  no  very  remote  period  the 
mountain  was  an  active  volcano,  the 
overflow  of  lava  at  the  last  eruption 
being  on  the  western  slope.  The  great 
cone  is  eternally  covered  with  snow 
and  the  crater  forms  an  immense  cup 
-on  the  summit. 

The  Creation. 

According  to  some  of  the  Califor- 
nia Indians,  Mount  Shasta  was  the 
first  part  of  the  earth  formed.  Ages 
ago,  before  Time  was,  the  Great  Spirit, 
they  say,  made  a  hole  in  the  sky;  but 
when  he  saw  that  it  was  all  flat  be- 
neath, he  threw  down  rocks  and  earth 
.and  ice  until  he  had  formed  a  great 
pile.  He  stepped  upon  this,  and 
wherever  he  stepped,  streams  of  water 
ilowed. 

Running  his  hands  over  the  side  of 
the  mountain,  he  caused  the  forests 
"to  spring  up.  Plucking  the  leaves 
from  the  trees  and  blowing  them  into 
•the  air,  they  became  birds;  those  fall- 
ing into  the  water  became  fishes.  He 
smote  the  rocks  with  his  staff,  and 
•they  turned  into  beasts ;  from  his  staff 
'he  made  the  grizzly,  but  the  grizzly 
-was  so  fierce,  he  hollowed  out  the  great 
mountain  for  his  tepee ;  this  they  knew 
— for  they  had  seen  the  smoke  from 
"his  fire  long  before  the  coming  of  the 
-white  man.  When  the  white  man  came 


he  called  the  tepee  Mount  Shasta. 
Then  the  Great  Spirit  left,  and  no 
more  the  smoke  curled  out  from  the 
smoke  hole. 

The  Spirit  Child  and  the  Grizzly. 

Another  interesting  legend  is  that 
years  and  years  ago,  when  the  world 
was  young,  the  Great  Spirit  grew  very 
tired  of  living  above  the  clouds,  so 
the  thought  came  to  him  to  take  his 
family  and  dwell  upon  the  earth  for 
awhile. 

Immediately  he  set  to  work  making 
a  hole  in  the  sky;  there  were  hills  all 
about,  and  upon  one  of  these  he  threw 
rocks,  earth  and  snow  until  he  had 
formed  a  large  mountain.  This  was 
Mount  Shasta,  and  became  the  Great 
Spirit's  wigwam;  this  they  knew,  for 
smoke  came  out  of  the  smoke  hole. 

It  was  not  a  wise  move,  however, 
for  although  he  was  lord  of  all,  in 
endeavoring  to  rule  his  children  from 
the  earth,  he  lost  control  of  the  winds, 
and  they  ran  riot,  scattering  devasta- 
tion far  and  wide;  they  laid  low  the 
forests  and  did  not  even  respect  the 
great  wigwam,  but  shook  it  to  its  very 
foundation.  The  Great  Spirit  was 
very  angry  and  told  his  little  daugh- 
ter to  go  up  to  the  top  of  the  wigwam 
and  command  the  winds,  in  his  name, 
to  go  back  to  their  caves  until  he 
called  them  forth.  "Do  not  put  your 
head  above  the  smoke  hole.  They  will 
hear  your  voice  and  obey."  When  the 
child  reached  the  top,  it  looked  so 
bright  above  that  her  curiosity  got  the 
better  of  her,  and  she  put  her  head  a 
little  way  out  for  just  one  peep.  Her 
imagination  had  never  pictured  any- 
thing half  so  beautiful  as  the  sight 


134 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


that  met  her  gaze — mountains,  rivers, 
trees  and  flowers.  Forgetting  all  cau- 
tion, she  climbed  higher,  when  the 
great  wind-blower,  with  a  shriek  of 
laughter,  caught  her  up  and  she  was 
whirled  through  the  air.  After  what 
seemed  to  her  a  long  time,  she  knew 
she  was  nearing  the  earth,  for  she  felt 
the  leaves  of  the  trees  brushing  against 
her  as  she  descended.  Very  gently, 
the  wind  let  her  down,  and  she  found 
herself  in  a  dense  forest  beside  a 
beautiful  waterfall.  Nearby  a  well- 
trodden  path  led  to  the  stream.  How 
glad  she  was  to  be  on  earth  again; 
and  while  thinking  she  would  follow 
the  path,  which  surely  would  lead  to 
her  father,  she  fell  asleep. 

Now  this  stream,  just  below  the  fall, 
was  a  favorite  fishing  place  for  an 
old  grizzly  and  his  two  sons,  and  it 
was  not  long  before  the  child  was 
awakened  by  the  sound  of  some  one 
coming  through  the  wood.  It  was  the 
grizzlies.  The  sons  were  the  first  to 
see  her,  and  called  their  father  to 
come  and  see  what  they  had  found, 
but  she  was  so  frightened  she  dared 
not  open  her  eyes  at  first.  When 
she  did,  the  three  stood  around  her, 
and  she  soon  found  they  did  not  in- 
tend to  harm  her,  for  they  took  her 
up  tenderly  and  carried  her  home  to 
the  mother  grizzly. 

In  those  days  they  walked  erect  and 
used  their  arms  as  men.  They  were 
all  very  kind  to  the  little  golden- 
haired  girl,  but  the  mother,  being 
wiser  than  the  rest,  knew  that  the 
child  was  no  earthly  being,  but  she 
kept  her  own  counsel,  for  she  could  not 
bear  to  part  with  her.  The  girl  grew 
to  womanhood  with  no  other  compan- 
ions than  the  grizzlies,  and  when  she 
was  old  enough  she  became  the  wife 
of  the  elder  son. 

The  children  that  came  to  them  in- 
herited the  wisdom  of  their  mother, 
with  the  physical  strength  of  their 
father,  thereby  forming  a  race  of 
grizzlies  with  better  ideas  of  life.  In- 
stead of  living  in  caves,  they  built  for 
themselves  wigwams.  These  were  all 
built  facing  the  holy  mountain,  and 
formed  a  village  at  its  base.  A  sacri- 


ficial stone  was  set  in  the  midst,  where 
offerings  were  made  to  the  Great 
Spirit. 

The  tribe  multiplied  rapidly,  and  be- 
came very  powerful,  but  when  the 
old  mother  felt  that  her  life  was  near- 
ing  the  end,  she  became  very  much 
afraid,  for  she  knew  she  had  wronged 
the  Great  Spirit  by  not  returning  his 
daughter,  besides  the  sin  of  the  mar- 
riage of  her  son  with  one  not  of  earth. 

At  last  she  bade  her  son,  the  child's 
husband,  climb  to  the  very  summit  of 
the  mountain  so  that  the  Great  Spirit 
would  surely  hear,  and  ask  him  to 
come  down  to  her  confession.  He  con- 
sented, and  stepped  down  upon  the 
mountain  where  (it  is  said)  his  foot- 
prints remain  to  this  day. 

There  was  great  rejoicing,  and  they 
gave  him  a  royal  welcome;  but  their 
joys  were  soon  turned  to  sorrow,  for, 
when  he  heard  the  old  mother  grizzly's 
story,  he  was  very  angry,  and  said: 
"Know  you  not  that  you  have  com- 
mitted an  unpardonable  sin  in  keep- 
ing a  daughter  of  the  Great  Spirit,  and 
doubly  so  that  she  should  mate  with 
one  of  a  race  so  degraded?  Depart 
from  this  place  and  let  your  habitation 
be  in  the  wilderness,  and  I  shall  send 
fire  and  flood  to  destroy  your  dwell- 
ings. My  curse  be  upon  you  and  your 
descendants.  Even  the  speech  you 
now  have  shall  "be  taken  away,  and 
no  more  shall  you  stand  erect  and 
walk,  but  four-footed,  looking  down- 
ward." 

A  great  cry  of  anguish  arose  from 
their  midst,  and  his  daughter,  throwing 
herself  upon  her  knees  before  him, 
begged  for  her  children.  Her  plead- 
ings softened  his  heart,  for  he  added: 
"Because  of  your  kindness  to  my 
child,  you  may,  when  fighting  for 
your  life,  rise  up  and  use  your  arms. 
This  I  grant  for  my  daughter's  sake." 
He  glanced  angrily  at  the  old  mother, 
but -she  knew  it  not,  for  she  was  dead. 

A  great  black  cloud  swept  by 
Flames,  smoke,  stones  and  earth  is- 
sued from  the  top  of  the  mountain, 
ran  down  the  sides  and  buried  the  vil- 
lage, but  the  Great  Spirit  and  his 
child  were  gone. 


"And  they  all  fled  in  terror  and  hid  themselves  in  the  forest." 


Appeal  to  the  Great  Spirit.    Modeled  by  Cyrus  E.  Dallin. 


All  who  could,  fled  from  the  place 
and  found  refuge  in  the  forests  and 
mountains,  and  although  the  grizzly  is 
the  most  dreaded  animal,  the  curse  is 
still  upon  him,  and  he  goes  on  his 
four  feet  with  his  head  downward,  ex- 
cept when  fighting  his  enemy,  man. 

It  is  said  the  Indians,  who  claim  to 
be  descendants  of  the  Spirit  child  and 
the  grizzly  will  never  kill  one,  but 


when  a  grizzly  bear  kills  a  man,  stones 
are  piled  upon  the  spot  and  an  offering 
made  to  the  Great  Spirit,  and  many 
such  piles  are  to  be  found  in  that  re- 
gion. 

Buried  ruins  of  a  village  have  also- 
been  found  about  the  base  of  Mount 
Shasta,  but  the  Spirit's  fire  in  the 
great  wigwam  no  more  sends  forth  its 
smoke. 


THE    ONE   WHO    WINKED 


By  W.  Gerrare 


OLD  MOSCOW,  white-walled 
and  golden-crowned,  gleamed 
in  the  fierce  heat  of  a  July  sun. 
Young  Bernard  Winder,  of 
Winder  &  Company,  Export  Mer- 
chants, Birmingham,  white-faced  and 
red-haired,  glowed  no  less  brightly  in 
the  glare  of  noen.  He  was  talking 
business  with  Ostrov,  a  Russian 
buyer,  and  they  wended  their  way  to- 
wards the  Praga  restaurant.  There 
was  a  reason  for  this  choice.  Their 
conversation  was  to  be  of  the  prices 
of  nails  and  galvanized  sheets,  of 
credits  at  the  Volga-Kama  Bank,  and 
other  matters  of  business  unlikely  to 
interest  an  outsider — but  in  Russia  one 
cannot  be  too  careful.  At  the  Praga 
they  seated  themselves  at  a  table 
apart,  in  an  alcove  near  the  music,  and 
from  habit,  Ostrov  took  a  seat  where 
he  could  not  be  seen,  leaving  his  com- 
panion a  wider  outlook. 

When  the  coffee  and  cognac  stage 
was  reached,  the  waiters  withdrew.  It 
was  the  hour  of  the  siesta.  Most  of 
the  company  had  already  dispersed. 

"Ten  days  now  before  you  start  for 
the  Nijni  fair,"  observed  Ostrov. 
"Time  will  drag  heavily,  eh?" 

"I  can  amuse  myself,"  answered  the 
Englishman. 

"Zat  is  good:  only  may  Task  in 
what  way?" 

"Oh,  different  ways.  The  other  day 
I  walked  across  the  Krimski  Bridge, 
and  got  lost  in  a  sort  of  park.  Some 
people  were  playing  at  tennis.  Hear- 
ing English  spoken,  I  thought  I  would 
show  them  how  to  play." 

"You  Englishmen  do  everyt'ing," 
remarked  Ostrov,  without  interest. 

"I  had  only  my  business  card  with 
me,  so  handed  that  to  them  to  intro- 


duce myself.  The  girl  thought  it 
funny,  and  persisted  in  calling  me 
Winder  &  Co.,  with  an  American  ac- 
cent. She  didn't  tell  me  her  name, 
but  yesterday  I  received  this."  He 
fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  produced 
an  envelope,  out  of  which  he  took  a 
large  card." 

"Ah,  an  adventure!" 

"No ;  only  an  invitation  to  the  Alex- 
ander Palace  to-night — you  see,  Mrs. 
Joseph  G.  Parsons — at  home." 

The  Russian  examined  the  card  ex- 
citedly. "Zat  is  a  history — a  scandal. 
All  Moscow  speaks  only  of  it.  I  will 
tell  you."  He  hastily  gulped  down 
the  contents  of  his  liqueur  glass,  and 
filled  it  afresh.  "But  first  tell  me  why 
the  letters  R.  S.  V.  P.  are  crossed  off 
and  'Come  V.  P.'  inserted?" 

"Perhaps-  they  are  the  initials  of 
Miss  Parsons." 

"Ach,  zat  is  so:  her  name  is  Vivi- 
enhe.  It  will  be  a  great  affair.  There 
will  be  dancing  and  a  tombola — a  lot- 
tery, you  know — for  favors,  very  ex- 
pensive ones,  for  Mr.  Parsons  is  a 
very  rich  man — American  million- 
aire." 

"So  that  explains  why  he  lives  in  a 
royal  palace,"  commented  Winder. 

"Zat  is  ze  story — ze  scandal.  But 
first  tell  me,  do  you  know  Mr.  Read- 
ing, the  American  consul?" 

"I  know  of  him." 

"Zat  is  a  very  smart  man — a  ras- 
cal, maybe.  He  try  to  find  a  house  for 
Mr.  Parsons,  who  want  a  palace,  and 
in  Moscow  is  not  one  such  as  he  can 
buy  in  Italy,  where  palaces  are  as 
many  as  peasants'  huts  in  Russia.  Mr. 
Reading  have  one  fine  idea — to  sell 
Alexander  Palace  to  Mr.  Parsons.  He 
see  good  business — big  profit — and  he 
2 


138 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


has  made  a  sale — one  hundred  thou- 
sand roubles,  I  hear." 

"Not  payable  all  at  once,"  ob- 
jected Winder. 

"No,  but  soon  enough.  Oh,  Mr. 
Kneading  know  ze  Russian  character 
so  very  well.  First  he  go  to  Prince 
Dolgoruki,  our  Governor-General,  and 
say:  'One  very  rich  American  from 
Venice  come  to  Moscow  mit  his  fam- 
ily, and  no  place  is  fit  for  such  mil- 
lionaire party.'  Then  he  suggest 
that  the  Prince  receive  Mr.  Parsons  at 
Alexander  Palace  as  his  guest,  and 
tell  him  that  Mr.  Parsons  will  make 
him  a  very  handsome  present,  and 
spend  much  money  in  Moscow,  which 
is  good  politic  for  Russia.  So  Prince 
Dolgoruki,  he  oblige  Consul  Read- 
ing and  Mr.  Parsons  of  wild  and 
woolly  West.  Soon  Mr.  Parsons  ar- 
rive mit  family,  and  all  live  at  the 
Palace!  Next,  Consul  Reading  sell 
Palace  to  Mr.  Parsons." 

"Impossible!" 

"For  such  a  smart  man  as  Consul 
Reading  much  is  possible.  Easy  to 
sell  if  Mr.  Parsons  want  to  buy. 
Prince  Dolgoruki  has  debts;  he  lose 
much  money  in  cards  at  the  English 
Club;  he  expect  very  big  present  for 
palace  accommodation  from  such  rich 
American  as  Mr.  Parsons.  Nobody 
else  at  Consulate,  so  Reading  arrange 
all  very  nicely — easy  business.  Mr. 
Parsons,  he  trust  all  to  Consul,  he 
know  no  one  in  Moscow;  not  speak 
Russian,  not  understand,  so  taken  in, 
cheated  by  big  rascal." 

"He  must  be  a  fool,  Ostrov." 

The  Russian  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders expressively.  "No,  he  is  only 
very,  very  rich.  He  make  all  his 
money  himself,  so  not  great  fool,  only 
very  simple  man.  His  wife  is  mag- 
nificent lady,  having  diamond  tiara 
and  ze  grand  manner.  Everywhere 
she  meet  many  people,  she  entertain 
at  Nice  and  Venice.  The  Russians 
like  her,  and  she  like  Russia.  She 
collects  ikons  and  old  silver,  also  she 
buy  many  furs;  and  she  invites  many 
officers  and  distinguished  people  to 
her  dinners,  and  she  and  her  daughter 
.spend  much  money." 


"And  what  has  become  of  Prince 
Dolgoruki?" 

"He  is  living  at  the  Palace,  too." 

"Odd  situation." 

"Is  it  not  so!  But  all  Moscow  un- 
derstand," explained  the  Russian,  with 
a  shrug.  "No  one  is  surprised,  but  all 
wonder  what  will  happen  next." 

"Well,  what  will  happen?" 

"I  do  not  know.  It  is  a  drama  or 
a  comedy.  Here  is  the  position.  Mr. 
Parsons  and  his  family  living  in  the 
Palace  already  bought  and  part  paid 
for,  and  they  wait  every  day  for 
Prince  Dolgoruki  and  his  retinue  to 
give  up  their  apartments.  Consul 
Reading  telling  Mr.  Parsons  every 
day  zat  ze  Prince  will  go  very  soon — 
to-morrow  or  day  after — zis  week  or 
next  week.  .  Prince  Dolgoruki,  he 
waiting  for  American  guests  to  go,  and 
asking  Consul  Reading  every  day 
when  so  long  a  visit  end,  and  his  hand- 
some present  come.  Interesting, 
hem?" 

"Except  for  Reading." 

"He  is  smart  man;  he  receive  the 
money,  when  he  receive  enough  he 
will  go.  When  all  is  found  out  there 
will  be  a  'schimpfen' — how  you  call 
it?" 

"The  devil  of  a  row." 

"Zo !  And  you  will  go  to-night,  and 
will  find  there  much  amusement." 

"Perhaps." 

"Ah,  what  a  chance  to  see  the  drama 
of  life,"  said  Ostrov,  enviously.  "The 
gardens  will  be  illuminated,  and  there 
will  be  a  brilliant  company.  Perhaps 
somewhere  Prince  Dolgoruki  and  the 
American  millionaire  will  meet  face  to 
face — perhaps  even  the  drama  finish 
to-night — what  end — nobody  knows." 

"Has  the  Prince  received  any  of 
the  money?" 

"Who  can  say.  Perhaps  Consul 
Reading  keep  all  for  himself,  and  then 
go  away." 

"Well,  it's  not  our  affair,  and  now 
to  business."  Winder  leaned  forward 
over  the  table,  and  his  voice  sank  to 
a  whisper — "opposite  me  is  an  officer 
plastered  with  decorations,  and  whilst 
you  have  been  talking,  he  has  winked 
at  me  several  times." 


THE  ONE  WHO  WINKED. 


139 


Ostrov  understood,  but  he  answered 
carelessly:  "I  will  tell  you  later.  Well, 
shall  we  go?" 

Winder  received  the  bill.  Meanwhile 
the  officer  arose  to  depart,  and  passed 
them  by  with  no  more  notice  than  he 
bestowed  upon  the  correctly  obsequi- 
ous waiters.  Ostrov  no  sooner  saw 
him  than  he  rose  and  bowed,  the  Eng- 
lishman somewhat  tardily  followed 
his  example. 

"It  is  he,  Prince  Dolgoruki,  His  Ex- 
cellency the  Governor-General  him- 
self," muttered  the  Russian. 


II. 


When  Bernard  Winder  left  the 
Praga  Restaurant  he  decided  to  forget 
what  he  had  heard,  and  to  regard  the 
recital  of  Mr.  Parsons'  adventures  as 
simply  one  of  the  amusing  stories 
with  which  Ostrov  was  in  the  habit  of 
entertaining  his  acquaintances.  It  was 
unusual,  improbable,  if  not  impossible. 
Driving  homeward  across  the  Grand 
Square,  there  loomed  before  him  the 
gigantic  church  of  Vasili  Vlajenni  to 
disturb  his  ruminations  and  convince 
him  that  in  Moscow  even  most  absurd 
imaginings  had  been  given  substance 
and  translated  into  fact.  The  exist- 
ence of  that  building  could  not  be 
explained  away,  neither  could  the  ex- 
istence of  Miss  Parsons,  nor  that  of 
the  invitation  in  his  pocket.  What 
was  to  be  done?  He  drove  to  the 
British  Consulate,  only  to  find  that 
the  Consul  was  away  at  Carlsbad.  It 
was  but  a  few  steps  farther  to  the 
English  church;  thither  he  went,  but 
was  disappointed  to  find  that  the 
chaplain  was  on  his  vacation  in  Eng- 
land. He  finally  decided  that  the  only 
thing  to  be  done  was  to  call  at  the  U. 
S.  Consulate  and  have  it  out  with 
Reading  himself.  Here  a  clerk  in- 
formed him  that  Mr.  Reading  was 
with  the  Governor-General,  and  ad- 
vised him  to  call  early  next  morning 
if  his  business  was  urgent,  because  he 
knew  that  Reading  had  arranged  to 
leave  for  Penza  the  following  after- 
noon. Winder  left  the  Consulate  with 
the  conviction  that,  if  the  story  was, 


after  all,  true,  Reading  must  be  ar- 
ranging for  a  speedy  flight  across  the 
frontier — perhaps  he  was  to  receive 
another  installment  that  night.  On  the 
way  home,  he  fell  to  musing  upon 
what  Prince  Dolgoruki  intended  to 
convey  by  that  wink,  and  he  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  Prince  must 
be  well  aware  of  what  was  happening. 

At  the  Palace  he  arrived  that  even- 
ing faultlessly  attired.  Mrs.  Parsons 
received  him  graciously.  She  was  a 
handsome  figure  in  gray,  shimmering 
with  sequins,  with  a  tiara  of  diamonds 
in  her  iron-gray  hair.  She  told  him 
that  her  husband  and  Vi  were  some- 
where in  the  grounds,  and  that  she 
would  join  them  later  when  all  her 
guests  had  arrived,  for  it  was  more 
pleasant  there  than  indoors  on  such 
a  hot  night.  He  passed  through  on  to 
the  terrace,  and  paused  a  moment  to 
admire  the  wonderful  view.  The  dome 
and  spires  of  mother  Moscow  were 
shining  in  the  bright  moonlight;  a 
myriad  stars  twinkled  in  an  unclouded 
sky;  among  the  trees  were  a  thousand 
colored  lamps  which  lent  an  air  of 
unusual  gaiety  to  the  grounds.  The 
ever  attractive  tombola  was  arranged 
in  a  brilliantly  lighted  kiosk,  and 
away  off,  in  a  copse,  an  improvised 
camp-fire  threw  long  shadows  across 
the  sward. 

Winder  passed  from  one  gay  group 
to  another  without  chancing  upon  an 
acquaintance,  until  a  group  of  young 
people  hurried  by,  and  one,  turning 
for  an  instant,  tapped  him  lightly  on 
the  arm  with  her  fan,  and  called 
"Winder  &  Co."  laughingly. 

Indoors,  the  reception  rooms  were 
mostly  deserted,  but  in  one  of  the  ante- 
rooms Bernard  chanced  upon  a  spare,, 
bald-headed  man  in  evening  dress,, 
who  seemed  to  be  having  some  diffi- 
culty in  making  a  bearded  Muscovite 
waiter  understand  his  requirements. 
As  Bernard  spoke  Russian  fluently,, 
he  offered  to  interpret,  and  the 
stranger  thanked  him. 

After  the  waiter  had  withdrawn,, 
they  entered  into  conversation  with 
the  ease  of  English-speaking  people 
in  foreign  places. 


140 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


"Isn't  this  a  charming  place,"  re- 
marked Bernard.  "One  can  quite  un- 
derstand that  Mr.  Parsons  would  like 
to  make  it  his  own." 

"He  has  bought  it,"  answered  the 
stranger. 

Quite  unconsciously,  Bernard 
winked. 

The  action  was  not  lost  upon  the 
observer,  who  seemed  to  acknowledge 
it  with  a  momentary  gleam  in  his  cold 
gray  eyes,  but  the  thin,  clean-shaven 
face  he  turned  to  Bernard  was  abso- 
lutely impassive  as  he  asked:  "Why 
does  that  surprise  you?" 

"Because  it  is  Crown  property  and 
a  royal  residence." 

"Sure.  I  know  all  that.  It  made 
extra  difficulties,  but  they  have  been 
overcome." 

"By  extraordinary  means,  then." 

The  stranger  seemed  amused.  "Just 
dollars,"  he  answered. 

Bernard  shook  his  head  incredu- 
lously. 

"Do  you  know  the  price — four  hun- 
dred thousand  roubles — there  is  no 
secret  about  it." 

"Neither  Mr.  Parsons  nor  any  one 
else  could  buy  it  for  such  a  sum." 

"But  he  has,  for  I  happen  to  know." 

The  old  man's  quiet  confidence  an- 
noyed Bernard,  who  retorted:  "You 
might  as  well  tell  me  that  he  has 
bought  Windsor  Castle." 

"I've  had  better  bargains  in  Italy," 
went  on  the  stranger,  "but  this  is  Rus- 
sia, and  here  Alexander  Palace  is 
good  enough  for  me." 

"Oh,  I  see— I  apologize,  Mr.  Par- 
sons. Of  course  I'm  very  sorry,  but 
really  I  did  not  recognize " 

"  'Nuff  said.  I  understand.  You 
have  nothing  to  apologize  for,  Mr. — " 

"Winder— Bernard  Winder." 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Winder.  Vi 
told  me  about  Winder  &  Co.  You 
are  a  business  man  and  look  at  things 
from  a  business  point  of  view.  Go 
on,  please.  What  is  it  you  think 
about  my  deal?" 

"I  have  said  too  much  already.  If 
there  is  anything  wrong,  your  Consul 
will  explain." 

"Yep.     Reading  will   explain.   But 


first  let's  get  this  straight."  He  medi- 
tated for  a  moment,  took  a  sip  of  ice- 
water,  and  asked  quietly:  "What  is  it 
you  suspect?  A  frame-up?" 

"No,  no — only  looking  at  the  mat- 
ter from  a  business  point  of  view  all 
does  not  seem  quite  right  to  me,"  fal- 
tered Bernard. 

"And  from  that  point  of  view  do 
you  see  where  the  crookedness  comes 
in?" 

"If  you  were  here  as  the  guest  of 
Prince  Dolgoruki  it  would  be  all 
right." 

"But  as  prospective  purchaser  I  do 
not  rightly  fit  in,  is  that  the  idea?" 

"Yes.  It  would  be  just  as  absurd  as 
if  the  Duke  of  Westminster  were  try- 
ing to  buy  the  White  House  for  his 
home  in  Washington." 

"But  I  have  already  paid  a  hundred 
thousand  roubles — seventy-five  thou- 
sand, only  yesterday,"  said  Parsons, 
screwing  up  his  mouth. 

"Then  I  ought  to  tell  you  what  I 
have  heard."  Bernard  told  the  story, 
not  omitting  the  part  the  Prince  had 
played.  He  said  that  if  Reading  still 
had  the  money,  some  of  it  might  be 
recovered  from  him  if  he  could  be 
found  at  once,  but  if  any  had  been 
paid  over  to  the  Governor-General  it 
was  probably  squandered  away  al- 
ready, and  should  be  regarded  as  lost. 
He  went  on  to  explain  that  if  legal 
proceedings  were  taken,  they  would  in 
all  probability  drag  on  for  years,  and 
eventually  end  unsatisfactorily;  whilst 
if  the  Governor-General  or  his  friends 
were  threatened  with  exposure,  Mr. 
Parsons  would  probably  find  himself 
put  across  the  frontier  in  twenty-four 
hours,  bag  and  baggage,  with  the  pros- 
pect of  conducting  his  claims  and  legal 
proceedings  by  correspondence. 

Mr.  Parsons  listened  attentively, 
but  when  the  story  was  finished  he 
was  looking  beyond,  but  not  at  Ber- 
nard. He  did  not  interrupt.  His 
thoughts  were  elsewhere,  and  they 
wrought  a  perceptible  change  in  his 
appearance.  Bernard,  noticing  this, 
stopped  in  astonishment,  for  he  saw 
before  him  a  man  who  looked  twenty 
years  younger  than  the  Mr.  Parsons 


THE  ONE  WHO  WINKED. 


141 


he  had  addressed.  This  man  had  a 
firmly  set  mouth,  a  keen  look  in  bright 
gray  eyes,  and  some  color  in  his  thin 
cheeks.  When  he  spoke,  it  was  with 
a  rapid  utterance,  terse  and  with  great 
confidence. 

"I  will  get  Consul  Keading  here, 
and  he  shall  explain  to  us,  for  I  want 
you  to  be  with  me  in  this,  Mr.  Winder. 
There  will  be  no  law-suit,  for  I  be- 
lieve I  can  straighten  the  whole  thing 
out  within  twenty-four  hours.  But — 
I  will  ask  you  as  a  favor  not  to  men- 
tion anything  of  your  suspicions  to 
Vi;  her  enjoyment  will  end  soon 
enough.  And  don't  tell  Belle.  It  would 
do  no  good.  It  will  sting  badly 
enough  when  I  break  the  news  to  her, 
as  I  must  some  day.  No;  you  don't 
appreciate  all  that  it  means.  You 
can't.  You  are  too  young.  For  five 
and  twenty  years  Belle  and  I  have 
faced  everything  together.  We  have 
weathered  storms — blizzards — and 
basked  in  the  sunshine,  too.  Yes,  sir, 
I  am  v/hat  Belle  has  made  me.  I  never 
forget  that,  and  it  will  hurt  her  most 
to  know  that  when  the  crooks  offered 
Gad  Parsons  the  green  goods  he  didn't 
have  the  horse-sense  enough  to  know 
it.  But  I'm  not  down  and  out  yet.  If 
you  are  nearby  when  the  tombola  is 
run  out,  Keading  and  I  will  not  need 
to  hunt  far  to  find  you." 

III. 

The  gardens  were  still  thronged. 
Around  the  camp  fire  were  real  Siber- 
ian frontiersmen,  as  Bernard  recog- 
nized by  their  strange  speech.  They 
were  telling  stories  and  singing  songs. 
There  he  again  met  Miss  Parsons  and 
her  companions. 

"Well,  Mr.  Winder,  how  do  you  like 
our  palace  and  its  festivities?" 

"Most  delightful.  Really,  I  must 
congratulate  you " 

"It's  fine,"  she  interrupted  joyously. 
"It  would  be  nicer  still  if  we  had  the 
whole  of  the  Palace.  The  Governor- 
General,  you  know,  is  living  here  as 
well,  and  you  can't  imagine  how  ham- 
pered we  are  for  room  even  the  ser- 
vants are  complaining.  You  know,  Pa 


bought  the  palace."  She  stopped  sud- 
denly, for  Bernard,  quite  involuntarily, 
had  winked.  "Why  do  you  do  that? 
I  don't  know  what  it  means,  but  it  is 
not  very  polite,  so  please  don't." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Really,  I 
didn't  mean  to.  It's  a  nasty  business 
habit  I  have  contracted  somehow." 

"It's  about  business  I  want  to  talk 
to  you."  She  led  the  way  across  the 
lawn  to  the  music-room.  "I  want  you 
to  find  out  for  me  when  Prince  Dol- 
goruki  will  leave." 

"Why  not  ask  him?"  suggested 
Bernard. 

"Because  that  is  of  no  use.  He  al- 
ways says  to-morrow,  or  the  day  af- 
ter. But  he  doesn't  go,  and  that  makes 
me  tired;  gets  on  Ma's  nerves,  and 
tries  Pa's  patience,  so  you  see  it  is 
serious.  If  he  doesn't  go,  or  will  not 
go,  I  want  you  as  a  business  man  to 
find  out  why,  and  also  tell  me,  if  you 
can,  a  way  of  getting  him  to  go  at 
once." 

"That  will  be  difficult,  because  he  is 
Governor-General,  and  can  do  just 
whatever  he  pleases  in  Moscow." 

"But  the  Russians  are  such  nice  peo- 
ple that  I  am  quite  sure  Prince  Dol- 
goruki  would  not  do  anything  to  annoy 
us,  not  intentionally,  so  I  cannot  un- 
derstand why  he  stays  on  here  when 
he  knows  his  presence  is  not  con- 
venient." 

"Your  Russian  friends  might  ex- 
plain." 

"I  have  asked  them.  One  told  me 
that  Prince  Dolgoruki  could  not  pos- 
sibly tear  himself  away  as  long  as  I 
am  here.  That  sort  of  talk  does  not 
help  me  much.  And  when  I  told  an- 
other that  Pa  had  bought  this  place, 
he  said  it  was  just  like  an  American, 
and  that  he  thought  he  ought  to  buy 
me  the  Ermitage  at  St.  Petersburg  be- 
fore any  other  American  got  it.  Really, 
I  don't  know  v/hat  to  think.  Of  course, 
if  the  Alexander  Palace  is  not  Prince 

Dolgoruki's  to  sell,  why,  then " 

She  paused,  very  hopeless  and  de- 
jected, looking  very  appealingly  into 
Bernard's  eyes. 

"I  have  heard  some  gossip,  but 
really  I  know  nothing  of  the  facts." 


142 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


"But  do  you  think  it  possible?" 

"In  Russia  anything  is  possible." 

"You  know  Russian  ways.  I  wish 
you  knew  American  ways,  too,  and 
you  would  then  understand  our  posi- 
tion. It's  pathetic." 

"I  know  one  charming  American, 
and  I  assure  you,  Miss  Parsons,  that 
my  time  and  services  are  always  en- 
tirely at  her  disposal." 

"Thank  you.  Not  less  gallant  than 
others,  though  a  Russian  would  always 
offer  me  his  life." 

"I  am  not  so  presumptuous  as  to 
suppose  mine  could  be  of  use  to  you; 
but  the  facilities  possessed  by  Winder 
&  Co.  are " 

"Can't  you  forget  Winder  &  Co.,  and 
this  once  be  yourself.  I  want  advice 
and  help,  but  the  business  is  private 
and  personal,  so  'oes  not  concern 
Winder  &  Co." 

"I  understand." 

"I  shall  have  to  explain  things  to 
you.  In  the  West,  a  man  may  make 
money,  and  it  is  not  counted  against 
him;  and  it  is  not  to  his  discredit  if 
he  spends  what  he  has;  but  in  New 
York  society  it  is  not  the  proper  thing 
for  the  same  man  to  make  a  fortune 
and  spend  it  all.  The  best  way  is  for 
your  grandfather  to  have  made  money, 
your  father  to  have  hoarded  the  for- 
tune, and  for  you  to  squander  it  in  the 
conventional  society  way.  Pa  made 
money  years  ago  out  West.  Perhaps 
he  had  to,  for  he  liked  making  money. 
Now,  I  can't  hoard.  I  never  could. 
So,  as  we  don't  fit  in  with  the  society 
plan,  we  agreed  to  skip  a  generation 
in  order  that  I  can  spend  in  a  proper 
way  what  Pa  made." 

"And  I  am  sure " 

"Listen!  You  don't  know  Ameri- 
can Society.  There  you  must  be  just 
so  all  the  time,  or  not  at  all.  To  be  in 
our  best  Society  is  like  gliding  on  a 
single  strand  of  wire  stretched  high 
over  Niagara;  and  not  any  easier,  un- 
less you  are  held  up  by  four  hundred 
supports  reaching  right  down  to  the 
bedrock  Knickerbocker  foundation.  If 
you  can't  keep  an  erect  poise  you  soon 
topple  over.  Once  down,  you  are 
down  all  the  time  and  never  see  the 


wire  again  except  to  admire  it  from 
a  long,  long  way  off." 

"Is  it  worth  it?"  asked  Bernard, 
with  some  slight  disgust. 

"For  itself,  no ;  for  other  things,  yes. 
Life  is  easier  in  Europe,  but  it  isn't 
life.  I  love  America.  It  is  the  only 
country  where  one  feels  alive  all  the 
time.  You  don't  know  what  it  is.  You 
can't.  I'm  different.  I'm  American, 
real  American — every  living,  throb- 
bing cell  in  me  is  American.  That's 
not  enough:  I  want  to  be  America. 
Just  that.  I  want  our  people,  when 
they  see  me,  to  say :  'Here's  our  young 
America — we're  proud  of  her.  She  is 
welcome  anywhere.'  If  that's  ambi- 
tion, I'm  ambitious,  and  I'm  glad  of 
it." 

"So  am  I!"  exclaimed  Bernard,  fired 
by  her  enthusiasm. 

"I'd  rather  fail  on  the  other  side 
than  succeed  anywhere  else,  even  in 
London.  I  might  succeed,  but  there's 
Pa.  He  is  the  dearest  and  best  father 
in  the  world,  the  right  sort,  the  sort 
you  find  only  in  America.  I'm  proud 
of  him,  and  he  just  lives  for  me,  but 
he  is  really  not  at  home  anywhere  this 
side  of  the  Rocky  Mountains.  He  is 
so  generous,  so  willing  to  sacrifice  him- 
self, that  he's  around  with  us  every- 
where we  want  to  go,  though  we  can't 
make  him  forget  Dorado." 

"Why  should  you?" 

"Don't  you  understand?  It  is  be- 
cause New  York  Society  won't  recog- 
nize Dorado;  it  has  cut  out  the  West 
and  everything  that  Dorado  and  the 
rest  stood  for.  Even  here  Pa  only 
likes  that  camp  fire  and  the  Siberian 
pioneers.  With  them  he  is  always  at 
home;  and  they  seem  to  understand 
each  other  pretty  well,  although  they 
have  only  about  twenty  words  in  com- 
mon. There  is  one  of  them,  that 
giant,  Piotr,  our  boatman;  he  has 
killed  three  men  with  his  bare  fists, 
and  I  don't  know  how  many  more 
with  weapons.  Well,  he  would  just 
go  through  fire  and  water  for  Pa,  and 
he  always  understands  immediately 
what  Pa  wants  done.  Of  course,  Pa's 
our  trouble,  ma's  and  mine.  He's  as 
clever  as  he  is  good,  and  as  kind  as 


THE  ONE  WHO  WINKED. 


143 


any  man  could  be,  but  he's  too  ready 
to  protect  us,  that's  all.  Whenever 
anything  threatens  us,  he  is  liable  to 
slip  right  back  into  the  old  ways  of 
his  younger  days  in  Dorado,  when  the 
town  was  wide  open  and  everything 
was  primitive.  You  understand  now, 
don't  you?  If  we  have  been  tricked 
here,  and  Pa  gets  to  know  it,  he'll  take 
things  into  his  own  hands  before  we 
can  reach  out,  and  his  troubles  will  be 
settled,  Western  style.  Our  troubles 
are  different.  It  makes  me  dizzy  even 
to  think  about  this  Palace  business, 
Mr.  Winder.  I  seem  to  be  falling  off 
the  wire  even  before  I  have  both  feet 
on  the  strand,  and  to  be  tumbling 
down,  down,  to  the  uttermost  depths. 
After  anything  of  that  sort,  I  couldn't 
go  into  our  Society,  and  evermore  I 
should  have  to  haunt  Riviera  hotels. 
Instead  of  being  acclaimed  'Young 
America,'  Pa  would  hear  our  people 
say :  'Vi  Parsons — isn't  she  the  daugh- 
ter of  that  crazy  galoot  who  wasted  a 
million  trying  to  buy  the  Kremlin  in 
Moscow,  and  got  kicked  over  the  fron- 
tier by  the  Tzar's  uncle.  Poor  thing! 
Poor  thing!" 

"I'd  hit  the  man  who  said  that!" 
exclaimed  Bernard,  hotly. 

"So  would  Pa.  That's  just  the  trou- 
ble. I  don't  want  pity  and  sympathy 
after  I've  failed.  If  we  haven't  bought 
the  Alexander  Palace,  I'm  dead — 
dead.  It  will  be  all  over  with  me 
socially,  unless  we  can  keep  Pa  from 
knov/ing.  It  isn't  the  money — Ma  and 
I  can  manage  that  part  of  it — it  is 
managing  Pa,  keeping  him  in  the  dark. 
I  think  the  matter  could  be  hushed  up, 
so  that  our  people  v/ould  not  hear  of 
it,  but  Pa  is  another  proposition.  I 
don't  know  what  we  can  do  with  him, 
that's  why  I  have  appealed  to  you, 
Mr.  Winder.  We  must  get  to  know  the 
truth,  whatever  it  is.  We  must  get  to 
know  it  before  Pa  does,  and  before  he 
even  suspects  that  anything  is  wrong. 
Don't  forget  that  he  is  as  sudden  as 
any  Jack-in-the-Box.  Please  find  out 
everything  for  me,  and  if  it  should 
prove  as  I  dread,  we'll  talk  it  over 
with  Ma,  and  do  something  right  away. 
Promise!" 


"I'll  do  all  I  can,  and  will  let  you 
know  what  success  I  have." 

IV. 

Everywhere  throughout  the  grounds 
Bernard  hunted  for  Mr.  Parsons;  he 
found  him  at  last  shaking  a  cocktail 
with  the  precision  and  speed  of  an 
adroit  bar-tender,  for  several  Russian 
officers.  Later,  after  the  favors  had 
been  distributed  in  the  kiosk,  he  spoke 
to  him,  and  they  went  off  together  to 
a  remote  room  where  Keading  was 
waiting. 

"Now,  Consul,  before  we  get  to 
business,"  commenced  Mr.  Parsons, 
seating  himself  comfortably  in  a  low 
chair,  "when  is  our  noble  guest,  Prince 
Dolgoruki,  leaving  us?" 

"He  says  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
and  I  think  he  really  means  it  this 
time." 

"He  was  to  have  gone  when  he 
received  the  •  last  installment.  The 
deal  is  now  off  because  the  vendors 
cannot  give  possession." 

"Are  you  mad?"  cried  the  Consul. 
"You  have  a  splendid  bargain,  and 
just  because  we  can't  hustle  things 
through  fast  enough,  you " 

"Ask  for  the  return  of  the  money," 
interrupted  Parsons. 

The  Consul  merely  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"Prince  Dolgoruki  has  never  in- 
tended to  give  possession,  nor  did  you 
ever  intend  that  I  should  have  it.  You 
have  got  me  in  this,  Consul;  do  you 
see  any  way  out  of  it?" 

"If  you  are  foolish  enough  to  with- 
draw now,  you  will  forfeit  the  de- 
posit money,  and  I  think  you  deserve 
to  lose  it,"  said  the  Consul,  brusquely. 

"Instead  of  receiving  more  to-night 
as  you  expected,  you  will  return  what 
I  have  already  paid." 

"I  do  not  understand." 

"You  will."  He  touched  a  bell,  and 
Lomatcru  his  majordomo,  appeared  at 
the  door.  "Lomatch,  take  Consul 
Keading  to  my  retreat  in.  the  Tower, 
and  see  that  he  is  not  disturbed  when 
there." 

"What  do  you  mean?    Do  you  for- 


144 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


get  I  am  Consul — that  this  is  Russia." 

"I  can't  alter  that.  Your  game  is 
up,  though  you  don't  seem  to  realize 
it.  That  journey  you  were  about  to 
make  to  the  other  end  of  Europe  is 
postponed.  What  you  need  is  a  rest, 
and  a  quiet  time,  just  to  think  things 
over.  Find  some  way  out  for  me,  and 
you  can  send  for  me  whenever  you 
have  any  proposition  to  make.  There 
will  be  some  one  at  your  door." 

"This  is  an  outrage !  He  turned  an- 
grily to  Winder.  "I  shall  require,  you, 
sir,  as  a  witness  of  this  assault." 

At  a  signal  from  Lomatch,  Piotr  and 
another  burly  Siberian  frontiersman 
entered  the  room  and  took  up  positions 
on  either  side  of  the  Consul. 

"To  His  Excellency,  the  Governor- 
General,"  shouted  Reading,  turning 
upon  his  heel  and  walking  towards 
the  door.  His  jailers  followed  in  ap- 
parent acquiescence. 

"Mr.  Winder,  I  think  I  will  see 
Prince  Dolgoruki;  Lomatch  will  bring 
down  what  money  is  found  on  Consul 
Reading;  just  add  it  up  and  let  me 
know  how  much  it  amounts  to  in  rou- 
bles .  Lomatch  will  take  charge  cf  the 
Consul's  gun.  I  shall  see  you  later." 

In  the  ball-room,  Vi  Parsons  was 
leading  the  cotillion:  Winder  merely 
looked  on  until  the  company  began  to 
disperse.  In  the  cloak-room  the  re- 
marks of  some  of  the  guests  who  had 
descended  from  the  card-room  startled 
him. 

"Magnificent  play!"  exclaimed  one. 

"The  American  knows  his  game," 
said  another. 

"Sublime!  By  the  devil,  the  play 
was  terrific,"  agreed  a  third. 

Just  then  Winder  saw  Vi  beckoning 
to  him  from,  an  ante-room. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  it  all?" 
she  asked.  "They  say  Pa  was  in  the 
card-room  playing  against  Prince  Dol- 
goruki, but  there  must  be  some  mis- 
take. Pa  never  plays." 

Mrs.  Parsons,  tired  and  careworn, 
corroborated.  "It  is  more  than  twenty 
years  since  your  father  played,  Vi. 


He  promised  he  would  never  play 
again  for  other  people's  money,  and  he 
has  broken  his  word." 

Just  then  Mr.  Parsons  entered  the 
room,  buoyant  and  triumphant.  Mrs. 
Parsons  glanced  at  him  inquiringly. 

"I  have  won  fifty  thousand  roubles 
from  Prince  Dolgoruki,  Belle,  but  it 
was  my  money,  not  his.  I  have  not 
bought  Alexander  Palace.  It  is  not 
for  sale.  Next  week  we  will  go  with 
Mr.  Winder  to  Nijni-Novgorod,  and  he 
will  show  us  the  fair."  He  handed 
the  money  he  had  just  won  to  Win- 
der. "How  much  does  that  make  now 
altogether?" 

"About  twenty-two  thousand  rou- 
bles." 

"Then  pay  it  into  my  account  at 
Yunker's  Bank  in  the  morning.  Prince 
Dolgoruki  can't  play  cards,  can't  un- 
derstand English:  he  can  only  make 
faces,  and  he  does,  all  the  time — but 
thank  you  for  that  wink,  Winder!" 

Later  that  night,  when  Mrs.  Par- 
sons had  laid  aside  the  diamond  tiara, 
and  got  into  a  comfortable  dressing- 
gown,  her  husband  related  the  whole 
story,  and  she  saw  him  get  younger  as 
he  recounted  the  details. 

"Gad,"  she  asked,  "whatever  made 
you  do  it?" 

"Only  the  opportunity,  Belle.  Too 
far  East  is  West." 

She  nodded.  "Gad,  you  are  just 
that  same  old  Gad  Parsons  with  whom 
I  was  in  love  at  Dorado,  and  I'm  proud 
of  you.  You've  been  in  the  right  all 
along,  but  I  didn't  know  it.  Forgive 
me,  Gad.  I  won't  forget  again." 

"You  have  always  been  Belle  of 
Dorado  to  me,  and  you  always  will 
be.  I  don't  have  to  go  to  Dorado: 
anywhere  you  are  is  good  enough  for 
me.  But  really  I  like  to  see  you  where 
you  properly  belong — in  Society. 
When  we  have  seen  the  Nijni-Nov- 
gorod fair,  I  think  we  will  accompany 
Bernard  Winder  back  to  London,  and 
then  conquer  New  York." 

His  wife  nodded  complacently.  "Vi 
will  be  pleased,"  she  said. 


THE  JUDGMENT 


By  Katharine  H.  Stilwell 


IN  THE  WHISPERING  winds  of 
the  gray  dawn,  in  the  first  call  of 
the  birds,  and  in  the  fading  shad- 
ows of  the  night,  the  Moqui  Indian 
reads  the  portent  of  the  new  day,  and 
is  forewarned  of  great  changes  and 
happenings  impending  within  his 
pueblo. 

To  the  silent  worshipers  who  gather 
upon  the  highest  roof  in  the  first  dim 
gray  of  dawn  for  their  strange  devo- 
tions to  the  sun,  each  passing  moment 
is  full  of  meaning,  each  sound  bears 
some  message.  These  silent  wor- 
shipers in  the  little  pueblo  lying  just 
south  of  Taos,  had  long  noted  many 
unusual  conditions,  signs,  omens,  that 
clearly  forecast  to  them  startling 
events,  perhaps  crime,  within  their 
village.  But  long  weeks  had  slipped 
peacefully  by,  until  the  new  moon  of 
March  showed  its  silver  crescent  in  the 
sky,  then  with  the  setting  sun  came 
two  fleet  runners  from  the  larger 
pueblos  bearing  messages  for  the 
Governor.  Messages  that  demanded 
the  immediate  arrest  and  trial  of 
Avatca,  the  noblest  young  brave  of  the 
pueblos. 

Avatca,  the  leader,  the  idol,  of  all 
the  younger  Moqui  men;  handsome, 
fleetest  of  foot,  and  with  gifts  of 
tongue  rarely  known;  he  had  no 
equal.  Yet  the  governors  of  all  the 
larger  pueblos  had  demanded  his  ar- 
rest and  immediate  trial  before  the 
highest  tribunal  of  the  nation — the  su- 
preme council,  which  convenes  for 
few  causes,  and  those  only  of  the 
gravest  character.  Grave  indeed  was 
the  charge  against  Avatca.  To  dare 
confess  to  one  of  alien  race,  knowledge 
of  certain  jealously  guarded  religious 
ceremonies,  and  to  utter  words  held 


sacred,  is  the  greatest  crime  a  Moqui 
can  commit,  murder  being  to  them  in- 
finitely less;  and  for  this  crime  there 
is  but  one  punishment — to  be  made  an 
outcast  among  all  men  marked  by  the 
severed  ears  and  branded  face.  The 
brief  incident  upon  which  this  charge 
was  based  had  been  almost  forgotten. 

In  the  late  winter  days  a  white  man 
wandering,  lost,  in  the  vast  mountain 
range  across  the  valley,  had  by  excep- 
tional skill  and  bravery,  saved 
Avatca's  life  when  that  young  Indian 
was  attacked  by  a  pair  of  hungry 
pumas.  Moqui  gratitude  is  prover- 
bial. Avatca  cared  generously  for  his 
rescuer,  and  led  him  back  to  the  near- 
est trading  post  of  the  Navajos  where 
horses  and  a  guide  to  the  outer  world 
could  be  secured. 

Ever  jealous  and  malign  where  their 
old  enemies  of  the  pueblos  are  con- 
cerned, the  Navajos  who  guided  the 
white  man  back  to  his  people  returned 
to  accuse  Avatca  of  this  greatest 
crime.  They  swore  that  in  the  long 
days  tramping  together  through  the 
mountains  the  white  man  had  won  the 
young  Indian  to  dangerous  confi- 
fidences,  and  by  skillful  questioning 
had  drawn  forth  much  that  in  Moqui 
law  is  forbidden  to  the  tongue,  so 
knowledge  of  sacred  things  had  been 
revealed  and  a  sacred  word  uttered. 
And  with  these  assertions  the  Nava- 
jos had  taunted  the  chief  men  of  the 
other  pueblos. 

The  whole  village  was  plunged  into 
deepest  shame  and  grief,  for  every  one 
was  proud  of  Avatca  and  honored 
him.  The  old  men  regarding  him  as 
the  future  head  of  their  nation,  had 
eagerly  instructed  him  in  the  most  an- 
cient, sacred  traditions  and  rites  of 


146 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


their  people  far  beyond  what  is  usu- 
ally taught  the  youths  of  the  tribe. 
The  young  men  who  became  his  inti- 
mates and  knew  him  best,  knew  the 
secret  of  his  passionate  love  for 
Pahlu,  the  Governor's  daughter.. They 
alone  knew  that  when  again  the  sea- 
son of  the  flute  and  corn  festival 
should  come,  Avatca,  without  warning 
or  consent,  would  seize  the  girl,  as 
did  the  chiefs  of  old,  and  bear  her  to 
his  own  roof;  though  already  her 
father  had  promised  her  to  a  chief  of 
a  far  northern  pueblo.  This  mattered 
not  to  the  impassioned  young  brave; 
he  revered  the  old  ways,  and  he  loved 
in  the  old  way — a  way  that  would  tol- 
erate no  check  or  bar  from  either  the 
girl  or  her  people.  Though  he  never 
seemed  to  notice  her — in  fact,  seemed 
to  scorn  all  women — yet  his  intimates 
knew  he  noted  well  her  every  look  and 
movement;  and  they  never  doubted 
that  he  would  take  her  for  his  own 
when  the  time  he  had  fixed  should 
come. 

The  trial  of  Avatca  is  one  of  the 
greatest  in  tribal  history.  Throughout, 
the  young  Indian  steadfastly  asserted 
his  innocence;  attributing  the  accusa- 
tion to  the  scheming  trickery  of  the 
Navajos.  But  the  sternly  silent  old 
men  of  that  highest  tribunal  had  little 
mercy  for  one  who  could  be  so  ac- 
cused, who  could  bring  such  shame 
upon  their  nation.  And  so  even  the 
eloquence  of  Avatca  failed  to  move 
them,  until  in  a  moment  of  desperate 
exaltation,  he  demanded,  as  proof  of 
his  innocence,  that  he  be  subjected  to 
the  severest  test  known  to  any  tribe, 
an  ordeal  not  invoked  in  any  pueblo 
for  more  than  three  generations.  He 
demanded  as  his  right  of  trial  the 
judgment  of  the  snake. 

"The  judgment  of  the  snake"  is  one 
of  the  oldest  Moqui  legends.  "Once 
there  lived  a  chief  who,  to  prove  his 
innocence  of  the  ruthless  murder  of  a 
powerful  rival,  called  upon  the  Great 
Father  of  the  skies  to  give  his  judg- 
ment to  the  most  venomous  serpent  of 
all  the  desert  land,  and  if  he  (the 
chief)  were  guilty  to  let  the  snake's 
venom  strike  him  dead  before  a 


mighty  concourse  of  his  people,  but  if 
he  were  innocent  the  snake  should 
strike  without  power  to  harm  him.  The 
chiefs  of  the  nation  gathered,  and 
again  and  again  was  a  snake  released 
to  judge  the  accused  man,  and  many 
times  did  the  snakes  strike  him,  but 
when  they  struck  no  one  could  catch 
the  faintest  sound  of  the  shrill  ripple 
of  the  warning  rattle.  So  that  great 
chief  lived  long,  and  ruled  as  chief  had 
never  ruled  before,  to  the  honor  and 
glory  of  his  land  and  people." 

This  happened  many  years  before 
the  white  man  knew  of  the  land  of  the 
Moqui.  But  since  that  time  have  all 
men  known  that  the  snake's  venom 
flows  not  unless  the  shrill  rattle 
vibrates. 

The  rite  had  not  been  performed  for 
so  long  that  it  had  become  to  the  tribe 
in  general  a  half-forgotten  tale,  and 
all  its  weird  ceremonial  but  uncanny 
whisperings  they  hardly  dared  repeat 
even  in  the  night  watches  over  the 
flocks  and  fields  down  in  the  valley. 
Yet  a  man's  life  must  be  given,  or 
honor  and  power  won  through  these 
old  fantastic  .mysteries. 

The  desperate  demand  of  Avatca 
appalled  his  stern,  relentless  judges, 
but  even  the  supreme  council  was 
without  authority  to  deny  him  the 
gruesome  test;  so  it  was  decreed  that, 
as  the  rite  should  only  be  held  when 
the  moon  is  at  the  full,  it  must  take 
place  on  the  night  of  the  full  moon  of 
the  trial  month,  March. 

On  the  morning  of  that  day,  Pahlu, 
the  Governor's  daughter,  was  the  first 
in  the  long  line  of  women  to  pass 
swiftly  down  the  many  steps  that, 
dropping  aslant  the  sheer  face  of  the 
mesa's  cliff,  led  over  to  the  threadlike 
trail  connecting  the  pueblo  with  the 
deep  water  basins  of  a  lower  mesa. 
These  basins  had  always  been  the 
pueblo's  one  unfailing  source  of  water. 
Here  the  women  came  each  morning  to 
carry  back  to  the  pueblo  in  their  large 
water  jars  (tianajas)  the  day's  supply 
of  pure,  cool  water. 

Pahlu  lingered  long  filling  her 
tianaja  slowly,  in  order  to  catch  every 
word  of  the  morning  gossip  of  her 


THE  JUDGMENT. 


147 


crowding  companions;  for  having 
greater  liberty  than  she,  they  knew 
more  of  the  imprisoned  man,  and  of 
the  coming  event  of  the  night.  Pahlu 
loved  the  handsome  Avatca.  He  had 
been  her  childhood's  closest  compan- 
ion. Together  they  played  all  the  de- 
lightful stone  games  that  Indian  child- 
ren love  so  dearly,  and  later  he  had 
made  for  her  her  first  loom.  Avatca 
was  always  kind  to  her,  and  she 
loved  him  with  the  deep  devotion  for 
which  the  shy,  silent  Moqui  girl  has 
ever  been  noted.  To  be  sure,  he 
ceased  to  notice  her  when  he  grew 
older  and  became  an  initiate  of  the 
great  fraternities,  for  then  he  had  bet- 
ter things  of  which  to  think  than  of 
foolish  girls.  Yet  since  recently  her 
years  had  given  her  the  right  to  wear 
her  beautiful  hair  in  big  whorls  above 
the  tiny  ears,  and  also  wear  the  fine 
blanket  of  a  chief's  daughter,  she 
had  fancied  that  his  eyes  often  rested 
approvingly  upon  her. 

Loitering  there  beside  the  water 
basins  the  girl  suddenly  formed  a 
desperate  resolve.  She  resolved  to  be 
near  Avatca  in  the  hours  of  his  su- 
preme suffering,  to  witness  the  dread 
rite,  though  it  was  forbidden  to  all 
women.  Only  the  supreme  council, 
the  priests  of  the  fraternities,  and  a 
few  specially  appointed  sub-chiefs 
would  be  permitted  to  be  present.  The 
girl's  soft  eyes  were  alight  v/ith  her 
desperate  purpose  when  she  swung  the 
full  tianaja  to  poise  it  securely  on  her 
head,  the  wonderfully  developed  mus- 
cles working  like  silken  cords  beneath 
the  fine  skin  of  shoulder  and  arm  left 
bare  by  the  draping  of  her  blanket,  a 
draping  used  only  by  the  Moquis. 

All  the  long  day  she  toiled  at  her 
metate,  or  tended  the  bubbling  ollas 
that  rested  on  beds  of  glowing  coals. 
The  sun  was  setting  when  she  was 
free  at  last  to  seek  the  place  she  loved 
best — the  highest  roof. 

This  child  of  an  ancient,  and  still 
almost  unknown  race,  stood  sharply 
silhouetted  against  the  radiant  even- 
ing sky.  The  sweet  face  bore  the  rare 
flush  of  perfect  health,  accentuated 
by  the  quaint  fashion  of  the  hair,, 


whose  wavy  masses,  divided  by  the 
clear  white  line  of  parting  traced  from 
the  low  brow  to  the  slender  neck,  were 
gathered  above  the  ears  and  wound 
firmly  on  u-shaped  frames  of  fine 
reeds.  The  pliant  folds  of  her  beau- 
tiful blanket,  clinging  closely  to  the 
perfect  outline  of  the  lithe,  slender  fig- 
ure, were  caught  here  and  there  by 
dull  silver  clasps  that  generations  be- 
fore some  Moqui  workman  had 
wrought  and  molded  with  an  artist's 
touch.  All  the  scene  was  wonderful 
in  its  beauty;  seven  hundred  feet  be- 
low stretched  valley,  fields  and  river, 
and  still  beyond  the  far,  wide  desert 
and  mighty  mountains.  At  her  feet, 
built  massively  on  the  level  surface  of 
the  mesa  nestled  the  three  tiers  of  the 
pueblo's  great  building.  It  was  thus 
her  people  were  forced  to  dwell  in 
the  olden  time  when  they  were  ever 
the  prey  of  the  predatory  valley  tribes. 
Tribes  stronger  in  numbers,  despera- 
does of  the  plains,  who,  knowing  noth- 
ing of  permanent  home  or  habitation, 
sought  always  to  wrest  their  living 
from  the  industry  and  possessions  of 
the  pueblo  tribes. 

Pahlu  loved  her  little  pueblo,  and 
best  of  all,  she  loved  the  upper  roof, 
which  was,  save  very  rarely,  all  her 
own  after  the  devotions  to  the  rising 
sun.  The  other  women  preferring  the 
lower  roofs  where  they  could  sit  with 
metate  or  loom,  and  exchange  with 
their  companions  news  from  the  larger 
pueblos.  She  knew  all  the  beauty  of 
this  strange  tableland  of  the  sky.  She 
knew  where  the  purple  shadows  would 
rest  first,  as  the  sun  sank  lower; 
where  the  faint  pink  and  blue  and 
gold  of  the  wide,  barren  desert  would 
linger  longest.  When  the  soft  gray 
would  begin  to  creep  up  the  sheer 
sides  of  the  mighty  cliff.  And  when, 
as  if  in  answer  to  the  call  of  the  tiny 
valley  birds,  night  would  swiftly  en- 
fold her  world.  -Suddenly  the  great 
peaks  of  the  distant  ranges  reflected 
so  intensely  the  level  rays  of  the  sun 
that  all  their  rugged  outline  seemed 
swept  by  the  flame  of  some  giant  torch 
whose  glow  lingered,  quivering,  pul- 
sating, with  a  beauty  beyond  words. 


148 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


Night  was  swiftly  falling  as  she 
looked  upon  the  activity  of  the  lower 
roofs  and  mesa,  upon  the  busy  women 
and  happy,  crowding  children.  Far 
below,  village  men  were  ascending  the 
cliff,  having  finished  their  day's  work 
among  the  flocks  and  fields  down  in 
the  valley.  Beyond  the  playing  child- 
ren, out  on  the  clean-swept  surface  of 
the  surrounding  mesa,  there  were 
large  black  holes.  These  were  en- 
trances to  the  deep  subterranean  cere- 
monial chambers,  or  kivas,  of  the  fra- 
ternities. From  all  these  projected 
heavy  ladders,  the  only  means  of  en- 
tering the  strange,  dark  chambers.  All 
the  kivas,  save  one,  were  grouped  on 
this  part  of  the  mesa.  Far  out  on  the 
rough,  worn  edge  of  the  western  limit 
there  was  one  more  kiva,  and  to  this 
Pahlu's  eyes  turned  eagerly.  It  was 
known  as  the  "old  kiva,"  for  it  was 
very  old  and  very  sacred.  It  was  there 
the  weird  ceremonies  of  the  night 
would  be  held,  perhaps  the  life  of 
Avatca  sacrificed. 

Twenty  feet  below  the  edge  of  the 
mesa,  just  beyond  the  old  kiva,  there 
was  a  cave  where,  during  all  Pahlu's 
childhood,  the  big  gray  eagles  nested. 
Lying  flat  with  her  little  body  balanced 
precariously  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff 
she  had  spent  many  wonderful  hours 
watching  the  big  birds  and  their  awk- 
ward nestlings.  But  in  time  the  eagles 
abandoned  the  cave,  and  there  were 
no  more  big  baby  birds  to  watch.  Still 
she  clung  to  the  old  habit  of  watching 
the  narrow  ledge,  hoping  always  that 
other  birds  would  come  to  the  old  nest. 
In  these  idly  dreaming  hours  she  had 
discovered  the  dimmest  indications  of 
a  trail  that  seemed  to  lead  towards  the 
nesting  cave.  It  dropped  first  into  one 
of  the  rough  little  gullies  worn  by 
time  in  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  then 
led  out  to  two  small  projections  that 
were  like  worn  steps  and  completed  a 
path  to  the  cave.  The  longer  she  stud- 
ied the  dim  trace  of  trail,  the  more 
certain  she  became  that  in  some  earlier 
time  it  must  have  been  used  to  reach 
the  old  kiva.  After  a  while  the  child's 
curiosity  compelled  her  to  attempt  the 
old  trail.  It  did  not  seem  especially 


dangerous  to  one  who  had  lived  al- 
ways on  this  eerie  rnesa,  used  always 
to  the  dizzy,  thread-like  path  to  the 
water  basins ;  and  so  she  passed  safely 
to  the  cave. 

The  cave  was  larger  than  she  had 
judged  it  to  be,  looking  from  above. 
It  extended  sharply  upward  and  back 
quite  a  distance  into  the  cliff.  Explor- 
ing it  all  carefully,  she  found  at  the 
back  a  large  opening  closed  solidly 
with  hewn  stone  set  in  primitive 
cement;  and  she  knew  the  work  must 
be  very  old,  for  it  was  different  from 
any  done  now.  It  was  perfect  and  un- 
affected by  time,  except  where  the 
upper  part  of  the  wall  swerved  slightly 
outward  a  large  stone  had  become 
loosened  and  had  slipped  forward  half 
its  depth.  Climbing  the  rough  side- 
wall,  Pahlu  soon  succeeded  in  dislodg- 
ing the  big  stone  and  send  it  thunder- 
ing down  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave. 
She  was  much  alarmed,  for  if  she 
should  be  discovered  she  knew  her 
punishment  would  be  the  severest. 
But  the  noise  was  not  heard  above, 
and  after  a  time  her  courage  returned, 
and  she  drew  herself  up  into  the  space 
where  the  stone  had  been.  She  found 
that  the  stone  did  not  measure  the  full 
depth  of  the  wall,  and  had  only  left 
exposed  the  ends  of  heavy  timbers 
that  seemed  firmly  embedded  in  the 
mass  that  closed  the  opening.  These 
timbers  must  support  the  ceiling  of 
the  old  kiva.  Disappointed  that  en- 
trance could  not  be  gained  to  the  old 
chamber,  she  determined,  at  least,  to 
look  within,  and  so  began  to  break  and 
remove  with  her  short  knife  the 
cement  from  around  the  heavy  tim- 
bers. But  it  required  several  visits 
to  the  cave  before  she  removed  en- 
tirely the  hard  cement  and  could  look 
into  the  old  room.  The  entrance  was 
partly  closed,  and  so  only  the  dimmest 
outlines  of  the  kiva  were  visible. 

Her  point  of  observation  was  evi- 
dently opposite  the  altar,  the  poles 
bearing  the  sacred  masks  and  kilts  be- 
ing on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  what 
she  judged  to  be  a  pile  of  pajos, 
(prayer  sticks),  though  they  were 
much  larger  than  those  now  in  use. 


THE  JUDGMENT. 


149 


Still  disappointed  in  the  result  of  her 
hazardous  venture,  she  could  only 
press  some  soft  fabric  into  the  opening 
she  had  made,  so  that  neither  light  nor 
draft  could  betray  her,  and  go  cau- 
tiously back  to  the  village.  As  the 
years  passed,  she  followed  the  old 
trail  many  times,  often  removing  the 
packing  from  around  the  heavy  tim- 
bers to  look  again  into  the  sacred 
chamber,  but  the  dim  interior  showed 
no  change  or  hint  of  use.  Unde- 
tected in  following  the  dim  trail,  she 
grew  to  love  the  solitude  of  the  cave; 
it  was  there  she  kept  the  simple  treas- 
ures of  her  childhood,  and  it  became 
to  her  her  castle  where  it  seemed  all 
her  brightest  dreams  would  be  ful- 
filled. 

When  the  darkest  shadows  of  the 
falling  night  rested  upon  the  mesa  she 
would  again  follow  the  ancient  trail, 
for  only  in  the  deepest  darkness  could 
she  hope  to  evade  the  keen  watchful- 
ness of  those  guarding  all  the  mesa. 
There  was  no  conscious  purpose  in  her 
desperate  venture.  It  was  only  the 
compelling  instinct  of  intense  love. 
She  would  dare  all  dangers  to  be  near 
Avatca  in  his  hour  of  supreme  trial 
and  suffering;  there  was,  too,  a  strange 
faith  that  the  Great  Father  might  heed 
the  pleading  of  her  love  if  she  were 
near  the  sacred  shrine. 

It  was  late  before  the  moon  rose 
high  enough  to  send  the  dense  shadow 
of  the  tiered  dwellings  far  out  on  the 
narrowing  mesa,  but  at  last  it  touched 
the  first  depression  of  the  ancient 
trail,  and  Pahlu  stole  out  to  pass  the 
guards  and  gain  the  shelter  of  the  lit- 
tle gully.  With  face  hidden  within 
her  blanket,  and  so  silently  that  she 
seemed  but  the  shadow's  denser  part, 
she  crept  within  the  first  depression 
and  passed  swiftly  onward;  but  in  the 
deeper  darknes  beneath  the  cliff  where 
the  two  worn  projections  led  out  over 
the  deep  chasm  there  were  difficulties 
that  strained  even  her  strong  nerves 
before  she  stood  safely  within  the 
cave. 

Noiselessly  she  climbed  to  her  niche 
within  the  wall,  and  removed  the 
p/iant  mass  pressed  between  the  heavy 


timbers — knowing  the  darkness  could 
tell  no  revealing  tales,  and  that  her 
small  body  would  bar  the  betraying 
draft. 

Accustomed  as  she  was  to  her  tribe's 
strange  rites,  the  scene  before  her  was 
the  strangest,  weirdest,  she  had  ever 
looked  upon.  Two  old  men  crouched 
beside  the  ceremonial  fire  and  fed  it 
with  small  twigs  that  dropped  with 
odd  regularity  from  their  clawlike  fin- 
gers; and  their  bare  bronze  bodies  re- 
flected queerly  the  flames  their  fingers 
fed.  The  sand  pattern  laid  for  the  al- 
tar had  its  sands  dyed  in  hues  and 
shades  she  had  never  seen  before ;  and 
its  pictures  were  more  intricate  and 
contained  strange  symbols.  The  smoke 
dimmed  walls,  visible  to  her  now  for 
the  first  time,  were  entirely  covered 
with  fantastic  tracings  of  deep  re- 
ligious meaning;  while  the  thin  smoke 
that  wreathed  out  from  the  fire  in 
wraith-ribbons  of  gray,  floated  and 
twined  and  twisted  in  curious  forms- 
about  the  ancient  chamber. 

There  were  fifty  or  sixty  men  with- 
in the  old  kiva,  most  of  whom  she 
recognized  as  important  men  from  the 
larger  pueblos;  and  she  knew  they  had 
come  since  sunset  as  swiftly,  as 
silently  and  unnoted,  as  come  the 
first  gray  tints  of  a  new  day.  The 
ceremonies  were  far  along  in  their 
course,  all  but  two  of  the  sacred  masks 
had  been  returned  to  the  poles,  and 
long,  carved  boxes  were  being  closed 
and  placed  to  form  wall  benches. 

Her  father  was  presiding  with  the 
high  priests  of  the  great  fraternities 
on  either  side,  in  the  order  of  their 
importance.  Whatever  had  been  the 
ceremonies  preceding,  they  had  left 
their  deep  impress  upon  the  faces  of 
the  assembled  tribesmen.  There  was 
an  intensity  of  feeling,  an  exaltation 
of  religious  fervor,  that  seemed  to  fill 
the  whole  atmosphere  with  strange 
power  that  all  felt,  by  which  all  were 
uplifted. 

Standing  motionless  before  this 
highest  tribunal  of  his  nation,  to  be 
judged  by  the  rites  of  a  dead  past,  the 
superb  figure  of  the  accused  had  a 
dignity  of  bearing  that  was  kingly. 


150 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


After  a  time  two  masked  and  kilted 
priests  arose  and  placed  before  the 
-semicircle  of  the  council,  not  far  from 
the  majestic  figure  of  the  accused,  sev- 
eral cones  of  closely  woven  branches, 
.and  Pahlu  then  realized  that  the  cere- 
monies were  over  except  for  the  su- 
preme test. 

With  much  gesticulation  in  perfect 
unison  with  strangely  intoned  chants, 
the  masked  priests  took  from  their 
kilts  snake  whips  of  unusual  pattern 
and  size;  at  the  same  time  the  chiefs 
of  snake  and  antelope  fraternities  be- 
gan the  soft,  weird  beat  of  gourds  that 
must  always  herald  the  release  of  the 
deity  of  their  clans.  So  within  the  old 
kiva  the  wail  of  ancient  chants 
throbbed  slowly  forth  to  the. rhythmic 
beat  of  the  gourds,  and  the  wraith- 
ribbons  of  smoke  rose  and  fell,  and 
twined  and  turned  seemingly  in  time 
with  the  weird  music.  Then  through 
all  sounded  the  strained  voices  of  the 
priests  repeating  in  deep  gutturals  an- 
cient invocations  which  had  not  been 
heard  for  generations.  Finally,  bend- 
ing low,  the  kilted  priests  opened  wide 
one  of  the  woven  cones.  And  from 
that  cone  crawled  the  largest,  most 
hideous  snake  ever  seen  in  all  the  des- 
ert land. 

Slowly  the  snake  drew  its  unusual 
length  from  the  confining  branches,  its 
flat,  ugly  head  swaying  heavily  to  the 
strange  music  that  rose  and  fell  with 
such  perfect  rhythm.  After  a  time, 
•with  the  instinct  of  its  kind  when  too 
early  aroused  from  the  winter's 
lethargy,  fierce  rage  began  to  swell  its 
folds  and  quicken  its  motion.  The 
liead  no  longer  swayed  heavily,  but 
darted  viciously  here  and  there,  as  the 
creature  glided  swiftly  around  the 
wide  circle  marked  by  a  broad  white 
line  of  sacred  meal.  Then  suddenly  it 
coiled,  and  with  a  clear  roll  of  its 
rattle  it  struck  rapidly  here  and  there. 
Even  within  the  august  semi-circle  of 
chiefs  and  priests  there  seemed  to 
pass  an  instant's  quiver,  if  not  of 
fear,  then  of  something  closely  akin 
to  it,  as  the  huge  snake  gathered 
again  in  undulating  coils,  and  with  a 
roll  of  its  rattle  that  almost  drowned 


the  rhythmic,  sensuous  wail  of  chant 
and  beat  of  gourd,  it  struck  well  out 
beyond  the  circle  of  sacred  meal. 
Slowly,  strangely,  the  large  body  con- 
tracted and  drew  itself  sullenly  within 
the  enclosure  marked  and  guarded  by 
that  broad  white  line;  and  in  all  the 
time  that  followed,  it  did  not  again 
encroach  upon  the  sacred  boundary. 
At  last,  with  what  almost  seemed  re- 
luctance, the  snake  glided  toward  the 
motionless  man  it  was  to  judge.  Still, 
not  the  faintest  sign  of  fear  or  emo- 
tion was  shown  by  the  silent,  majestic 
figure.  The  snake's  darting  head 
reached  out  to  him,  the  wailing  music 
swelled  with  the  quickening  throb  of 
the  gourds.  Every  face  within  the  old 
chamber  was  drawn  and  set  with  the 
tension  of  the  moment,  as  the  snake 
sounded  a  shrill  and  deafening  roll  of 
its  rattle  and  struck  at  the  quiet  brown 
figure.  The  involuntary  intaking  of 
quick-drawn  breath  broke  uncon- 
sciously from  each  man,  save  the 
motionless  one  at  whom  the  snake  had 
struck.  But  the  snake  had  failed  to 
reach  the  man,  and  again  it  drew  sul- 
lenly back.  Close  to  the  white  line 
of  the  sacred  limit  its  swollen  folds 
wound  in  and  out,  and  the  swaying 
head  seemed  trying  to  feel  its  way 
through  strange,  unknown  conditions. 
Again  winding  forward,  its  mottled 
bulk  reaching  far  across  the  space  in 
front  of  the  man,  it  slowly  circled 
several  times  about  him,  as  if  to  find 
some  adequate  explanation  of  its  puz- 
zling failure.  Suddenly  in  utter 
frenzy,  it  darted  forward,  coiled, 
sounded  yet  a  louder  roll  of  its  rattle — 
and  struck.  This  time  there  were 
great  drops  on  the  faces  of  the  strong 
men  within  the  old  kiva,  but  again  the 
snake  had  mistaken  its  own  length 
and  had  fallen  several  inches  short  of 
reaching  the  bare  brown  limbs  of  the 
man  so  quietly  waiting  judgment. 
With  rage  that  grew  with  baffled  pur- 
pose, the  snake  struck  rapidly,  until 
the  old  chamber  seemed  filled  with 
the  shrill  roll  of  its  rattle,  and  still 
the  silent,  motionless  man  gave  no 
sign  or  quiver  of  fear.  The  tension 
and  strain  upon  all  the  assembly  had 


THE  JUDGMENT. 


151 


become  almost  unbearable.  Pahlu 
saw  her  father's  hand  tremble  as  he 
dashed  the  big  drops  from  his  drawn 
face — the  man  who,  in  every  snake 
dance,  tossed  many  of  these  creatures 
with  his  strong,  white  teeth  as  a  ter- 
rier shakes  a  rat;  yet,  as  the  deity  of 
his  clan  endowed  by  the  ancient  rite 
with  divine  power  of  judgment,  the 
snake  had  become  to  him  something 
unconquerable,  fearful.  The  huge,  re- 
pulsive thing  drew  still  nearer  the 
sacred  limit,  its  beady  eyes  fastened 
on  the  quiet  figure  in  the  center,  and 
again  the  music  swelled  in  wilder  wail 
to  the  now  rapid  throb  of  the  gourds, 
and  slowly  the  snake  began  again  to 
sway  and  undulate  to  the  wild  throb- 
bing strains,  and  the  forks  of  the 
darting  tongue  gleamed  with  strange 
distinctness.  A  gasp  that  was  almost 
a  cry  broke  from  the  strained  throat 
of  one  of  the  assembly  when,  like  a 
flash,  the  snake  glided  in  narrowing 
circles  about  its  intended  victim,  coil- 
ing in  much  less  than  its  length  from 
the  man's  firm  limbs;  the  whole  of 
the  creature  seemed  to  rise  in  the  air 
as  it  hurled  itself  upon  the  man  and 
buried  its  fangs  deep,  deep,  in  the 
brown  ankle,  where  it  clung  desper- 
ately for  a  moment — then  dropped  in- 
ert across  the  quivering  foot. 

The  snake  had  struck  the  man  at 
last!  But  no  one  in  all  the  kiva  had 
heard  the  faintest  roll  of  the  warning 
rattle. 

Over  the  superb  figure  of  the  ac- 
cused man  passed  a  strong  muscular 
contraction,  the  dark  eyes  glowed  with 
joy,  and  he  swayed  slightly  backward. 
No  word  was  spoken,  no  movement 
made,  until  the  masked  and  kilted 
priests  slowly  arose  to  release  another 
snake,  when,  moved  by  one  common 
impulse,  each  man  within  the  semi- 
circle of  the  council  raised  the  left 
hand  of  authority  and  uttered  the  one 
word  "A-ta-a-qui-ma"  (enough.) 

As  the  word  rang  through  the  kiva, 


Pahlu  felt  the  strong  grip  of  a  man's 
hand  fastened  upon  her  shoulder, 
heard  a  voice  ring  out  in  strange  com- 
mands, heard  a  rush  of  movement 
within  the  kiva;  then  the  mass  of 
rocks  upon  which  she  crouched  swung 
gratingly  inward.  It  was  the  old  In- 
dian trick  of  the  balanced  stone — this 
hewn  mass  set  solidly  in  cement.  Then 
the  gripping  hand  tore  her  from  her 
niche  and  flung  her  forward  to  face 
the  outraged  priests  and  council. 

It  was  riot  that  followed  her  ex- 
posure. Angry  hands  caught  at  the 
girl,  tore  at  her,  and  dragged  her  in  all 
directions.  The  priests  cried  for  ven- 
geance, human  and  divine.  The 
mighty  council  reviled  her.  And  the 
father  cursed  his  child. 

A  gaunt  old  Indian  had  discovered 
her  because,  standing  close  beside 
the  opening,  he  had  heard  the  bitter 
cry  of  love,  and  had  seen  a  little  Land 
reach  into  the  kiva  between  the  heavy- 
timbers  when  at  last  the  snake  fas- 
tened upon  its  intended  victim.  And 
because  he  had  discovered  her  he  be- 
lieved the  right  of  punishment  to  be 
his  own,  and  raising  his  long  knife  he 
struck  at  her  with  all  his  strength. 
But  as  he  struck,  he  himself  was 
felled,  and  between  the  injured  girl 
and  the  enraged  men  stood  Avatca, 
who,  by  the  ceremonies  of  the  night, 
had  been  made  the  peer  of  all  his  peo- 
ple— the  word  of  law. 

With  his  arm  thrown  over  the 
loosened  garments  and  bleeding  shoul- 
der of  the  injured  girl,  he  spoke.  His 
words  were  those  of  command  and 
love,  the  impassioned  utterances  of 
one  newly  clothed  in  power,  as  having 
but  then  turned  from  the  presence  of 
forces  unseen. 

By  his  command  was  the  girl's  life 
spared  for  him,  the  rage  of  priests  and 
council  quelled.. 

So  again  through  ancient  mysteries 
a  great  chief  ruled  long,  to  the  glory 
of  his  land  and  people. 


THE    "AROLAS    WAY" 

By  Lewis  R,  Freeman 


"The  shooting  of  these  miscreants  is  not  enough.  The  army  should  be 
given  a  free  hand  to  deal  out  stern  'military  justice'  to  all  having  cogni- 
zance of  the  fact  that  a  man  is  going  to  'run  amuck.'  " — Extract  from  edi- 
torial in  home  paper. 

Old  Spanish  residents  of  Manila,  at  every  recrudescence  of  trouble 
v/ith  "juramentados,"  are  much  given  to  comparing  the  peaceful  condition 
of  Jolo  during  the  latter  part  of  the  regime  of  General  Arolas,  who  gov- 
erned that  island  in  the  eighties,  with  the  reign  of  terror  which  has  been 
the  rule  since  American  occupation.  "You  are  too  easy  with  the  Moros," 
they  complain.  "You  should  try  the  'Arolas  Way.' " 

When  the  news  comes  up  from  Jolo  of  another  soldier  slain, 

And  "the  deadly  'jufmentado'  "  is  on  every  tongue  again, 

And  "Whafs  to  be  done  with  the  Moros?"  is  the  problem  of  the  day — 

Hark  to  the  old-time  Spaniards  plead  the  <( Arolas  Way!" 

"We  bow  to  your  wisdom,  Yankees ;  we  bow  to  your  wealth  and  power. 

What  old  Spain  did  in  a  fortnight,  you  do  in  a  single  hour. 

We  allow  that  you're  making  the  Islands;  (your  roads  and  your  schools 

are  grand.) 
But  when  it  comes  to  the  Moros,  you  rule  with  too  light  a  hand. 

"They  slash  up  a  swagger  sergeant — you  hope  it  will  be  the  last — 
They  cut  down  a  young  lieutenant — you  throw  up  your  hands,  aghast. 
Tour  kindness  they  take  for  cowardice,  they  gloat  over  your  dismays — 
Scant  were  the  misconstructions  in  the  good  Arolas  days. 

^'He  haled  their  chiefs  from  the  mountain,  he  called  their  priests  from 

the  shore. 

"He  gave  them  ample  warning;  then  on  his  sword  he  swore 
That  every  dog  of  a  Dato  that  failed  to  'tip  the  nod' 
"When  he  heard  of  a  'jur'mentado'  should  face  a  firing  squad. 

"He  sent  them  back  to  the  mountain,  he  sent  them  back  to  the  shore, 
And  peace  reigned  over  the  island  for  the  space  of  a  month  or  more ; 
Peace  reigned  over  the  island  till,  frothing  with  rage  and  hate, 
A  white-clad,  red-mouthed  Moro  slew  the  guard  at  the  city  gate. 

"  'This  man  is  a  Marang  Moro' — and  the  grim  Arolas  frowned — 
'And  no  word  from  the  Marang  Dato.    Send  my  capitans  around! 
Fire  up  those  two  new  gunboats,  pile  shell  and  powder  on, 
And  order  the  First  Battalion  to  take  the  road  at  dawn.' 


THE  "AROLAS  WAY."  153 

"  'Ah ! — a  man  from  the  Marang  Dato — No  esta  tarde  !*  friend  ? 
(Stir  up  those  lagging  gunboats!)     What  does  the  Dato  send? 
**Uno  carta — um — Caramba!    This  is  a  pretty  tale! 
(Why  aren't  those  gunboats  started?)     Clap  this  fellow  in  jail! 

"  'An  'amuck'  has  started  for  Jolo,'  the  Dato's  letter  ran; 
'I'm  sorry  I  couldn't  stop  him.    I'm  doing  the  best  I  can 
To  see  no  more  escape  me.    I'm  watching  night  and  day.' 
And  then,  in  a  penciled  postscript,  'Another  'amuck's'  away!' 


"The  gunboats  opened  on  Marang  with  cannister,  grape  and  shell; 
The  troops  shot  down  in  the  forest  who  ran  from  the  burning  hell. 
Men  and  women  and  children  (for  thus  the  order  read), 
Were  hunted  out  of  their  hiding  and  left  in  the  jungle — dead. 

"Only  the  dog  of  a  Dato,  calling  in  vain  on  God, 
Was  haled  o'er  the  hills  to  Jolo  to  stand  for  the  firing  squad. 
Ringed  by  a  dozen  bayonets,  cursing  his  hapless  state, 
Famished  and  fearful,  fainting,  he  came  to  the  city  gate. 

"Then  out  from  the  ancient  archway  bounded  a  Moro  fleet, 

(Twas  the  man  who'd  brought  the  message)  to  fall  at  his  master's  feet. 

'Word  from  the  Gov'nor,  Hadji;  read,  for  his  haste  is  great!' 

'God  be  praised!'  cried  the  Dato;  'this  reprieve  is  not  too  late.' 

"  'Allah  be  praised!'  the  pean  died  on  his  palsied  tongue, 
And  the  words  the  doleful  death-song  of  the  Marang  Dato  rung; 
For  they  dragged  him  into  the  city  and  shot  him  beside  the  wall, 
Ere  they  planted  him  out  to  seaward,  with  a  pig  in  his  canvas  pall. 

"The  note?    Ah,  this  was  the  substance:  'Hadji  Ali  Mabode: 
My  army's  gone  'jur'mentado'  and  marched  up  the  Marang  road. 
By  the  Beard  of  your  Sainted  Prophet,  may  they  do  no  harm  to  you! 
P.  S. — My  two  new  gunboats  are  'juramentado/  too!' 

"Long  was  there  peace  in  Jolo :  the  era  of  doubt  had  fled. 
From  Sultan  to  meanest  Dato,  they  knew  that  a  hundred  dead 
For  the  life  of  every  Christian  was  the  price  they'd  have  to  pay — 
And  they  bowed  in  awed  submission  to  the  stern  'Arolas  Way.'  " 

When  the  news  comes  up  from  Jolo  of  another  soldier  slain, 

And  "the  deadly  'jur'mentado'  "  is  on  every  tongue  again. 

And  "Whafs  to  be  done  with  the  Moro?"  is  the  problem  of  the  day — 

Hark  to  the  old-time  Spaniard  plead  the  <l Arolas  Way!" 


*  Are  you  not  late? 
**  A  letter. 


THE    LONG    FIGHT 


By  Alfred  Howe  Davis 


TIE  SITUATION  was  serious 
along  Soda  Creek.  Scipio  Me- 
serve  and  Old  Ryan  had  come 
to  this  conclusion  after  fifteen 
years'  consideration.  "They  are  go- 
ing to  get  this  land  if  murder  and  ar- 
son will  do  it,"  Old  Ryan  told  Meserve 
one  day  as  they  were  sitting  outside 
the  former's  cabin.  Conversation  that 
afternoon  had  been  infrequent.  They 
had  thought  things  over  and  over 
again  as  they  smoked  together,  but 
they  had  had  little  to  say. 

"It  ain't  right,  we  know  that;  and 
they  know  it,"  Ryan  continued.  His 
companion  was  staring  thoughtfully  at 
an  old  redwood  tree,  standing  in  the 
clearing. 

"It  means  a  good  deal  to  the  tim- 
ber people  if  they  can  make  us  get 
out.  Several  millions  is  tied  up  in 
this  lumber,"  Meserve  said  finally. 
"But  I  want  to  tell  you,  Ryan,  that  I 
don't  go.  Rock  County  is  in  for  the 
same  trouble  that  they  had  at  Mus- 
sel Slough.  We  either  got  to  pack 
out  or  stand  this  hell,  as  you  say.  I'm 
going  to  stand  the  hell." 

"Just  wanted  to  know,  that's  all," 
said  Ryan.  "I  haven't  got  any  idea 
of  getting  out  myself.  We're  getting 
scarce  on  the  Creek  now,  and  I  was 
wondering  if  you  had,  maybe,  changed 
your  mind." 

"Haven't  changed  it  since  I  came 
in  here,  Ryan." 

The  far  away  booming  of  the  even- 
ing sea  came  up  to  them  with  its  roll 
and  swish.  A  thin  smoke  skidded 
along  on  the  tops  of  the  giant  red- 
woods about  the  shack,  a  smoke  which 
had  hung  there  for  two  weeks.  Me- 
serve watched  it  critically  for  a  few 
minutes. 

"Ryan,"  he  said  at  last,  getting  up 


from  the  slab  pile  on  which  he  had 
been  sitting,  "think  I'll  go  over  to 
my  place.  I  don't  look  for  any  more 
of  them  murdering  dogs  in  here  for 
a  few  days.  Affable  and  his  little  wo- 
man is  over  on  my  place,"  he  added, 
as  he  walked  slowly  out  toward  the 
timber. 

"Burned  Affable  out  complete, 
didn't  they?" 

"Yes,  and  two  of  the  squatters  are 
on  his  land.  Funny  how  quick  the 
land  office  will  send  a  man  up  here 
and  have  a  piece  of  ground  surveyed 
when  one  of  the  company's  jumpers 
gets  hold  of  it,  so  they  can  file  on  it. 
I've  been  fifteen  years  now  trying  to 
get  the  survey  on  my  land,  and  they 
ain't  done  it  yet." 

"Think  you  and  Affable  could  come 
up  here  for  a  little  session  to-mor- 
row?" asked  Ryan. 

Meserve  thought  for  a  moment. 

"Affable's  woman  ain't  getting  well 
the  way  he  expected,  and  he  hates  to 
leave  her.  I'll  be  up.  Get  O'Brien 
and  Wilson  if  you  can  reach  them." 

"They  are  going  to  be  here.  We 
got  to  get  out  and  fight  and  make  it 
strong." 

Meserve  made  no  reply,  but  turned 
into  the  forest,  along  a  path  which  led 
inland.  He  soon  entered  the  half- 
section  where  Affable's  shanty  had 
stood.  Underbrush  and  dwelling  were 
gone,  and  only  the  blackened  soil  re- 
mained. At  the  far  end  of  the  clear- 
ing was  a  newly  erected  shack  in 
which  a  light  burned.  Two  men  were 
sitting  in  the  open  doorway.  They 
saw  Meserve  and  he  saw  them,  but 
neither  he  nor  they  spoke  as  he  passed 
on  through  the  clearing  and  into  the 
woods  again. 

It  was  dark  when  he  came  upon  his 


THE  LONG  FIGHT. 


155 


own  place  stuck  out  in  the  sage  brush 
some  distance  from  a  stand  of  small 
white  pine,  near  which  was  another 
cabin.  A  line  of  light  shot  out  of  the 
door  of  the  shack  by  the  white  pines, 
and  a  man  appeared. 

"Thought  I  heard  you/'  he  called. 

"Been  over  to  Ryan's."  Meserve 
stopped  and  waited  for  the  other  to 
come  over  to  him.  "It's  beginning  to 
look  like  we  got  to  fight  for  it  again. 
How's  your  wife,  Affable?" 

"Seems  much  better  this  evening. 
It's  the  fear  of  the  gunners  that  keeps 
her  sick." 

"Hardly  a  good  place  for  a  woman 
in  these  times.  Why  don't  you  take 
her  down  to  San  Francisco  and  leave 
her  till  we  get  by  this?  Or  anyhow, 
take  her  over  to  the  county-seat." 

"She  ain't  cut  out  that  way,  that's 
the  reason.  She  says  that  she's  been 
through  it  eight  years,  and  that  she's 
game  to  go  through  it  eight  more  if 
it's  necessary." 

"It  ain't  going  to  be  necessary. 
Ryan  wants  us  to  come  over  to  his 
place  to-morrow.  We  got  to  get  ac- 
tive, that's  all.  The  only  way  we  can 
get  the  land  office  to  take  any  notice 
of  us  is  to  kill  off  a  dozen  or  so  of 
these  jumpers  that  the  timber  com- 
panies has  sent  in  here.  It's  to  decide 
what  we'd  better  do  that  Ryan  wants 
us  over.  I  told  him  your  woman  was 
sick,  and  that  you  likely  couldn't 
come." 

"Think  I'll  go  with  you,  Skip.  Lon- 
nie  is  better.  These  squatters  has 
fixed  this  range  so  far  as  my  sheep 
is  concerned.  Their  little  brush-burn- 
ing tactics  has  put  the  grass  to  the 
bad." 

Meserve  had  not  heard  the  last  part 
of  the  remark.  He  was  looking  over 
Affable's  head  at  what  appeared  to  be 
a  faint  light  silhouetting  the  tops  of 
the  white  pines  against  the  black  sky. 
An  instant  later  the  light  place  became 
brighter. 

"Get  your  blanket,"  Meserve  shout- 
ed, springing  forward  through  the 
sage  brush  toward  his  own  shack.  Af- 
fable needed  no  second  warning. 
Whirling  around,  he  saw  the  light  in 


the  timber  and  broke  into  a  run  for 
his  cabin  before  Meserve  had  finished 
speaking. 

The  fire  was  roaring  through  some 
scrub  brush  when  Meserve  came  upon 
it.  Throwing  his  heavy  horse-blanket 
into  a  ditch,  he  jumped  upon  the  hard- 
spun  cloth,  then  jerked  it,  dripping, 
from  the  water,  and  began  beating  the 
low  flames  which  had  crept  into  some 
greasewood  but  a  few  feet  from  the 
grubbed  sage  brush  on  his  own  land. 
Affable  was  beside  him  a  moment 
later.  The  fire  was  drifting  through 
the  brush  about  the  trunks  of  the  red- 
woods beyond  the  white  pines. 

For  an  hour  the  two  men  worked. 
Their  hands  and  faces  were  grimy 
when  they  finally  beat  out  the  last 
blaze  which  was  licking  up  through 
the  needles  of  a  small  pine. 

"Got  some  amateurs  out  here  this 
time,"  Meserve  said,  after  he  had 
washed  his  hands  and  face  and  drank 
of  the  water  in  the  ditch.  "Wonder 
if  they  imagined  I  would  sleep  through 
it  while  this  sage  brush  burned  up  the 
shack." 

As  he  was  speaking,  a  glow  broke 
out  in  the  heavens  toward  the  sea. 

"Maybe,  Affable,  they  was  after 
somebody  else." 

"Hadn't  we  better  go  down?"  asked 
Affable,  shaking  out  his  steaming 
blanket. 

"No  use.  There,  she's  down  now. 
She  would  have  too  big  a  start  on  us 
to  do  any  good  by  the  time  we  could 
get  there,  and  it  looks  like  the  boys  is 
handling  her  without  any  help.  It 
was  just  such  another  fire  as  this  one." 
Meserve  rolled  up  the  wet  blanket  and 
stuck  it  under  his  arm.  "Think  I'll 
go  to  bed,"  he  said.  "We  won't  be 
bothered  any  more  to-night." 

"Who  is  in  the  country  now?"  asked 
Affable,  walking  beside  Meserve. 
"The  North  people  pulled  off  their 
bunch  a  week  ago." 

"And  they  have  got  a  bunch  of  fire- 
setting  Frenchmen  down  by  the  beach 
unless  I'm  off,"  replied  Meserve.  "Of 
course  they  come  in  as  fishermen  from 
the  Point,  but  it's  my  opinion  that  they 
are  firebugs  and  that  they  set  both  of 


156 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


these  off.  No  American  would  have 
done  such  a  bum  job.  Besides,  its  in 
line  with  the  way  they  work  on  us,  and 
the  way  they  worked  twelve  years  be- 
fore you  come  into  the  country.  They 
kept  their  gunmen  here  until  they 
saw  it  wasn't  no  use  to  bluff,  then  they 
try  their  sneaking  methods  and  bring 
in  a  bunch  of  foreigners  from  San 
Francisco  or  the  coast  for  the  job.  It's 
just  another  way  of  playing  the  same 
ga;ne,  that's  all." 

Affable  left  Meserve  at  his  door 
and  started  down  through  the  sage 
brush  toward  home. 

Early  next  morning  Meserve  was 
wading  through  the  heavy  ground  fog 
toward  a  pinto  pony  picketed  at  the 
edge  of  the  grubbed  brush.  Half  an 
hour  later  he  was  on  the  broad  trail 
leading  toward  the  sea.  He  rode 
slowly,  constantly  watching  a  wagon 
trail  that  ran  away  before  him.  Some- 
times it  was  quite  obscure  in  the 
heavy  grass.  Frequently  the  tracks 
ran  into  the  high,  dry  brush,  and  on 
every  such  turn,  Meserve  found  burned 
patches,  some  of  which  were  still 
smoking.  Twice  he  was  forced  to  get 
down  from  his  horse  and  beat  out 
small  blazes.  He  pushed  his  horse  as 
fast  as  possible,  at  the  same  time 
keeping  a  sharp  watch  of  the  wagon 
trail. 

When  he  started  out  he  had  in- 
tended leaving  the  main  trail  at  a  path 
cutting  through  the  timber  to  Ryan's 
place.  But  he  changed  his  mind  and 
kept  following  the  wagon  track.  The 
country  through  which  he  was  passing 
had  choked  up  with  trees  until  the 
wagon  had  had  bare  space  to  pass. 

As  he  rode,  the  smell  of  smoke  came 
to  him,  and  he  urged  his  horse  to  a 
gallop,  until  he  came  to  an  arroyo.  On 
the  hillside  to  the  east,  a  brush  fire 
was  eating  its  way  to  the  timber  on 
the  summit.  Meserve  saw  at  a  glance 
that  he  could  not  handle  the  blaze 
alone.  Far  down  ahead  he  could 
make  out  a  couple  of  shacks  set  out 
in  the  mouth  of  the  arroyo.  He  paused 
only  long  enough  to  see  that  the  wagon 
tracks  led  from  the  main  trail  to  the 
place  where  the  fire  had  apparently 


started;  then  he  gave  his  pinto  her 
head  and  tore  away  through  the  brush 
toward  the  shanties.  Four  men  were 
lounging  about  them. 

"Here,  give  me  a  hand  on  this  fire. 
Get  your  blankets  and  come  on  with 
me,"  Meserve  called  out  to  a  small 
man  who  had  just  led  a  horse  under 
a  lean-to.  "You  fellows  are  in  more 
danger  than  anybody  else  from  a  fire 
along  the  arroyo." 

The  one  to  whom  Meserve  spoke 
turned  to  the  others,  who  had  lazily 
arisen  and  addressed  them  in  a  lan- 
guage Meserve  did  not  understand. 

"We  coming,"  cried  the  spokesman 
of  the  gang.  They  all  began  picking 
up  piles  of  willow  brush  that  had 
been  packed  about  the  shacks. 

"You  don't  want  that — get  your 
blankets,"  Meserve  shouted  angrily. 
"Hitch  up  that  team  and  drag  a  barrel 
of  water  up  there  to  soak  them  in. 
That's  what  you  want." 

"We  not  understand."  The  leader 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  looked 
forlornly  into  Meserve's  face. 

"Yes,  you  do  understand."  Meserve 
spurred  his  horse  closer  to  the  men. 
"You  understand  every  word  I've  told 
you,  and  I  understand.  The  first  one 
of  you  that  gets  west  of  section  36 
is  a  dead  one.  You  understand  that, 
don't  you?  It  just  happened  that  I 
followed  you  down  here,  you  firing 
devils,  this  morning." 

Meserve  turned  his  horse  up  the  ar- 
royo which  was  heavy  with  smoke, 
and  as  he  rode,  he  threw  one  leg  over 
the  saddle  horn,  and  looked  back  at 
the  men,  who  watched  him  until  he 
dropped  out  of  sight  in  the  woods  to 
the  west. 

With  the  unerring  sense  of  a  man 
who  has  traveled  the  forest  country 
for  years,  usually  on  similar  missions 
to  the  one  just  concluded,  Meserve 
snaked  his  pony  back  and  forth  around 
through  the  redwoods.  For  a  time  the 
smoke  from  the  fire  came  to  him,  but 
soon  after  he  struck  the  trail  leading 
to  Ryan's  place  the  atmosphere 
cleared,  the  wild  creatures  which  are 
silent  and  fearful  during  times  of  dan- 
ger in  countries  of  frequent  fires,  be- 


THE  LONG  FIGHT. 


157 


gan  to  sound  about  him.  He  checked 
his  horse  for  an  instant  to  adjust  a 
girth,  then  pushed  steadily  on  until 
he  came  to  Ryan's  clearing. 

"Come  in  from  the  arroyo?"  asked 
Ryan,  as  Meserve  got  from  his  pony 
and  tossed  the  reins  over  the  animal's 
head. 

"Come  in  from  the  Frenchies,"  Me- 
serve answered  hotly.  "Tell  you  what 
it  is,  Ryan :  we  got  to  decide  on  some- 
thing, and  that  mighty  soon.  Not  one 
of  the  boys  east  of  36  will  be  up.  I 
followed  a  rig  belonging  to  the  French- 
men for  an  hour  this  morning.  I 
struck  their  trail  just  outside  my  place. 
They  started  fires  all  along  the  road. 
That's  why  I'm  slow  getting  here.  I 
put  most  of  them  out,  but  one  is  going 
on  the  other  side  of  the  arroyo,  and 
the  boys  over  there  are  going  to  be 
burnt  out.  Tried  to  bluff  the  Frenchies 
into  helping  me  blanket  her,  but  it 
didn't  go." 

As  Meserve  was  speaking,  a  horse- 
man came  out  of  the  forest. 

"Howdy,  Affable,"  shouted  Old 
Ryan. 

"I  waited  for  you  to  come  back, 
Skip.  Thought  you  had  gone  up  to 
the  hills  after  cattle,  and  was  coming 
back,"  explained  Affable,  as  he  rode 
up.  "Of  course  it  was  all  right  with 
me.  I  ought  to  a-come  on  anyhow,  I 
suppose." 

"I  had  other  things  to  take  care  of 
besides  cattle  this  morning.  Was  any 
of  your  stock  over  on  the  other  side 
of  the  arroyo,  Affable?" 

"Got  a  few  head  of  cattle,  all  there 
is  left,  in  the  timber  somewhere  in 
there." 

"Well,  they're  probably  barbecued 
for  the  buzzards  by  now.  The  fire  is 
all  through  that  country.  Those 
Frenchmen  we  was  suspicious  of  is 
jumpers  all  right.  I  got  it  on  them 
this  morning,  but  not  till  they  started 
a  fire  on  the  other  side  of  the  arroyo 
that  is  good  for  three  sections  any- 
how." 

"I've  been  thinking  this  thing  over 
a  good  deal,  and  I  came  to  a  conclu- 
sion last  night,"  broke  in  Old  Ryan, 
abruptly,  addressing  Meserve.  "I 


wanted  the  boys  east  of  36  to  be  here 
so  we  could  talk  it  over  with  them, 
but  they  is  probably  burned  out,  and 
lucky  if  they  got  away  with  their 
lives.  We  can't  go  on  this  way  much 
longer." 

"Been  going  it  ever  since  I  come  in 
here  as  a  kid,"  growled  Meserve,  "and 
I  ain't  been  able  to  bring  my  folks 
in  yet." 

"I  ain't  got  any  to  bring,  but  if  I  had 
they'd  have  to  stay  out,"  said  Ryan. 
"That's  what  I'm  talking  about.  The 
idea  is  right  here:  I  was  up  on  the 
ridge  yesterday.  The  railroad  is  now 
up  there,  and  they  cleared  the  country 
putting  it  in.  There  ain't  nothing  left 
but  a  few  tamaracks.  They  either  got 
to  get  this  timber  we  are  in,  for  their 
mills,  or  go  out  of  business.  We  had 
a  glimpse  long  ago  of  what  chance 
we  have  with  them.  I  been  trying  to 
get  the  land  office  people  to  survey 
this  section  for  fifteen  years  so  I  could 
file  on  it.  They  won't  survey  and  they 
won't  take  any  one  else's  survey.  You 
see  how  quick  they  survey  just  as  soon 
as  these  jumpers  grab  a  piece  of  land." 

"As  I  was  saying,  so  long  as  this 
timber  is  here,  they  are  going  to  keep 
fighting  for  it.  We  can't  live  on  range 
wars.  Every  last  sheep  of  Affable's 
and  the  boys  east  of  36  has  been  put 
up  for  grub  for  the  squatters  or 
burned  up.  The  lumber  is  what  they 
want.  They  been  getting  rid  of  the 
brush  and  the  cabins  and  keeping  the 
stand  of  trees.  There's  only  one  thing 
left  to  do.  We  got  to  get  rid  of  the 
timber." 

Affable  looked  to  Meserve  to  an- 
swer, but  he  did  not  speak  at  once. 

"Ryan,  do  I  understand  you  to  mean 
that  you  are  setting  fire  to  everything 
west  of  36?"  Meserve  asked  at  last. 

"That's  it." 

"Well,  I  haven't  thought  it  over. 
Fact  is,  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  at  all. 
This  timber  is  valuable  to  us,  and  it 
would  be  an  almighty  criminal  thing 
to  do." 

"Of  course,  and  it's  valuable  to 
them,  and  they  will  get  it  in  the  end 
— and  the  land  along  with  it.  This  is 
a  good  farming  country,"  Old  Ryan 


158 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


insisted.  "It's  like  this:  we  got  our 
choice  either  to  make  a  play  for  the 
timber  and  the  land  and  lose  them 
both,  or  get  rid  of  the  wood  and  file 
on  the  land.  They  want  to  get  us  out. 
You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  There 
is  Danny  Walsh  and  a  dozen  others 
down  in  San  Francisco  that  gave  up 
the  scrap  long  ago.  Hell,  Skip,  this 
could  be  a  good  country  if  we  could 
get  those  men  and  their  families  back 
here." 

"I  see  how  you  figger,"  said  Me- 
serve,  thoughtfully.  "But  if  we  get  a 
fire  in  this  forest  she  will  carry  away 
a  good  many  million  feet  of  lumber 
belonging  to  the  government  up 
north." 

"I'm  surprised  at  you  speaking 
about  that.  Their  agents  stand  by 
and  watch  them  starve  us  out  and 
burn  us  out.  They  stood  by  for  twenty- 
five  years,  and  they  will  stand  by  for 
twenty-five  more.  Want  to  stick  to 
this  country  till  you  ain't  got  wind 
enough  to  pack  out?" 

"What  do  you  think  about  it?"  Me- 
serve  turned  to  Affable,  who  was 
whittling  the  slab  on  which  he  was 
sitting. 

"Whatever  is  agreeable  to  you,"  re- 
plied Affable.  "I  haven't  had  any 
luck  trying  to  be  on  the  square,  that's 
certain,  and,  as  Ryan  says,  the  gov- 
ernment ain't  done  nothing  but  stand 
by  and  watch  them  people  drive  us 
out." 

"You  and  me,  Skip,"  Ryan  went  on, 
taking  up  his  argument  where  he  had 
left  off,  and  without  any  notice  of 
Affable's  remarks — "you  and  me  are 
the  only  two  who  come  in  here  with 
the  first  of  them,  and  ain't  been  burned 
out.  I'm  tired  of  beating  out  brush 
fires.  We  either  got  to  have  a  change 
or  get  out.  You  grubbed  sagebrush 
off  your  land  and  you're  safer  now, 
maybe,  than  most  of  us,  but  you  ain't 
in  the  clear  entirely  yet." 

"Oh,  I  know  that,"  cut  in  Meserve 
impatiently.  "There  ain't  any  use  in 
arguing  along  that  line.  I  know  that 
as  well  as  you  do.  What  I'm  trying  to 
figure  out  is  how  we  are  going  to  make 
it  if  we  eat  up  three  million  dollars 


worth  of  government  timber." 

"Might  teach  them  to  look  a  little 
out  to  us  howling  here  in  this  wilder- 
ness," suggested  Affable.  "But  of 
course  I  am  not  saying  it  would  be  the 
right  thing  to  do." 

"Well,  you  two  think  it  over,"  Old 
Ryan  spoke,  sharply.  "I've  come  to 
my  way  of  thinking  after  sleeping 
with  one  eye  open  and  getting  so  I 
shy  every  time  I  see  smoke  coming 
from  a  chimney." 

"How  long  would  it  take  you, 
Affable,  to  drive  over  to  the  Basin 
with  all  the  stuff  in  Ryan's  shack,  your 
place  and  mine?"  asked  Meserve. 
"Only  taking  them  over  the  ridge?" 

"Ought  to  be  able  to  make  a  load 
every  two  hours." 

"Well,  you  better  take  my  wagon 
and  strike  out.  Get  your  little  woman 
over  first.  Ryan  is  as  near  right, 
probably,  about  this,  as  we  will  ever 
get." 

"Suits    me,"    agreed    Affable, 
thought  Ryan  was  right  all  along,  but 
I  didn't  like  to  say  so,  being  in  this 
country  only  eight  years." 

"Aw,  hell,"  Meserve  groaned.  "Get 
started.  Pick  up  the  best  looking 
stuff  of  mine  you  find  and  let  it  go 
at  that.  Let  the  plow  and  the  grub- 
ber stay  in  the  field."  Then  Meserve 
walked  into  the  cabin  with  Ryan,  while 
Affable  mounted  his  horse  and  struck 
out  on  the  north  trail. 

"Might  tie  up  those  socks  and 
shirts  into  a  bundle,"  said  Ryan, 
throwing  an  armful  of  clothing  on  the 
bed.  "Hate  to  see  this  little  place  go. 
This  was  the  first  cabin  we  built 
when  we  came  in,  remember?" 

"Mine  was  the  fourth  to  go  up." 
Meserve  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  be- 
gan tying  the  clothing  in  a  ball. 

"And  we  got  them  up  in  fast  time." 

"Not  near  so  fast  as  a  fire  through 
here  will  take  them  down,"  Old  Ryan 
replied,  patting  the  mud  plastered  logs 
affectionately. 

Meserve  started  to  carry  the  cloth- 
ing which  he  had  fastened  into  a  bun- 
dle to  the  door,  but  at  the  first  glance 
outside  he  threw  down  the  stuff. 

"Coming  again,"  he  said     quietly, 


THE  LONG  FIGHT. 


159 


and,  as  Ryan  rose,  Meserve  pointed 
out  the  door  to  a  black  smoke  shoot- 
ing upwards  into  the  clear  sky  to  the 
south. 

"That's  no  brush  fire,"  commented 
Ryan,  taking  down  a  carbine  from  a 
rafter.  "Got  your  gun,  Skip  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Maybe  Affable  will  be  relieved 
from  bothering  with  my  stuff,"  Old 
Ryan  remarked  grimly.  "I  never  seen 
any  fire  like  that  since  I  been  here." 

Meserve  made  no  comment,  but 
swinging  his  revolver  around  in  front, 
of  him,  he  ran  out  of  the  shack  and 
started  at  a  swift  trot  down  the  south 
trail.  Ryan  was  close  behind  him. 
Just  before  they  entered  the  shadowy 
forest,  they  stopped  long  enough  to 
make  out  the  general  direction  from 
which  the  smoke  was  coming,  shoot- 
ing into  the  sky  as  though  blown  up- 
wards by  a  giant  bellows. 

They  could  not  see  the  smoke  bil- 
lowing northward  over  the  trees  above 
them,  but  they  could  smell  it,  and 
occasionally  there  came  a  crash  above 
the  roll  of  the  breakers  along  the  shore 
line. 

"Let  me  carry  that  carbine  a  ways." 
Meserve  stopped  and  jerked  the  gun 
from  Old  Ryan's  hands.  The  two  men 
broke  into  a  run  again.  Past  their 
heads  flocks  of  grouse  whirred  from 
time  to  time.  For  the  fire  was  acting 
as  a  drive  to  the  creatures  of  the  for- 
est; and  both  birds  and  beasts  were 
headed  in  the  one  direction — north. 
The  frequent  roar  of  some  fallen  red- 
wood— a  sound  they  had  heard  from 
the  time  they  left  the  clearing — gave 
way  to  a  snapping  like  the  continuous 
rattle  of  far  musketry. 

Meseive,  who  was  a  short  distance 
in  the  lead,  suddenly  took  to  the  east 
and  Ryan  followed.  They  crossed  a 
small  creek  and  stopped  in  an  open 
place  which  was  black  from  a  fire 
which  had  burned  over  it. 

"They  started  a  brush  fire  to  get 
the  grass,"  Meserve  breathed  heavily. 
"And  it's  got  away  from  them." 

"Looks  about  that  way.  Better 
bear  a  little  more  to  the  east." 

They  went  on,  passing  the  deserted 


cabins  of  the  Frenchmen.  Meserve 
smiled  to  himself.  In  the  open,  be- 
yond the  shacks,  the  two  stopped. 
The  timber,  obscured  by  rolling 
smoke,  feathered  away  to  the  north. 
The  fire  was  within  a  thousand  feet  of 
the  Frenchmen's  cabins.  When  the 
smoke  lifted  occasionally,  Meserve 
and  Ryan  could  see  men  working  fran- 
tically with  blankets.  But  the  fire  had 
gone  to  the  tops  of  the  trees  and 
was  leaping  from  one  to  another,  away 
to  the  north. 

"Your  conscience  ain't  going  to  be 
troubled  about  starting  any  fire,"  Old 
Ryan  chuckled,  softly.  "The  Rangers 
will  be  lucky  if  they  hold  it  to  Rock 
County." 

"They  are  soaking  their  blankets 
in  that  water  barrel."  Meserve  pointed 
ahead  as  a  breath  of  wind  lifted  the 
smoke.  "That's  our  place." 

They  both  rushed  forward,  just  as 
a  man  was  lifting  a  blanket  from  the 
water. 

"Help  us,  meester,"  the  fire-fighter 
begged,  frantically. 

"Yes,  we'll  help  you,  you  little 
devil."  As  Meserve  spoke,  he  drew 
down  on  the  fellow.  "Now,  Frenchy, 
you  drop  that  blanket  and  step  here." 

The  Frenchman  obeyed  with  alac- 
rity. Meserve  handed  over  the  car- 
bine to  Ryan. 

"We'll  get  them  as  they  come  out  of 
the  timber,"  Meserve  said.  "Keep 
your  eye  on  this  fellow.  Understand- 
ing English  better  than  you  did  this 
morning  ?" 

The  Frenchman  only  scowled. 

"Hey,  you,  come  over  here,"  Me- 
serve shouted  to  the  next  man  who 
dived  out  of  the  smoke  cloud  for  a 
breath  of  fresh  air.  And  as  each  of 
them  came  out,  Meserve  lined  them 
up  until  four  of  them  were  standing 
in  front  of  Old  Ryan. 

"Got  a  bellyful  of  fire  this  time, 
didn't  you?"  exploded  Old  Ryan,  an- 
grily. 

"Shouldn't  let  you  fellows  play  with 
dangerous  things,"  commented  Me- 
serve to  the  Frenchman  who  had  not 
understood  English  that  morning. 
"Such  as  you  can't  keep  fire  in  the 


160 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


brush.  About  three  million  dollars 
worth  of  government  property  is  go- 
ing up  through  your  work." 

"Better  take  them  up  to  the  county- 
seat  and  turn  them  over  to  the  for- 
esters," said  Ryan.  "Destroying  gov- 
ernment timber  isn't  like  burning  out 
respectable  settlers.  This  ends  their 
game,  and  I  wouldn't  want  to  be  wait- 
ing for  grub  until  these  Frenchies  get 
loose  again." 

Meserve  laughed  and  led  the  way 
up  through  the  timber  till  they  struck 
the  road  leading  to  the  county-seat. 
Old  Ryan  drew  up  the  rear  with  his 
carbine  swung  handily  over  his  arm. 

Outlined  against  the  sky  to  the 
north,  they  could  make  out  Affable 
driving  over  the  ridge  on  his  last  trip 
to  the  Basin  with  Old  Ryan's  belong- 
ings. On  the  seat  beside  him  was 
his  wife. 

The  fire  was  leaping  northward, 
urged  on  by  a  stiff  ocean  breeze  which 


bore  the  lunging  smoke  in  black  rolling 
clouds  swiftly  before  it. 

When  the  party  reached  the  top  of 
the  hill  overlooking  Cayo  Valley,  Me- 
serve stopped  the  Frenchmen  who 
were  walking  two  by  two,  jabbering  to 
one  another  excitedly  in  their  native 
tongue. 

"Won't  be  enough  timber  left  in  this 
country  to  start  a  bonfire,"  said  Me- 
serve, "if  this  wind  keeps  up.  Your 
place  is  gone,  Ryan,  and  so  is  mine." 

"But  they  won't  need  to  put  in  any 
more  Frenchies  to  start  brush  fires, 
anyhow,"  Old  Ryan  grinned  back  at 
Meserve,  over  the  heads  of  the  French- 
men. "Don't  reckon  they  will  stand 
in  the  way  of  the  government  sur- 
veying our  claims  now." 

"No,  likely  not,"  agreed  Meserve. 
"Come  on,  you,"  he  added,  and  the 
Frenchmen,  who  had  not  understood 
English,  marched  on  after  Meserve, 
down  into  the  Basin. 


NAVAJO    BLANKETS 


All  day  the  pagan  squaw  with  patience  primitive, 
Sits  weaving  on  wool  raw;  she  only,  knows 
What  the  design  will  be,  before  it  grows. 

In  some  dim,  distant  recess  of  her  consciousness, 
There  lies  the  meaning  of  the  savage  red, 
The  zigzag  lightning,  and  the  arrow-head. 

Crouched  in  some  wind-blown  hut  on  mesa  desolate, 
Brooding,  perhaps,  over  some  brutal  loss, 
She  weaves  her  sorrow  in  a  mystic  cross. 

Strange  Indian  thought,  wild  love,  and  anger  barbarous 
Are  woven  here;  and  that  bold,  bleeding  red 
Confesses  murder,  of  some  missing  dead. 

Why  does  she  dream  and  sigh  and  look  so  wistfully? 
(But  hush!)     She  hides  a  romance  in  the  white, 
The  memory  of  a  star-lit,  desert  night. 

MARION  ETHEL  HAMILTON, 


UNCLE    JOHNS    WILL 


By   Irene  Elliott  Benson 


YOU    SEE,   Eleanor,   what   your 
temper   and   independence  has 
done  for  you.    Uncle  John  has 
left  his   entire   fortune   to   his 
stepson,  George  Talbot,     when     you 
should  have  had   it,   simply  because 
you  were  impertinent  to  him  when  you 
were  his  guest." 

"Mother,  believe  me,  I  was  not  im- 
pertinent," said  the  girl.  "We  had  an 
argument  and  I  held  to  my  point.  Do 
you  think  that  I  would  sink  my  iden- 
tity and  lose  my  self-respect  enough 
to  admit  that  a  thing  is  right  when  I 
know  differently,  simply  because  Un- 
cle John  had  money  to  leave?  Not 
I.  He  was  too  penurious  to  employ  a 
lawyer  to  draw  his  will,  and  he  had  no 
witnesses.  He  wrote  it  himself,  and 
it  wouldn't  stand  in  any  State  but 
California  without  witnesses.  I'm 
very  sorry,  mother,  for  your  sake  that 
he  hasn't  remembered  us,  but  I  guess 
while  I  can  work  we  won't  starve,  and 
as  for  that  stepson,  George  Talbot,  I 
positively  loathe  him.  When  he  vis- 
ited here  he  was  about  tv/elve  years 
old,  and  I  was  a  couple  of  years 
younger.  You  might  have  thought 
that  he  was  my  father  by  the  way  he 
reproved  me  for  stepping  on  a  cater- 
pillar. He  actually  lectured  me,  say- 
ing that  every  living  thing  in  this 
world  had  a  right  to  its  life,  and  that 
his  mother  declared  that  they  felt 
pain  the  same  as  we  did.  And  that 
very  day  I  came  upon  him  digging  up 
worms  for  bait.  He  and  Uncle  John 
were  going  fishing,  and  I  caught  him 
with  the  goods. 

"I  remember  his  red  hair  and 
freckles.  I've  always  hated  red  hair 
since  I  met  him.  He  was  self-right- 
eous as  a  boy,  and  I  know  he  toadied 


to  Uncle  John  as  a  man — the  miser- 
able little  prig!  He  may  keep  his 
money.  I  can  do  without  it.  I  would 
not  stoop  to  his  methods  if  I  starved." 

Mrs.  Arkwright  sighed  and  adjusted 
her  eyeglasses.  Eleanor  had  a  strong 
will  and  was  assertive  and  positive. 
Her  late  husband's  uncle  had  been 
very  fond  of  her,  and  when  she  was 
small  he  had  opposed  her  purposely 
to  see  her  flashes  of  temper.  Then 
he'd  laugh  and  say  to  his  wife : 

"The  child  has  spirit.  I  wish  she'd 
been  a  boy.  She'll  make  her  way  in 
the  world — mark  my  words!" 

But  when,  as  she  grew  older,  she 
visited  him  in  his  lovely  California 
home,  and  her  opinions  were  diametri- 
cally opposed  to  his,  and  she  had  ar- 
gued with  him  on  various  subjects  and 
had  cleverly  won  every  point,  then  he, 
being  old  and  intolerant,  could  not 
stand  being  beaten  by  a  girl,  and  he 
had  said  some  very  unkind  and  nasty 
things.  She  had  resented  them  and 
left  his  house  without  bidding  him 
good-bye.  Uncle  John  had  always 
been  a  despotic  autocrat  and  had  never 
spared  people's  feelings.  Every  one 
had  toadied  to  him  but  Eleanor,  who 
had  rebelled. 

Mrs.  Arkwright  and  her  daughter 
lived  in  a  flourishing  Connecticut  town. 
The  daughter  taught  in  the  High 
School.  The  house  belonged  to  her 
mother,  but  they  had  a  small  income 
only,  from  a  life  insurance,  outside  of 
Eleanor's  salary.  The  girl  was  gen- 
erous, kind-hearted  and  loved  her 
mother,  but  she  was  also  self-confident 
and  positive. 

Recently  a  new  automobile  company 
had  taken  possession  of  the  place. 
The  manager  was  a  fine-looking  young 


162 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


man  by  the  name  of  Seymour  Webster. 
He  was  a  man  that  one  would  notice 
in  a  crowd.  It  was  not  alone  his  tall, 
athletic  figure  and  smoothly  fitting 
garments,  but  it  was  his  good-looking 
and  kindly  face,  while  about  him  was 
an  air  of  quiet  distinction.  His  brown 
hair,  though  closely  cropped,  was  in- 
clined to  wave.  His  blue  eyes  were 
full  of  quiet  humor,  but  his  face  was 
long  and  his  chin  square  cut  and  de- 
termined, and  he  carried  himself  well. 

Eleanor  sang  in  the  Episcopal 
Church  choir.  She  had  a  charming 
voice.  One  Sunday  evening,  after  ser- 
vice, Mr.  Webster  asked  the  clergy- 
man, whom  he  knew,  to  introduce  him 
to  the  girl,  which  he  did.  And  then 
Webster  asked  permission  to  see  her 
home.  It  was  granted.  He  called  af- 
ter that  very  often.  The  girl  was  flat- 
tered, as  people  had  taken  him  up  and 
he  was  invited  to  the  best  houses.  He 
would  take  her  and  her  mother  auto- 
mobiling,  which  proved  a  boon  to  them 
in  the  warm  weather. 

"I  wonder  what  his  salary  is,"  said 
Mrs.  Arkwright,  one  evening  after 
their  return  from  a  long  ride.  "His 
board  at  the  hotel  isn't  much,  and  he 
has  to  dress  well  for  his  business. 
The  rides  he  gives  us  don't  cost  him  a 
penny.  How  much  do  you  think  he 
makes,  Eleanor?" 

"I  really  don't  know,  mother,"  re- 
plied the  girl,  who  was  trimming  a 
hat  for  herself.  "I've  never  consid- 
ered his  income.  Mr.  Webster  is  a 
charming  man — cultivated  and  intelli- 
gent. I  know  that  he's  a  college  gradu- 
ate and  a  gentleman,  and  one  meets 
few  like  him  in  this  town.  He's  alone 
in  the  world  besides,  all  of  his  rela- 
tives being  dead.  His  having  or  not 
having  money  doesn't  interest  me  in 
the  least,"  and  as  she  stood  before 
the  glass  trying  on  her  leghorn  hat 
trimmed  with  black  velvet  and  pink 
roses,  she  looked  like  a  rose  herself. 

Her  mother  gazed  at  her  with  ad- 
miration. Then  she  continued: 

"Well,  Eleanor,  it  had  better  inter- 
est you,  for  if  ever  a  man  is  in  love 
that  man  is,  and  with  you.  I  guess 
you  know  it,"  as  Eleanor  blushed 


crimson.  "I  believe  that  he  has  pro- 
posed to  you  already.  Has  he?  Tell 
me!"  The  girl  hesitated— then  she 
said  slowly: 

"Yes,  dear,  he  has — not  once,  but 
twice.  And  I  have  refused  him." 

"Why,  Eleanor  Arkwright!"  said 
the  woman.  "Are  you  crazy?  Tell 
me  why." 

"I  knew  you  would  say  that,  mother, 
and  I  have  kept  it  from  you.  Every- 
one considers  him  a  good  business  man 
— and  I  suppose  a  great  catch  for  any 
girl,  and  for  your  sake  I  should  have 
accepted  him.  I  like  him  immensely, 
but  there's  a  reason  for. my  refusing 
him,  and  it  is  this: 

"The  president  of  the  company,  and 
Seymour  Webster's  employer,  is  a 
man  whom  I  loathe.  It  is  none  other 
than  George  Talbot,  the  man  who  took 
our  money — yes,  who  took  it  from 
Uncle  John's  rightful  heir.  This  auto 
company  is  only  one  of  his  many  en- 
terprises, for  that  gentleman  does  not 
propose  to  let  Uncle  John's  money 
grow  rusty,  and  if  I  marry  Seymour 
Webster  I  shall  meet  George  Talbot, 
for  Seymour  swears  by  him.  Imagine, 
mother !  I  should  have  to  shake  hands 
with  him  and  treat  him  courteously. 
Do  you  think  I  could  do  that?  Oh, 
no!  I  told  Mr.  Webster  the  whole 
story." 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  her 
mother,  excitedly. 

"Well,  he  saw  from  my  point  of 
view  why  I  disliked  the  man  more  or 
less,  and  he  admitted  that  I  would 
come  in  contact  with  him,  but  he  asked 
me  to  be  charitable,  to  think  that  per- 
haps he  was  innocent,  and  had  not  ex- 
pected Uncle  John's  money.  'I'm  sure,' 
he  said,  'that  George  Talbot  never 
used  his  influence  to  take  it  from  you, 
for  he  is  an  honorable  man.  I  know 
him  very  well." 

"What  did  you  say  then?"  asked 
Mrs.  Arkwright. 

"Then,  mother,  I  gave  him  my  opin- 
ion of  George  Talbot — that  he  was  a 
self-righteous  prig,  and  that  I'd  never 
marry  him  while  he  was  dependent  on 
Talbot  for  his  position — that  I  would 
not  believe  in  him,  no  matter  what  he 


UNCLE  JOHN'S  WILL. 


163 


said  or  did,  and  that  I  detested  his 
name." 

"I  don't  know  what  Mr.  Webster 
thinks  of  you,  Eleanor,"  replied  her 
mother.  "I  guess  he  knows  by  this 
time  that  you  have  a  will  of  your  own. 
I  only  hope  that  you  will  never  meet 
George  Talbot,  for  remember  he  will 
laugh  about  you  and  talk.  And  then 
you've  lost  a  good  husband  in  Sey- 
mour Webster.  You'll  never  learn 
wisdom.  You'll  be  an  old  maid  un- 
less you  learn  to  control  yourself, 
mark  my  words !" 

"I  knew  that  you'd  say  that,  and  be 
angry,"  replied  the  girl.  "I  am  sorry 
not  to  have  been  able  to  have  married 
him,  for  I  might  have  loved  him,  but 
for  that  man,  and  I  could  have  made 
life  happier  for  you,  dear,"  she  said, 
as  she  put  her  head  on  her  mother's 
shoulder  and  sobbed. 

"Oh,  never  mind  me,  Eleanor,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Arkwright.  "It's  only  to 
see  you  happy  and  settled  that  I  pray 
for." 

One  night  Webster  called.  Eleanor 
and  he  sat  before  a  table  under  the 
drop  light.  The  girl  was  making 
Christmas  gifts.  It  had  been  several 
months  since  he  had  proposed  to  her, 
and  she  had  been  feeling  depressed. 
Of  late,  his  calls  had  been  less  fre- 
quent, and  she  had  missed  him  terri- 
bly. She  also  was  tormented  by  a  lit- 
tle pain  in  the  region  of  her  heart,  for 
there  had  been  rumors  of  attentions 
paid  to  others,  and  pretty  girls,  too,  by 
Mr.  Seymour  Webster,  all  of  which 
caused  her  depression. 

"Eleanor,"  he  said,  after  an  embar- 
rassing silence  of  a  few  moments,  tak- 
ing a  letter  from  his  pocket,  "here  is 
something  that  you  must  read,  for  it 
concerns  you,  and  I  was  asked  to  give 
it  to  you.  It  was  found  in  the  envelope 
with  your  Uncle  John's  will.  It  be- 
longs to  George  Talbot.  Now,  don't 
be  unjust  and  refuse  to  read  it,"  he 
added,  as  she  started  to  lay  it  on  the 
table,  "for  that's  childish."  She 
flushed.  Holding  the  letter  in  her 
hand: 

"I  presume,"  she  said,  "that  it  is 
your  duty  to  champion  that  gentle- 


man. At  the  risk  of  appearing  child- 
ish, I  will  read  the  letter,  but  I  would 
like  my  mother  to  hear  it  also,  if  you 
have  no  objection." 

"None  in  the  least,"  he  replied.  "I 
had  intended  to  suggest  that  she 
should  be  present,"  and  he  called  Mrs. 
Arkwright,  who  came  in  wearing  a 
puzzled  expression. 

"Mother,"  said  Eleanor,  "Mr.  Web- 
ster has  brought  a  letter  to  me  from 
George  Talbot.  It  was  written  to  him 
by  Uncle  John,  and  it  seems  that  I 
am  concerned  in  it.  I  am  requested 
to  read  it,"  and  she  began: 

"My  dear  Son:  You  have  been  a 
comfort  to  me.  In  my  will  I  have 
left  you  my  fortune.  My  desire  was 
to  divide  it  between  you  and  my 
nephew  John's  daughter.  I  like  the 
girl,  but  she  has  the  devil  of  a  temper 
and  is  as  stubborn  as  a  mule,  like  John, 
her  father,  who  always  thought  and 
said  exactly  the  opposite  of  the  other 
fellow — so  it's  in  the  blood.  But  I'm 
cock  sure  that  her  heart  is  all  right. 
Now,  you  and  she  used  to  quarrel  like 
tigers  when  you  were  children,  but  1 
want  her  to  share  this  money  with  you 
and  be  friends.  The  fact  is,  I  want 
you  two  to  marry.  If  she  knew  it, 
she'd  forfeit  her  share  and  think  me 
crazy.  All  you  can  do  is  to  get  her 
by  strategy.  Use  your  wits.  She 
won't  recognize  you  at  all.  She  re- 
members you  probably  as  a  red- 
headed, freckled-faced  youngster  with 
whom  she  fought  as  a  child.  When 
she  visited  me  you  were  in  college. 
Why  not  court  her  under  another 
name?  If  she  gets  dead  in  love  with 
you  she  won't  mind  the  deception.  I 
think  I  shall  rest  easier  in  my  grave 
if  you  two  can  be  husband  and  wife. 
I'd  ask  her  pardon  if  I  could.  Let 
her  read  this  and  tell  her  to  forget 
what  I  said  in  anger — that  I  was  a  hot- 
headed old  fool,  and  very  rude  to  her 
— a  guest. 

"Now,  if  she  refuses  you,  and  ten 
to  one  she  will,  don't  hang  around  like 
an  idiot,  but  go  for  some  other  girl. 
There  are  lots  of  good  fish  in  the  sea 
yet,  and  plenty  of  pretty,  smart  girls 
waiting  for  you  to  take  your  pick,  but 


164 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


give  to  Mrs.  Arkwright — John's  widow 
— and  my  niece,  Eleanor,  one-third  of 
my  property.  Keep  one-third  for  your- 
self, and  give  the  rest  to  charity.  The 
last  third  goes  to  you  if  you  and  she 
marry.  I'm  pretty  dead  sure  that  it 
will  end  in  her  having  one-third,  for  I 
don't  believe  she'd  take  you  for  the 
whole  amount,  and  when  she  reads 
this — whew!  won't  the  fur  fly.  I  can 
see  her  now.  How  mad  she'll  be! 
But  do  your  best. 

"God  bless  you.  I  never  doubt  but 
what  you'll  carry  out  my  last  wishes, 
as  I  made  my  will  in  a  moment  of 
temper. 

"Your  affectionate  father, 
"JOHN  ARKWRIGHT." 

Eleanor  folded  the  letter  and  handed 
it  back  to  Webster.  Looking  into  his 
honest  eyes,  she  said : 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  George 
Talbot  now  ?  He  hasn't  the  courage  to 
come  to  me  as  Uncle  John  wished, 
but  has  sent  you,  the  coward !  Doesn't 
that  prove  what  I  think  of  him  is  cor- 
rect? Why  doesn't  he  ask  me  him- 
self to  marry  him?" 

"He  has  done  so,  my  dear,"  said 
Webster,  taking  her  hand.  "He  has 
done  all  that  your  uncle  requested  of 
him,  and  it  has  been  very  distasteful, 
I  assure  you,  for  he  hates  deception, 
although  he  is  unfortunate  in  having 
had  red  hair.  Don't  you  know  me, 
Eleanor?"  he  said,  earnestly.  "I  am 
George  Talbot." 

Mrs.  Arkwright  screamed  faintly. 

"It  has  been  a  miserable  part  to 
play,  believe  me,  but  I  have  carried 
out  my  father's  wishes.  I  have  been 
refused  twice  by  you,  and  of  course 


cannot  ask  you  to  become  my  wife 
again,  and  I  have  found  out  how  thor- 
oughly you  hate  me.  I  am  sorry,  be- 
cause my  love  for  you  is  very  genuine, 
but  now  I  stand  ready  to  carry  out  the 
rest  of  his  directions  concerning  his 
money.  I  will  make  over  one-third 
of  his  property  to  you  and  your  mother 
to-morrow.  I  regret  that  I  have  failed, 
but  I  have  done  ail  that  a  man  can 
do."  Then  he  took  his  hat  from  the 
table  and  rose  to  go,  saying: 

"I'll  not  detain  you  longer." 

"Wait,  Mr.  Talbot,"  said  Eleanor  in 
a  trembling  voice.  "You  have  never 
asked  me  to  marry  you.  It  has  been 
Seymour  Webster  who  has  asked  me. 
Now,  perhaps,  if  the  real  George  Tal- 
bot should  ask  me  I  might  consider 
it" 

"Eleanor,  my  darling,  do  you  mean 
that?"  said  George,  holding  out  his 
arms  and  clasping  her  to  his  heart. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  blushing,  "I'll 
marry  you,  George,  if  only  to  show 
how  stupid  Uncle  John  was  when  he 
was  so  sure  that  I'd  refuse  you.  The 
old  dear  to  ask  me  to  forgive  him,  and 
to  want  us  to  share  his  fortune,  when 
I  presume  I  aggravated  him  exactly  as 
father  used  to,  and  I'm  ready  to  make 
amends." 

As  George  kissed  her  tenderly,  she 
whispered : 

"I  couldn't  think  of  marrying  you, 
though,  if  your  hair  hadn't  grown  dark 
— nor  can  I  say  that  I  really  love  you 
yet,"  she  added,  smiling  roguishly,  "I 
don't  love  any  one  else.  But  as  Uncle 
George  was  so  sure  that  I'd  balk,  I 
don't  know  why  I  shouldn't  live  up  to 
my  reputation,  although  I'm  going  to 
do  just  the  opposite  to  prove  how 
very  short-sighted  he  was." 


JIA    DAWSON'S    RECITAL 


By  Benjamin  S.  Kotlowsky 


WHEN  JIM  DAWSON  married 
Mary  Bassett  there  was 
great  surprise  in  the  Nubbin 
Ridge  neighborhood.  Jim 
was  worthy  of  respect  and  was  re- 
spected :  he  was  worthy  of  confidence 
and  had  been  intrusted  with  a  county 
office,  yet  when  he  married  Mary  Bas- 
sett there  was  heard,  on  every  turn, 
murmurs  of  astonishment. 

Mary  was  a  beautiful  girl,  and  was 
much  younger  than  Jim.  Her  form, 
untrained  by  any  art,  but  with  a  wood- 
like  wildness  of  development,  was  of 
exquisite  grace,  and  her  hair  was  of  a 
gentle  waviness,  like  the  ripples  of  a 
sun-ray  catching  rivulet. 

Handsome  young  fellows — Ned 
Rodgers,  whose  bottom  field  of  corn 
this  year  was  the  finest  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  Sam  Hall,  who  had  just 
built  a  new  double  loghouse,  chiriked 
and  daubed,  paid  devoted  court  to  the 
beauty,  but  when  old  Jim  came  along 
— old  Jim  with  a  scar  over  one  eye 
where  a  steer  had  kicked  him  years 
ago — and  asked  her  to  marry  him,  she 
shook  off  the  mischievous  airs  of  the 
beauty,  took  up  the  serious  expression 
of  a  thoughtful  woman,  and  consented. 

Jim  owned  a  little  loghouse,  stuck 
up  on  the  side  of  the  hill,  and  though 
viewed  from  the  country  road  it  might 
have  seemed  a  dreary  place,  yet 
standing  in  the  back  door,  Jim  could 
look  down  and  see  the  wild  plum 
bushes  bending  over  the  crystal  water 
of  the  creek — could  see  a  green 
meadow  far  down  the  stream  and  could 
hear  the  song  of  the  rain-crow. 

Several  years  passed.  The  gossip- 
ers  reluctantly  agreed  that  Jim  and  his 
wife  were  happy,  that  is,  reasonably 
happy,  for  the  gossip  never  admits  to 


a  complete  surrender.  One  day,  while 
Jim  was  away  from  home,  Ned  Rod- 
gers came  to  the  house.  Mary  came  in 
when  she  heard  footsteps,  and  upon 
seeing  the  visitor,  stood  wiping  her 
hands  on  her  apron.  She  had  been 
washing,  and  a  bubble  of  suds  on  her 
hair,  catching  a  ray  of  light,  flashed 
like  a  diamond. 

"You've  about  forgot  me,  hain't  you, 
Mary 

"Miz  Dawson?" 

"No,  how  could  I  forget  you  when 
I  see  you  at  church  nearly  every  Sun- 
day? Sit  down." 

"Yes,  you  see  me,"  Ned  replied, 
seating  himself,  "but  as  you  never 
speak  to  me,  I  'lowed  that  you  had 
dun  fergot  me." 

"I  never  forget  a  friend." 

"Much  'bliged.  You  look  tired;  sit 
down  youse'f." 

She  sat  down.    Ned  continued : 

"You  do  a  good  deal  of  hard  work 
— don't  you?" 

"No  more  than  any  other  woman, 
I  reckon." 

"You  do  more  than  I'd  let  my  wife 
do." 

"Yes,  all  men  talk  that  way  before 
they  are  married." 

"And  some  of  them  mean  what  they 
say,  Mary — or  Miz  Dawson." 

"But  the  majority  of  them  do  not." 

"I  know  one  that  does.  Mary,  if 
you  had  married  me  you  never  would 
have  to  work  none." 

"You  let  your  mother  work." 

"Yes;  but  I  wouldn't  let  you  work. 
I  wish  you  had  married  me,  Mary,  for 
I  ain't  been  happy  a  single  hour  sense 
you  told  me  that  you  wouldn't;  not  a 
single  one.  I  uster  be  fonder  of  rice 
puddin'  than  anybody,  but  I  ain't  eat 


166 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


nary  one  mouthful  sense  you  'lowed 
that  you  couldn't  marry  me.  Tell  me, 
Mary,  air  you  happy?" 

"Happy  as  most  women,  I  reckon." 

"But  most  women  ain't  happy." 

"Mebbe  not." 

A  short  silence  followed;  Ned 
twisted  his  hat  round  and  round.  Mary 
wiped  her  hands  on  her  apron. 

"Mary — you  don't  care  if  I  call  you 
Mary,  do  you?" 

"No;  I'm  not  particular." 

"But  you  wouldn't  let  everybody 
call  you  by  your  first  name,  would 
you?" 

"No." 

"Mary." 

"Well?" 

"Do  you  know  what  I've  been  think- 
ing about  ever  sense  I  saw  you  at 
meetin'  last  Sunday?" 

"How  am  I  to  know  what  you're 
thinkin'  about?  Hardly  know  some- 
times what  I'm  thinkin'  about  myse'f ." 

"Would  you  like  to  know  what  I've 
been  thinkin'  about,  Mary?" 

She  sat  twisting  her  apron;  a  cat 
purred  about  the  legs  of  her  chair.  A 
chicken,  singing  the  lazy  song  of 
"laying  time,"  hopped  up  into  the 
doorway.  "Shoo,"  she  cried.  "The 
chickens  are  about  to  take  the  place." 

"But  that  ain't  got  nothin'  to  do  with 
what  I've  been  thinkin',  nor  about  you 
wantin'  to  know.  Do  you  wanter 
know?" 

"You  may  tell  me  if  you  want  to." 

"Sho'  'nuff?" 

"Yes,  if  it  ain't  bad." 

"Oh,  it  ain't  bad."  He  untwisted 
his  hat,  straightened  it  out  by  pulling 
it  down  over  his  head,  took  it  off,  and 
beginning  to  twist  it  again,  said: 

"I've  been  thinkin'  that  you  wa'n't 
happy  livin'  with  a  man  that  don't 
'predate  you — hold  on,  now,  let  me 
get  through."  She  had  moved  im- 
patiently. "Man  that  don't  'predate 
you;  and  I've  been  thinkin'  that  I 
would  come  over  here  and — and  ask 
you  to  run  av/ay  with  me.  Wait,  Mary 
— please  wait!"  She  had  sprung  to 
her  feet.  "Jest  listen  to  me  a  minit. 
Folks  uster  think  you  was  happy,  but 
they  know  you  ain't  now.  Mary,  please 


wait  a  minit.  You  won't  tell  Jim, 
will  you?  Oh,  you  won't  do  that,  I 
know.  We  understand  each  other, 
Mary,  don't  we?  Mary,  oh,  Mary — " 
She  was  hastening  down  the  slope  to- 
ward the  wild-plum  bushes.  "Don't 
say  anything,"  he  shouted.  "Don't, 
fur  if  you  do  they'll  be  terrible  trou- 
ble!" 

*  *  * 

"What's  the  matter,  little  girl,"  Jim 
asked  that  evening  as  he  was  eating 
his  supper. 

"Nothin'." 

"You  don't  'pear  to  be  as  bright  as 
usual." 

"I  thought  I  was." 

"But  you  ain't.  Thar's  some  new 
gingham  in  my  saddle-bags  that'll 
make  you  as  purty  a  dress  as  you  ever 
seed.  Got  red  an'  yaller  spots  on  it 
that  shines  like  a  nugget.  Look  here, 
little  gal,  thar's  somethin'  the  matter 
with  you  an'  you  needn't  say  thar  ain't. 
Come  here,  now."  He  shoved  his 
chair  back  from  the  table  and  took 
her  on  his  lap.  "You  know  thar's 
somethin'  wrong,  now,  an'  ^you  air 
jest  tryin'  to  fool  me.  I  haven't  done 
nothin'  to  hurt  your  feelin's,  have  I?" 

"No!" 

"Then  what's  the  matter?  Oh,  don't 
cry  that  way."  She  sobbed  on  his 
shoulder.  "You'll  make  me  think  that 
I  ain't  the  right  sort  of  a  husband  if 
you  keep  on.  Mebbe  I  ain't,  too.  I'm 
gettin'  old  an'  grizzly,  an'  I  ain't  good- 
lookin'  nohow,  while  you  'pear  to  git 
purtier  and  purtier  every  day." 

"Jim,"  she  said,  putting  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  "you  mustn't  talk — 
you  mustn't  think  that  way.  You  air 
the  best  man  that  ever  lived,  and  if 
you'll  promise  not  to  get  mad,  I'll  tell 
you  what  ails  me." 

"Law,  me,  child,  I  couldn't  git  mad 
if  I  wanted  to." 

She  told  him.  He  sat  for  a  few 
moments  in  a  silence  of  deep  medita- 
tion, and  then,  with  a  brightening 
countenance,  said  cheerfully: 

"Why  that  ain't  nothin'  to  git  mad 
about,  child.  It's  all  right;  and  let 
me  tell  you  that  any  man  after  seein' 
you  a  few  times  is  bound  to  love  you, 


JIM  DAWSON'S  RECITAL. 


167 


and  I  reckon  he  would  be  willin'  to  run 
away  with  you  in  a  minit,  eh.  Haw, 
Haw,  Haw!  No,  indeed,  honey,  you 
kain't  blame  the  pore  feller  fer  that." 

"And  you  won't  say  anything  to  him 
about  it?" 

"Law  me,  child,  I'll  never  mention  it 
to  him;  never  in  this  world;  so  don't 

give  yourself  no  uneasiness." 
*  *  * 

A  chilling  rain  was  falling.  Sev- 
eral men,  including  Ned  Rogers,  were 
sitting  in  Rob  Tommers'  store. 

"Yander  comes  Jim  Dawson,"  said 
Tommers,  looking  out.  Ned  Rodgers 
moved  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"Hello,  men,"  Jim  shouted,  as  he 
stepped  up  into  the  door  and  began 
to  stamp  the  mud  off  his  feet.  "Sorter 
saft  outside.  Hi,  Rob ;  glad  to  see  you 
lookin'  so  well.  Hi,  Ned,  and  hi,  all 
hands." 

"We're  always  glad  to  see  you," 
Ned  spoke  up,  "fur  you  allus  fetch 
good  humor  along  with  you.  Don't 
make  no  diffunce  how  rainy  or  how 
dry — no  diffunce  wether  the  corn's 
clean  or  in  the  grass,  you  dun  allus 
the  same." 

"Glad  you  think  so,  Ned." 

"We  all  jine  him  in  thet,  too,"  said 
Tommers. 

"Much  obleeged."  He  stood  lean- 
ing against  the  counter,  and  moving 
his  hand  carelessly,  touched  a  rusty 
cheese-knife.  "Rob,  what  do  you  keep 
sech  a  onery-lookin'  knife  as  this  for, 
anyway?" 

"Sharp  enough  to  cut  cheese  with, 
I  reckon,  Jim." 

"Yes,  but  that's  about  all.  Hand 
me  that  whetrock  over  thar  and  let 
me  whet  the  point.  Blamed  if  I 
haven't  got  to  do  somethin'  all  the 
time.  Wall,  fellers,  I  seed  suthin' 
'tither  week  while  I  was  down  in  Lex- 
ington that  laid  over  anythin'  I  ever 
did  see  before.  I  went  to  a  theatre. 
Ever  at  one,  Ned?" 

"No,  don't  believe  I  was." 

"Wall,  now,  if  you've  ever  been  at 
one  you'd  know  it,"  Jim  replied,  in- 


dustriously whetting  the  point  of  the 
knife.  "Why,  it  knocks  a  church  ex- 
hibition sillier  than  a  scorched  purp. 
I  never  did  seed  sech  a  show." 

"Any  hosses  or  elephants  in  it?" 
Rob  Tommers  asked. 

"Oh,  no;  it  all  tuck  place  in  a  house. 
I'll  tell  you  how  it  was  (still  whetting 
the  knife.)  It  was  playin';  regular 
pertend-like,  but  it  looked  mighty  nat- 
ural. It  'pears  that  a  nuther  feller  had 
married  a  ruther  young  girl  (he  put 
the  whetstone  on  the  counter) ;  a  pow- 
erful purty  girl,  too.  Wall,  one  time 
when  the  old  feller  wa'n't  about  the 
house,  a  young  chap  that  had  wanted 
to  marry  her  a  good  while  before,  he 
came  in,  and  got  to  talkin'  to  her,  and 
the  upshot  was  that  he  wanted  her  to 
run  away  with  him." 

"No,"  said  Tommers. 

"Yes,  sir,"  continued  old  Jim, 
"wanted  her  to  run  smack  smooth 
away  with  him.  Wall,  she  told  her 
husband,  but  he  sorter  laughed,  he 
did  and  'lowed  that  he  didn't  blame 
the  feller  much.  But  the  fun  come  af- 
ter this.  The  old  feller — stand  up 
here,  Ned,  and  let  me  show  you.  Hang 
it,  stand  up;  don't  pull  back  like  a 
shyin'  hoss.  The  old  feller  got  him  a 
knife  'bout  like  this,  and  he  went  into 
a  room  whar  the  young  feller  was. 
Now,  you  stand  right  thar.  He  walks 
in  this  way,  and  neither  one  of  'em 
says  a  word,  but  stood  an'  looked  at 
each  other  'bout  like  we  are  doin',  but 
all  at  once  the  old  feller  lifts  up  the 

knife  this  way,  and Thar,  you 

damned  scoundrel!" 

He  plunged  the  knife  into  Ned  Rog- 
gers'  breast — buried  the  blade  in  the 
fellow's  bosom,  and.  as  he  pulled  it 
out,  while  Rodgers  lay  on  the  floor, 
dead,  he  turned  to  his  terror-stricken 
friends  and  exclaimed : 

"He  wanted  my  wife  to  run  away 
with  him,  boys!" 

"If  you  wanter  hang  me,  I'll  tie  the 
rope." 

"You  don't?  Then  good-bye  an' 
God  bless  you!" 


"THE  WANDERING  HOAE" 

By  Lucy  Betty  /AcRaye 

Homeless  they  call  us,  to  caravan  gypsies  akin, 
For  we  cannot  dwell  forever  by  the  same  trim  hedge  shut  in, 
With  the  same  four  walls  around  us,  in  the  same  unlovely  street 
When  the  wide,  white  road,  beneath  the  stars,  is  waiting  for 
our  feet. 

Unlatch  the  gates  of  dreams  and  go, 
When  Bromide  tongues  will  have  it  so 
To  picturing  the  homes  we  know. 

What  of  old  London,  our  garret  up  under  the  eaves, 

In  the  old  world  square,  the  sparrows  chirp,  the  glimpses  of 

green  leaves, 
Where  the  little  window  faces  on  the  street  lamps'  twinkling 

eyes, 

On  the  ceaseless  tide  of  traffic,  sombre  roofs  and  reddened  skies, 
Our  Paris  pied-a-terre,  Lissette, 
To  bring  the  coffee,  care  forget, 
Are  you  not  Pierrot,  I  Pierrette! 

Our  homes  by  the  sea,  v/here  the  whispering  ocean  rolled, 
In  the  summer,  down  in  Devon,  over  ridges  of  warm  gold, 
Where  the  fuchsias  climbed  the  paling  in  profusion  one  July, 
A  strip  of  gold,  a  glimpse  of  pink,  and  an  azure  sea  and  sky. 
Our  other  sea  home,  far  away, 
Beneath  the  North  Star,  grim  and  gray, 
The  leaping  waves  beat  night  and  day. 

Wild  winter  in  the  mountains,  our  tiny  chalet  set, 
High  and  wind  blown,  under  mighty  jagged  crag  and  minaret, 
With  the  swaying  and  the  swinging  of  the  pines  below  our  nest, 
And  the  faint  peaks,  opal-tinted,  as  the  sun  bejewels  the  west, 
The  snow  and  stars  and  breathless  night, 
The  snow  and  pines  and  stealing  light, 
On  agate  green  and  ermine  white. 

Spring  has  often  found  us,  in  the  blue,  blue  hills  we  love, 
The  ripe  gold  fruit  is  hanging  in  the  emerald  orange  grove, 
And  our  dear  Italian  garden,  with  the  olive  trees,  and,  Oh! 
The  terrace  where  the  violets  and  the  yellow  roses  grow, 

The  grassy  freshness  of  the  dell. 

Starred  by  anemones,  as  well 

As  silvered  by  the  asphodel. 

Homeless  they  call  us,  homeless,  a  hundred  homes  are  ours, 
And  our  carpet  may  be  frosted,  or  be  garlanded  with  flowers, 
And  our  roof  be  lit  with  paling  stars,  or  gleaming  northern  light, 
Or  a  honey-colored  southern  moon  may  be  our  lamp  to-night. 
They  call,  the  open  road,  the  sea, 
Oh,  love,  my  home  must  ever  be, 
Within  your  arms  and  yours  with  me. 


A  river  landing  at  Rio  Vista,  on  the  lower  Sacramento  River,  California. 


ALONG  A  CALIFORNIA  WATER 

WAY 


By   Roger  Sprague 


Illustrated  with  photographs  taken  by  the  author. 


JIM,  LET  GO  that  hawser!" 
It  was.  the  mate  that  spoke. 
The  last  line  was  cast  loose,  and 
the  steamer  Navajo  backed 
slowly  out  into  the  bay.  Charles  Lau- 
rence Baker  stood  on  the  upper  deck, 
and  gazed  eagerly  about  him,  for  this 
September  journey  from  San  Fran- 
cisco to  Sacramento  was  to  be  his  first 
experience  of  travel  on  California 
waterways.  Educated  at  one  of  the 
great  universities  of  the  Middle  West, 
Baker  had  come  recently  to  California 
as  an  instructor  in  the  State  Univer- 
sity, where  we  had  met.  For  some 
months  we  had  been  planning  a  trip 
up  the  river.  Now,  at  last,  we  were 
embarked  on  the  excursion. 

As  I  stood  there,  the  occasion  called 
to  mind  an  incident  in  a  summer  spent 


in  Chicago  nearly  twenty  years  before. 
At  that  time  daily  steamboat  excur- 
sions were  running  from  Chicago  to 
Milwaukee.  I  made  the  trip  in  an  im- 
mense whaleback — the  Christopher 
Columbus.  The  entrance  to  the  har- 
bor of  Milwaukee  is  narrow,  and  a 
suburb  of  that  city  is  located  on  the 
low  ground  immediately  to  the  left. 
It  is  composed  of  small  cottages,  em- 
bowered in  a  profusion  of  trees.  As 
we  came  through  the  passage,  we 
could  look  down  from  the  lofty  upper 
deck  upon  the  little  community.  What 
a  brilliant — even  tropical — picture  lay 
before  us!  There  were  the  huts  of 
the  natives,  their  dark  roofs  peeping 
out  through  the  brilliant  green  of  the 
jungle.  As  the  eye  ranged  to  the  left, 
one  saw  a  strip  of  yellow — the  sandy 
3 


170 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


beach  on  which  young  natives  were 
running,  "young  barbarians  at  play." 
Still  farther  to  the  left  was  the  light 
green  of  the  shallow  water,  bordering 
the  beach.  Beyond  this  was  the  dark 
blue  water  of  the  deep  lake,  dotted 
with  whitecaps,  a  rival  steamer  plow- 
Ing  through  it,  tossing  the  spray  into 
the  air — a  magnificent  blue  sky  o'er- 
arching  all.  The  whole  scene  was  a 
dazzling  combination  of  colors.  It 
was  a  picture  as  full  of  life  and  color, 
of  the  novel  and  picturesque,  as  any- 
thing we  might  travel  the  wide  world 
over  to  witness,  and  all  this  was  not 
In  any  remote  region,  to  attain  which 
a  thousand  miles  of  desert  or  of  jun- 
gle must  be  traversed.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  was  only  a  few  hours'  run 
from  the  city  of  Chicago,  one  of  the 
world's  great  centers  of  population. 
It  was  at  the  very  entrance  to  Milwau- 
kee, metropolis  of  Wisconsin. 

That  experience  brought  home  the 
fact  that  it  is  not  necessary  to  jour- 
ney far  to  find  sights  worth  seeing — 
they  lie  all  around  us.  It  was  in  obe- 
dience to  this  principle  that  we  were 
making  this  journey.  The  writer  had 
formed  the  opinion  that  travel  on  the 
Sacramento  River,  under  the  delight- 
ful conditions  which  our  modern 
means  of  transportation  afford,  is  just 
as  enjoyable  as  river  travel  in  any  for- 
eign land  which  tourists  journey  thou- 
sands of  miles  to  reach;  and  here  we 
were — my  friend  and  I — about  to  put 
the  theory  to  the  test. 

Our  steamer  was  now  running  past 
the  wharves  and  piers  where  lay  trans- 
Pacific  and  coastwise  steamers,  while 
behind  them  rose  the  heights  of  the 
city.  It  is  difficult  to  see  anything 
poetical  in  San  Francisco's  hills  under 
the  full  glare  of  the  morning  sun.  They 
recall  what  Sir  Walter  Scott  said  of 
Melrose,  or  what  Lord  Byron  said  of 
the  Roman  Coliseum :  "It  will  not  bear 
the  brightness  of  the  day." 

If  you  would  view  San  Francisco 
aright,  go  and  see  it  from  the  bay  in 
the  dusk  of  an  early  twilight,  when 
the  low,  dark  masses  of  the  hills  loom 
dimly,  star-spangled  with  lights,  while 
behind  them  rises  a  background  of 


fog,  rolling  in  from  the  ocean,  and 
above  hangs  a  slate-colored  sky, 
barred  with  alternate  bands  of  light 
and  dark.  The  raw,  chilly  breeze  of 
the  evening,  rushing  in  from  the  har- 
bor entrance,  rolls  the  water  into 
miniature  waves,  and  even  sets  stout 
river  steamers  rocking  and  swaying. 
Then,  when  the  pulses  are  exhilarated 
by  the  rush  of  the  wind  and  the  leap 
of  the  waters,  and  the  city  is  half  re- 
vealed, half-concealed,  by  the  dim 
light  and  the  rolling  fog,  the  senses 
yield  to  the  magic  of  the  scene;  there 
is  ample  room  for  poetic  emotion. 

At  the  quarantine  station  a  recent 
arrival  was  lying  at  anchor — a  long, 
heavy,  many-decked  ocean  steamer, 
with  black  sides  and  two  enormous 
yellow  funnels,  to  match  which  the 
high  ventilator  tubes  that  rose  from 
the  deck  at  either  end  had  been, 
painted  the  same  brilliant  color.  From 
the  jack-staff  at  the  stern  floated  the 
white  flag  of  Japan,  with  its  blood-red 
sun.  At  the  foremast  flew  the  com- 
pany's house-flag,  blue  with  a  white 
fan  pictured  on  it;  on  the  fan,  the 
Japanese  sun  was  seen  again.  The 
vessel  had  arrived  that  morning  from 
the  Orient;  passengers  fresh  from 
Hong-Kong,  Shanghai  and  Yokohama 
thronged  to  the  rails  to  watch  us  pass. 
To  them,  a  stern-wheeler,  with  its 
square  white  bulk,  freight  piled  upon 
the  forward  deck,  and  splashing,  un- 
covered wheel,  was  as  curious  as  a 
Chinese  junk  would  seem  to  a  San 
Franciscan. 

Our  eyes  traveled  on  past  the 
steamer,  out  through  the  Golden  Gate, 
which  it  entered  an  hour  before,  and 
which  now  opened  broadly  before  us. 
On  the  left  of  the  passage  an  old  brick 
fort  was  silhouetted  against  the  sea 
and  sky,  while  on  the  opposite  side 
the  towering  heights  rose  steeply, 
crowned  by  earth-works  where  big 
guns  are  hidden.  On  we  went,  past 
the  steep,  rugged  heights  north  of  the 
Golden  Gate,  rising  so  abruptly  from 
the  water,  and  culminating  at  an  al- 
titude of  almost  half  a  mile  in  the  tri- 
angular bulk  of  Tamalpais;  through 
the  narrows  that  form  the  entrance  to 


: 


A  typical  ferry  on  the  Sacramento   River. 


that  portion  of  the  bay  known  as  San 
Pablo,  across  the  broad  surface  of 
which  we  were  now  proceeding  at  a 
distance  of  some  miles  from  the  shore. 
What  'a  noble  sheet  of  water  is  the 
bay  of  St.  Francis!  It  is  comparable 
in  every  respect  but  size  to  the  In- 
land Sea  of  Japan.  Yet  it  is  the  latter 
rather  than  the  former  that  has  been 


lauded  by  travelers,  until  the  impres- 
sion has  gone  abroad  that  the  Inland 
Sea  "is  replete  with  charms  which  not 
only  fascinate  the  beholder,  but  which 
linger  in  the  memories  of  the  absent 
like  visions  of  a  glorious  past."  San 
Francisco  Bay — with  its  cool  airs,  its 
equable  climate,  its  ocean  breezes,  its 
ever-changing  panoramas  of  land  and 


172 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


water,  of  clouds  and  deep  blue  sky,  its 
surface  dotted  with  islands  and  tra- 
versed by  the  commerce  of  every 
nation,  it's  shores  overlooked  by  hills 
which  in  some  places  rise  abruptly  as 
wooded  promontories  from  the  water's 
edge,  and  in  others  recede  to  a  dis- 
tance of  miles,  their  tones  changing 
from  the  green  of  spring  to  the  yel- 
low and  brown  of  autumn — affords  as 
striking  a  series  of  pictures,  of  com- 
binations produced  by  man  and  nature, 
as  can  be  found  anywhere  around  the 
Pacific. 

The  situation  of  San  Francisco  is 
analogous  to  that  of  New  York;  a 
commodious  harbor,  lying  at  the  sea- 
ward end  of  the  national  outlet  from 
the  interior.  In  order  to  appreciate 
the  importance  of  the  bay,  and  its  re- 
lation to  the  rest  of  the  State,  it  is. 
necessary  to  know  the  "lay  of  the 
land."  Northern  California  consists 
of  a  great  central  plain,  five  hundred 
miles  long  by  fifty  wide,  lying  between 
the  broad  slopes  of  the  Sierras  on  the 
one  side  and  the  lower,  but  more  com- 
plex folds  of  the  Coast  Range  on  the 
other.  At  one  point,  and  one  only, 
the  ring  of  mountains  has  been  broken 
— cut  down  to  sea  level.  That  point 
is  at  the  bay.  On  the  east  side  of  the 
valley  the  Sierras  climb  slowly  until 
they  rise  to  peaks  covered  with  eternal 
snow,  from  which  descend  streams  to 
join  the  rivers  that  drain  the  interior 
valley.  Far  back  in  the  history  of  our 
planet,  the  combined  water  sought  an 
outlet,  and  found  it  in  the  Coast 
Range  at  a  point  near  the  center  of 
the  State.  Here  the  ridges  narrow 
and  sink  to  hills  a  few  hundred  feet  in 
height,  and  here  the  waters  carved  a 
passage  through  which  they  escaped, 
to  wind  across  the  broad,  almost  level 
expanse  where  now  we  find  the  bay  of 
St.  Francis,  and  finally  to  reach  the 
Pacific  through  the  gap  in  the  hills 
we  now  know  as  the  Golden  Gate.  But 
thousands  of  years  ago,  perhaps  in 
the  time  of  the  first  of  the  thirty  dy- 
nasties which  history  tells  us  reigned 
over  Egypt,  a  colossal  earthquake  must 
have  shaken  California,  in  comparison 
-with  which  those  of  to-day  are  mere 


shivers.  Down  sank  the  coast  three 
hundred  feet,  and  the  sea  rushed  in, 
surrounding  the  hills,  inundating  the 
valleys,  and  surging  far  into  the  in- 
terior of  the  State. 

Pouring  through  the  pass  which  the 
combined  streams  had  carved  in  the 
Coast  Range,  the  ocean  formed  a  broad 
bay  in  the  very  heart  of  the  central 
valley.  There  it  lay— a  far-reaching 
placid  expanse  of  salt  water,  spread- 
ing to  north  and  south  for  scores  of 
miles.  But  the  streams  from  the  hills 
never  ceased  flowing.  The  mountain 
torrents,  pouring  down  the  flanks  of 
the  Sierras,  went  on  with  their  work, 
bringing  the  gravel  and  alluvium 
down  from  the  higher  levels,  and  pil- 
ing in  the  shallow  water  the  materials 
which  they  had  ground  out  of  the 
mountains;  and  they  have  been  at  it 
ever  since.  Slowly  the  alluvial  de- 
posits have  encroached  on  the  salt 
water,  until  to-day  the  rivers  wind 
through  a  multiplicity  of  channels  ly- 
ing between  low  "islands"  which  have 
been  built  up  from  the  river  mud. 
However,  the  work  of  "silting  in"  is 
not  yet  complete.  Just  east  of  the 
Coast  Range  hills,  there  still  remains 
a  fragment  of  the  old  stretch  of  salt 
water.  It  is  known  as  Suisun  Bay. 
It  is  bordered  by  broad  shallows,  over- 
grown with  a  species  of  reed  known  as 
the  tule.  The  tules  serve  to  catch  the 
sediment  and  hasten  the  work  of  de- 
position. 

We  are  now  approaching  the  straits 
of  Carquinez,  where  the  steamer's 
course  changes  from  north  to  east. 
This  is  the  channel  which  in  prehis- 
toric times  the  streams  carved  through 
the  hills.  It  lies  to-day  an  unmis- 
takable river  valley,  but  deeply  flood- 
ed from  side  to  side  with  salt  water. 
It  is  the  gap  through  which  of  neces- 
sity the  products  of  the  interior  must 
come  to  reach  the  sea.  Here,  where 
ship  and  rail  and  river  meet,  can  be 
found  an  epitome  of  California's  in- 
dustries. The  oil  refinery,  the  sugar 
refinery,  the  smelter,  the  grain  ware- 
house, the  tannery — all  these  are  rep- 
resented. Here  come  the  minerals 
from  the  mines  of  the  Sierras  to  be 


/.  A  hay  schooner  on  one  of  the  lazy  reaches  of  the  Sacramento  River. 
2.  A  small  stern-wheeler  entering  the  mouth  of  the  river. 


smelted,  the  output  of  the  oil  wells  to 
be  refined,  and  the  products  of  farm 
and  vineyard  to  be  shipped  abroad, 
while  at  the  narrowest  point  are  strung 
across  the  wires  which  bring  the  hy- 
dro-electric power  from  the  mountains 
to  the  metropolis. 

Besides  the  heavy  black  hulls  of 
ocean  steamers  may  be  seen  the  lofty 
spars  of  sailing  vessels,  as  they  unload 
sugar  from  the  Hawaiian  Islands  or 
load  grain  for  Europe.  Along  a  nar- 
row ledge,  cut  at  the  foot  of  the  hills, 


runs  the  railway,  in  full  view  of  which 
ply  shallow-draft  river  steamers,  each 
propelled  by  a  single  huge  wheel 
placed  at  the  stern.  More  antiquated 
than  these  are  the  square-ended  scow- 
schooners,  their  decks  piled  high  with 
the  hay  they  bring  from  farms  far  up 
the  rivers.  The  varied  types  of  trans- 
portation and  of  industry  unite  in  pro- 
ducing a  kaleidoscopic  picture.  The 
whistle  of  the  locomotive  is  answered 
by  the  hoarse  bellow  of  the  deep-sea 
freighter,  while  sea  breezes  bring  up 


174 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


the  bay  from  the  brine  of  the  ocean 
the  tang  of  the  salt. 

With  the  tide  behind  us,  we  ran  up 
the  channel,  skirting  the  southern 
shore  at  a  distance  of  perhaps  two 
hundred  yards.  To  the  eye  of  my 
friend  Baker,  the  succession  of  scenes 
— first  the  oil  refinery,  next  the  smel- 
ter, located  on  a  bench  at  the  foot  of 
picturesquely  rounded  hills,  next  the 
sugar  refinery,  with  its  ships  and 
steamers  fresh  from  the  Hawaiian 
Isles,  succeeded  by  the  grain  sheds 
and  a  great  ferry  by  which  the  trans- 
continental trains  are  transported  from 
shore  to  shore — all  these  were  to  him 
a  series  of  busy,  animated  and  enter- 
taining pictures;  that  and  nothing 
more.  But  in  the  mind  of  the  writer, 
a  native  of  San  Francisco,  they  awoke 
a  hundred  recollections.  They  seemed 
to  contain  a  history  of  the  industrial 
development  of  the  State.  My 
thoughts  ran  back  over  a  period  of 
more  than  thirty  years  to  the  late 
70's,  when  Stevenson  crossed  those 
straits  on  his  way  to  Silverado,  when 
he  wrote :  "Thither,  across  the  Atlantic 
and  Pacific  deeps  and  round  about  the 
icy  -Horn,  this  crowd  of  great  three- 
masted,  deep-sea  ships  come,  bring- 
ing nothing,  and  return  with  bread." 

The  days  of  gold,  which  formed  the 
first  period  in  the  industrial  history 
of  the  State,  I  could  not  remember, 
for  they  were  before  my  time.  But  of 
the  days  of  wheat,  which  made  the 
second  chapter,  my  memory  could  fur- 
nish many  reminiscences.  When  those 
began,  as  Frank  Norris  says,  "The 
news  that  wheat  had  been  discovered 
in  California  was  passed  from  mouth 
to  mouth.  Practically  it  amounted  to 
a  discovery.  Dr.  Glenn's  first  harvest 
of  wheat  in  Colusa  County,  quietly 
undertaken,  but  suddenly  realized 
with  dramatic  abruptness,  gave  a  new 
matter  for  reflection  to  the  thinking 
men  of  the  New  West.  California  sud- 
denly leaped  unheralded  into  the 
world's  market  as  a  competitor  in 
wheat  production.  In  a  few  years  her 
output  of  wheat  exceeded  the  value  of 
her  output  of  gold." 

The    grain   was    in    great   demand, 


freights  ruled  high,  ships  crowded  to 
San  Francisco  from  all  quarters  of  the 
globe  to  carry  cargoes  around  Cape 
Horn  to  Europe.  This  led  to  an  over- 
supply  of  ships,  which  grew  until  a 
vessel  must  needs  wait  in  the  bay  ten 
or  twelve  months  before  securing  a 
charter.  Thirty  years  ago,  groups  of 
tall  sailing  ships  swinging  idly  at  their 
anchors,  waiting  for  engagement,  were 
among  the  characteristic  sights  of  San 
Francisco  Bay;  the  iron  hulls  of  the 
Britishers  showing  broad  stretches  of 
red  paint,  the  wooden  hulls  of  Ameri- 
cans lifting  high  the  green  of  copper 
sheathing.  They  had  their  regular 
points  of  rendezvous,  at  which  they 
might  assemble.  There  they  lay  idle, 
while  the  ground  was  being  broken, 
the  seed  sown,  the  crop  raised,  the 
grain  harvested,  and  finally  sent  down 
the  river  to  the  ship. 

Next,  conditions  changed.  The  de- 
mand for  ships  exceeded  the  supply. 
Vessels  were  chartered  "prior  to  ar- 
rival," while  they  were  still  lying  in 
the  docks  of  London  or  of  Liverpool. 
Filling  their  hulls  with  consignments 
of  bricks  or  lime,  Portland  cement  or 
Cardiff  coal,  they  started  on  the  voy- 
age of  four  or  five  months  to  San  Fran- 
cisco, while  the  wheat  waited  for  them, 
not  they  for  the  wheat  as  in  former 
days.  But  they  did  not  come  with 
empty  holds,  as  Stevenson  imagined. 
A  favorite  voyage  was  that  around 
the  world,  the  ship  carrying  merchan- 
dise from  England  to  Australia,  coal 
from  Australia  to  California,  and 
wheat  from  California  to  old  England. 
Twenty  years  ago,  the  annual  grain 
fleet  from  the  Pacific  Coast  counted 
three  hundred  and  sixty-five  ships. 
Each  day  on  an  average  one  square- 
rigger  set  sail,  carrying  a  cargo  of 
from  two  thousand  to  five  thousand 
tons.  Of  the  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five,  three  hundred  passed  out  through 
the  Golden  Gate.  In  those  days,  San 
Francisco  Bay  might  be  described  as 
the  home  of  the  sailing  ship.  Those 
which  came  for  grain  formed  only  a 
fraction  of  the  total  number  that 
crowded  the  wharves.  Fleets  of 
square-riggers  brought  coal  from  Van- 


A  country  home  beneath  the  eucalypti  on  the  river  bank. 


couver  Island.  Other  fleets  brought 
lumber  from  Washington.  Besides 
these  were  the  schooners  and  barken- 
tines  bringing  sugar  from  the  Hawaiian 
Isles.  The  city  front  was  literally  a 
"forest  of  masts."  With  the  whole 
interior  of  the  hull  from  top  to  bot- 
tom, from  end  to  end,  clear  space  for 
the  stowage  of  cargo;  with  no  space 
taken  up  by  expensive  boilers  and 
machinery;  no  space  occupied  by  coal 
bunkers;  their  power  the  free  winds 
of  Heaven,  those  old  sailing  ships  held 
their  own  for  many  a  day.  But  con- 
ditions changed  once  more.  The 
tramp  steamers  broke  into  the  field. 
Freights  went  down;  more  grain  went 
overland  by  rail;  less  and  less  was 
shipped  by  water,  until  to-day  the 
volume  that  is  being  sent  to  Europe 
by  the  old  Cape  Horn  route  is  a  mere 
fraction  of  what  it  was.  All  this  ran 
through  my  mind  as  we  passed  the 
long  grain  sheds  of  Port  Costa,  where 
the  sacks  of  wheat  are  piled  awaiting 
shipment. 

Other  sights  we  saw  told  of  still  an- 
other epoch,  that  of  the  present,  which 


may  be  said  to  have  commenced  with 
the  twentieth  century,  namely  that  of 
oil  and  electricity.  These  came  to 
the  front  as  gold  and  wheat  retired  to 
the  background.  For  fifty  years,  Cali- 
fornia had  been  handicapped  by  lack 
of  fuel.  Practically,  the  State  pos- 
sesses no  coal,  which  was  brought  in 
from  all  directions;  some  from  Eng- 
land, more  from  Australia,  but  most 
from  Vancouver  Island.  For  nearly 
fifty  years  it  had  been  known  that  the 
State  contained  great  deposits  of  pe- 
troleum, but  of  a  nature  different  from 
that  of  the  Eastern  oil,  and  as  a  result 
it  was  not  utilized.  Finally  the  proper 
method  of  using  it  was  learned,  and 
immediately  the  State  became  its  own 
fuel  supplier.  For  all  manufacturing 
and  industrial  purposes,  coal  went  out 
and  oil  came  in.  About  the  same  time 
the  power  furnished  by  the  mountain 
streams  of  the  Sierras  was  made  avail- 
able by  electric  transmission,  until 
a  writer  could  say:  "Of  all  the  great 
transmission  systems  in  this  or  any 
other  country,  that  centering  around 
San  Francisco  stands  pre-eminent."  He 


176 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


was  able  to  add :  "The  Pacific  Gas  & 
Electric  Company  is  the  greatest  hy- 
dro-electric transmission  system  in  ex- 
istence." A  new  era  had  dawned,  and 
when  we  passed  beneath  those  wires 
which,  at  a  height  of  three  hundred 
feet,  carry  power  across  the  straits, 
we  saw  the  evidence  of  it. 

By  this  time  we  had  passed  through 
the  narrows,  and  had  entered  the  estu- 
ary known  as  Suisun  Bay,  where  the 
water  is  half  fresh,  half  salt.  The  long 
flat  stretches  of  the  interior  were  open- 
ing before  us.  To  the  south  lay  the 
yellow  stubble  of  wheat  fields,  domin- 
ated by  the  high,  conical  bulk  of  an 
old  volcanic  peak,  which  the  Span- 
iards named  Monte  Del  Diablo — 
Devil's  Mountain.  The  writer  will  not 
soon  forget  a  summer  spent  camping 
and  tramping  at  the  foot  of  that  moun- 
tain. Few  trees  are  native  to  those 
lowlands.  Then  what  a  relief  it  was, 
when  walking  along  the  hot,  dusty 
roads  on  which  the  blazing  July  sun 
beat  with  all  its  fervor,  to  enter  on  a 
stretch  bordered  by  tall,  leafy  elms, 
which  interlocked  their  branches  above 
the  way,  converting  it  into  a  cool, 
shady  tunnel  through  which  the  sum- 
mer breezes  feebly  filtered,  lulling  the 
senses  to  delight.  That  dry  dusty 
wheat  country  forms  as  strong  a  con- 
trast as  need  be  to  the  region  north  of 
our  steamer's  track — the  broad  border 
band  of  the  tule  marshes. 

In  that  debatable  district,  where 
land  is  being  formed  but  has  not  yet 
appeared  above  the  surface  of  the 
water,  there  lie  hundreds  of  square 
miles  of  marsh,  overgrown  with  the 
reeds  known  as  tules.  It  would  seem 
as  though  it  were  utterly  worthless ;  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  much  of  it  commands 
fifty  dollars  an  acre.  This  is  due  to 
the  system  of  gun  clubs  and  private 
preserves.  In  those  marshes  hundreds 
of  hunting  lodges  can  be  found,  each 
surrounded  by  its  private  preserves, 
where  the  owners  reserve  the  right  of 
shooting  the  sprig,  mallard,  green- 
wing  and  cinnamon  teal  that  abound. 
The  clubhouses  are  commodious  and 
comfortable,  some  of  them  more  pre- 
tentious than  well  equipped  city  resi- 


dences. Windmills  and  pumping  sta- 
tions furnish  water.  Lighting  plants, 
granaries,  kennels,  barns  and  every,  ac- 
cessory required  for  comfort,  conven- 
ience and  utility  are  there.  The  eleven 
hundred  acre  tract,  which  constitutes 
the  former  duck  shooting  preserve  of 
the  late  Herman  Oelrichs,  sold  for 
forty  thousand  dollars.  In  Mr.  Oel- 
richs' time,  one  could  go  out  to  the 
blinds  in  a  dress  suit  and  pumps,  shoot 
ducks,  and  come  back  to  the  club 
house  without  any  change  of  clothing 
being  necessary,  so  convenient  were 
the  appointments. 

Edging  away  to  the  north,  we  en- 
tered the  river  about  mid-day.  Dry 
land  began  to  appear,  and  before  long 
we  were  between  the  levees  which 
guard  the  islands  from  overflow.  The 
lunch  hour  had  come  and  gone,  and 
the  afternoon  was  growing,  when  I 
missed  my  dear  friend  Baker,  and 
started  in  search  of  him.  In  order  to 
make  it  clear  where  I  found  him,  a 
few  words  will  be  necessary  in  expla- 
nation of  the  internal  arrangement  of 
a  stern- wheeler.  The  engines  and 
boilers  are  placed  on  the  lower  deck,, 
leaving  a  broad,  open  space  for  cargo. 
On  the  second  deck,  at  the  extreme  for- 
ward end,  is  a  smoking  room;  behind 
this  comes  the  purser's  office;  next, 
the  dining  room,  and  last  the  ladies' 
cabin,  a  commodious  apartment,  pan- 
eled with  photographs  of  California 
scenery,  and  furnished  with  deep 
rocking  chairs.  On  the  third  deck  is 
a  deck-house  containing  the  state- 
rooms used  by  passengers  making  the: 
trip  at  night,  behind  which  is  an  open 
space  the  full  width  of  the  vessel, 
protected  by  a  roof  that  shields  it 
from  sun  and  rain.  This  space  is  fur- 
nished with  easy  chairs  and  corre- 
sponds in  a  way  to  the  platform  at  the 
rear  of  an  observation  car,  although  it 
is  twenty  times  as  large.  It  was  here 
that  I  found  my  friend.  He  had  his 
note  book  in  hand,  was  chewing  a 
pencil,  and  it  soon  transpired  that  the 
poetic  muse  had  him  in  her  clutches. 

"Say,  old  man,"  he  asked,  "how 
about  this  line — stream  of  the  wheat- 
farm,  grove  and What  else  do. 


ALONG  A  CALIFORNIA  WATER  WAY. 


177 


they  have  on  the  Sacramento  except 
wheat-farms  and  groves?" 

"Short-horn  cows,"  I  suggested. 
"Stream  of  the  wheat-farm,  grove  and 
short-horn  cow." 

"Bah!  Bosh!"  ejaculated  Baker. 
"Why,  the  capital  is  on  the  Sacra- 
mento: I  guess  I'll  make  it  capital. 
But  give  me  something  to  go  with 
this :  'journeying  on  the  river's  broad 
expanse,  cares  are  no  longer  felt. 
They  cannot  stay.'  " 

I  considered  for  a  minute.  "Jour- 
neying on  the  river's  broad  expanse, 
cares  are  no  longer  felt.  They  cannot 
stay.  Let  him  who  wishes  travel  by 
the  rail;  dusty  and  grimy  comes  the 
silly  jay." 

This  time  Baker  employed  stronger 
expletives  than  "bah"  and  "bosh,"  and 
I  fled  from  the  scene.  Half  an  hour 
later  he  came  running  towards  me, 
the  proud  gleam  of  authorship  glitter- 
ing in  his  eye.  He  insisted  on  read- 
ing the  following  lines : 

"To  the  Sacramento. 

"Stream  of  the  wheat-farm,  grove  and 
'capital ; 

Son  of  the  springs  on  Shasta's  snowy 
flanks. 

We  see  your  waters  rolling  their  clear 
flood, 

Sparkling  between  the  green  and  slop- 
ing banks. 

Boughs  bend  above  the  wavelets 
sweeping  by, 

Breezes  bring  perfume  from  the  wild- 
flowers  gay. 

Journeying  on  the  river's  broad  ex- 
panse, 

Cares  are  no  longer  felt.  They  cannot 
stay. 

Far  in  the  distance  rolls  the  railway 
train, 

Hoarsely  the  monster  bellows  as  it 
goes, 

Rattling  along  the  road  with  ceaseless 
din. 

We,  on  the  steamer's  deck,  enjoy  re- 
pose. 

Let  those  who  must  endure  the  dust 
and  fume; 

We  reach  refreshed  at  eve  our  jour- 
ney's close." 


"How  in  the  world  did  you  do  it, 
Baker?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  he  replied, 
airily.  "That's  the  sort  of  thing  we 
learned  to  write  at  the  University  of 
Chicago." 

It  seemed  from  the  sentiments  ex- 
pressed in  my  friend's  sonnet  that  the 
journey  was  pleasing  him.  We  were 
now  far  up  the  river.  The  bay  breezes 
had  been  left  behind.  We  were 
steeped  in  the  golden  glow,  the  lan^ 
guorous  warmth  of  the  interior,  its 
soft  September  haze  dimming  all  the 
distance.  The  river  had  narrowed  to 
a  nearly  uniform  width  of  one  hun- 
dred yards.  We  paddled  steadily  on, 
passing  landing  after  landing,  some- 
times turning  in  at  one  for  a  moment, 
sometimes  throwing  the  gafig-plank 
on  the  wharf,  only  to  drag  it  back  and 
continue  with  a  hoot  of  the  whistle. 
The  stern  wheel  stirred  up  a  tremen- 
dous swell,  which  dashed  in  under  the 
overhanging  boughs  of  the  sycamores 
and  willows  that  cover  the  levee, 
without  which  all  of  this  land  would 
be  overflowed  every  winter.  The  dykes 
rose  about  twenty  feet  above  the  water 
and  were  crowned  by  a  roadway. 
From  the  upper  deck  it  was  possible 
to  see  over  them,  and  catch  glimpses 
of  the  broad,  rich  farm  lands, 
stretching  to  the  horizon.  Trees 
seemed  to  be  absent,  except  for  those 
which  had  been  planted  around  homes. 

It  was  fascinating  to  sit  there,  on 
the  highest  deck,  and  w^tch  the  chang- 
ing scenes.  Here  came  perhaps  some 
Hindoo  laborers,  distinguished  by 
their  dirty  white  turbans.  Possibly 
one  of  them  boasted  a  turban  of  bril- 
liant yellow,  its  gaudy  Oriental  tone 
contrasting  with  his  high  American 
boots.  As  soon  as  they  were  out  of 
sight,  we  might  catch  up  with  a  pair 
of  country  girls  on  horseback,  on 
their  way  to  one  of  the  old-fashioned 
ferry  scows,  which  are  swung  across 
the  stream  by  the  force  of  the  current. 
Or  a  great  blue  heron  would  rise  from 
the  brush  and  flap  slowly  across  the 
river.  The  farther  up  stream  we  pro- 
gressed, the  more  picturesque  became 
the  homes  along  the  banks.  How  dis- 


178 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


tinctly  I  recall  one  which  is  located 
on  the  eastern  shore  about  twenty 
miles  below  Sacramento.  It  is  built 
in  the  old-fashioned  California  style 
— a  square  frame  construction  of 
three  stories,  crowned  by  a  dark  Man- 
sard roof,  which  contrasts  with  the 
white  walls.  Two  great  live-oaks 
stand  before  the  premises,  and,  as  the 
steamer  passes,  they  open  for  an  in- 
stant to  afford  a  glimpse  of  that  home, 
framed  in  their  foliage.  Before  the 
wide  steps  which  lead  to  the  entrance 
lies  the  brilliant  green  of  a  lawn,  while 
on  the  northern  side  a  line  of  gigantic 
California  fan  palms  stand  guard.  The 
age  of  the  trees,  the  old-fashioned 
style  of  architecture,  as  different  as 
possible  from  that  of  the  modern  bun- 
galow, the  general  tone  of  the  place, 
carries  one  back  to  the  days  of  thirty 
years  ago. 

As  my  friend  and  T  sat  there,  watch- 
ing those  ever-changing  scenes,  we 
could  not  help  wondering  why  it  is 
that,  while  the  shelves  of  our  libraries 
are  loaded  with  books  describing 
every  nook  and  corner  of  the  world, 
so  few  volumes  treat  of  the  world's 
great  rivers.  The  Danube,  the  Nile, 
the  Yangtze,  the  Mississippi — how  few 
and  how  inadequate  are  the  accounts 
of  travel  on  their  waters.  And  yet  it 
is  only  when  we  journey  by  river 
steamer  that  we  can  realize  to  its  full- 
est extent  the  meaning  of  the  expres- 
sion, "the  pleasures  of  travel."  A 
voyage  by  ocean  steamer  'is  insepar- 
able from  the  inconveniences  occa- 
sioned by  the  motion  of  the  vessel, 
which  renders  many  miserable  through 
seasickness.  A  railroad  journey  is 
dirty,  tiresome  and  confining.  Travel 
on  an  inland  waterway  possesses  all 
the  features  which  render  travel  enter- 
taining, while  the  discomforts  are 
minimized. 

But  it  is  the  remote  and  inacces- 
sible which  seem  to  inspire  the  imagi- 
nation of  man,  and  they  continue  to 
do  so  even  after  their  secrets  have 
been  solved.  How  many  noble  pas- 
sages in  our  English  literature  have 
had  for  their  theme  the  terrors  of  Cape 
Horn — how  many  have  been  inspired 


by  its  gloom  and  grandeur,  its  L.ry 
and  turmoil,  so  remote  from  the  rest 
of  the  world!  How  few  in  compari- 
son have  been  inspired  by  the  placid 
beauty  of  river  scenery,  by  the  quiet 
content  and  luxury  of  river  travel! 

Our  journey  began  to  draw  to  a 
close.  It  had  commenced  in  the  bay, 
where  we  started  from  a  point  sur- 
rounded by  peopled  heights  and  far- 
stretching  suburban  cities,  a  region  of 
intense  commerce  and  industry,  where 
centers  the  life  of  all  Northern  Cali- 
fornia; it  had  led  us  through  the  nar- 
rows of  Carquinez,  into  the  shallow 
water,  surrounded  by  tule  marshes, 
the  home  of  the  duck  hunter;  it  had 
taken  us  in  sight  of  those  lines  of 
grim  black  skeleton  towers  which 
march  across  the  country  to  carry  elec- 
tricity from  the  lonely  canyons  of  the 
Sierras  to  the  busy  communities  of  the 
bay;  it  had  brought  us  up  the  river 
between  the  broad,  flat  islands,  built 
of  rich  alluvial  mud,  the"  richest  agri- 
cultural land  in  the  State.  And  now, 
as  our  steamer  steams  on  past  land- 
ings and  farms,  Sacramento  appears 
on  the  right.  A  succession  of  em- 
phatic blasts  from  the  steam  whistle 
summon  the  bridge  keeper  to  open  the 
draw.  The  long  bridge  slowly  swings, 
pivoted  on  its  central  pier.  We  paddle 
through  the  opening,  past  the  house- 
boats moored  on  either  side,  and  tie  up 
at  the  river  bank.  An  elevator  slides 
down  from  somewhere  above  to  the 
level  of  the  lowest  deck.  The  passen- 
gers enter,  and  are  lifted  to  the  top 
of  the  wharf.  A  moment  more  and 

the  city  has  received  us. 

*  *  * 

In  the  heart  of  the  city  of  Sacra- 
mento stands  the  State  Capitol.  It 
is  a  survival  of  the  good  old  days 
when  man  knew  how  to  plant  as  well 
as  build;  when  men  appreciated  the 
fact  that,  just  as  a  beautiful  jewel 
should  have  an  appropriate  setting, 
so  a  noble  edifice  should  be  surrounded 
by  suitable  grounds.  To-day,  more 
elegant  and  costly  public  buildings  are 
erected  and  are  allotted  no  more  land 
than  what  they  cover.  But  when  the 
Capitol  at  Sacramento  was  planned,  a 


MOUNT  TACOMA. 


179 


park  was  also  planned  in  which  to 
place  it.  All  around  stretches  as  ex- 
quisite a  combination  of  lawn  and 
flower  and  shrub  and  tree  as  ever  de- 
lighted the  heart  of  man. 

The  arrangement  before  the  build- 
ing is  in  striking  contrast  to  that  be- 
hind. In  front,  the  garden  is  of  the 
strictly  formal  type.  The  edge  of  the 
sidewalk  has  been  planted  with  a 
row  of  large  California  fan  palms, 
each  as  nearly  as  possible  a  replica 
of  its  neighbor,  standing  in  serried  ar- 
ray like  a  rank  of  soldiers  at  attention. 
Just  inside  of  the  iron  railing  which 
borders  the  grounds,  a  line  of  Italian 
pine  trees  is  placed.  Parallel  to  them 
stands  a  line  of  cedar  trees;  next  a 
line  of  Italian  cypress;  then  a  line  of 
orange  trees,  paralleled  by  a  line  of 
stiff  magnolias,  and  finally  by  an- 
other line  of  Italian  cypress,  each  of 


which  has  been  trained  and  trimmed 
into  the  most  correct  cylindrical  pro- 
portions; the  walks,  the  flower  beds, 
everything,  laid  out  on  a  rigid  mathe- 
matical plan. 

Behind  the  building,  the  arrange- 
ment is  as  different  as  can  be.  There 
we  find  the  landscape  type  of  garden- 
ing; broad  vistas  of  soft  green  grass, 
through  which  wind  shady  walks  bor- 
dered by  great  leafy  elms  that  almost 
eclipse  the  tall  fan  palms  planted  be- 
tween them.  The  prevailing  tone  of 
green  is  offset  by  an  occasional  cir- 
cle of  flaming  scarlet  lilies,  or  many- 
colored  petunias. 

As  Charles  Laurence  Baker  stood  on 
the  broad  steps  of  the  State  Capitol 
and  gazed  around  him  at  that  wealth 
of  flowers  and  verdure,  he  decided 
that  the  journey  had  been  worth  while. 
There  let  us  leave  him. 


AOUNT    TACOAA 


Imperial  mount  of  worthy  fame, 

How  like  unto  great  Nature's  breast 
You  nourish  all  the  mighty  West 

With  all  the  magic  of  your  name. 

In  what  a  forge  of  fire  and  heat 

Was  reared  your  massive  rocky  cone, 
That  left  you  matchless,  and  alone, 

With  mighty  hills  about  your  feet  ? 

What  words  can  paint  you  as  you  stand, 
Can  picture  sunset  tints  that  glow 
About  your  crown  of  mist  and  snow? 

Ah,  that  would  take  some  master-hand. 


It  is  for  us  who  know  you  best 
To  love  each  changing,  splendid  view, 
And  make  our  life-long  pledge  to  you, 

Majestic  mountain  of  the  West. 


c.  G. 


El  Camino  Real  (The  King's 
Highway),  California,  1851.  Be^ 
ginning  at  San  Diego  (Old 
Town),  it  ran  north,  avoiding  all 
heavy  grades  and  connected  the 
five  presidios,  three  pueblos  and 
twenty-one  Spanish  missions^ 
ending  at  Sonoma.  The  distance 
between  each  mission  was  con- 
sidered a  day's  journey.  This 
was  the  route  covered  by  the  first 
pony  mail  service  in  California^ 


Governor  Alvarado's  house,  Detura  street,  Monterey,  then  capital  of  California; 


THE    FIRST    AAIL    ROUTE    IN 
CALIFORNIA    AND    DANA'S 

RANCH 


By    W.    J.    Handy 


'   I  ^HE  FIRST  regular  mail  route  in 
California  was  put  in  operation 
A     by  the  following  order  as  it  ap- 
peared   in   Colton's    Californian 
of  April  10,  1847: 

"Monterey,  April  1,  1847. 

"Arrangements  for  transporting  the 
mail  between  San  Diego  and  San 
Francisco  to  commence  on  Monday, 
the  19th  April,  1847. 

"To  be  carried  on  horseback  by  a 
party  to  consist  of  two  soldiers. 

Starting  every  other  Monday  from 


San  Diego  and  San  Francisco,  the 
parties  to  meet  at  Captain  Dana's 
Ranch  the  next  Sunday  to  exchange 
mails;  start  back  on  their  respective 
routes  the  next  morning,  and  arrive 
at  San  Diego  and  San  Francisco  on 
the  Sunday  following,  and  so  continu- 
ing. The  mail  will  thus  be  carried 
once  a  fortnight  from  San  Francisco,, 
and  from  San  Francisco  to  San  Diego. 
"From  San  Diego  the  mail  will  ar- 
rive at  San  Luis  Rey,  Monday  evening. 
At  the  Pueblo  de  los  Angeles,  Wednes- 
day  noon.  At  Santa  Barbara,  Friday 


182 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


evening.  At  Monterey,  Thursday 
evening.  At  San  Francisco,  Sunday 
•evening. 

"From  San  Francisco  the  mail  will 
arrive  at  Monterey,  Wednesday  even- 
ing ;  at  Captain  Dana's  Ranch,  Sunday 
evening;  at  Santa  Barbara,  Tuesday 
evening;  at  the  Pueblo  de  Los  Angeles, 
Friday  noon;  at  San  Luis  Rey,  Satur- 
day evening;  at  San  Diego,  Sunday 
evening. 

"Letters  and  papers  carried  free  of 
expense. 

"By  order  of  Brigadier-General 
"S.  W.  KEARNY. 

"'H.  S.  TURNER,  Capt.  A.  A.  A.  Gen'l." 

The  order  does  not  mention  all  the 
.Missions  en  route,  but  there  is  no  doubt 
lhat  a  stop  was  made  at  each  one;  for 
it  was  only  at  these  places  that  there 
was  any  settlement,  hamlet  or  minia- 
ture village. 

The  accompanying  map  of  the  route 


/.  Captain  Wm.  G.  Dana.  2.  The  Dana  homestead,  located  between  San 
Luis  Obispo  and  Purisima  Conception  on  El  Camino  Real,  and  about  half- 
way between  San  Diego  and  San  Francisco. 


does  not  show  the  long,  lonesome,  bar- 
ren stretches,  rugged  hills  to  climb, 
rocky  canyons  to  cross,  and  rivers 
without  bridges.  Hardly  a  road  all 
the  way,  more  frequently  only  a  trail 
or  bridle  path.  And  what  was  the 
pay  for  this  arduous  service?  In  the 
saddle  ten  hours  a  day,  week  in  and 
out,  a  private  soldier  only  received 
his  uniform  and  eight  dollars  per 


month.    Not  exactly  a  "Star  Route"  as 
generally  known  to-day. 

The  arrival  of  the  mail  carrier 
brought  messages  and  news  from  Alta 
and  Baja  regions — what  ships  had  ar- 
rived, what  passengers,  what  was  do- 
ing at  San  Diego,  Los  Angeles,  Mon- 
terey, San  Francisco,  at  the  Missions 
and  along  the  road ;  for  under  his  broad 
sombrero  was  carried  the  contents  of 


^2jk~^^ 


-III! 


fs. 


The  old  Estrada  house,  Pacific  street,  Monterey,  Cat. 


a  weekly  newspaper,  to  be  read  by  in- 
quiry and  without  a  subscription. 

This  being  the  first  regular  mail 
route  in  California,  it  must  also  be 
credited  as  the  first  free  rural  delivery 
route  in  the  United  States.  But  think 
of  mail  taking  fourteen  days  in  transit 
when  the  same  journey  is  now  made 
in  an  almost  equal  number  of  hours, 


and  complaint  is  made  if  the  expected 
letters  or  daily  papers  are  delayed 
even  a  short  time. 

The  meeting  place  of  the  two  car- 
riers was  at  Dana's  Ranch,  and  a 
brief  description  of  this  place  will  be 
interesting.  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  H. 
C.  Dana,  son  of  the  captain,  and  born 
and  brought  up  at  the  ranch-home,  for 


i 


The  first  theatre  in  California,  built  at  Monterey. 


Ruins  of  one  of  the  old  pony  route  stations. 


Information  concerning  most  of  this 
article.  He  tells  me  he  remembers 
the  arrival  of  the  mail  and  knew  the 
carriers.  It  was  an  event  of  greater 
interest  to  him  than  boys  of  to-day 


take  in  the  daily  visits  of  the  mail, 
and,  boy-like,  he  wished  the  day  would 
come  when  he  could  ride  and  carry 
mail. 

William  G.  Dana  was  born  in  Bos- 


An  old  landmark.    Bake  oven  of  an  abandoned  Mexican  ranch. 


A  motor  of  the  early  settlers  in  California  when  the  mail  was  carried  on 

horseback. 


The  period  of  the  first  regular  mail  carried  by  two  soldiers  on  horseback  along 
El  Camino  Real,  connecting  the  early  California  missions,  was  followed  by  the 
most  famous  vehicle  of  the  Western  pioneers,  the  stage. 


ton,  1797.  Having  a  good  education, 
he  was  sent,  while  a  young  man,  by  an 
uncle  who  was  engaged  in  trade  in  the 
Pacific  waters  on  a  trip  which  took 
him  first  to  China,  where  he  remained 
two  years;  then  to  the  Sandwich 
Islands,  where  he  remained  some  time 
as  a  buyer  and  shipper.  From  there, 
in  command  of  his  own  ship,  he  ar- 
rived at  Santa  Barbara  in  1820.  So 
delighted  was  he  with  the  country 
that,  disposing  of  his  vessel,  he  en- 
gaged in  business  and  became  a  per- 
manent resident. 

In  1828  he  married  Josepha  Carrillo, 
daughter  of  Governor  Don  Carlos  Car- 
rillo. In  1835  he  applied  for  and  came 
into  possession  of  the  Nipomo  Ranch, 
which  was  afterwards  patented  to  him 
by  the  United  States. 

It  was  a  lordly  domain  of  5,800 
acres.  (If  you  are  curious  as  to  its 
limits,  figure  it  out — 640  acres  being 
a  mile  square.)  This  ranch  extended 
from  the  ocean  to  the  mountains.  Not 
all  agricultural  land,  but  surely  enough 


in  those  days  of  early  living.  The 
dwelling  house,  large  and  roomy,  with 
the  usual  court,  or  patio,  was  built 
in  the  early  thirties,  and,  while  its 
material  was  of  adobe,  it  stands  to-day 
in  excellent  condition. 

For  many  years  it  was  the  only 
dwelling  between  San  Luis  Obispo  and 
Santa  Barbara,  the  stopping  place  for 
all  travelers — for  Captain  Dana  was 
widely  known,  with  his  kind,  cour- 
teous manner  and  open-hearted  hospi- 
tality. And  what  a  place  for  a  rest, 
with  its  large  herds  of  cattle  and 
sheep,  and  horses  running  wild  and 
uncounted !  The  house  was  so  situated 
that  a  view  was  had  for  miles  in  either 
direction.  There  were  servants  to  an- 
ticipate every  possible  want,  and  all 
was  contented  and  happy. 

The  Mexican  Governors  and  their 
escorts,  revolutionary  leaders  of  either 
party,  Mission  Fathers,  Indians,  no 
matter  who  came,  all  were  welcome, 
and  no  charge  made.  The  latch-string 
hung  out  day  and  night,  for  Captain 


•a 


Some  of  the  native  sons  of  that  day. 


Dana  was  an  American  and  neutral 
as  to  political  events. 

Fremont  was  several  times  a  guest. 
Army  officers  en  route  between  sta- 
tions were  often  there.  At  one  time  a 
party  of  English  scientists  made  a 
home  there  for  a  month,  exploring  and 
collecting  specimens,  leaving  with 
many  regrets  at  departure. 

On  one  occasion,  Fremont,  on  one  of 
his  rapid  rides,  came  to  the  ranch  with 
a  company  of  about  sixty  men,  and, 


being  in  a  strenuous  hurry,  made 
known  his  need  of  a  change  of  horses, 
dismounted,  turned  his  own  jaded 
horses  loose,  and  with  lariat  captured 
others  from  Captain  Dana's  herd  and 
rode  on — all  in  a  few  moment's  time. 
In  1848  the  steamer  Edith  was 
wrecked  nearby.  Captain  Dana  took 
officers  and  crew  to  his  home,  enter- 
taining them  for  a  considerable  time. 
Just  before  their  departure,  knowing 
their  needs  (for  the  wreck  had  left 


CALIFORNIA. 


189 


them  sadly  destitute),  he  put  a  sum 
of  money  in  each  room,  sufficient  to 
meet  their  expenses  to  their  homes.  It 
was  done  so  politely  it  could  not  be 
taken  as  an  act  of  ostentatious  char- 
ity. A  guide  and  horses  were  furnished 
to  take  them  to  Monterey,  where  a  ves- 
sel could  be  found  to  carry  them  to 
their  destination. 

An  amusing  story  is  related  of  a 
band  of  Tulare  Indians  who  stopped 
at  the  ranch  on  the  way  to  the  beach 
to  gather  strawberries.  They  were  fed 
and  had  the  use  of  the  barns  for  lodg- 
ings. On  their  return  trip  the  Indians 
were  in  breech-clouts,  having  filled 
their  trousers  and  shirts  with  berries 
for  Mrs.  Dana.  The  thank-offering 
was  accepted  with  courtesy  and  Mucha 
Gracias,  as  the  narrator  says,  "No  mat- 
ter what  she  did  with  the  gift  when 
they  were  gone." 

Casa  de  Dana  was  one  of  the  houses 
where  a  welcome  was  without  limit  in 
the  good  old  ranchero  days,  when  the 
great  land  owners  were  lords  of  the 
country.  Old  settlers  delighted  to  re- 
count the  good  times  they  used  to  have 
with  El  Capitan  Dana,  and  his  equally 
hospitable  wife  and  family.  For  a 
visit  in  those  days  was  not  simply  a 
formal  call,  but  was  often  extended 
a  week  or  more,  and,  with  hunting, 
fishing  and  other  entertainments,  made 
an  occasion  to  be  remembered  and 
repetition  of  it  wished  for. 

In  1823,  when  in  need  of  a  vessel 
for  the  coast  trade,  Captain  Dana  un- 
dertook to  build  one  near  Santa  Bar- 
bara, where  Elwood  now  stands.  It 
was  a  difficult  task  in  those  days, 
where  there  was  not  a  machine-shop 


or  saw-mill  this  side  of  the  Missouri 
River.  Mechanics  were  scarce,  and  so 
were  tools.  The  timbers  for  the  vessel 
were  either  hewn  with  an  adze  or 
sawed  by  hand.  A  long  trench  was 
dug ;  over  this  trench  a  log  would  be 
rolled,  and  one  man  below  the  log  and 
another  on  top  would  work  with  a  long 
saw  from  end 'to  end  until  the  plank 
or  timber  was  completed.  Notwith- 
standing all  these  difficulties,  and  with 
the  aid  of  sailors  who  had  drifted  to 
this  coast,  a  beautiful  schooner  was 
built  and  named- "La  Fama."  It  was 
famous,  for  it  was  trie  first  vessel  built 
in  California,  and  its  sturdy  timbers 
did  good  service  for  many  years. 

When  ready  to  be  launched,  and  a 
day  set  for  the  occasion,  the  neigh- 
bors from  far  and  near  came  over  with 
their  oxen,  to  the  number  of  forty  or 
more  pairs,  under  the  belief  that  it 
would  require  that  many  to  move  the 
vessel  to  the  water.  Their  offer  was 
declined  with  thanks,  and  when  the 
natives  saw  the  schooner  sliding  on 
the  ways  built,  and  liberally  tallowed 
for  the  occasion,  right  into  the  stream 
they  could  not  help  admiring  the 
Yankee  ingenuity,  and  gave  vent  to 
their  wonder  and  appreciation  with 
cheers  and  Mexican  expressions,  im- 
possible to  be  put  into  print.  A  din- 
ner followed,  and  El  Capitan  Dana 
was  called  Bueno  Americano. 

This  article  could,  easily  be  ex- 
tended many  times  its  length  with  mat- 
ter relative  to  this  historic  place,  and 
its  princely  proprietor. 

Captain  Dana  died  in  1858,  leaving 
a  large  family,  many  of  whom  still  re- 
side within  the  limits  of  the  old  ranch. 


CALIFORNIA 

Where  Nature,  in  a  joyous,  generous  mood, 
Is  prodigal  of  cheer  and  ever  good, 
In  gladness  turning  water  into  wine, 
Forgetting  tears,  and  all  resolved  to  shine, 
How  genial,  kindly,  quickening  and  rare, 
Her  months  of  happy  sunshine  and  sweet  air! 

CHRISTOPHER  GRANT  HAZARD. 


Japanese  fishwife,  with    her    babe 
strapped   on  her   back. 


The 

Industrial 

Side  of  the 

Alien    Land 

Law  Problem 

By  Percy  L.  Edwards 


TO  THE  uninitiated  the  attitude  of 
the  Japanese    government     and 
the  Japanese  people  in  directing 
their  resentment,  over  the  pass- 
ing of  what  are  known  as  anti-alien 
land  laws,  particularly  at  California, 
is  more  or  less  a  puzzle,  while  other 
States,  other  parts  of  this  country,  have 
adopted  such  legislation,  such  action 
has  not  drawn  forth  anything  like  this 
bitter  resentment  on  the  part  of  the 
Japanese. 

The  inquiring  reader  may  find  the 
source  of  this  different  feeling  towards 
us  in  the  pages  of  this  story  of  the 
"Land  of  Sunshine." 

The  tale  of  industrial  complications 
west  of  the  Rocky  Mountains  is  the 
tale  of  the  active  Jap  from  his  advent 
into  this  country  to  the  present  time. 
And  this  tale  involves  the  doings  of 
these  active  people  both  inside  and 
outside  the  centers  of  population,  from 
the  pine  forests  and  saw-mills  of  Ore- 
gon and  British  Columbia,  the  fisheries 


of  the  Northwest,  down  through  the 
fertile  valleys  of  the  Sacramento  and 
San  Joaquin  Rivers,  including  the  rich 
vineyards  and  deciduous  fruit  regions 
of  those  valleys,  into  the  land  of  the 
orange  and  lemon  far  to  the  south.  In 
some  localities  these  active  people 
concentrate  and  make  their,  abiding 
place.  From  this  center  they  are  sent 
out  under  the  management  of  a  boss  or 
contractor,  as  he  likes  to  be  called. 
They  set  up  camp  in  the  midst  of  the 
vine-clad  fields  of  Fresno,  and  the 
prune  and  peach  orchards  of  Tulare 
County,  and  when  the  season  of  these 
fruits  is  over,  they  migrate  to  the  south 
as  unerringly  as  the  birds,  though  for 
a  different  purpose. 
,  The  hop  fields  of  the  north  pay  trib- 
ute to  their  activities;  the  rich  valleys 
>to  the  south  give  up  their  treasures  in 
response  to  their  efforts,  and  the  mar- 
ket is  furnished  with  vegetables  of  all 
sorts.  They  lease  the  lands,  and 
when  they  have  got  the  best  out  of 


INDUSTRIAL  SIDE  OF  ALIEN  LAND-LAW  PROBLEM. 


191 


these  lands,  they  lease  other  lands, 
thus  making  their  rotation,  seldom  if 
ever  making  any  effort  to  aid  fertility 
of  the  soil  or  any  permanent  improve- 
ment. Only  this  past  year  a  shrewd 
Japanese  of  the  merchant  class  leased 
some  of  the  most  desirable  lands  in 
the  heart  of  the  San  Joaquin  River 
valley,  and  colonizing  the  same  with 
numbers  of  his  countrymen,  planted 
a  large  acreage  to  potatoes.  Cunningly 
combining  with  several  dealers  in 
Fresno,  the  potato  market  was  cor- 
nered. Fancy  prices  followed,  and  if 
you  got  the  potatoes  you  paid  the 
price.  By  this  operation  alone  one 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  it  is  claimed, 
went  into  the  pocket  of  this  particular 
Jap.  Unaccountable  as  it  seems  to.  us, 
the  raising  of  vegetables  and  garden 
truck  of  all  kinds  in  California  is  left 
to  the  Chinese  and  Japanese.  The 
Chinese  being  first  on  the  ground,  have 
gained  a  hold  not  easily  loosened  by 
the  more  active  Jap.  The  Chinese 
laborers  were  brought  into  this  country 
before  the  Exclusion  Act  of  some 
thirty  years  ago,  and  Chinese  laborers 
being  known  as  steady,  honest  and 
unpretending,  were  brought  here  and 
quartered  on  the  big  ranches  and  lordly 
estates  which  still  existed,  reminders 
of  the  semi-feudal  days  of  Spanish 
rule.  Like  the  slave-holding  class  of 
the  South  before  the  war,  the  owners 
of  these  great  ranches  were  lords  of 
the  manor  and  the  Chinese  willing 
serfs.  They  were,  in  their  contented 
nature,  like  the  negroes  of  the  South. 
They  kept  their  place  in  the  social 
problem,  and  no  questions  of  sensitive 
nature  and  of  national  pride  were 
raised.  But  the  Act  of  Exclusion  put 
an  end  to  the  supply  of  laborers  from 
the  Flowery  Kingdom.  Then  followed 
the  ubiquitous  Jap,  whose  natural 
taste  for  acquisition  was  increased  by 
the  stories  of  his  countrymen  who 
were  first  sent  to  this  country  to  be 
educated  in  our  schools  and  colleges. 
Encouraged  by  favorable  treaty  pro- 
visions and  the  alluring  attractions  of 
the  Golden  West,  all  classes  of  the 
society  of  this  crowded  Island  Empire 
of  the  Pacific,  have  sought  our  western 


shore  in  such  numbers  that,  at  the 
present  time,  in  California,  one-fifth 
of  the  working  population  is  Japanese. 
But  the  Jap  did  not  come  to  take  the 
place  of  the  Chinaman.  His  employer 
was  soon  made  to  learn -this.  His  proud 
race  extraction  and  natural  sensitive- 
ness inclined  him  to  something  better 
in  the  social  and  industrial  world. 
Potentially,  he,  the  Jap,  was  to  be  re- 
garded as  an  industrial  king.  And  he 
proceeded  to  "make  good"  in  the 
fields  of  the  great  ranches  and  the  cen- 
ters of  business  activity.  Thus  the 
Jap  has  shown  to  us  that  he  did  not 
come  to  labor  as  the  man  from  China, 
the  native  or  the  white  man.  He  de- 
sires a  contract  in  writing  for  all  his 
undertakings,  the  price  named  and 
cunningly  adjusted  to  the  conditions 
as  to  available  labor  in  the  particular 
neighborhood  where  the  work  is  to  be 
done,  and  excluding  all  other  labor 
than  that  provided  by  him.  In  this 
manner  the  Jap  contractor  has  forced 
other  labor  out  of  the  field  in  some  sec- 
tions of  the  fruit  belt,  and  has  then  de- 
manded and  been  granted  leases  of  the 
orchards  on  a  share  plan.  A  company  is 
formed  which  takes  over  this  lease  and 
promotes  the  industry  along  Japanese 
lines — a  sort  of  community  of  interest 
plan.  In  case  of  the  refusal  of  a 
rancher  to  allow  himself  to  be  pro- 
moted in  this  way  he  is  simply  let 
alone  so  effectually  by  all  the  avail- 
able help  that  he  is  -forced  to  make 
terms  with  these  little  brown  men,  as 
were  the  Russians.  A  bloodless  battle 
but  a  complete  victory.  The  cunning, 
smiling  Jap  is  the  best  union  man  in 
the  business,  and  there  is  nothing  do- 
ing for  the  lordly  rancher  with  a  big 
crop  on  his  hands  and  the  Japs  in  con- 
trol of  the  labor  supply. 

Up  in  the  valley  of  the  Sacramento, 
in  Solano  County,  near  the  bay,  was 
once  a  prosperous  town  in  the  garden 
spot  of  this  great  valley.  The  pride 
of  its  people  was  in  the  town  of  Vaca- 
ville,  and  it  grew  and  prospered  be- 
cause of  its  valuable  products  of 
peaches,  pears,  apricots  and  prunes.  It 
was  considered  a  desirable  place  to 
live,  and  was  surrounded  by  ranches 


192 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


owned  and  operated  by  the  occupants, 
white  people.  Now  this  section  is 
practically  in  the  hands  of  the  Japan- 
ese. The  once  beautiful  ranch  homes 
are  in  the  hands  of  Japanese,  not,  it  is 
true,  owned  by  them,  but  occupied  by 
them  under  leases  such  as  have  been 
referred  to  heretofore.  The  Japs  have 
practically  driven  away  all  other 
classes  of  laborers,  and  whereas  labor 
was  before  obtained  at  reasonable 
rates,  now  it  is  much  higher.  While 
not  appearing  to  be  bound  by  the  rules 
of  any  organization  similar  to  the 
American  union,  their  action  in  any 
controversy  between  a  contractor  and 
the  employer  is  both  systematic  and 
effectual.  In  order  to  get  a  job  where 
there  is  competition,  a  contractor  ac- 
cepts the  work  at  a  low  figure,  and 
puts  a  force  at  work.  Then  having  got 
rid  of  the  competition  of  labor,  the 
Jap  contractor  cunningly  devises  some 
plan  by  means  of  which  he  is  able  to 
force  the  employer  to  pay  more  for 
help  rather  than  have  the  work  delayed 
or  abandoned.  For  the  Jap  will  break 
a  contract  with  impunity  if  he  is  not 
making  money  under  its  terms.  There 
is  no  quarreling  about  it.  Simply 
smiling  insistency  for  more,  or  a  kow- 
towing leave-taking  on  his  part.  The 
unanimity  of  action  when  a  "walk  out" 
is  declared  leaves  no  room  for  doubt 
of  the  sentiment  of  his  followers  and 
their  training  in  union  ideals.  When 
they  quit  they  stay  quit  until  satis- 
fied, and  no  other  argument  will  move 
them.  Although  the  Jap  is  naturally 
active,  it  is  only  while  working  under 
a  contract  in  which  wages  are  propor- 
tioned to  work  accomplished  and 
divided  pro  rata  that  his  great  activity 
is  seen.  Under  ordinary  circumstances 
he  lags,  and  will  not  do  as  much  as 
the  white  man  from  the  East,  the  Scan- 
dinavian or  Portuguese.  Along  the 
railways  of  the  Northwest  this  char- 
acteristic is  so  well  known  that  as  a 
laborer  in  that  field  the  Jap  ranks  un- 
der the  Italian,  and  he  is  not  desired. 
In  all  these  fields  of  operation,  it 
may  be  mentioned,  the  common  white 
laborer  is  not  protected  by  any  union, 
but  he  is  subject,  to  the  law  of  supply 


and  demand.  The  cohesiveness  of  tne 
Japanese  nature  gives  him  the  strength 
of  the  well  governed  union.  Aided  by 
great  natural  cunning,  he  avails  him- 
self of  existing  conditions  quickly,  and 
underbidding  at  first,  gets  hold  of  the 
field.  However,  he  is  not  dependable. 
This  statement  does  not  mean  to  apply 
to  all  the  Japanese  in  America,  as 
that  would  be  doing  an  injustice  to 
many  now  in  business  and  other  walks 
of  life  of  high  integrity  and  respect- 
ability. But  it  does  apply  to  the  Jap- 
anese as  an  industrial  class.  They 
will  repudiate  a  contract  with  impu- 
nity, if  the  balance  sheet  shows  them 
to  be  on  the  losing  side,  or  if  the  re- 
sults do  not  come  up  to  their  expecta- 
tions, and  they  cannot  persuade  the 
employer  to  do  better.  They  will  not 
get  down  to  hard  work  under  a  fore- 
man when  working  for  stated  wages, 
as  do  the  Chinese,  Portuguese,  Italians 
and  white  labor  generally.  This  is  not 
because  they  are  less  able  to  work, 
but  grows  out  of  the  spirit  of  ambitious 
desire  exhibited  alike  by  the  white 
American  laborer,  whose  ideas  along 
these  lines  have  been  developed  by  our 
common  school  system.  This  spirit 
renders  them  restless  and  unsteady, 
and  withal  a  menacing  of  the  indus- 
trial conditions  of  the  western  country. 
Except  in  such  work  as  requires 
natural  physical  agility,  all  employers 
of  labor  in  the  West  agree  that  the 
Jap  is  not  equal  to  any  of  the  classes 
mentioned  above.  He  seems  to  lack  in 
mental  ability  wherever  tested,  as  in 
places  where  machinery  is  used  in  the 
saw  mills  and  shingle  mills  of  Oregon 
and  Washington.  And  he  is  no  longer 
trusted  in  these  places  except  about 
work  where  no  knowledge  of  machin- 
ery is  needed.  The  Jap  resembles  the 
Mexican  in  this  respect,  and  is  apt  to 
injure  himself  and  others  where  trusted 
with  machinery.  While  the  Northwest 
country  has  attracted  many  of  the  sub- 
jects of  the  Mikado  to  its  forest- 
skirted  shores  where  the  buzzing  saw 
and  whistle  of  the  log  train  are  ac- 
companiments to  every-day  busy  life, 
the  strenuous  life  of  the  woodsman  is 
not  seductive  to  the  Jap,  and  he  natu- 


Types  in  the  Oriental  quarter. 


rally  gravitates  to  the  town  and  its  al- 
lurements to  lighter  labor.  The  co- 
hesive character  of  the  race  more  than 
a  sense  of  national  isolation  brings 
them  together  here,  and  the  restaurant 
and  inevitable  billiard-hall  prove  pro- 
lific and  easy  sources  of  income.  But 
the  restaurant  and  billiard  hall  are  not 
the  only  sources  of  income.  The  con- 
tractor is  a  petty  merchant,  with  am- 
bition to  do  more  than  merely  hold 
the  trade  of  his  countrymen,  and  there- 
fore he  goes  out  after  American  trade. 
At  Vacaville  the  disposition  to  ex- 
tend trade  relations  into  the  territory 
of  the  Americans  is  plainly  seen.  In 
their  town  quarters  they  have  their 
own  stores  for  general  merchandise,  a 


bank,  billiard  halls,  restaurants,  and 
mission..  In  this  colony  the  head  man 
is  the  banker.  He  keeps  for  sale  in 
his  department  store  everything 
needed  by  his  countrymen,  from  a 
paper  of  pins  to  a  mowing  machine, 
and  it  is  safe  to  say  that  his  country- 
men do  not  patronize  the  American 
shops  for  anything  he  has.  On  the 
contrary,  this  Jap  merchant  solicits 
trade  from  the  white  settlers  in  the 
outlying  districts  and  camps.  For 
this  trade  he  uses  five  or  six  delivery 
wagons,  and  picks  up  a  large  amount 
^f  trade,  so  it  is  said.  Occupying 
cheap  quarters  and  living  cheaply, 
fhese  merchants  cunningly  offer  to  ac- 
cept smaller  profits  and  thus  undersell 


Type  of  the  Chinese  retail  merchant,  San  Francisco. 


the  Americans.  In  spite  of  popular 
feeling,  these  traders  from  the  land  of 
the  chrysanthemum  are  doing  store 
Business  with  many  of  the  poorer 
vhites,  and  often  with  the  better  clas's. 
And  in  the  single  item  of  potatoes  this 
past  year  or  so,  there  were  many  good 
Calif ornians*  of  the  San  Joaquin  Valley 
who  had  to  swallow  their  chagrin  with 
their  potatoes.  Three  cents  a  pound 
for  potatoes  is  a  pretty  penny  even  on 
this  Coast.  But  this  may  result  in 
good  to  the  Californian  if  it  induces 
him  to  raise  his  own  potatoes  as  he 
should  do,  although  on  account  of  pe- 
culiar conditions  in  agricultural  opera- 
tions on  this  Coast,  that  result  hardly 
seems  likely.  Agricultural  operations, 
in  California  at  least,  run  to  special- 


ties. At  first  grain  and  stock  raising, 
then  fruits — -deciduous  fruits  in  the 
north,  semi-tropical  fruits  in  the  south. 
Dairying  in  favored  sections  of  the 
Sacramento  Valley,  and  the  sugar  beet 
in  those  sections  where  there  exists  a 
maximum  of  moisture.  Up  to  present 
times,  the  raising  of  berries  of  all 
sorts  and  garden  truck  has  been  left 
to  the  Chinese,  but  the  Japs  are  now 
invading  the  field  and  crowding  the 
Chinaman  hard.  The  Jap  is  a  great 
squatter.  He  is  built  near  the  ground 
and  is  as  agile  as  a  monkey. 

Fresno  seems  to  be  a  land  of  prom- 
ise for  the  Oriental.  This  is  a  city  of 
modern  ideas  and  goodly  proportions, 
situated  in  the  heart  of  the  great  val- 
ley of  the  San  Joaquin  River,  midway 


Mr.  S.  Asano,  one  of  the  prime  factors  in  the  business  development  of 
]apany  and  a  typical  commercial  magnate  of  that  country.  Mr.  Asano  periodi- 
cally visits  the  United  States  to  keep  in  touch  with  trade  conditions. 


between  Los  Angeles  and  San  Fran- 
cisco. Here  are  the  great  grape  vine- 
yards which  send  their  supply  of  rai- 
sins and  wines  into  all  the  world.  Here 
the  Jap  finds  congenial  employment. 
His  stature  fits  him  for  the  sort  of 
work  required  in  picking  and  handling 
the  grapes  and  raisins.  The  Chinese 
had  done  this  work  until  the  Jap 
came  along.  As  usual  he  drove  the 
Chinaman  to  the  wall.  The  white 
laborer  was  not  so  easily  disposed  of. 
But  even  here  near  this  center  of  popu- 
lation, dotted  with  the  homes  of  the 


laboring  class,  the  irrepressible  Jap 
succeeded  in  forcing  from  a  day  sys- 
tem of  wages  to  the  contract  system, 
and  here  he  has  gained  the  same  repu- 
tation for  disregarding  his  agreements 
as  he  has  in  other  sections.  The  Jap 
will  work  with  the  same  energy  that 
he  used  in  pushing  the  war  against 
Russia  if  the  effort  is  likely  to  pay 
well,  but  let  anything  occur  to  indicate 
that  he  may  lose,  and  a  demand  is 
generally  made  on  the  employer  to  ad- 
just the  terms  of  the  contract  to  meet 
the  Jap's  views,  or  he  quits.  The 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


197 


Chinese  contractor,  like  the  white  con- 
tractor, will  stand  for  his  contract.  At 
least  the  latter  would  stay  long 
enough  to  argue  the  matter. 

In  Fresno  County  the  feeling  has  be- 
come so  general  that  an  organized 
plan  is  on  foot  to  induce  the  unem- 
ployed laborers  of  the  towns  to  do  the 
work  now  done  by  Japanese.  There 
is  quite  enough  help  now  idle  in  these 
centers  of  population  to  do  the  work, 
and  it  is  believed  that  by  promising 
this  work  to  the  white  help,  employers 
will  get  all  the  help  they  need,  and  the 
money  spent  in  paying  such  help  will 
be  in  turn  spent  in  buying  provisions 
and  other  necessities  from  American 
merchants  instead  of  from  Japanese 
merchants  and  sending  it  abroad. 

In  the  Pajaro  Valley,  Santa  Cruz 
County,  and  partly  in  Monterey 
County,  lying  near  to  the  Bay  of  Mon- 
terey, are  rich  bottom  lands  good  for 
potatoes,  sugar  beets  and  strawberries, 
and  here  like  conditions  prevail.  Wat- 
sonville,  the  center  of  this  district,  is 
overrun  with  Chinese  and  Japanese, 
and  a  very  Monte  Carlo  of  gambling 
and  other  vices  exist  near  by  the 
town.  Here  the  Japanese  alone  num- 
ber one  thousand,  and  this  number  is 
added  to  from  time  to  time.  Upwards 
•of  a  score  of  fan-tan  houses  run  wide 
open  and  unlicensed.  The  Chinese  are 
inveterate  gamblers,  and  the  Japanese 
are  like  unto  them.  In  this  instance, 
however,  the  Chinese  prove  the  win- 
ners. The  people  of  Watsonville  have 
tried  to  squelch  this  incubus.  But  the 
lid  will  not  stay  on.  Receiving  sup- 
port from  the  few  morally  oblique  and 
money-loving  citizens  of  the  commu- 
nity, these  places  exist  and  prosper. 
The  worst  is  not  told  of  these  places 
of  Oriental  coloring.  It  is  said  with  a 
great  degree  of  truth  that  one-half  of 
the  world  does  not  know  how  the  other 
half  lives.  From  all  surface  indica- 
tions, at  least,  it  should  be  admitted 
that  if  the  people  of  either  of  these 
nationalities  concerned  with  this  Ori- 
ental Monte  Carlo  are  ever  invited  to 
citizenship  in  our  country,  there  should 
be  no  restriction  imposed  on  the  people 
of  any  other  nationality  in  the  world. 


The  southern  counties  of  California 
and  the  city  of  Los  Angeles  are  as 
Paradise  to  the  Chinese  and  Japanese. 
Among  the  orange  and  lemon  groves 
of  Los  Angeles,  San  Bernardino  and 
Riverside  Counties,  'in  the  beautiful 
foothills  of  those  sections,  these  Orien- 
tal people  have  pitched  their  tents  and 
erected  their  characteristic  temporary 
homes.  The  Japanese  especially  have 
taken  a  strong  liking  to  this  section, 
and  it  is  safe  to  say  there  are  now  at 
least  ten  thousand  Japs  in  these  three 
counties.  The  Jap  is  found  in  nearly 
all  fields  of  industry  in  the  city  of  Los 
Angeles,  not  only  in  his  own  section  of 
the  city,  but  throughout  the  American 
section  he  is  found  in  all  sorts  of  oc- 
cupations. In  the  mercantile  houses, 
hotels  and  factories.  Not,  it  is  true, 
occupying  positions  of  skill  and  re- 
sponsibility, but  nevertheless  places 
once  filled  by  Americans,  and  such  oc- 
cupations as  the  American  laborer  in 
the  East  is  pleased  to  get.  The  Jap 
is  not  found  doing  the  really  hard 
work,  either.  By  some  sort  of  mutual 
understanding,  the  white  man  still 
does  the  very  hard  work.  What  we 
mean  by  this  term  "white  man"  is  a 
trifle  hard  to  determine.  It  is  not  color 
nor  character.  By  consent  of  those 
most  concerned,  in  these  parts,  the 
term  is  not  confined  to  citizens  of  this 
country.  The  Portuguese  uses  the 
term,  and  considers  himself  as  belong- 
ing to  that  class.  The  Jap  certainly 
thinks  so.  And  ex-President  Roosevelt 
says  they  are  desirable  citizens,  and, 
of  course,  that  makes  the  Japs  "white 
men."  And,  again,  he  says  that  some 
men  classed  as  white  men  and  bona 
fide  citizens  of  our  country  are  "unde- 
sirable citizens,"  and  consequently  not 
belonging  to  the  class  of  "white  men." 
In  this  part  of  our  common  country  the 
negro  is  called  a  "white  man"  and  the 
Mexican  is  not.  And  there  you  have 
it.  But  there  now  seems  to  be  forming 
an  opinion  on  this  coast  that  everybody 
is  a  "white  man"  but  the  Jap.  This 
feeling  is  not  race  prejudice  alone,  if 
at  all.  The  American  people  generally 
gave  their  sympathetic  support  to 
Japan  during  the  Russo-Jap  war  as 


198 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


everybody  knows.  It  is  rather  a  pre- 
judice induced  by  contact  with  a  peo- 
ple having  very  much  the  same  ambi- 
tious spirit  to  expand  commercially, 
and  the  same  national  pride,  minus  the 
same  high  regard  for  the  contractural 
relation  and  the  high  ideals  of  social 
purity. 

A  short  time  ago  the  State  Grange, 
voicing  the  sentiment  of  the  people 
most  concerned  in  the  question  of  Chi- 
nese and  Japanese  help,  resolved 
against  any  modification  of  the  Exclu- 
sion Act.  And  this  organization,  to- 
gether with  the  Fruit  Growers'  Con- 
vention, bitterly  assailed  the  conditions 


lished  by  the  several  railway  com- 
panies whose  roads  lead  to  this  coast. 
While  many  go  to  swell  the  population 
of  the  large  towns,  many  more,  neces- 
sarily, go  to  the  country.  Parts  of 
California  have  a  shifting  population, 
but  where  families  are  concerned  and 
means  are  limited,  there  must,  of 
necessity,  be  a  halt.  The  Americans 
as  a  class  are  homeJoving  and  home 
builders.  Many  come*  from  the  East 
to  make  homes  along  the  Western 
coast.  In  the  country  between  Po- 
mor.a,  in  Los  Angeles  County,  and 
Riverside  and  Redlands,  in  Riverside 
County,  along  the  foothills,. is  a  beau- 


Where  millions  of  small  fish  are  dried  in  the  sun  by  Japanese  fishermen. 
The  Japanese  have  driven  the  Chinese  out  of  this  business  on  the  Pacific 
Coast,  as  they  have  in  many  other  lines  of  work. 


where  Japanese  help  was  relied  on, 
and  the  methods  of  the  Jap  in  his  labor 
relations  was  condemned  by  all,  and 
much  regret  was  expressed  that  white 
labor  had  abandoned  the  field  to  the 
Japanese. 

Many  reasons  are  advanced  to  ac- 
count for  this  lack  of  American  or 
white  labor.  'Thousands  of  families 
of  working  people  in  the  East  are  com- 
ing to  the  Pacific  Coast  every  year; 
if  we  are  to  believe  the  statements  pub- 


tiful  sweep  of  orange  and  lemon  groves 
— and  altogether  a  most  inviting  rest- 
ing place  to  the  hard-pressed  little 
family  which  has  come  from  a  far- 
away home  hoping  and  trusting  to  do 
better  in  these  beautiful  valleys  nest- 
ling among  the  protecting  mountains 
where  summer  always  is.  The  chief 
industry  of  this  section  is  that  which 
has  to  do  with  oranges  and  lemons. 
When  the  head  of  the  little  household 
gets  his  family  housed,  he  naturally 


INDUSTRIAL  SIDE  OF  ALIEN  LAND-LAW  PROBLEM. 


199 


seeks  work.  At  the  packing  houses, 
about  the  first  of  the  year,  he  may 
find  what  he  seeks.  But  here  they 
have  only  places  for  a  limited  num- 
ber, and  the  most  of  these  laborers 
have  interests  in .  the  orange  groves 
or  have  been  some  time  with  the  pack- 
ing house  and  know  something  of  the 
work.  These  packing  houses  run 
about  five  or  six  months  in  a  year,  but 
not  continuously.  The  field  of  labor 
nearest  to  his  hand  is  the  orchard 
work.  And  here  he  finds  trouble.  The 
Japanese,  with  a  few  Chinese,  are  in 
possession  of  this  field.  Asking  for 
work,  our  home-seeker  from  the  East 
is  informed  that  that  ranch  is  provided 
with  Japanese  help  contracted  for 
through  an  agency  or  employment 
company,  and  that  no  other  help  may 
be  used  on  this  ranch  because  of  the 
agreement  with  the  Japanese  contrac- 
tor. This  man  with  a  little  family  de- 
pending upon  his  efforts,  and  who  has 
come  to  this  country  to  make  a  home 
for  them,  perhaps  to  buy  a  little  piece 
of  land  and  build  a  simple  house  to 
shelter  them,  is  met  with  this  to  him 
unlooked-for  condition,  and  is  dis- 
couraged by  the  reception  his  efforts  to 
get  work  meet  with  because  of  this 
condition  of  things.  It  would  be  con- 
veying a  wrong  impression  to  say  that 
this  man,  or  the  many  like  him,  will 
not  be  given  work  where  this  Oriental 
condition  is.  There  are  ranchmen 
who  will  give  this  man  work  because 
he  is  a  "white  man,"  although  others 
have  been  heard  to  remark  that  they 
would  rather  have  the  Japanese  help, 
and  would  not  hire  any  other.  The 
situation  of  this  man  with  his  little 
family  is  this:  he  must  have  reason- 
ably regular  work  to  pay  rent  and  sup- 
port his  family,  while  the  Jap,  as  a 
rule,  has  no  family  depending  upon 
him  and  pays  no  rent.  Then  the  mode 
of  living  of  the  Jap  is  far  below  that 
of  the  American  family  from  the  East 
that  has  had  the  advantage  of  the  re- 
fining influence  of  the  common  school 
system  of  this  country.  Our  home- 
seeker  looking  for  work  among  the 
orange  and  lemon  groves  of  Southern 
California  finds  that  this  sort  of  work 


is  irregular  and  interrupted,  and  as  a 
result  he  can  get  but  two  or  three  days' 
work  in  a  week.  He  is  working  along- 
side Japs,  on  the  same  job,  and  there 
are  always  enough  of  them  to  do  the 
required  work  in  two  or  three  days. 
Then  the  "white  man"  must  look  for 
another  job.  These  Japanese  workers 
are  hurried  to  another  place  two  or 
three  miles  away,  where  the  contrac- 
tor has  another  contract  with  the 
rancher,  and  do  the  work  required 
there,  and  thus  kept  going  by  their 
organized  effort.  They  live  in  tents 
on  some  big  ranch,  where  they  are 
furnished  water  and  sometimes  free 
fuel,  and  paying  no  rent  and  living 
largely  on  rice  and  fish  furnished 
through  this  same  contractor,  they 
have  the  American  laboring  man's 
chance  discounted,  and  therefore  he 
gives  it  up  and  goes  where  he  can 
find  better  conditions.  The  writer  has 
seen  all  this.  In  a  ditch  digging  for 
water  mains  may  be  seen  the  "white 
man,"  while  just  across  the  street  are 
a  number  of  Japanese  laborers,  pick- 
ing oranges,  laughing  and  talking 
among  themselves,  and  occasionally 
pausing  to  eat  some  of  the  fruit.  The 
difference  in  the  tasks  of  the  two 
races  is  very  apparent  to  any  observer, 
and  yet  the  pay  is  about  the  same  in 
both  cases.  At  the  end  of  the  day,  the 
ditch  workers,  tired  and  worn  out, 
walked  home.  The  Japs  jumped  on 
their  wheels  and  merrily  departed  for 
camp.  Through  the  contractor  in  his 
office  in  town  and  the  medium  of  the 
phone  service,  the  Japs  have  taken  al- 
most absolute  control  of  the  labor 
operations  of  the  orange  and  lemon 
sections  of  California  and  control  the 
supply  of  laborers.  Their  method  is 
as  effective  as  any  union,  and  it  oper- 
ates in  a  section  outside  the  reach  of 
the  "white  man's"  union.  But  a  few 
years  ago,  the  writer  has  been  in- 
formed, white  labor  with  the  aid  of 
the  few  Chinese,  expeditiously  and 
thoroughly  did  all  this  work  now  in 
the  control  of  the  Japanese. 

Why  this  thing  is  so  is  somewhat 
speculative.  Certain  it  is,  however, 
if  the  surplus  white  or  American  popu- 


200 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


lation  of  the  Pacific  Coast  towns  could 
be  induced  to  come  into  this  territory 
under  any  reasonable  arrangement  and 
assured  of  the  work,  there  would  exist 
no  reason  for  Oriental  labor  through- 
out these  sections  now  dominated  by 
the  Japanese  contract  labor. 

These  Japanese  camps  get  their  pro- 
visions largely  from  their  own  mer- 
chants who  are  found  all  along  this 
coast  with  stores  of  the  same  depart- 
ment character  as  the  American  store, 
furnishing  everything  of  a  mercantile 
nature.  Wherever  the  Asiatics  con- 
gregate in  any  number,  there  may  be 
found  the  Japanese  store,  bank,  res- 
taurant and  poolroom.  Only  the  most 
simple  of  foods  are  needed  by  these 
active  brown  men  of  the  camps.  Fish, 
rice  and  molasses  form  the  staples  of 
their  supplies.  The  average  American 
family  would  not  thrive  on  these  foods, 
as  we  well  know.  His  expenses  being 
much  more,  he  must  have  regular  em- 
ployment at  fair  wages  to  make  both 
ends  meet.  Add  to  this  his  national 
ambition  to  make  for  himself  a  home 
somewhere,  and  his  disadvantage,  un- 
der such  conditions  as  are  fast' forming 
on  this  Western  coast,  is  easily  un- 
derstood. The  labor  necessary  to  be 
done  in  both  the  deciduous  fruit  or- 
chards and  the  orange  and  lemon 
groves  is  much  easier  than  a  great 
deal  of  the  work  done  by  the  Ameri- 
can laborer. 

The  Japanese  dress  like  the  Ameri- 
cans; they  use  just  such  household 
goods  and  adopt  the  fads  and  fash- 
ions of  Americans.  That  is  the  bet- 
ter class  do  this,  but  in  so  doing,  as  a 
rule,  they  trade  with  or  through  their 
own  merchants.  While  this  trait  may 


be  merely  the  showing  of  national 
spirit  in  a  people  socially  segregated 
and  barred  from  citizenship,  it  is  very 
much  more  pronounced  in  the  Jap- 
anese than  any  other  nationality  on. 
this  coast.  In  San  Francisco  this 
characteristic  of  the  little  brown  men 
was  shown  soon  after  the  recent 
earthquake  and  fire.  Their  quarters- 
being  destroyed,  they  immediately 
took  measures  to  provide  for  their 
colony  in  compact  mass.  They  sought 
a  good  section  where  the  middle  class 
of  Americans,  made  up  of  small  mer- 
chants, clerks  and  others,  had  their 
homes.  The  Japs  acting  in  an  organ- 
ized body  offered  high  rentals  for 
these  houses,  and  got  them  before  the 
neighborhood  really  knew  what  was 
going  on.  Five  blocks  of  three-storied 
houses,  in  each  house  of  which  up- 
wards of  fifty  people  are  housed.  In 
this  colony,  stores,  hotels,  billiard- 
halls,  restaurants,  play  houses,  a  bank 
and  all  such  places  as  go  to  make  up 
a  modern  city,  were  provided  for, 
even  to  the  tenderloin  district.  Ameri- 
can respectability,  of  which  the  mid- 
dle class  is  the  best  exponent,  did  not 
view  this  Oriental  invasion  of  the 
neighborhood  with  any  degree  of 
pleasure.  The  Jap  is  not  so  apt  to 
make  himself  objectionable  on  account 
of  drunkenness,  although  when 'he  is 
drunk  he  is  a  very  wild  sort  of  indi- 
vidual. Gambling  a'nd  immorality 
are  the  two  great  vices  of  both  Chi- 
nese and  Japanese.  And  to  these  the 
Japanese  add  moral  obliquity  in  busi- 
ness relations.  Hence  the  objection  of 
American  respectability  to  a  near  ap- 
proach of  a  colony  of  such  Oriental 
coloring. 


A  TRIOLET 

If  the  gods  were  living  yet, 

I'd  pledge  a  wreath  to  Venus 
Of  crimson  roses,  dewy  wet, 

If  the  gods  were  living  yet. 
Love's  lips  on  mine  to-night  were  set — 

That  no  grief  may  come  between  us. 
If  the  gods  were  living  yet, 

I'd  pledge  a  wreath  to  Venus! 

VIRGINIA  CLEAVER  BACON. 


A    FAAINE    IN    THE    LAND 


By  C.  T.  Russell,  Pastor  London  and  Brooklyn  Tabernacles 


"/  will  send  a  famine  in  the  land; 
not  a  famine  of  bread,  nor  a  thirst  for 
water,  but  of  hearing  the  words  of  the 
Lord." — Amos  8:11. 

T  D-DAY  this  prophecy  is  fulfilled 
in  our  midst!  Notwithstanding 
the  fact  that  during  the  past 
century  Bibles  have  been  printed 
and  circulated  among  the  people  by 
the  million,  and  notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  education  has  become  gen- 
eral so  that  rich  and  poor,  old  and 
young,  have  the  ability  to  read  God's 
Word,  nevertheless,  we  are  in  the 
midst  of  the  very  famine  specified  by 
the  Prophet.  It  seems  almost  incredi- 
ble that  we  should  be  famishing  now 
with  Bibles  in  our  homes,  when  our 
saintly  forefathers  did  not  famish, 
though  education  was  limited. 

The  secret  lies  in  the  fact  that  in- 
creasing intelligence  on  every  hand 
has  awakened  our  reasoning  faculties 
along  religious  lines,  and  the  result  is 
the  gnawing  of  hunger  in  our  hearts. 
Our  hearts  and  our  flesh  cry  out  for 
a  living  and  a  true  God — a  God  greater 
than  ourselves — more  just,  more 
powerful,  more  loving.  Feeling  our 
own  impotency,  we  more  than  ever 
feel  our  need  of  the  Friend  above  all 
others  with  a  love  that  sticketh  closer 
than  a  brother's. 

Consequently  we  cannot  find  the 
rest  and  refreshment  ai.d  comfort  from 
the  Scriptures  which  our  forefathers 
derived.  Consequently  the  young 
men  and  the  purest  of  heart  in  the 
world  are  repelled  by  the  religion  of 
the  past  as  represented  in  the  creeds 
of  all  denominations.  They  are  hun- 
gry for  the  Truth.  They  are  thirsty 
for  the  refreshment  which  they  need. 
Intellectually  many  are  looking,  wan- 
dering, from  sea  to  sea,  desiring  the 
bread  of  life  and  the  water  of  life. 
Scanning  the  creeds  of  all  denomina- 
tions, they  find  them  practically  alike 
as  respects  theories  of  eternal  repro- 
bation and  damnation  for  all  except 


.  the  Elect,  the  saints.  They  are  faint 
for  lack  of  spiritual  food  and  drink. 
They  even  look  to  the  heathen  and 
examine  the  Theosophy  of  India,  the 
Buddhism  of  Japan  and  the  Confu- 
cianism of  China,  seeking  for  some 
satisfying  portion  of  Truth. 

These  are  in  some  respects  like  the 
Prodigal  Son — far  from  home.  They 
perceive  the  swinish  content  with  the 
husks  of  business,  money,  pleasure 
and  politics,  but  their  spiritual  long- 
ings cannot  be  satisfied  with  the  husks 
which  the  swine  eat.  They  are 
thought  peculiar  because  of  their  in- 
terest in  spiritual  things.  They  are 
misunderstood  by  their  best  earthly 
friends.  They  must  learn  that  in  their 
wanderings  along  the  highways  of 
science  and  world-religion  they  will 
never  get  satisfaction.  There  is  a 
famine  in  every  denomination,  in 
every  part  of  the  world.  No  one 
thinks  of  looking  to  the  Bible  for  re- 
freshment and  strength.  The  Higher 
Critics  of  all  denominations  have 
branded  it  unreliable.  The  professors 
in  all  the  great  colleges  are  reprobat- 
ing the  Bible  and  openly  laugh  at  the 
thought  of  finding  there  either  bread 
for  the  hungry  or  water  for  the  thirsty. 

This  is  the  very  picture  given  in  our 
context.  "They  shall  wander  from 
sea  to  sea,  from  the  North  even  to  the 
East;  they  shall  run  to  and  fro  to  seek 
the  Word  of  the  Lord  and  shall  not 
find  it.  In  that  day  shall  the  fair  vir- 
gins and  the  young  men  faint  for 
thirst."— Amos  8:12,  13. 

The  Bread  of  Life  and  Water  of  Life.. 

These  hungry  hearts  must  learn  that 
there  is  only  the  one  satisfying  portion- 
under  the  Sun — the  living  and  true 
God,  and  Jesus  Christ  whom  He  has 
sent  to  be  the  Bread  of  Life  for  the 
world,  and  the  message  of  grace  from 
His  lips  to  be  the  Water  of  Life.  It 
is  ours  to  call  the  attention  of  this 
Truth-hungry  class  to  the  Great 
Teacher  who  declared :  "My  flesh  is 


202 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


food  indeed,  and  My  blood  is  drink  in- 
deed; except  ye  eat  the  flesh  of  the 
Son  of  Man,  and  drink  His  blood,  ye 
have  no  life  in  you."  (John  6:55,  53.) 
But  scarcely  will  the  intelligent  of  our 
day  hearken  to  these  words,  so  preju- 
diced are  their  minds  by  the  fallacies 
which  becloud  their  understanding. 
They  see  not,  neither  do  they  under- 
stand the  goodness  of  God. 

Why  is  this  ?  Why  are  these  Bibles 
in  millions  of  homes,  Catholic  and 
Protestant,  neglected?  Because  the 
people  know  not  that  the  Bread  of  Life 
and  the  Water  of  Life  which  they  seek 
are  hidden  therein.  Why  is  this  ?  We 
answer  that  conditions  were  very  much 
the  same  in  Israel  at  the  time  of  our 
Lord's  first  Advent.  The  explanation 
He  then  gave  is  applicable  now.  He 
said :  "Ye  do  make  void  the  Law  of 
God  through  your  traditions" — "the 
traditions  of  the  ancients." — Mark 
7:13;1  Peter  1:18. 

So  now,  the  traditions  handed  down 
from  our  forefathers  really  make  void, 
meaningless,  ungracious,  the  message 
of  God's  Wisdom  and  Love  sent  to  us 
through  the  Lord,  the  Apostles  and  the 
Prophets.  Those  who  still  hold  tena- 
ciously to  the  creeds  of  the  past  are 
thoroughly  blinded  now  to  the  true 
teachings  of  God's  Word,  while,  alas, 
the  majority  of  the  independent  think- 
ers, in  rejecting  the  dogmas  of  the 
past,  have  rejected  the  Bible  also,  be- 
lieving that  the  teachings  of  the 
creeds  truthfully  represent  God's 
Word.  These  are  wandering  hither 
and  thither,  hungering  and  thirsting, 
looking  for  the  Bread  of  Life  and 
Water  of  Life,  and  finding  it  nowhere, 
because  they  seek  not  where  alone  it 
is  to  be  found. 
"Ho,  Every  One  That  Thirsteth,  Come 

Ye." 

^  Ho!  Ye  all  that  hunger  for  Truth, 
13ome  ye.  There  is  an  abundance  for 
us  all  in  our  Heavenly  Father's  won- 
derful provision — in  the  Bible.  De- 
serting all  the  creeds  and  traditions  of 
men,  let  us  gather  at  our  Heavenly 
Father's  Board  as  His  Family,  as  His 
Children.  Let  us  prove  the  truthful- 


ness of  His  declaration  that  "Like  as 
a  father  pitieth  his  children,  so  the 
Lord  pitieth  them  that  reverence 
Him."  Let  us  seek  and  obtain  the  sat- 
isfying portion.  Let  us  satisfy  our 
longings  at  the  table  of  Divine  pro- 
vision. Mark  the  Lord's  words,  and 
consider  how  truthful  they  are, 
"Blessed  are  they  that  hunger  and 
thirst  after  righteousness,  for  they 
shall  be  filled."— Matthew  5 :6. 

It  is  this  Truth-hungry  class  that  we 
address.  We  know  their  heart-long- 
ings, for  we  had  the  same.  We  know 
the  satisfaction  they  crave  for  we  have 
received  it  and  are  therefore  doubly 
glad  to  hand  forth  the  Bread  of  Life 
and  the  Water  of  Life  to  those  who  de- 
sire it.  There  are  plenty  ready  to 
serve  the  appetites  of  those  who  long 
for  pleasure — ball  games,  society 
fetes,  chess,  travel,  etc.  We  have  not 
a  word  to  say  against  these.  It  is  not 
our  thought  that  they  are  going  to 
eternal  torment;  hence  we  do  not  fran- 
tically beset  them,  annoy  them.  Let 
them  have  their  pleasure.  Let  them 
wait  for  the  time  to  come  when  some- 
thing may  occur  in  their  experiences 
which  will  put  them  into  the  class  of 
the  broken-hearted  and  contrite  of 
spirit,  and  cause  them  to  feel  after 
God,  if  haply  they  might  find  Him  as 
a  satisfying  portion. 

In  harmony  with  the  Master's  direc- 
tion, it  is  our  aim  to  "bind  up  the 
broken-hearted;  to  comfort  those  that 
mourn;"  to  tell  them  of  the  Oil  of  Joy 
which  the  Lord  is  willing  to  bestow 
for  their  spirit  of  heaviness  and  sor- 
row for  sin.  (Isaiah  61  :l-3.)  As  the 
Master  expressed  no  reproof  of  those 
engaged  in  any  form  of  moral  reform, 
even  asceticism,  so  it  is  with  us.  We 
desire  to  oppose  no  one  who  is  doing 
any  good  work,  whether  he  follow  with 
us  in  every  particular  or  not.  There 
are  so  many  engaged  in  doing  evil 
works,  and  so  few  engaged  in  doing 
good,  that  not  one  of  the  latter  class 
can  be  spared  from  the  ranks  of  the 
service  of  righteousness. 

As  the  Master  did  not  give  His  time 
to  temperance  reform,  nor  social  re- 


A  FAMINE  IN  THE  LAND. 


203 


form,  nor  political  reform,  but  did  give 
His  time  to  the  instruction  of  the  ^peo- 
ple  in  the  doctrines  of  the  Divine 
Word,  so  let  us  be  intent  to  follow  His 
instruction  in  this  matter,  not  teaching 
for  doctrines  the  precepts  of  men,  but 
the  Word  of  God,  which  liveth  and 
abideth  forever — expounding  unto  the 
people  the  Scriptures  and  assisting 
them  to  see  the  length  and  breadth  of 
their  meaning.  Nevertheless,  as  the 
religious  teachers  of  the  Master's  day 
hated  Jesus  and  His  disciples  for  this 
cause,  "Because  they  taught  the  peo- 
ple/' and  persecuted  them  because 
they  did  not  walk  in  the  beaten  paths 
of  their  day,  so  we  may  expect  also 
to  be  hated  without  cause;  so  we  may 
expect  that  the  scribes  and  Pharisees 
and  Doctors  of  the  Law  to-day  will  be 
grieved  because  the  people  are  taught, 
because  the  light  of  the  knowledge  of 
the  glory  of  God  shining  in  the  face 
of  Jesus  Christ  is  presented  to  the  peo- 
ple as  an  incentive  to  love  and  obedi- 
ence, instead  of  the  doctrine  of  eter- 
nal torment. 

It  matters  not  that  all  the  educated 
ministry  to-day  well  know,  and  would 
not  for  a  moment  deny,  their  disbelief 
in  the  doctrine  of  eternal  torment,  if 
cross-questioned.  Nevertheless,  many 
of  them  hate  us  and  oppose  us,  be- 
cause we  show  the  people  the  true  in- 
terpretation of  God's  Word,  and  lift 
before  the  eyes  of  their  understanding 
a  God  of  Love — Just,  Merciful,  Right- 
eous altogether,  and  fully  capable  both 
in  Wisdom  and  Power  to  work  out  all 
the  glorious  designs  which  He  "pur- 
posed in  Himself  before  the  founda- 
tion of  the  world." 

1.  They  perceive  that  the  teaching 
of  the  doctrines  of  Purgatory  and  eter- 
nal torment  has  not  had  a  sanctifying 
influence  upon  mankind  in  all  the  six- 
teen centuries  in  which  it  has  been 
preached.  They  fear  that  to  deny 
these  doctrines  now  would  make  a  bad 
matter  worse.  They  fear  that  if  the 
Gospel  of  the  Love  of  God  and  of  the 
Bible — that  it  does  not  teach  eternal 
torment  for  any — were  made  generally 
known,  the  effect  upon  the  world 


would  be  to  increase  its  wickedness fc 
to  make  life  and  property  less  secure 
than  now  and  to  fill  the  world  still 
more  than  now  with  blasphemies. 

2.  They  fear  also  that  a  certain 
amount  of  discredit  would  come  to 
themselves  because,  knowing  that  the 
Bible  does  not  teach  eternal  torment, 
according  to  the  Hebrew  and  Greek 
original,  they  secreted  the  knowledge 
from  the  people.  They  fear  that  this 
would  forever  discredit  them  with 
their  hearers.  Hence  they  still  out- 
wardly lend  their  influence  to  the 
doctrine  of  eternal  torture,  which  they 
do  not  believe,  and  feel  angry  towards 
us  because  we  teach  the  people  the 
Truth  upon  the  subject,  which  they 
know  will  bring  to  them  hundreds  of 
questions  difficult  to  answer  or  dodge. 

We  ask  you,  dear  readers,  Were  you 
constrained  to  become  children  of  God 
and  to  render  to  the  Lord  the  homage 
and  the  obedience  of  your  lives 
through  fear  or  through  love  ?  We  are 
not  asking  you  whether  you  never  have 
feared;  but  we  are  asking  you  what 
brought  you  to  the  point  of  consecrat- 
ing your  life  to  God  ?  Surely  that  was 
not  fear. 

We  are  aware,  of  course,  that  there 
is  a  proper,  godly  fear,  reverence,  and 
that  the  Scriptures  declare  it — "The 
fear  (reverence)  of  the  Lord  is  the 
beginning  of  wisdom."  (Psalm 
111:10.)  But  this  is  not  the  fear  of 
eternal  torment  wnich  tends  to  drive 
out  love.  How  could  we  love  or  es- 
teem or  truly  worship  a  God  purposing 
the  eternal  torment  of  His  creatures 
from  before  their  creation  ? 

We  could  give  you  many  proofs  of 
the  power  of  love  over  the  human 
heart,  in  contrast  with  the  ungodly 
fear  of  the  error.  God  says  to  us  in 
so  many  words,  "Their  fear  toward 
Me  is  not  of  Me,  but  is  taught  by  the 
precepts  of  men."  As  an  illustration: 
At  a  Bible  Students'  Convention  not 
long  ago  in  Ohio,  a  well  dressed  gen- 
tleman in  attendance  told  us  of  how 
his  heart  had  been  touched  with  our 
presentation  of  the  "Love  Divine,  all 
love  excelling." 


204 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


He  said,  "For  years  I  have  been  a 
member  of  the  Presbyterian  Church 
without  being  really  a  Christian  at  all. 
Occasionally  I  went  on  sprees,  some- 
times I  gambled  and  drank,  etc.  Not . 
until  I  received  a  knowledge  of  the 
true  character  of  God  as  set  forth  in 
'Studies  in  the  Scriptures'  did  my 
heart  ever  come  to  the  proper  attitude 
of  surrender  to  the  Lord.  Then  I  was 
glad  to  give  Him  my  little  all,  and 
wished  it  were  more."  The  next  day, 
passing  from  the  hotel  to  .the  audi- 
torium to  a  question  meeting,  this  gen- 
tleman put  a  slip  of  paper  in  our  hand, 
which  we  supposed  was  a  question.  On 
the  platform  we  drew  it  forth  as  one 
of  the  questions  to  be  answered,  and, 
to  our  astonishment,  found  it  was  a 
check  for  $1,000.  The  man  had  not 
been  asked  for  one  cent;  but  the  Love 
of  God  had  captivated  his  heart  and 
gotten  control — not  only  of  it,  but  of 
his  pocket-book  and  -all.  He  wished 
to  show  the  Lard -his  appreciation  of 
the  Love  Divine,  the  length  and 
breadth  and  .height  and  depth  of 
which  he  now  comprehended  as  never 
before. 

Another  case:  We  met  with  a  Con- 
vention of  Bible  Students  in  Chatta- 
nooga some  years  ago.  A  gentleman 
attended  who  introduced  himself,  say- 
ing that  he  was  from  Mississippi,  and 
that  he  had  become  deeply  interested 
in  our  presentations  of  the  harmony 
of  the  Word  of  God.  He  said  in  sub- 
stance: "I  will  not  attempt  to  tell  you 
how  wicked  a  man  I  was  before  I  got 
your  literature.  My  dear  wife  here,  an 
earnest  Methodist,  said  to  me,  'John, 
John,  you  will  surely  go  to  hell!"  I 
replied  to  her:  'Mary,  I  know  it!  I 
know  it!  And,  Mary,  I  am  determined 
that  I  will  deserve  all  that  I  get.  I 
am  not  going  to  hell  for  nothing/  One 
of  your  papers  came  to  my  desk  in  my 
store.  I  said  that  this  was  different 
from  anything  that  I  ever  understood 
respecting  the  teachings  of  the  Bible. 
It  seems  more  Godlike  and  more 
rational.  I  sent  to  you  for  various 
Bible  Students'  Helps.  The  result  is. 
that  the  Love  of  God  has  constrained 
me;  has  conquered  me,  in  a  way  that 


the  doctrines  of  devilish  torments 
could  not  influence  me.  Now  I  see 
the  true  teaching  of  God's  Word.  I  can 
honor  Him  and  worship  Him  and  take 
pleasure  in  laying  down  my  life  in  His 
service.  I  have  made  a  full  consecra- 
tion of  everything.  For  a  time  I  sent 
you  a  $50'  check  every  month;  but 
that  was  in  the  nature  of  conscience- 
money,  because  the  most  profitable 
feature  of  my  store  trade  was  the  sale 
of  liquor  to  the  Mississippi  negroes. 
Those  checks  stopped,  because,  as  the 
grace  of  God  more  and  more  filled  and 
overflowed  my  heart,  it  brought  me  to 
see  that  I  must  love  my  neighbor  as 
myself,  and  do  injury  to  none;  and 
now  my  whole  life  is  devoted  to  the 
service  of  God  and  my  fellow-men." 
Three  murderers  confined  in  the 
Columbus,  Ohio,  Penitentiary,  had 
from  childhood  been  trained  in  the 
doctrines  of  eternal  torment  in  differ- 
ent churches  and  yet  committed  mur- 
der. Those  men,  under  God's  provi- 
dence, received  some  of  our  literature 
— "Studies  in  the  Scriptures" — and 
were  cut  to  the  heart  when  they 
learned  of  the  Love  of  God,  as  ex- 
pressed in  the  Divine  Plan  of  the 
Ages.  To  be  brief:  A  knowledge  of 
the  Love  of  God  made  such  a  change 
in  the  hearts  and  lives  of  those  three 
murderers  that  the  prison-keepers 
took  knowledge  of  them  that  they  had 
"been  with  Jesus  and  had  learned  of 
Him."  By  and  by  they  were  paroled 
— and  to-day  two  of  them  are  preach- 
ing the  Gospel  of  the  Love  of  God, 
seeking  to  bring  their  fellowmen  out 
of  the  condition  of  darkness  and  sin 
into  the  glorious  sunlight  of  Divine 
Love  and  Truth.  Having  tried  the 
Gospel  of  fear  and  damnation  and  tor- 
ture for  sixteen  centuries ;  having  seen 
that  under  this  teaching  there  is  more 
blasphemy  and  general  wickedness 
than  even  in  the  heathen  world,  is  it 
not  due  time  to  give  the 'True  Bread 
and  Water  of  Life  to  the  hungry  and 
thirsty  ones  who,  for  lack  of  it,  are 
searching  the  earth  and  many  of  them 
falling  into  Higher  Criticism,  infidelity 
and  other  delusions  peculiar  to  our 
dav? 


"Julius  Caesar,"  a  New  Edition  of 
Shakespeare's  Works,  by  Horace 
Howard  Furness,  Jn 

All  students  of  Shakespeare  will  be 
greatly  interested  to  learn  that  "Cym- 
beline,"  the  eighteenth  volume  in  the 
New  Variorum  Edition  of  Shakes- 
peare's works,  is  now  in  press.  The  en- 
tire work  was  completed  before  Dr. 
Horace  Howard  Furness  died  in  Au- 
gust, 1912. 

Dr.  Horace  Howard  Furness,  whose 
ripe  scholarship  and  tireless  industry 
made  this  monumental  edition  possi- 
ble, demonstrated  his  wisdom  in  asso- 
ciating his  son  with  the  •  invaluable 
work. 

This  spring  sees  the  publication  of 
"Julius  Caesar,"  the  seventeenth  vol- 
ume in  the  set,  and  the  third  play 
edited  by  Horace  Howard  Furness,  Jr., 
who  will  continue  the  Variorum  Edi- 
tion along  the  same  lines  laid  down  by 
his  father. 

Published  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  Com- 
pany, Washington  Square,  Philadel- 
phia, Penn. 

"Isobel,"  by  James  Oliver  Curwood. 

Two  men,  both  members  of  the 
Royal  Northwest  Mounted  Police,  are 
quartered  at  a  lonely  post  on  Hudson 
Bay.  Sergeant  McVeigh  is  obliged  to 
go  South  for  medicines  and  letters, 
despite  the  fact  that  his  companion, 
Pelletier,  is  in  danger  of  dying  from 
privation  and  the  terrible  strain  of 
solitude  in  the  Arctic  night.  The  men 
have  been  specially  commissioned -to 
capture  Scotty  Deane,  a  man  accused 
of  murder,  but  McVeigh  is  obliged  to 
report  a  failure.  On  his  way  back  he 
meets  a  woman  dragging  a  sledge  side 
by  side  with  dogs.  On  the  sledge  is 
a  long  box,  evidently  a  coffin,  and  she 
explains  that  she  is  taking  the  dead 
body  of  her  husband  south  for  burial. 


McVeigh,  starved  for  the  sight  of.  a 
woman's  face,  feels  like  worshiping 
her.  Gently  he  makes  her  understand 
his  homage  and  his  hunger  for  com- 
panionship. He  offers  to  accompany 
her,  and  that  night  they  make  camp 
together.  In  the  morning  he  finds  that 
she  has  gone,  and  gone  also  are  his 
weapons.  She  is  Isobel,  wife  of 
Scotty  Deane,  and  Deane  himself  has 
lain  in  the  box  alive.  But  the  woman 
to  whom  McVeigh  has  opened  his 
heart  so  fully  has  trusted  him :  she  has 
left  a  note  expressing  her  faith  that  he 
will  not  follow.  It  so  happens,  how- 
ever, that  his  worst  enemy,  hot  upon 
the  trail  of  Deane,  comes  upon  him, 
and  in  order  to  keep  the  fugitives  from 
falling  into  worse  hands,  McVeigh  is 
obliged  to  follow  and  arrest  them. 
Then,  out  on  the  Barrens,  the  emotions 
of  years  are  crowded/into  a  few  mo- 
ments. Isobel  turns  in  hatred  and  dis- 
gust from  the  man  she  has  trusted,  but 
McVeigh,  by  the  sheer  honesty  of  his 
nature,  wins  the  confidence  of  her  and 
of  her  husband,  and  brings  the  look  of 
faith  back  into  her  eyes.  When  he  has 
sent  the  pursuers  about  their  business, 
he  lets  Deane  and  Isobel  go. 

Meanwhile  Pelletier  has  had  a  visi- 
tor, a  man  who  describes  himself  as 
a  seaman  from  a  whaler.  He  speaks 
callously  of  an  Eskimo  woman  whom 
he  has  left  to  die  in  an  igloo  thirty 
miles  away.  Pelletier,  suspecting  for 
sufficient  reasons  that  the  woman  is 
white,  attempts  to  arrest  the  man, 
who,  in  the  ensuing  struggle,  is  slain. 
Then  Pelletier,  after  a  long  battle  with 
cold  and  weakness,  reaches  the  igloo 
and  finds  in  it  a  white  girl-child.  The 
child  saves  the  man's  sanity,  as  he  has 
saved  its  life,  and  the  reader  finds 
himself  responding  to  a  familiar  emo- 
tion in  a  new  way. 

McVeigh's      friendly     capture      of 


206 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


Deane     and     Pelletier's  rescue  of  a 
child  are  the  basic  incidents  of  a  nar- 
rative that  never  slacks  in  its  action 
and  never  lacks  strength  of  motive  to 
make  the  action  vital.     A  fight  with 
Eskimos,  who  have  sheltered  the  little 
girl,  and  are  now  determined  to  win 
her  back,  the  dramatic  reappearance 
of  Deane,  his  death,  Isobel's  sickness 
and  subsequent    disappearance,    Mc- 
Veigh's long  and    finally     successful 
search  for  her,  his  encounter  with  his 
old  enemy — these  are  incidents  full  of 
the  reality  of  suffering,  of  tense  feel- 
ing, and  of  physical  effort.    In  natural 
sequence  they  bring  conclusive     evi- 
dence of  Deane's  innocence,  and  prove 
Isobel  the  mother  of  the  little  girl.  As 
a  piece  of  condensed,  vigorous  story- 
telling, "Isobel"  surpasses     Mr.  Cur- 
wood'«s  earlier  romance,  "Flower  of  the 
North/'  which   it  equals   in  mystery 
and  in  picturesqueness  of  detail. 

Published  by  Harper  &   Brothers, 
Franklin  Square,  New  York. 

"Camp  and  Tramp  in  African  Wilds," 

by  E.  Torday. 

The  centenary  of  the  birth  of  the 
great  explorer,  David  Livingstone,  has 
aroused  a  lively  interest  in  recent  Af- 
rican explorations.     One  of  the  most 
noted  has  been  that  of  Mr.  E.  Torday, 
whose  experiences  and  adventures  are 
set  forth  in  his  new  book,  "Camp  and 
Tramp  in  African  .Wilds."    The  fact, 
also,  that  Mr.  Torday  traveled  over 
the  same  route  taken  by    the     great 
Livingstone,  makes  this  account     of 
unique  interest.     The  Congo  natives 
are  usually  pictured  by  explorers  and 
hunters  as  ferocious  and  treacherous 
savages,  but  Mr.  Torday  found  that 
this  was  gross  misrepresentation.    He 
traveled  all  through  the  Congo  region 
unarmed  except  when  hunting  for  big 
game.     He  was  in  many     dangerous 
situations,  and  in  a  number  of  cases 
his  life  was  saved  by  the  devotion  of 
his  negro   servants.     He   found   that 
the  savages     quickly     responded     in 
kind  to  fair  and  just  treatment,  and 
that  the  travelers   and  hunters   who 
have  in  the  past  treated  the  natives 


with  contempt  and  harshness  have 
been  the  cause  of  the  violent  opposi- 
tion to  the  white  men  that  is  sometimes 
found. 

Published  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co., 
Washington  Square,  Philadelphia. 

"The  Battle  of  Gettysburg,"  by  Jesse 

Bowman  Young. 

It  is  appropriate  that  the  labor  of 
years,  which  Jesse  Bowman  Young  has 
spent  in  collecting  and  analyzing  ma- 
terial for  his  comprehensive  narrative, 
"The  Battle  of  Gettysburg,"  should  be 
crowned   by   the    publication   of  the 
book,  almost  upon  the  anniversary  of 
the  battle,  and  at  a  time  when  the  at- 
tention of  the  whole  country  is  turned 
toward   the   former  battle-field.     But 
the  book  is  far  from  being  of  the  sort 
which  bases  its  chief  claim  to  interest 
upon  timeliness.     As  a  fresh  survey 
of  the  campaign  and  battle,  including 
every  fact  of  importance,  written  with 
the     vividness     of  reminiscence,  and 
characterized     by    a     clearness     and 
definiteness  that  result  from    the    au- 
thor's long  familiarity  with  the  region 
in  which  the  battle  was  fought,  "The 
Battle  of  Gettysburg"  has  a  permanent 
and  distinctive  value.    Mr.  Young  was 
an  officer  in  the  battle,  and  his  duties 
as  assistant  provost  marshal  assigned 
to  the  headquarters  of  Brigadier-Gen- 
eral Andrew  Humphreys,  gave     him 
unusual  opportunities  for  observation 
both  on  the  march  and  in  the  thick  of 
the  fight.    For  a  dozen  years  after  the 
war  he  resided  in  the  Cumberland  Val- 
ley, and  in  Adams  County,  of  which 
Gettysburg     is     the     countyseat — for 
three  years  of  this  time  in  Gettysburg 
itself.  "During  these  years,"  he  writes, 
"the  different  landscapes,  along  with 
the  incidents  and  movements  of  the 
campaign,  wove  themselves  into  pano- 
ramic visions  in  my  brain  so  vividly 
that  they  have  become    an    indelible 
part  of  my  experience."    As  a  "circuit 
rider"  he  journeyed  over  all  the  roads 
traversed  by  the  two  armies,  and  while 
living  in  Gettysburg  he  came  to  know 
every  foot  of  the  great  battlefield  and 
the  location  of     every     organization 


IN  THE  REALM  OF  BOOKLAND. 


207 


which  took  part  in  the  engagement. 
Few  men,  we  imagine,  have  ever  at- 
tained such  a  clearly  pictured  and 
thoroughly  inter-related  conception  of 
any  great  battle.  The  author  has  sup- 
plemented his  personal  knowledge  by 
wide  reading  and  close  study  of  the 
military  problems  involved.  In  ad- 
dition, the  book  contains  many  per- 
sonal sketches  and  a  special  feature 
is  its  compact  array  of  the  record  of 
all  West  Point  graduates  who  served 
in  the  campaign  battle  on  either  side. 
The  student  of  history,  the  student  of 
warfare,  the  veteran  of  the  war,  will 
find  "The  Battle  of  Gettysburg"  of 
peculiar  interest  from  his  own  point 
of  view.  To  the  general  reader  it  pre- 
sents a  wonderful  picture  of  two  great 
armies  in  action. 

Published  by  Harper  &  Brothers, 
Union  Square,  New  York. 

"Woodland  Idylls"  by  W.  S.  Blatch- 

ley. 

The  author  camps  during  the  sum- 
mer months,  in  a  woodland  pasture  of 
his  native  State.  Each  evening,  in  his 
diary,  he  writes  of  the  wonderful 
small  things  which  Nature  reveals  to 
him. 

If  eastern  born,  or  if  in  childhood 
days,  part  of  your  time  has  been  pass- 
ed in  the  country,  you  will  be  charmed 
by  the  vivid  pictures  of  familiar  scenes 
which  come  to  your  mind's  eye,  as 
Mr.  Blatchley  talks  with  you,  in  this 
book.  His  themes  are  "the  bevy  of 
blue  birds  which  alighted  in  the  maple 
trees  above  my  head  and  warbled  with 
cheery  chortle  unto  one  another  and 
to  me;"  "the  babbling  brooklets,  with 
their  rippling  murmuring  waters  mak- 
ing music  for  my  soul;"  "the  chip- 
munk which  came  within  forty  feet  of 
me,  then  stopped,  sat  erect,  and  wash- 
ed his  face;"  "the  big  perch  which  I 
caught  on  the  second  strike,  hooked 
and  jerked  high  in  the  air  and  recog- 
nized by  the  dark  cross  bars  and 
slender  body;"  "the  black  mulberries, 
a  full  quart  of  which  I  gathered  in 
eight  minutes;"  "the  wild  rose  trying 
to  out-do  the  fire  pink  in  decorating 


this  woodland  slope  with  posies  gay;" 
the  fireflies  and  butterflies,  grass- 
hoppers and  katydids,  white  oak  and 
black  oak  and  maple  trees,  moss-cov- 
ered boulders  and  familiar  weeds,  un- 
til you  are  aglow  with  the  desire  to 
again  visit  the  playgrounds  of  years 
long  past." 

Mr.  Blatchley  has  written  three 
other  Nature  books,  "Gleanings  from 
Nature,"  "A  Nature  Wooing"  and 
"Boulder  Reveries." 

Being  a  poet  and  philosopher,  as 
well  as  a  naturalist,  his  books  are  in- 
tensely interesting. 

Published  by  The  Nature  Publish- 
ing Co.,  Indianapolis,  Indiana.  Price, 
$1.00  postpaid. 

"Old  Houses  in  Holland,"  by  Sidney 
R.  Jones. 

This  is  a  special  spring  number  of 
the  International  Studio,  1913,  and 
contains  200  pen-and-ink  drawings 
and  12  colored  plates.  Mr.  Sidney 
Jones  was  in  Holland  for  some  time 
collecting  material  for  this  work,  and 
has  prepared  drawings  of  the  charm- 
ing old  houses,  both  exteriors  and  in- 
teriors, together  with  numerous  inter- 
esting details  such  as  furniture,  fire- 
places, metalwork,  etc.  In  addition  to 
this  unique  series  of  drawings,  there 
are  several  plates  in  color.  The  sub- 
ject chosen  has  a  peculiar  attraction 
for  lovers  of  domestic  architecture 
of  all  countries.  The  strapwork  orna- 
ment, the  decoration  of  porches  and 
fireplaces,  the  elaborate  woodwork  and 
the  splendid  brickwork  of  the  Queen 
Anne  period  are  the  work  of  the 
Dutchmen  who  settled  in  England  dur- 
ing the  XIV  century. 

Published  by  John  Lane  &  Co. 


"Between  Eras,  From  Capitalism  to 
Democracy,"  by  Albion  W.  Small, 
Head  of  the  Dept.  of  Sociology, 
University  of  Chicago,  and  Edi- 
tor of  the  American  Journal  of 
Sociology. 

This  is  a  cycle  of  conversations  and 
discourses  on  the  industrial  problem, 
with  occasional  sidelights  upon  the 


208 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


speakers  who  battledore  the  subject 
among  them.  In  the"  form  of  a  sym- 
posium, the  author  has  sketched  a 
vivid  drama  of  transition.  The  speak- 
ers are  types  so  familiar  that  the  book 
makes  the  impression  of  a  steno- 
graphic report.  The  characters  grip 
the  reader's  mind  like  forceful  persons 
met  in  the  course  of  the  day's  affairs. 
In  their  give  and  take  opinions,  these 
convincing  people  break  through  the 
conventionalities  that  obscure  the 
causes  of  unrest.  They  do  not  find 
a  remedy,  but  they  converge  upon  a 
policy  that  affords  instant  relief  in 
acute  cases,  and  promises  progress  to- 
ward removing  some  of  the  sources  of 
discontent. 

The  book  is  not  an  appeal  in  support 
of  a  theory.  It  is  a  moving  picture  of 
the  process  of  ethical  construction  ac- 
tually going  on  in  our  own  time. 

Published  by  the  Inter-Collegiate 
Press,  Kansas  City,  Mo. 


"The  Distant  Drum,"  by  Dudley  Stur- 
rock. 

This  is  a  novel  which  reveals  a  re- 
cent New  York  society  scandal  in 
a  new  light.  The  author's  information 
will  prove  startling  to  many  readers. 
Moreover,  the  central  male  figure,  be- 
ing an  aviator,  another  feature  of  the 
novel,  is  an  astonishingly  vivid  de- 
scription of  an  aeroplane  flight  and 
disaster  from  the  viewpoints  both  of 
spectator  and  airman.  Here  again  the 
author  can  speak  with  good  authority, 
for  he  himself  is  an  aviator  of  note. 
The  whole  story,  the  setting  of  which 
is  Long  Island  and  the  smart  restau- 
rants and  fashionable  haunts  of  New 
York,  bears  the  stamp  of  actual  ex- 
perience. 

Published  by  John  Lane  Company. 

Two  Best  Books   in  a  Quarter  of  a 

Century. 

Albert  Bigelow  Paine's  "Mark 
Twain :  A  Biography,"  was  included  in 
the  list  of  "the  best  twenty-five  books 
of  the  last  twenty  years  for  a  private 
library"  recently  chosen  in  Springfield, 
Massachusetts.  In  response  to  the  re- 


quest of  the  city  library  bulletin  for 
aid  in  compiling  the  list,  three  hundred 
and  sixty  different  works  were  sug- 
gested. The  only  history  chosen  was 
President  Wilson's  "History  of  the 
American  People." 

"Welcome  to  Our  City,"    by     Julian 

Street. 

Mr.  Street  is  to  be  thanked  for  the 
little  book  called  "The  Need  of 
Change,"  which  is  known  pretty  well 
from  coast  to  coast,  and  which  has  so 
much  humor  packed  into  its  fifty  or  so 
pages  that  it  has  become  almost  a 
classic.  His  "Ship  Bored"  is  also 
well  known  and  extremely  funny.  In 
his  latest  book,  "Welcome  to  Our 
City,"  he  hits  off  the  life  of  Broadway 
by  night,  the  big  hotels,  restaurants, 
cabarets  and  theatres,  as  it  has  never 
been  hit  off  before,  and  he  shows  that 
his  fount  of  wit  is  flowing  as  freely 
and  as  funnily  as  ever. 

Published  by  John  Lane  Company. 

Harper  Books  Reprinted. 

Harper  &  Brothers  announce  that 
they  are  putting  to  press  for  reprint- 
ings  two  of  their  latest  novels,  "The 
Judgment  House,"  by  Sir  Gilbert  Par- 
ker, and  "New  Leaf  Mills,"  by  Wil- 
liam Dean  Howells.  The  same  firm  is 
reprinting  also  "Black  Diamonds"  by 
Maurus  Jokai. 

"The  Monster,"  by  Edgar  Saltus. 

In  "The  Monster,"  Mr.  Saltus  has 
evolved  a  novel  daringly  startling  of 
a  man  and  wife  who  discover,  as  they 
think,  that  they  are  brother  and  sister. 
Their  struggles  against  their  mutual 
love — their  valiant  attempt  to  stifle 
their  emotions  and  obey  the  laws  of 
society  and  the  unexpectedly  thrilling 
denouement  all  constitute  a  human 
document  remarkable  in  the  extreme. 
Mr.  Saltus  ranks  foremost  as  a  writer 
of  superb  English,  as  probably  the 
greatest  of  American  stylists,  and  as 
a  litterateur  of  uncommon  talent. 

Price,  $1.25  net.  The  Pulitzer  Pub- 
lishing Company,  225  W.  39th  St., 
New  York. 


The  Seasons 


By  Lilyan  H.  Lake 


God  thought,  and  lo!  each 

flaming  tree 
Became  the  vestment  of 

the  Deity. 

God  thoughV-and  sudden 
snow  fields  wide 

The  ancient  phrophecies 
of  Spring  belied. 

But  in  God's  thought 
again  the  sprouting 
seed 

Found  root  to  satisfy 
man's  earthly  need. 

God  thought;  and  inman's 
heaven-turned  face, 

Love  flashed  to  life  and 
claimed  the  altar- 
place. 


A  corner  of  the  land  inhabited  by  the  Cliff  Dwellers. — See  page  213. 


Entrance  to  an  old  cave  buried  by  Time,  and  now  being  restored.— See  page  213. 


q 

G 


SEP  8 


1913 


OVERLAND 


Founded  1868 


MONTHLY 


BRET  HARTE 


VOL.  LXII 


San  Francisco,  September,  1913 


No.  3 


Restoring  the  Balcony  House, 
Mesa  Verde. 

IT  IS  ONLY  within  the  last  few 
years  that  science  has  made  a  de- 
termined   effort   to    lift   the    veil 
that  has  hidden  the  romance  of 
the  earliest  Americans     from     view. 
The  spade  is  the  key  that  unlocks  all 


THE 
ROMANCE 

OF 
AMERICAN 

ARCM/EOLOGY 

By 

Arthur    Chapman 


archaeological  mysteries,  and  not  until 
the  last  four  or  five  years  has  this 
humble  but  effective  instrument  been 
busy  among  the  ruins  of  our  South- 
west. The  restoration  of  the  chief 
"type"  cliff  houses  of  the  Mesa  Verde, 


214 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


the  effective  work  of  exploration 
among  the  buried  villages  and  com- 
munity houses  of  the  Rio  Grande  Val- 
ley, the  important  work  of  clearing 
away  the  jungle  from  the  ruins  of  the 
Mayan  city  of  Quirigua,  in  Guatemala, 
and  the  preliminary  exploration  of 
newly  discovered  cliff  ruins  in  North- 
western Arizona — these  are  a  few  of 
the  things  that  have  given  new  mean- 
ing to  the  study  of  American  archae- 
ology in  recent  years. 

The  laws  passed  by  Congress  in 
1906,  giving  the  government  the  right 
to  set  aside  antiquities  for  preserva- 
tion, proved  a  boon  to  American  ar- 
chaeology. Previous  to  the  passing 
of  such  laws,  there  was  no  restraint 
upon  vandalism.  The  most  perfect 
cliff  houses  in  the  world — those  of  the 
Mesa  Verde  in  Colorado — were  ex- 
posed to  the  ravages  of  vandalism  for 
twenty  years  before  the  women  of 
Colorado  interfered  and  had  the  build- 
ings included  in  a  national  park. 
When  the  work  of  restoring  the  Mesa 
Verde  buildings  was  begun,  Cliff  Pal- 
ace and  Balcony  House  were  in  al- 
most a  hopeless  condition,  some  of 
their  walls  actually  having  been  dy- 
namited by  prowlers  who  hoped  to  dis- 
cover pottery  or  other  relics.  Now  the 
antiquities  of  the  country  are  given 
at  least  a  show  of  protection  by  the 
government,  and  scientists  are  pro- 
ceeding on  their  work  of  excavation 
and  restoration,  secure  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  their  task  will  not  be  made 
fruitless  by  vandalism. 

Almost  coincidentally  with  the 
Congressional  fiat  preserving  our  an- 
tiquities, the  School  of  American  Ar- 
chaeology, which  is  a  branch  of  the 
Archaeological  Institute  of  America, 
opened  headquarters  at  Santa  Fe,  New 
Mexico.  Dr.  Edgar  L.  Hewett,  Direc- 
tor of  the  school,  began  a  series  of 
notable  undertakings  in  the  Southwest 
and  in  Central  America.  The  school 
is  fortunately  situated,  as  Santa  Fe 
is  close  to  that  archaeological  wonder- 
land, the  valley  of  the  Rio  Grande, 
where  important  research  work  was 
begun.  The  territorial  legislature  gave 
generous  support,  and  the  school  is 


now  picturesquely  housed  in  the  ven- 
erable Palace  of  the  Governors,  which 
is  a  show  place  in  itself,  associated 
as  it  is  with  the  earliest  history  of  the 
Southwest  at  the  time  of  the  Span- 
ish dominion. 

Since  1910  the  work  of  restoring  the 
ancient  Mayan  city  of  Quirigua  in 
Guatemala  has  been  carried  on  by  Dr. 
Hewett.  This  city  is  in  the  midst  of 
a  dense,  tropical  jungle,  on  one  of  the 
plantations  of  the  United  Fruit  Com- 
pany. Its  existence  has  been  known 
since  1840,  when  Frederick  Cather- 
wood  spent  a  day  at  the  ruins  and 
made  sketches  of  two  of  the  monu- 
ments, including  the  famous  leaning 
shaft,  which  has  excited  the  curiosity 
of  scholars  the  world  over.  This  shaft 
is  twenty-six  feet  above  the  ground, 
with  an  unknown  projection  below  the 
surface.  It  leans  thirteen  feet  from 
the  perpendicular,  and  by  all  the  laws 
of  physics  it  should  have  fallen  long 
ago.  It  is  believed  that  the  monu- 
ment marks  the  limit  of  size  of  the 
great  shafts  which  the  Mayans  were 
so  fond  of  erecting,  and  that  the  build- 
ers found  it  impossible  to  raise  it  to 
a  vertical  position  with  the  simple 
means  of  prying  and  cribbing  at  their 
disposal. 

There  are  many  of  these  monu- 
ments grouped  about  the  great  cere- 
monial plazas  of  Quirigua.  They 
abound  with  carving,  both  in  figures 
and  inscriptions,  and  when  they  are 
all  uncovered  and  the  moss  of  ages 
removed  from  their  surface,  they  will 
furnish  a  basis  for  much  research 
work.  Aside  from  the  discovery  notes 
by  Catherwood,  and  the  photographs 
and  moulds  of  Maudsley  and  Dr.  Gor- 
don, little  or  nothing  was  done  toward 
laying  bare  the  story  of  this  lost  city 
in  the  jungle  until  Dr.  Hewett  took 
up  his  present  work.  The  third  season 
of  work  in  clearing  away  the  jungle 
growth  is  now  about  completed,  and 
it  will  take  at  least  two  more  seasons 
to  complete  the  task. 

The  difficulties  to  be  overcome  are 
enormous.  The  rapid  growth  of  jun- 
gle vegetation  is  almost  past  belief. 
On  returning  for  the  second  season  cf 


§1 

M 

</3   ct 

C3  --< 

«/T  ci 

5S    Q 


216 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


work,  it  was  found  that  a  tangle  of 
vegetation  twenty-three  feet  high  had 
sprung  up  in  the  plazas  which  had 
been  left  perfectly  clear  nine  months 
before.  About  350  trees  had  to  be 
removed  from  the  temple  area  of  the 
city.  This  work  had  to  be  done  with 
the  utmost  care,  as  in  some  cases  the 
roots  of  the  trees  had  clasped  monu- 
ments and  entire  temples.  These  trees 
had  to  be  felled  so  that  they  would  not 
uproot  the  ruins  or  crush  temples  and 
monuments  in  falling.  The  falling  of 
trees  owing  to  decay  has  injured  some 
of  the  most  valuable  monuments  in 
the  city  area,  and  it  is  fortunate  that 
the  work  of  restoration  was  begun  be- 
fore Nature  had  completed  the  work 
of  destruction. 

Enough  has  been  found  to  indicate 
that  Quirigua  was  one  of  the  principal 
cities  of  the  Mayan  group.  It  is  prob- 
ably the  religious  architecture  and 
sculpture  that  has  survived,  and 
twenty  of  the  seventy-four  acres  in 
Quirigua  Park  doubtless  constituted 
the  sacred  precinct  of  the  city.  This 
precinct  is  laid  out  in  a  series  of  quad- 
rangles, either  wholly  or  in  part  sur- 
rounded by  terraces,  some  of  which 
were  surmounted  by  temples  of  sand- 
stone variously  termed  palaces,  tem- 
ples and  pyramids.  These  structures 
presented  the  appearance  of  rounded 
mounds  of  earth,  but  excavation  is 
bringing  to  light  their  architectural 
beauties.  The  Great  Plaza  is  almost 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  length,  open  on 
three  sides.  Grouped  within  it  are 
eleven  of  the  sculptured  monuments. 
Adjoining  this  plaza  is  a  smaller 
quadrangle,  called  the  Ceremonial 
Plaza,  which  is  believed  to  be  the 
place  where  the  .principal  religious 
ceremonies  were  held.  This  plaza  is 
surrounded  on  three  sides  by  massive 
stairways  of  red  sandstone,  rising  to  a 
height  of  from  twenty  to  fifty  feet.  A 
large  congregation  could  be  assembled 
on  these  steps  for  the  purpose  of  wit- 
nessing processions,  religious  rites, 
sacrifices  or  games.  A  still  smaller 
quadrangle  has  been  named  the  Tem- 
ple Court,  because  no  less  than  five 
temples  stand  upon  the  massive  ter- 


races surrounding  this  enclosure,  and 
excavation  has  laid  bare  some  inter- 
esting architectural  features,  consist- 
ing of  sculptured  facades  and  cor- 
nices bearing  hieroglyphic  inscrip- 
tions. 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that,  ac- 
cording to  Dr.  Hewett,  the  bundle  held 
by  one  of  the  heroic  figures  on  a  large 
monument  at  Quirigua.  is  similar  to  the 
medicine  bundle  of  the  Omaha  Indians 
— terminating  as  it  does  in  a  serpent's 
head  at  either  end.  On  one  of  the 
other  monuments  is  a  figure  grasp- 
ing a  wand  or  scepter,  which  is  held 
across  the  body  in  a  position  which 
corresponds  closely  with  the  position 
in  which  the  tiponi  is  held  by  the 
snake  chief  in  the  snake  dance  of  the 
Hopi.  The  feathered  serpent's  head, 
which  appears  in  Quirigua  carvings, 
is  a  familiar  emblem  in  the  picto- 
graphs  that  abound  in  our  own  South- 
west. These  hints  of  a  relationship  of 
the  Mayas  with  the  aboriginal  inhabi- 
tants of  the  United  States  lend  new 
interest  to  the  restoration  of  this  won- 
derful sacred  city  so  long  hidden  in 
the  depths  of  the  Guatemalan  jungle. 

The  School  of  American  Archae- 
ology has  been  uncovering  wonderful 
evidences  of  a  prehistoric  life  in  the 
valley  of  the  Rio  Grande,  in  Northern 
New  Mexico.  The  work  on  what  is 
known  as  the  Pajarito  plateau  includes 
the  restoration  of  the  wonderful  "cliff 
city"  of  Puye  and  the  circular  com- 
munity house  of  Tyuonyi,  and  the  ex- 
cavation of  a  long  sweep  of  talus  vil- 
lages which  lined  the  cliffs  of  that 
region.  A  great  ceremonial  cavern, 
which  has  been  restored,  offers  a  fea- 
ture of  exceptional  interest. 

Puye  is  on  a  great  rock,  nearly  6,000 
feet  long  and  varying  from  90  to  700 
feet  in  width.  The  great  community 
house  is  within  twenty  feet  of  the  edge 
of  a  cliff,  along  the  face  of  which  a 
talus  village  extends  for  more  than  a 
mile.  The  community  house  was  ori- 
ginally three  or  four  stories  high,  but 
had  crumbled  until  it  was  little  more 
than  a  mound  of  earth  when  excava- 
tion was  begun.  It  is  worthy  of  note 
that  Santa  Clara  Pueblo  Indians,  from 


218 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


a  neighboring  village,  did  most  of  the 
actual  work  of  excavation.  It  would 
require  a  rectangle  300  by  275  feet  to 
inclose  the  pile.  The  rooms  surrounded 
a  court  about  150  feet  square.  The 
main  entrance  to  the  square  is  at  the 
southeast  corner,  and  is  seventeen  feet 
wide  at  the  outer  wall,  but  double  that 
width  at  the  inner  wall  of  the  court. 
Ceremonial  sanctuaries,  or  kivas,  were 
found  excavated  in  the  rock  outside 
the  rectangle,  and  the  ruins  of  an  an- 
cient reservoir  have  been  found  west 
of  the  pueblo. 

The  cliff  ruins  extending  along  the 
foot  of  the  Puye  Mesa  are  admirable 
specimens  of  this  most  unique  form 
of  architecture  which  abounds  in  the 
canyons  of  the  Pajarito  country.  The 
cliff  dwellers  of  the  Mesa  Verde  built 
stone  pueblos  in  great  caves  in  the 
cliffs,  but  the  Pajaritan  dwellings  ex- 
tend along  the  talus  slopes  at  their 
juncture  with  the  cliffs.  Some  of  them 
are  merely  excavated,  cave-like  rooms, 
without  any  form  of  construction  in 
front.  Others  are  caverns,  with  open 
rooms,  like  porches,  built  on  in  front. 
Others  are  nouses  of  stone,  from  one 
+Q  three  stories  high.  Rows  of  holes 
in  the  face  of  the  cliffs  show  where 
the  ceiling  beams  of  the  upper  stories 
rested.  In  some  places,  there  are 
caves  scooped  in  the  face  of  the  cliff, 
which  were  evidently  the  rear  rooms 
of  these  strange,  terrace-like  struc- 
tures. The  walls  of  the  first  floors  are 
always  found  where  the  talus  meets 
the  vertical  cliff,  and  are  generally 
buried  under  the  debris  from  the 
fallen  upper  stories  and  the  soil-wash 
from  the  mesas  above.  Stairways  cut 
in  the  face  of  the  cliffs  at  Puye  en- 
abled the  village  dwellers  beneath  to 
ascend  to  the  great  community  house 
on  top  of  the  mesa,  which  evidently 
was  used  as  a  place  of  defense. 

Following  the  work  of  excavation 
and  restoration  at  Puye,  the  School  of 
American  Archaeology  took  up  a  simi- 
lar work  in  the  beautiful  canyon  of  the 
Rito  de  los  Frijoles.  This  canyon  is 
about  twenty  miles  west  of  Santa  Fe, 
in  the  center  of  the  Pajarito  plateau. 
Here  rich  rewards  greeted  the  scien- 


tists. The  circular  community  houce 
of  Tyuonyi,  probably  the  most  unique 
specimen  of  prehistoric  American  ar- 
chitecture in  existence,  was  uncov- 
ered. A  great  ceremonial  cavern  was 
found  near  Tyuonyi,  and  its  estufa 
has  been  cleared  of  the  accumulation 
of  ages,  and  restored  to  its  former  con- 
dition. The  Sun  House,  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  examples  of  cliff 
house  architecture,  has  been  restored, 
and  the  cave  rooms  of  the  wonderful 
Snake  village,  along  the  talus  slopes 
of  the  cliff,  have  been  made  easy  of 
access. 

The  Rito  de  los  Frijoles  is  a  living 
stream,  which  leaps  into  the  Rio 
Grande  over  two  waterfalls,  seventy 
and  ninety  feet  high.  These  falls  make 
it  impossible  to  enter  the  canyon  from 
the  Rio  Grande.  One  climbs  to  the 
mesa  top  by  an  old  trail,  and  descends 
by  another  ancient  trail  into  the  gorge 
at  the  site  of  the  Tyuonyi  villages. 
There  are  four  community  houses  in 
this  valley,  and  one  on  the  mesa  rim, 
while  the  cliff  houses  extend  for  more 
than  a  mile  along  the  northern  v/all 
of  the  gorge.  Just  as  the  Puye  com- 
munity house  was  the  principal  focus 
of  population  at  the  northern  end  of 
the  Pajarito  plateau,  so  the  circular 
community  house  of  Tyuonyi  was  the 
center  of  the  Frijoles  district.  This 
house  was  built  on  the  bank  of  a 
creek,  so  close  to  the  stream  that  it 
necessitated  a  flattening  of  the  circular 
structure  at  the  southwest.  The  com- 
munity house  is  circular  in  form,  and, 
as  excavated,  it  looks  like  the  ruin 
of  an  ancient  Colosseum,  when  viewed 
from  near-by  cliffs. 

Unlike  most  of  the  community 
houses  of  ancient  and  modern  pueblo 
dwellers,  Tyuonyi  seems  to  have  been 
built  according  to  a  general  plan,  in- 
stead of  growing  by  the  addition  of 
single  suits  or  rooms  to  accommodate 
the  growth  of  the  population.  This  is 
proven  by  the  circular  form  of  the 
walls  themselves,  which  form  curved 
lines,  showing  that  the  prehistoric  ar- 
chitects had  a  definite  plan  in  mind 
when  they  started  this  singular  cita- 
del. It  is  estimated  that  Tyuonyi  was 


/.  Great  cairn  and  ceremonial  kiva  in  the  Rito  de  los  Frijoles,  New  Mexico, 
as  restored.  2.  A  corner  of  the  great  community  house  of  Puyc,  New  Mexico, 
shortly  after  the  excavation. 


220 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


at  least  three  stories  in  height.  Like 
the  rectangular  house  at  Puye,  it  has 
a  central  court.  The  living  rooms 
were  entered  by  means  of  ladders  to 
the  roofs,  and  by  ladders  and  hatch- 
ways in  the  rooms.  The  court  was 
entered  through  a  single  passageway, 
which  varies  from  six  to  seven  feet 
in  width.  With  this  passageway  closed 
the  inhabitants  of  Tyuonyi  could  hold 
a  vastly  superior  force  at  bay.  An 
interesting  light  on  the  age  of  this 
house  is  shed  by  Dr.  Hewett,  who  esti- 
mates that  the  soil  in  the  court,  which 
varied  from  two  to  six  feet  in  depth, 
must  have  been  laid  by  the  most 
gradual  atmospheric  deposit,  as  the 
pueblo  is  not  exposed  to  drifting 
sands. 

As  in  the  case  at  Puye,  a  large  kiva 
was  found  at  Tyuonyi,  excavation  hav- 
ing laid  bare  a  circular  room  about 
forty  feet  in  diameter.  This  kiva  was 
roofed,  as  the  holes  which  contained 
the  posts  supporting  the  roof  were 
found  in  the  floor.  The  entrance  was 
probably  through  a  trap  door  in  the 
roof.  Two  other  ceremonial  rooms 
were  found  within  the  court  of  the 
great  pueblo.  A  few  hundred  yards 
from  the  kiva  was  found  a  circular 
floor  of  tufa  blocks,  which  is  either 
a  threshing  floor  or  the  remains  of  a 
kiva  built  above  ground.  The  kivas 
form  an  interesting  feature  of  the  life 
of  the  dwellers  in  the  canyon  of  the 
Frijoles.  Most  of  them  are  found 
near  the  pueblos  in  the  bottom  of  the 
valley,  sunk  in  the  talus  in  front  of 
the  cliff  villages,  or  excavated  in  the 
solid  wails  of  the  cliffs.  Probably 
each  group,  or  village,  possessed  its 
own  kiva,  and  there  are  strong  indica- 
tions that  a  dual  system  of  tribal  or- 
ganization existed  in  'the  Rito  de  los 
Frijoles,  and  that  the  great  kiva  of  Ty- 
uonyi was  the  sanctuary  of  the  winter 
or  summer  people. 

The  ceremonial  cave,  which  was  dis- 
covered high  in  the  cliff  opposite  the 
upper  valley  pueblo  in  the  Rito,  is 
interesting.  This  cave  will  accommo- 
date several  hundred  people.  At  one 
time  it  contained  several  rooms,  which 
were  built  against  the  wall  of  the  cav- 


ern,, and  back  of  these  rooms  were  ex- 
cavated apartments,  like  those  back 
of  the  cliff  house  proper.  In  the  rock 
floor  of  the  cave  the  scientists  found  a 
great  kiva,  which  was  carefully 
cleared  of  the  debris  of  ages  which 
filled  it.  Many  valuable  specimens 
were  taken  from  the  debris  of  the  kiva, 
which  has  been  roofed,  and  into  which 
one  can  descend  by  means  of  a  ladder 
through  a  trap  door.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  this  great  cavern,  which  is  150 
feet  above  the  bottom  of  the  canyon, 
and  which  is  now  i  cached  by  ninety 
feet  of  ladders  and  two  hundred  feet 
of  stairways,  was  one  of  the  holy 
places  of  the  ancient  Pajaritans,  and 
that  many  weird  ceremonies  were  en- 
acted here  when  the  long  rows  of 
talus  villages  were  alight  with  bon- 
fires. 

An  interesting  discovery  was  made 
in  conducting  the  work  in  Frijoles 
Canyon,  relating  to  the  method  of 
burial  practiced  by  this  ancient  people. 
It  was  thought  that  the  Pajaritans 
practiced  cremation  because  no  burial 
grounds  were  found.  Exploratory 
trenches  were  run  in  every  direction 
about  the  community  house  of  Tyu- 
onyi to  discover  a  burial  place,  if  such 
existed.  None  was  found,  but  when 
the  scientists  had  almost  concluded  to 
accept  the  cremation  theory,  a  series 
of  trenches  was  run  through  the  talus 
in  front  of  a  group  of  cliff  houses. 
These  trenches  were  run  parallel  to 
the  wall,  and  were  sunk  about  two- 
thirds  of  the  way  to  the  plain.  A  num- 
ber of  burial  places  were  discovered, 
all  the  skeletons  being  buried  sepa- 
rately in  the  talus  and  no  pottery  being 
found  with  the  remains. 

Two  groups  of  cliff  houses  have 
been  excavated  in  the  Frijoles  Can- 
yon. One  is  called  the  Sun  House 
group,  because  of  the  prevalence  of 
the  sun  symbol  in  the  face  of  the  cliff, 
over  the  houses.  The  Sun  House  oc- 
cupies a  crescent-shaped  terrace  in  the 
cliff  150  feet  long.  It  is  estimated 
that  it  contained  forty  to  fifty  rooms 
of  all  classes.  The  cave  rooms  and 
alcove  rooms,  the  latter  being  only 
partly  inclosed  in  rock,  were  behind 


THE   ROMANCE   OF   AMERICAN   ARCHAEOLOGY. 


221 


the  exterior  rooms,  which  were  built 
up  from  the  talus.  So  terrific  has  been 
the  action  of  the  elements,  however, 
that  the  exterior  rooms  have  crumbled 
into  the  talus  slopes,  and  have  been  so 
covered  by  the  wash  from  the  cliffs 
that  all  evidences  of  walls  have  been 
hidden.  The  Sun  House  is  connected 
with  another  group,  known  as  the 
house  of  the  Snake  people,  by  a  stair- 
way trail  which  leads  up  to  the  higher 
levels  back  of  a  group  of  strange  coni- 


pueblo  ruins,  like  Puye  and  Tyuonyi, 
have  been  found,  and  no  less  than 
thirty  cliff  villages  containing  thou- 
sands of  rooms.  In  addition,  there 
have  been  discovered  some  twenty- 
eight  minor  pueblo  ruins  and  two 
shrines.  The  most  interesting  of  these 
are  within  walking  distance  of  Tyu- 
onyi. About  three  hours'  march  from 
Tyuonyi  is  the  Pueblo  of  the  Stone 
Lions,  which  consists  of  a  single 
great  community  house,  with  the  usual 


Tyuonyi,  circular  community  house  in  Rito  de  los  Frijoles,  as  excavated  by 
the  School  of  American  Archaeology. 


cal  rocks,  known  as  "The  Needles." 
The  Snake  village  consisted  of  rooms 
partly  cut  into  the  cliff,  and  partly 
built  of  masonry.  The  cave  rooms 
have  been  cleared  and  connected  with 
ladders,  so  they  are  now  accessible. 

The  extent  of  population  in  the 
Pajarito  Plateau  region  can  be  imag- 
ined when  it  is  known  that  in  a  district 
thirty  miles  long  by  twenty  miles  in 
breadth  mere  than  thirty  important 


outlying  cliff  dwellings.  This  spot  is 
famous  because  of  the  "Shrine  of  the 
Mokatch,"  which  consists  of  a  stone 
stockade  inclosing  the  stone  effegies 
of  a  pair  of  mountain  lions.  One  of 
the  many  other  archaeological  features 
of  exceptional  interest  in  the  Pajarito 
country  is  the  Painted  Cave,  which 
has  its  walls  covered  with  pictographs 
in  colors. 

An  interesting  and  valuable  feature 


Cliff  Palace  view  from  across  the  canyon. 


of  the  work  in  the  Pajarito  country  is 
the  restoration  of  the  "type"  ruins, 
even  to  the  replacing  of  smaller  ar- 
ticles, and  utensils,  just  as  they  were 
in  the  days  of  the  ancient  inhabitants. 
In  one  of  the  cliff  houses  of  the  Rito, 
Mr.  Kenneth  M.  Chapman,  who  is  in 
charge  of  all  the  map,  plan  and  res- 
toration work,  has  restored  a  suite  of 
cliff  rooms,  with  interesting  results. 
Next  to  the  door  is  seen  the  fireplace, 
with  fire-dogs,  coma!  stone,  fire  screen 
and  cooking  pot,  with  a  water  gourd 
close  at  hand.  In  another  corner  are 
seen  the  meal  box,  with  metates,  for 
grinding  corn.  Near  the  ceiling  are 
stretched  deer  thongs,  on  which  meat 
is  hung  to  dry,  and  at  one  end  of  the 
room  are  found  all  the  instruments  for 
pottery-making,  while  an  alcove  con- 
tains the  stored  meal. 

Bandelier,  Loomis  and  others  have 
written  much  about  this  weird  land, 
but  it  has  remained  for  the  practical 
archaeologist  with  the  spade  to  demon- 
strate in  the  last  few  years  that  the 
half  has  not  been  told,  and  that  an 
archaeological  wonderland  is  being 
opened  at  the  very  doors  of  American 
sight-seers,  equal  in  interest  and 


majesty  to  anything  that  the  Old 
World  has  to  offer. 

Since  the  creation  of  Mesa  Verde 
National  Park,  which  brings  all  the 
cliff  dwellings  of  that  region  under 
government  protection,  the  three  great 
cliff  dwellings,  known  as  Spruce  Tree 
House,  Balcony  House  and  Cliff  Pal- 
ace have  been  restored.  Dr.  Jesse 
Walker  Fewkes,  of  Smithsonian  Insti- 
tution, was  in  charge  of  the  work  of 
restoring  Spruce  Tree  House  and 
Cliff  Palace,  and  Dr.  Hewett,  assisted 
by  Jesse  L.  Nusbaum  and  J.  P.  Adams 
of  the  School  of  American  Archae- 
ology, restored  Balcony  House.  This 
work  occupied  several  seasons,  and 
the  results  were  most  satisfactory  in 
all  cases.  The  buildings  were  all  in 
ruins,  having  been  exposed  to  vandal- 
ism since  their  discovery  in  1889.  Cliff 
Palace  and  Balcony  House  had  suf- 
fered especially.  The  kivas  were 
filled  with  debris.  Tottering  walls  had 
been  pushed  outward,  and  ceiling 
beams  had  been  torn  out  and  used  for 
firewood. 

To-day,  however,  these  once  melan- 
choly ruins  are  a  revelation.  The  kivas 
have  been  cleaned  out,  walls  have 


Cliff  City  after  excavation.    The  round  chambers  were  kivas. 


been  cunningly  rebuilt,  and  others  have 
been  strengthened,  and  ceremonial 
plazas  have  been  cleared.  In  all  cases 
original  lines  have  been  maintained, 
and  so  cleverly  has  the  new  work 
been  blended  with  the  old  that,  after 
a  few  seasons,  it  will  be  impossible 
to  distinguish  the  work  of  the  Scien- 
tists from  the  work  of  the  cliff  people 
themselves.  The  cliff  dwellings  of  the 
Mesa  Verde  were  well  worth  visiting 
before  the  restoration,  but  now  they 
have  been  made  doubly  impressive.  A 
trip,  including  these  dwellings  and  a 
visit  to  the  restored  ruins  of  the  Rio 
Grande  Valley,  which  have  been  de- 
scribed, will  give  the  sightseer  a  com- 
prehensive idea  of  how  the  "first 
Americans'''  must  have  lived. 

New  wonders  are  constantly  being 
discovered  in  the  Southwest.  In 
the  least  known  portion  of  the  Navajo 
Indian  reservation,  in  Northeastern 
Arizona,  the  government  has  set  aside 
a  tract  known  as  Navajo  National 
Monument,  which  includes  some  tre- 
mendously impressive  cliff  ruins.  Dr. 
Fewkes  has  made  a  preliminary  ex- 
ploration of  this  region,  and  has 


recommended  the  excavation  and 
restoration  of  two  of  the  great  ruins, 
known  as  Betatakin  and  Kietsiel,  as 
"type"  ruins  to  illustrate  the  pre-his- 
toric  culture  of  the  aborigines  of  that 
section.  The  ruins  of  the  Navajo 
National  Monument  have  suffered 
little  from  vandalism,  owing  to  their 
recent  discovery  and  their  compara- 
tively inaccessible  location.  It  is  be- 
lieved that  they  will  preserve  most 
valuable  data  for  the  future  student 
of  prehistoric  man  in  North  America. 
There  are  many  ruins  within  the  ter- 
ritory set  aside  by  the  government,  and 
the  work  of  exploration  alone  can  be 
carried  on  profitably  through  many 
seasons. 

In  the  same  Indian  reservation  are 
to  be  found  the  wonderful  ruins  of  the 
Canyon  de  Chelly  and  Chaco  Canyon, 
not  to  speak  of  solitary  ruins  of  pueblo 
and  cliff  types  in  scattered  locations. 
Southeastern  Utah  abounds  with  cliff 
ruins  which  have  never  been  explored 
by  white  men.  In  the  Mesa  Verde 
country  there  have  been  counted  more 
than  three  hundred  ruins  in  the  can- 
yons sloping  toward  the  Mancos  River, 


224                                        OVERLAND  MONTHLY 

most  of  which  have  never  been  visited  World,  and  now,  with  the  assurance 

by  white  men.  that  the  discoveries  of  scientists  will 

With  such  a  variety  of  material  to  be  protected  from  vandalism,   atten- 

challenge   public   attention,   it   is   not  tion  is  being  turned  to  the  rich  field 

strange  that  there  has  been  a  notice-  at  home.     The  spade  and  trowel  are 

able  awakening  of  interest  in  Ameri-  busy  in  fields  where  hitherto  there  has 

can     archaeology     in     recent     years,  been  little  more  than  speculation,  and 

Americans  have     contributed     much,  the  results  are  certain  to  grow  more 

both  in  a  monetary  and  scientific  way,  fascinating  year  by  year.  Future  devel- 

to  the  study  of  ancient  life  in  the  Old  opments  may  bring  yet  richer  rewards. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WESTERN  WATERS 

Wild,  we  went  tumbling  and  swirling 

In  our  mad  dance  to  the  sea, 
Man  saw  nought  of  our  sporting, 

Save  the  Red  Man  from  his  tepee. 
Calmly,  at  length,  by  the  prairie, 

Arid  and  brown  in  the  sun, 
We  skipped  along  helter-skelter 

Seeking  the  goal  to  be  won. 
Then  came  man  vith  his  transit, 

Measured  cur  banks  and  our  flow. 
Poor,  insignificant  creature, 

What  of  our  might  could  he  know  ? 
We,  the  mighty  white  torrent, 

Playing  our  own  careless  way! 
Who  should  venture  to  check  us, 

Or  interfere  with  our  play? 
Yet  undismayed,  he  soon  bound  us, 

Dammed  us  across,  shore  to  shore. 
Dried  up  our  cataracts  mighty, 

Stilling  their  deep,  booming  roar. 
Many  a  tussle  we  gave  him, 

Struggling  in  vain  to  be  free. 
Dauntless,  resourceful,  he  quelled  us. 

Tamed  us  from  source  to  the  sea. 
Now  we  must  whirr  through  his  turbines, 

Make  cities  glow  in  the  night; 
Railways  now  roll  by  our  power, 

Great  motors  hum  by  our  might. 
Banks  that  were  yesterday  barren, 

Now,  by  our  help,  can  produce 
Fruits:  for  the  gardens  we  water 

Repay  in  manner  profuse. 
So  when  we  dance  in  the  sunlight, 

This  is  the  song  that  we  sing: 
"We  are  the  forces  that  do  this, 

But  mastering  man  is  our  King. 
We  labor  now  where  we  frolicked, 

Working  where  once  we  but  ran; 
Wealth  we  now  give  to  the  country, 

And  he  who  rules  us  is  man." 

HERBERT  BENJAMIN  PEIRCE. 


FUR  SEAL  IN  ALASKAN  WATERS 


By  Jean  Rhoda 


A  comprehensive  view  of  the  industry  in  the  North,  its  early  rough  and 
careless  methods,  and  the  modern  organized  commercial  system  that  is  at- 
tempting to  conserve  its  life. 


PERHAPS  no  industry  has  a  more 
interesting   or   romantic  history 
than  that  of  the  fur  trade  in  our 
great   outstanding  province     to 
the  northward,  and  especially  that  par- 
ticular phase  of  the  traffic  in  the  pel- 
tries of  the  iur  seal  which  in  the  early 
days  of  Russian  occupancy  began  to 
engage  the  efforts  of  traders  and  fur 
hunters. 

For  a  generation  the  promyshleniki 
had  been  pushing  out  from  the  Kam- 
chatkan  shore  across  unknown  seas  to 
the  newly  discovered  Eldorado  in 
search  of  the  rare  and  beautiful  sea- 
otter  pelage  before  the  commercial 
possibilities  of  the  fur  seal  products 
presented  themselves,  although  the 
sea-cow,  as  then  known  among  the 
Russian  and  Japanese,  had  long  been 
noted  as  it  came  northward  through 
the  passes  and  channels  of  the  Aleu- 
tian Chair,  in  the  early  summer,  and 
returned  by  the  same  route  at  the  ap- 
proach of  winter.  But  of  it  little  was 
known,  the  Indians  even  expressing 


ignorance  as  to  the  bawling  ground  of 
the  strange  animal,  none  having  been 
found  at  any  time  upon  either  main- 
land or  outlying  islands  of  the  portion 
of  Russian  America  then  known. 

With  the  increasing  and  steady  de- 
cline in  the  ranks  of  the  sea-otter, 
whose  numbers  had  dwindled  by  the 
middle  of  the  Eighteenth  Century 
from  former  tens  and  hundreds  of 
thousands  to  hundreds  and  tens  of 
hundreds,  under  the  persistent  rav- 
ages of  hunters — the  necessity  for 
new  fields  of  gain  became  evident,  and 
the  feverish  ambition  of  the  bands  of 
Russians,  Tartars  and  Kossacks  then 
engaged  in  the  traffic  led  them  to  in- 
stitute a  search  for  the  resting  place 
of  the  fur  seal.  Forthwith,  one  hun- 
dred schooners  and  shallops  sailed 
through  storm  and  fog  northward  and 
southward  of  the  Aleutian  Islands — 
ranging  over  a  considerable  portion  of 
the  area  of  the  North  Pacific  and  Ber- 
ing Sea  waters  in  their  tireless,  per- 
sistent effort  for  discovery  of  the  mys- 
tic shore,  and  finally,  after  nearly 
eighteen  years  of  unfruitful  search, 
were  rewarded — the  rugged  Musco- 
vitic  "stoorman,"  Gehrman  Pribilov, 
on  the  morning  of  July  7,  1784,  run- 
ning his  shallop  upon  the  beaches  of 
the  island  of  St.  George,  and  taking 
possession  of  the  long,  pebbly  strands, 
black  with  pods  of  fur  seal,  in  the 
name  of  the  Imperial  government. 

The  lucrative  possibilities  of  the  fur 
resources  of  the  island  and  its  near 
neighbor,  St.  Paul,  discovered  a  year 


Native  hauling  the 
carcass  of  a  young 
seal,  just  captured  off 
shore. 


226 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


later,  at  once  became  evident,  and  led 
to  their  immediate  settlement  by  a 
number  of  trading  companies  then  op- 
erating in  Russian  possessions — and 
the  importation  of  a  hundred  or  more 
Aleut  hunters  from  Oonalaska,  Atka 
and  other  southern  neighborhoods  to 
facilitate  the  handling  of  the  animals 
— of  which  it  has  been  estimated  as 
many  as  500,000  skins  were  at  that 
time  taken  annually,  the  figures  even 
being  placed  as  high  as  2,000,000— 
not  more  than  half  of  which,  however, 
were  marketed,  ov/ing  to  ineffective 
curing. 

The  story  of  the  years  which  fol- 
lowed is  a  chronicle  of  the  wrongs  and 
outrages  perpetrated  upon  the  willing 
natives  by  their  despotic  taskmasters 
— who,  spurred  on  by  jealous  ambition 
to  outdo  their  rivals  in  the  traffic, 
stopped  at  no  means  in  order  to  gain 
the  desired  end.  The  baneful  effects 
of  such  rivalry  soon  became  evidenced 
in  the  wanton  and  wasteful  destruc- 
tion of  the  herds — threatening  their 
very  existence  a  decade  after  their 
discovery,  and  leading  finally  to  the 
granting  of  a  charter  of  monopoly  by 
the  Imperial  government  to  a  single 
reliable  corporation,  the  Russian 
American  Company,  numbering  among 
its  shareholders  members  of  the  Royal 
family  and  nobility,  with  headquarters 
at  Irkutsk,  afterward  St.  Petersburg, 
and  a  manager  resident  in  Sitka,  as- 
suming autocratic  control  of  all  Rus- 
sian possessions  in  America  in  1799. 

The  new  company  began  immedi- 
ately to  exercise  its  authority  by  tak- 
ing measures  for  the  suppression  of 
the  slaughter  of  the  seal  herds;  but 
their  early  attempts,  tending  rather  to 
limit  than  to  reform  the  character  of 
the  killing,  proved  ineffective,  male 
and  female  being  taken  indiscrimin- 
ately, until  in  1808  the  condition  of  the 
herd  became  so  precarious  that  it  was 
deemed  advisable  to  suspend  all  kill- 
ing for  a  period  of  four  years,  in  order 
to  afford  an  opportunity  for  recupera- 
tion. In  1812,  killing  was  again  re- 
sumed, but  on  a  different  basis,  the 
taking  of  males  alone  being  permitted 
— which  regulation  held  good  up  to 


1864,  and  resulted  in  such  a  general 
rehabilitation  of  fur  seal  herds  that 
at  that  time  it  was  thought  expedient 
to  take  annually  from  the  Island  of  St. 
Paul  alone  700,000  skins  without  dan- 
ger of  depletion. 

The  Russian  American  Company, 
during  the  67  years  of  its  sovereignty, 
found  a  ready  market  for  the  fur  out- 
put from  the  seal  islands  in  that  great 
international  mart  on  the  Chinese  fron- 
tier, Kiauchau,  the  Mongolians  then,  as 
now,  being  solicitous  purchasers  of 
furs — the  northern  provinces  of  the 
Celestial  Empire  where  are  resident 
a  large  portion  of  the  wealthy  classes, 
being  subject  to  severe  winters.  Hence 
the  desire  for  fur  garments,  which  con- 
stitute an  important  article  of  dress 
of  every  Chinaman  of  standing. 

The  skins  were  first  sent  to  Sitka, 
then  known  as  Archangel,  where  they 
were  sorted  and  put  up  into  square 
bundles,  being  pressed  into  shape  by 
an  old-fashioned  hand  lever  and 
corded  while  under  pressure.  After 
which,  having  been  duly  numbered 
and  catalogued,  they  went  by  ship  to 
Okhotsk,  thence  by  pack  horse  or  ox- 
cart to  Kiauchau.  At  Kiauchau,  came 
semi-annually  the  buyers  from  Pekin, 
and  other  large  centers,  to  inspect  the 
Pribilof  cargo  and  purchase  such  pel- 
tries as  met  with  their  approval  in 
exchange  for  the  celebrated  black  teas 
of  Miamatschin,  carrying  the  skins  by 
camel  to  their  home  markets,  where 
they  again  changed  hands,  finally 
reaching  the  retail  trade.  First  class 
pelts  brought  in  China,  in  the  early 
fifties,  from  "10  to  15  roubles,"  equiva- 
lent to  nine  or  ten  dollars  in  our  coin- 
age, but  the  average  sales  made  did 
not  exceed  five  dollars  per  skin. 

At  one  time,  also,  the  Russian  com- 
pany disposed  of  a  considerable  num- 
ber of  fur  seal  pelts  in  American  or 
European  markets,  it  being  under  con- 
tract up  to  1853  to  supply  a  New  York 
firm  with  its  season's  stock  at  $2.50  per 
skin,  and  some  thousand  pelts  were  an- 
nually received  in  parchment  form  in 
London,  in  1858  the  company  con- 
tracting with  Messrs.  Oppenheim  & 
Company,  a  leading  London  furrier, 


/.  Aleut  hunter  in  kayak,  showing  harpoon  in  readiness.  2.  On  the  killing 
ground,  St.  Paul  Island.  3.  Seal  bladders  filled  with  seal  oil,  which  is  pre- 
served in  this  manner  each  season  for  winter  consumption  by  the  natives. 


228 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


for  from  ten  to  twelve  thousand  at  10s. 
10d.,  the  quantity  being  increased  in 
1864  to  twenty  thousand.  It  was  not, 
however,  until  the  assumption  of  con- 
trol by  the  Alaskan  Commercial  Com- 
pany, under  the  American  regime,  that 
the  European  trade  was  placed  on  the 
substantial  basis  which  exists  at  the 
present  time. 

The  year  following  the  passing  of 
the  great  northern  territory  from  Rus- 
sian to  American  control,  known  as  the 
interregnum,  was  marked  by  the  reign 
of  lawlessness  and  ruthless  slaughter 
of  the  herds,  owing  to  inadequate 
supervision,  a  toll  of  500,000  being 
taken  during  that  season,  the  proceeds 
swelling  the  coffers  of  private  indi- 
viduals and  enterprises;  not  until  the 
spring  of  1876  was  order  again  estab- 
lished by  the  arrival  of  the  government 
representative  upon  the  grounds.  After 
due  consideration  and  debate  as  to 
the  best  methods  for  conducting  the 
fur  seal  industry  on  the  seal  islands, 
the  government  finally  decided  in 
favor  of  the  leasing  system,  and  as  a 
result  of  the  issuance  of  bids,  the 
Pribilof  seal  rookeries  in  1870  passed 
for  a  period  of  20  years  into  the  con- 
trol of  the  Alaska  Commercial  Com- 
pany— a  corporation  composed  of  New 
England  capital  and  with  headquarters 
at  San  Francisco.  Under  the  contract 
the  lessees  were  permitted  to  take  not 
more  than  100,000  skins  a  .season — 
paying  for  the  privilege  an  annual 
rental  of  $55,000  to  the  United  States 
treasury  with  an  additional  tax  of 
$2.621/2  on  each  pelt  shipped — furnish 
employment  and  food  supplies  to  the 
natives  and  conduct  during  eight 
months  of  the  year  schools  on  the  Is- 
lands of  St.  George  and  St.  Paul. 

One  of  the  most  beneficent  effects 
evident  under  the  American  rule  was 
a  marked  betterment  in  the  condition 
of  the  native  population.  Under  the 
old  order  the  Aleuts  had  been  little 
better  than  serfs,  receiving  no  reward 
for  their  labor,  nor  expecting  any; 
dwelling  in  sod-roofed  barrabaras, 
cold  and  filthy,  and  existing  on  a 
monotonous  diet  of  seal  flesh.  The  new 
company,  soon  after  occupation, 


erected  comfortable  dwellings  and  sup- 
plemented the  rude  fare  by  many 
staples  and  even  luxuries  of  every-day 
living,  while  for  their  services  hitherto 
exacted  gratis,  a  substantial  wage  of 
forty  cents  for  each  pelt  taken  pre- 
pared for  market,  was  given,  which  on 
the  annual  output  of  100,000  skins,  af- 
forded an  income  for  the  three  or 
four  hundred  inhabitants,  exceeding 
that  of  many  high-paid  mechanics  in 
this  country. 

With  the  expiration  of  the  lease  in 
1889,  so  satisfactory  had  proven  the 
system — $6,350,000  in  royalties  having 
been  conveyed  into  the  treasury  during 
the  time  of  the  company's  occupation 
— that  bids  were  again  issued,  and  af- 
ter an  animated  and  bitter  struggle  in 
competition,  the  North  American  Com- 
mercial Company  secured  the  award 
for  a  second  score  of  years,  the  new 
contract  differing  in  some  points  from 
its  predecessor,  to  the  advantage  of 
the  government,  the  yearly  rental  be- 
ing increased  to  $60,000  per  annum 
and  the  bonus  on  each  skin  taken  to 
$9.62 Vo.  The  company  was  to  furnish 
in  addition  to  the  former  agreement, 
medical  aid  for  the  sick  and  disabled 
natives,  care  for  the  aged,  widowed 
and  orphaned,  erect  church  buildings 
and  supply  eighty  or  more  tons  of  coal, 
the  amount  to  be  regulated  by  the  Sec- 
retary of  the  Treasury. 

At  the  time  of  the  accession  of  the 
North  American  Commercial  Com- 
pany, and  for  a  considerable  period 
previous,  an  appreciable  diminution  in 
the  numbers  of  killable  seals  on  the 
rookeries  of  St.  George  and  St.  Paul 
had  begun  to  be  noticeable,  and  specu- 
lation regarding  the  possible  causes  to 
arise.  A  Board  of  Commissioners  was 
finally  appointed  by  Congress  for  pur- 
poses of  investigation  into  the  causes 
of  the  decline,  and  after  a  thorough 
and  exhaustive  examination  extending 
over  a  period  of  years,  the  American 
Bering  Sea  Commission  declared  as 
the  sole  cause  of  the  herd's  depletion 
that  new  phase  of  the  fur  seal  industry 
which  had  begun  at  that  time  to  reach 
considerable  proportions — open  sea  or 
pelagic  sealing — the  taking  of  the  ani- 


FUR  SEALS  IN  ALASKAN  WATERS. 


229 


mals  while  en  route  to  their  winter 
rookeries  or  upon  their  return  north- 
ward in  the  spring,  by  the  sealing 
schooners. 

Pelagic  sealing  as  an  industry  is  of 
comparatively  recent  date,  for  ten 
years  after  the  purchase  of  Alaska,  the 
seal  herds  having  been  practically  un- 
molested in  the  annual  migrations,  al- 
though the  Indians  from  the  earliest 
times  were  accustomed  to  hunt  seals  in 
their  dug-out  canoes  from  ten  to 
twenty  miles  off  shore  as  the  herds 
passed  northward  in  the  spring.  But 
it  was  not  until  1879  that  sailing  ves- 
sels were  pressed  into  service  in  order 
to  expedite  matters  and  enlarge  the 
field  of  operation  by  carrying  the 
hunters  with  their  canoes  far  out  to 
sea  within  range  of  the  summer  feed- 
ing grounds  of  the  animals,  during  that 
year  seven  vessels  attacking  the  herds 
in  the  North  Pacific  and  securing  3,600 
skins.  In  1880  the  industry  was  given 
a  fresh  impetus  by  the  entry  for  the 
first  time  of  a  sealer  into  Bering  Sea — 
The  City  of  San  Diego — under  Cap- 
tain Kathgard,  for  many  years  en- 
gaged in  walrus  hunting  off  the  Alas- 
kan Peninsula,  bringing  into  Victoria, 
British  Columbia,  that  year  500  pel- 
tries, valued  at  $10  each,  as  the  re- 
sult of  a  season's  efforts.  So  remu- 
nerative did  the  business  prove  that 
by  1884  all  the  vessels  formerly  en- 
gaged in  walrus  hunting  had  practi- 
cally abandoned  the  chase  of  rosmarus, 
resorting  to  Bering  Sea  for  sealing,  the 
sealing  schooners  increasing  from 
seven  to  one  hundred  and  fifteen  at 
that  time,  and  skins  secured  from 
1,000  in  1870  to  62,000  in  1890. 

At  first  the  government,  acting  upon 
the  precedent  created  by  Russia  in  the 
ukase  of  1821,  which  prohibited  for- 
eign vessels  from  approaching  or  land- 
ing within  a  hundred  Italian  miles  of 
her  possessions  in  America,  seized 
and  confiscated  a  number  of  poaching 
schooners.  Canadians  being  largely  en- 
gaged in  the  deep  sea  sealing,  a  con- 
troversy at  once  arose  with  England 
as  to  the  legitimacy  of  the  govern- 
ment's claim  to  jurisdictional  rights  on 
the  waters  of  Bering  Sea,  which  dis- 


cussion, covering  a  period  of  four 
years  inclusively  from  1886-1890,  fin- 
ally resulted  in  the  Paris  Tribunal  of 
Arbitration,  which  met  in  the  French 
capital  in  the  spring  of  1893.  The  Tri- 
bunal's decision  was,  however,  un- 
favorable to  us,  the  claims  of  the 
United  States  to  fur  seal  protectory 
rights  being  set  aside  and  pelagic  seal- 
ing was  continued,  but  under  modified 
form,  the  ensuing  treaty  establishing 
a  closed  season  for  the  month  of  May, 
sealers  only  under  license  being  per- 
mitted at  any  time  tc  operate,  hunting 
to  be  limited  to  the  use  of  the  spear, 
and  a  sixty  mile  zone  created  about 
the  seal  islands. 

Soon,  however,  the  inefficacy  of 
the  limited  restriction  became  evident, 
and  each  succeeding  year  more  appar- 
ent, the  season  of  1895  witnessing  the 
largest  pelagic  catch  in  the  history  of 
the  industry,  when  fifty-nine  ships  pro- 
cured 44,169  skins.  The  sixty  mile 
zone  proved  ineffectual,  the  feeding 
grounds  extending  far  beyond  its  lim- 
its, and  the  limited  season,  while  shut- 
ting off  the  usual  catch  of  the  pro- 
hibited month,  the  increased  cost  to  the 
government  of  its  enlarged  sealing 
patrol  was  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
gain  accrued.  In  addition,  the  Japan- 
ese sealers,  not  being  parties  to  the 
contract,  became  more  flagrant  in  their 
operations,  not  infrequently  violating 
the  law  of  the  closed  zone — in  1900 
two  vessels  with  a  cargo  of  1,300  skins 
valued  at  $40  each  being  taken  in  gov- 
ernment waters,  and  in  more  than  one 
instance  plundering  the  rookeries  of 
St.  Paul.  Some  idea  of  the  extent  of 
this  pelagic  catch  of  these  Oriental 
sealers  may  be  obtained  from  the  rec- 
ord in  the  Journal  of  the  Fisheries 
Society  of  Japan,  issued  on  July  10, 
1911,  in  which  the  Japanese  sea  catch 
for  the  ten  years  previous  is  stated  as 
104,105,  with  a  total  of  279  vessels. 

With  the  decline  of  the  herds  came 
a  corresponding  decrease  in  each  sea- 
son's catch — the  number  of  skins  taken 
by  pelagic  sealers  dwindling  from 
135,474  in  1894  to  but  35,057  three 
years  later,  while  in  the  rookeries, 
where  it  was  possible  to  procure  100,- 


230 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


A  young  seal  hunter  watching  his 
father  off  shore  in  a  kayak  shooting 
seals. 


000  pelts  in  1870,  at  the  time  the  next 
American  Commercial  Company  as- 
sumed control,  a  bare  21,000  were  ob- 
tainable. The  seriousness  of  the  situa- 
tion aroused  even  Great  Britain  to  the 
necessity  of  taking  preventive  meas- 
ures, one-half  of  all  the  skins  sold 
annually  in  London  being  obtained 
from  the  Pribilof  rookeries,  and  in- 
cluding the  Northwest  or  pelagic  catch, 
the  Alaska  herd  furnished  sixty  per 
cent  of  the  supply  of  seal  skins  of  the 
world's  markets — the  Southern  seal 
population,  excepting  for  a  few  strag- 
glers on  the  Lobos  Islands  and  Chil- 
ian coast,  having  long  since  been  de- 
molished by  the  ruthless  slaughter  of 
hunters — and  after  long  continued  ef- 


fort the  Government  finally  obtained 
the  co-operation  of  Great  Britain, 
Japan  and  Russia  in  a  treaty  to  abol- 
ish pelagic  sealing  for  a  period  of  fif- 
teen years,  The  year  following,  Con- 
gress passed  a  law  for  its  ratification. 
By  the  terms  of  the  treaty,  Russia 
and  the  United  States,  as  owners  of 
the  principal  herds,  agreed  to  pay  to 
Great  Britain  and  Japan  fifteen  per 
cent  of  all  profits  derived  from  the 
herds  on  the  seal  islands,  as  disem- 
bursement,  which  proved  highly  satis- 
factory to  the  contracting  parties,  the 
revenue  thus  obtained  exceeding  the 
net  earnings  derived  from  either  the 
Canadian  or  Japanese  fleets.  This  pro- 
hibitive agreement  went  into  effect  in 
the  spring  of  1912,  and  the  beneficial 
results  from  its  season  of  operation 
have  already  become  evident,  15,000 
breeding  seals  reaching  the  rookeries 
in  safety  last  year,  which  otherwise, 
under  pelagic  operations,  would  have 
been  taken  in  the  course  of  migration 
or  during  later  excursions  to  the  feed- 
ing grounds. 

At  the  expiration  of  the  North 
Amercan  Commercial  Company's  lease 
in  1910,  the  lease  system  was  aban- 
doned, and  the  Pribilof  reserve  taken 
directly  under  government  manage- 
ment, the  past  three  seasons  the  Bu- 
reau of  Fisheries  acting  as  its  repre- 
sentative, conducting  the  fur  seal  in- 
dustry in  the  seal  islands,  supervising 
the  killing,  preparing  of  the  skins  for 
market  and  caring  for  the  natives.  The 
killing  and  skinning  is  done  entirely, 
as  formerly,  by  the  Aleuts,  under  the 
immediate  direction  of  the  native  chief 
who,  in  turn,  is  subject  to  the  super- 
vision of  the  government  agent. 

The  killing  season  extends  from  the 
first  of  June,  when  the  seals  begin  to 
appear  on  the  rookeries,  to  the  latter 
part  of  August,  the  skins  being  during 
this  time  in  their  prime.  When  the 
"holluschickie"  or  young  bachelor 
seals,  the  class  taken,  have  hawled  up 
on  the  sandy  beaches  in  considerable 
numbers,  the  natives  prepare  for  work. 
Starting  out  from  the  village  before 
daybreak,  when  the  air  is  cool  and  all 


A  seal  rookery  on  the  islands  off  the  Alaskan  coast. 


danger  from  overheating  the  animals 
during  the  drive  is  eliminated,  they 
round  up  a  large  pod  and  start  across 
the  sands  to  the  killing  grounds  some 
hundred  yards  distant — allowing  the 
animals  to  rest  at  intervals.  When  the 
killing  ground  is  reached,  the  men 
close  in  and  cut  off  a  pod  of  from 
twenty  to  fifty,  driving  them  apart  a 
short  distance,  when  the  killable  seals, 
three  year  olds,  large  twos,  and  small 
fours,  are  culled  out,  the  remainder  of 
the  pod  being  permitted  to  find  their 
way  back  to  the  rookeries.  The  kill- 
ing then  begins;  men  armed  with 
heavy  hard-wood  clubs  from  four  to 
five  feet  in  length  and  some  three 
inches  thick,  approach  and  strike  each 
animal  a  sharp  blow  on  the  head,  the 
skull  being  the  most  vulnerable  por- 
tion of  the  seal's  anatomy — after 
which  a  knife  blade  is  plunged  into 


his  vitals,  insuring  his  death.  When 
a  pod  has  been  thus  knocked  down,  a 
second  is  cut  off  and  driven  up,  which 
process  is  continued  until  the  entire 
herd  is  thus  disposed  of,  after  which 
the  skin  is  removed  from  the  carcasses 
and  carried  in  carts  to  the  salt  house. 
Here,  after  being  counted  by  the  gov- 
ernment agent,  they  are  placed  in 
"kenches,"  or  bins,  flesh  side  up,  a 
thick  coat  of  saline  preservative  alter- 
nating each  layer.  After  lying  thus 
for  a  week,  they  are  taken  out  and  the 
reverse  side  salted,  the  curing  process 
being  completed  with  the  second  per- 
iod of  pickling,  when,  having  been 
bundled  and  securely  corded,  they  are 
sent  in  bidarkas  to  the  waiting  vessel 
"Homer."  Upon  arrival  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, the  cargo  is  catalogued,  packed 
in  large  hogsheads,  and  shipped  in 
ventilated  freight  cars  to  New  York, 


232 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


thence  by  ship  to  London,  where, 
dressed  and  dyed.  For  years  the  Eng- 
lish metropolis  has  been  the  ultimate 
market  of  the  world's  supply  of  fur 
seal  skins — nine-tenths  of  all  pelts  ob- 
tained from  the  Lobos  Islands,  South 
Africa,  Australia  and  other  former 
supply  centers,  as  well  as  the  Alaskan 
catch,  have  been  purchased  and  pre- 
pared there  for  the  world's  markets, 
the  English  furriers  alone  seeming  to 
have  attained  perfection  in  the  art  of 
dyeing  and  dressing. 

Most  of  the  consignments  are  re- 
ceived at  the  present  time  by  Messrs. 
C.  M.  Lampson  &  Company,  by  whom, 
after  having  been  duly  listed,  are  dis- 
posed of  at  public  auction,  held  semi- 
annually,  to  the  highest  bidder,  mer- 
chants and  furriers  from  the  world's 
centers  being  present  at  such  times  in 
person  or  by  proxy  to  make  such  pur- 


chases as  desired  for  their  coming 
season's  sales.  The  sale  day  for  Alas- 
kan fur  seal  skins  is  in  January;  during 
the  season  of  1912  the  Secretary  of 
Commerce  and  Labor  receiving  checks 
from  Messrs.  C.  M.  Lampson  to  the 
amount  of  $385,862.28,  representing 
the  net  proceeds  of  the  year's  sales. 
The  three  seasons  during  which  the 
government  has  conducted  the  indus- 
try the  revenue  approximated  $1,200,- 
000.  When  we  consider  that  during 
the  twenty  years  following  its  acces- 
sion the  fur  seal  industry  alone,  in  the 
waters  of  Alaska,  yielded  the  purchase 
price  of  the  entire  territory,  and  each 
succeeding  season  an  annuity  which 
the  kingdoms  of  the  earth  might  well 
envy,  we  can  justly  say-that  "Seward's 
Folly"  has  indeed  proven  to  be  "the 
richest  gem  picked  from  the  bargain 
counter  of  nations." 


RISUS     DEORU/A 


Ye  touch  me  not !    Ye  sordid  things ; 
Ye  phantom  shapes  of  pain ;  the  stings 
Of  vanished  hope;  remorse  that  clir.gs 
To  all  a  life-time's  useless  chaff — 
Ye  touch  me  not, 

I  yet  can  laugh! 

Ye  touch  me  not!    Ye  that  have  laid 
The  traps  of  Fate,  and  scoffing  said : 
"A  piteous  thing  his  folly  made." 
Your  bitter  lees  I  will  not  quaff. 
Ye  touch  me  not, 

While  yet,  I  laugh! 

Ye  touch  me  not!     For  yet  to  me 
The  stars  remain  an  ecstasy; 
The  Was  is  dead,  I  am  To  Be! 
Ye  terrors,  fall  beneath  my  staff; 
Ye  touch  me  not — 

For  see,  I  laugh! 

ALICE  MAYOR  EDWARDS. 


'A  pressure  cylinder"  plant  in  which  timbers  are  treated. 


"PICKLING"    TIABER 


By  Arthur  L.  Dahl 


PRESERVING  TIME"  is  a  mighty 
important  season  in  the  life  of 
every  housekeeper.     She  knows 
that   Nature    is    a    prolific   pro- 
ducer  when   the   summer   sun   shines 
warm  and  bright,  and  the  refreshing 
rains  quench  the  thirst  of  the  growing 
children   of   the   vegetable     kingdom. 
But   she   also   knows   that  the   black- 
sheep  son  of  Nature,  named  "Decay," 
will  soon  decimate  the  most  bountiful 
crop  of  fragrant  fruit  or  luscious  ber- 
ries, unless  they  are  "preserved." 

Uncle  Sam  is  very  thrifty.  Says 
he:  "To  save  a  penny  is  to  earn  one. 
If  I  make  a  stick  of  timber  last  twice 
as  long  by  means  of  an  artificial  pre- 
servative treatment,  I  am  conserving 
one  of  my  greatest  natural  resources — 


the  forest."  So  he  is,  through  the 
Forest  Service,  conducting  experi- 
ments in  various  parts  of  the  country 
to  determine  better  and  more  economi- 
cal methods  of  preserving  the  strong, 
healthy  timber  and  increasing  the 
durability  and  strength  of  inferior 
varieties  of  trees. 

The  object  of  all  preservative  treat- 
ments is  to  prevent  decay.  The  decay 
of  a  plant  body,  such  as  wood,  is  not 
an  inorganic  process  like  the  rusting 
of  iron  or  the  crumbling  of  stone,  but 
is  due  to  the  activities  of  low  forms  of 
plant  life  called  "bacteria"  and 
"fungi."  Bacteria  are  among  the  sim- 
plest of  all  forms  of  life,  often  consist- 
ing of  but  a  single  cell,  microscopic  in 
size.  They  multiply  by  the  division 


234 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


of  the  parent  cell  into  other  cells, 
which,  in  turn,  divide  again. 

Fungi,  although  much  more  compli- 
cated than  bacteria,  are  also  low  in 
the  scale  of  creation  when  compared 
with  familiar  flowering  plants  and 
shrubs.  They  consist  merely  of  tiny 
threads  or  hyphae,  which  are  collec- 
tively known  as  the  "mycelium."  In 
many  of  the  higher  forms  of  fungi  the 
threads  grow  together  to  form  com- 
pact masses  of  tissue.  Familiar  ex- 
amples of  these  forms  are  the  "toad- 
stools," which  grow  on  damp,  rotting 
logs,  and  the  "punks,"  or  "brackets," 
on  the  trunks  of  trees  in  the  forest. 

The  causes  of  decay  in  wood,  how- 
ever, are  not  these  fruiting  bodies 
themselves.  Spores — very  primitive 
substitutes  for  seed — which  are  borne 
in  the  countless  compartments  into 
which  the  under  surfaces  of  the  fruit- 
ing bodies  are  sometimes  divided,  are 
produced  in  infinite  number,  and  are 
so  fine  they  can  be  distinguished  only 
by  the  microscope.  When  seen  in  bulk, 
they  appear  as  the  finest  dust.  Like 
dust,  they  are  carried  by  the  wind  and 
strike  all  portions  of  the  surrounding 


objects.  Few  species  of  fungi  suc- 
cessfully attack  healthy  living  trees, 
and  only  a  comparatively  small  num- 
ber can  attack  and  destroy  wood.  Yet 
the  spores  of  some  find  a  lodging  in 
dead  portions  of  a  tree  or  in  cut  tim- 
ber, and  if  the  wood  is  moist  and  in  the 
right  condition  for  the  spore  to  grow, 
it  germinates  and  sends  out  a  thin, 
film-like  white  thread,  which,  by  re- 
peated branching,  penetrates  the  en- 
tire structure  of  the  wood.  These  are 
the  real  agents  of  decay. 

Wood  is  composed  of  minute  cells. 
The  chief  material  of  the  cell  walls  is 
a  substance  called  "cellulose,"  and 
around  this  there  are  incrusted  many 
different  organic  substances  known 
collectively  as  "lignin."  Most  of  the 
wood-destroying  fungi  attack  only  the 
lignin;  others  attack  the  cellulose  alone 
— while  a  third  class  destroy  all  parts 
of  the  wood  structure.  The  lignin  and 
the  cellulose  are  dissolved  by  certain 
substances  secreted  by  the  fungi,  and 
thus  serve  as  food  for  the  fungus 
growth.  In  this  way  the  fungi  can  de- 
velop until  they  extend  throughout 
every  portion  of  the  timber,  and  finally 


Special  plant  for  pickling  fence  rails. 


i.  A  telegraph  pole,  untreated,  erec  ted  at  same  time  as  opposite  treated 
pole  (No.  2)  showing  decay  at  butt.  2.  A  telegraph  pole,  carefully  treated 
by  the  process,  as  good  as  new.  3.  T  he  timbers  on  the  left  were  treated 
with  creosote  and  show  no  signs  of  d  ecay.  The  untreated  timbers  alongside 
are  already  a  menace,  and  have  rotte  d  away. 


236 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


so  much  of  the  wcod  fibre  is  eaten 
away  or  changed  in  composition  that 
its  strength  is  greatly  diminished,  the 
texture  becomes  brittle  and  discon- 
nected, and  the  wood  is  said  to  be 
"rotten." 

But  food  is  not  the  only  thing  that 
a  fungus  requires  for  its  growth  and 
development.  It  must  also  have  heat, 
air  and  moisture.  If  any  of  these  is 
lacking,  the  fungus  cannot  develop. 
For  this  reason,  "kiln-dried"  wood 
will  last  indefinitely,  if  not  subjected 
to  moisture. 

By  far  the  best  method  of  checking 
the  growth  of  fungi  is  to  deprive  them 
of  food.  This  can  be  done  by  inject- 
ing poisonous  substances  into  the  tim- 
ber, and  so  change  the  organic  matter 
from  food  suitable  for  fungi  into 
powerful  fungicides.  The  germs  of 
decay  are  not  inherent  in  the  wood  it- 
self. They  start  from  the  outside.  This 
explains  the  efficacy  of  certain  paints, 
which  merely  form  a  superficial  coat- 
ing over  the  surface  of  the  timber,  but 
which  are  poisonous  enough  to  pre- 
vent the  spores  from  germinating,  or 
the  hyphae  of  most  forms  of  wood- 
destroying  fungi  from  penetrating  into 
the  unprotected  wood  in  the  interior. 
The  ancients  were  in  the  habit  of 
painting  their  statues  with  oily  and 
bituminous  preparations  to  preserve 
them  from  decay.  The  great  wooden 
statue  of  Diana  at  Ephesus,  which  was 
supposed  to  have  descended  miracu- 
lously from  Heaven,  was  protected 
from  earthly  decay  by  oil  of  nard. 
Pettigrew  extracted  the  preservative 
fluids  from  the  heart  of  an  Egyptian 
mummy  that  had  resisted  decay  for 
over  3,000  years,  and  found  that  de- 
composition immediately  set  in.  This 
showed  that  it  was  the  presence  of  the 
antiseptics  which  prevented  decay, 
and  not  a  chemical  change  of  the  tis- 
sues themselves. 

Of  the  many  antiseptics  tried  for  the 
preservation  of  timber,  only  four  have 
been  largely  used  with  success  in  the 
United  States.  These  are  creosote, 
zinc  chloride,  corrosive  sublimate 
(bichloride  of  mercury),  and  copper 
sulphate.  In  this  country,  creosote 


and  zinc  chloride  are  the  two  preserva- 
tives in  most  common  use.  There  are 
many  other  patented  substances  known 
by  various  names,  but  most  of  them 
have  for  their  base  one  or  the  other 
of  these  two  preservatives. 

Just  as  there  are  two  preservatives 
in  common  use,  so  there  are  two  prin- 
cipal methods  of  injecting  them  into 
the  timber.  These  may  be  called  the 
"pressure  cylinder"  method  and  the 
"non-pressure"  method.  A  third  pro- 
cess, known  as  the  "brush  method," 
is  used  to  a  more  limited  extent. 

Up  to  recent  times  the  pressure- 
cylinder  method  was  used  almost  ex- 
clusively in  the  United  States.  As 
most  commonly  applied,  the  method  is 
as  follows:  The  timber  to  be  treated 
is  placed  on  iron  trucks,  or  "cylinder 
buggies,"  and  drawn  by  steel  cables 
into  huge  horizontal  cylinders,  some 
of  which  are  eight  or  nine  feet  in 
diameter,  and  more  than  one  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  long.  These  are  capable 
of  withstanding  high  pressure,  and 
their  doors  are  so  arranged  that,  after 
the  timber  is  drawn  in,  they  can  be 
closed  and  hermetically  sealed.  After 
the  doors  are  closed,  live  steam  is  ad- 
mitted into  the  cylinder,  and  a  pressure 
of  about  twenty  pounds. per  square 
inch  is  maintained  for  several  hours. 
When  the  steam  is  at  last  blown  out, 
the  vacuum  pumps  are  started,  and  as 
much  of  the  air  as  possible  is  ex- 
hausted from  the  cylinder  and  from 
the  wood  structure.  This  process  alsc 
continues  for  several  hours.  Finally, 
after  the  completion  of  the  vacuum 
period,  the  preservative  is  run  into  the 
cylinder,  and  the  pressure  pumps  are 
started  and  continued  until  the  desired 
amount  of  preservative  fluid  is  forced 
into  the  wood. 

The  injection  of  the  preservative  by 
the  non-pressure  process  depends  upon 
a  different  principle.  The  wood  is 
first  thoroughly  seasoned,  and  much 
of  the  moisture  in  the  cells  and  inter- 
cellular spaces  is  replaced  by  air.  The 
seasoned  timber,  or  that  portion  of  it 
which  is  to  be  preserved,  is  immersed 
in  a  hot  bath  of  the  preservative  con- 
tained in  an  iron  tank  or  cylinder.  This 


Cross  sections  showing  degrees  of  penetration  of  pressure  and  non-pres- 
sure methods. 


hot  bath  is  continued  for  from  one  to 
five  or  six  hours,  depending  upon  the 
timber.  During  this  portion  of  the 
treatment,  the  air  and  moisture  in  the 
wood  expand,  and  a  portion  of  it 
passes  out,  appearing  as  little  bubbles 
on  the  surface  of  the  fluid.  At  the 
end  of  the  hot  bath,  as  quick  a  change 
as  possible  is  made  from  the  hot  to  a 
cold  preservative.  This  causes  a  con- 
traction of  the  air  moisture  remaining 
in  the  wood,  and,  since  a  portion  of  it 
has  been  expelled,  a  partial  vacuum 
is  created  which  can  be  destroyed  only 
by  the  entrance  of  the  preservative. 
Thus  atmospheric  pressure  accom- 
plishes that  for  which  artificial  pres- 
sure is  commonly  used  in  nearly 


every  one  of  the  commercial  plants. 
A  less  efficient  but  cheaper  treat- 
ment can  be  secured  by  painting  the 
surface  of  the  timber  with  at  least  two 
coats  of  hot  creosote,  or  some  similar 
preservative.  The  liquid  can  pene- 
trate only  a  very  short  distance  into 
the  wood,  but  as  long  as  there  re- 
mains an  unbroken  antiseptic  zone 
around  the  surface,  the  spores  of  the 
wood-destroying  fungi  cannot  enter. 
It  is  especially  important  in  this 
method  that  the  timber  should  be  thor- 
oughly air-dried  before  treatment. 
Otherwise,  the  evaporation  of  water 
from  the  interior  of  the  stick  will  cause 
checks  to  open  up  and  so  expose  the 
unprotected  wood  to  fungus  attack. 


THE  AAN  IN  THE  TOWER 


By  John  Howland 


CULHANE  lay  back  in  his  arm- 
chair, his  mind  working  pain- 
fully on  the  solution  of  a  per- 
plexing problem.  Outside  the 
telegraph  office  the  elements  seemed 
to  be  engaged  in  mortal  combat.  Half- 
listening  to  the  raging  storm,  he  sighed 
each  time  a  mighty  blast  of  wind 
swept  round  the  tower,  enveloping  it 
in  its  clutches  as  though  it  meant  to 
tear  it  from  its  foundations.  The 
tumult  outside  accentuated  the  cozi- 
ness  of  his  surroundings.  The  little 
stove  ladiated  a  cheery  gleam  about 
it;  the  clicking  of  the  keys  was  music 
to  his  ears.  Like  a  sunny  island  in 
the  midst  of  a  turbulent  sea,  the  fire, 
the  intermittent  ticking  of  the  instru- 
ments, the  delightful  solitude  of  the 
room  itself,  gave  him  a  feeling  of 
security — of  living  immune  while  all 
about  him  was  danger  and  peril.  On 
the  instrument  table  before  him  lay 
a  letter: 

"How  can  I  marry  a  railroad  man?" 
it  asked.  "You  would  never  be  mine; 
the  railroad  would  claim  your  obe- 
dience, almost  all  your  time  and  your 
thoughts.  I  can  picture  myself  alone 
in  the  night  and  you  far  off  in  the 
lonely  tower,  not  even  thinking  of  me ; 
for  your  mind  must  be  on  the  railroad 
and  the  trains.  I  love  you,  boy,  but 
you  must  give  up  the  railroad." 

Give  up  the  railroad :  the  only  train- 
ing he  had  ever  had,  the  only  work  he 
loved?  Give  up  the  road  which  was 
so  good  to  its  faithful  servants?  Over 
at  Grand  Junction  was  a  desk  he 
hoped  to  own  some  day;  and  from 
there  to  the  head  office  at  Denver  was 
but  a  step.  He  had  fixed  his  eyes  on 
that  desk  when  he  had  come,  an  ap- 
prentice, to  the  tower,  eight  years  be- 
fore. Of  late,  it  had  seemed  closer. 


He  was  to  be  promoted  to  a  more  im- 
portant post;  his  years  of  service  were 
to  be  rewarded.  Now,  she  wanted 
him  to  give  it  all  up;  to  take  eight 
years'  experience  from  his  life,  and, 
at  thirty,  begin  again  at  the  bottom, 
side  by  side  with  boys  in  their  teens. 
It  was  a  hard  choice  she  had  given 
him. 

During  a  lull  in  the  tumult,  he  heard 
the  sharp  blasts  of  Number  Six,  as  she 
asked  him  in  impatient  tones  if  the 
way  was  clear  for  her.  Grasping  a 
lever  at  his  side,  he  pulled  it  quickly. 
A  white  light  flashed  on  the  sema- 
phore overhead,  and  Culhane  reached 
for  the  key  to  report  her,  watching,  as 
he  did  so,  the  heavy  Salt  Lake  Limited 
as  she  thundered  past.  A  little  later 
she  had  disappeared  into  the  storm, 
but  the  operator's  thoughts  traveled 
with  her  as  she  swept  along  the  track 
and  was  swallowed  up  by  the 
night 

Thus  he  had  always  watched  the 
trains  as  they  came  down  from  the 
sandy  plateaus  of  Utah,  and  plunged 
into  the  dark,  forbidding  canyon  of 
the  Arkansas,  on  into  Colorado. 
Watched  as  they  passed,  hour  after 
hour,  through  the  day.  Yet  the  oft- 
repeated  scene  was  not  monotonous  to 
him.  The  romance  of  the  railroad  ap- 
pealed to  his  imagination.  He  was 
wont  to  liken  the  swiftly-moving  trains 
to  the  meteoric  passage  of  a  soul 
through  life.  He  wondered  if  the 
thousands  of  passengers  who  passed 
under  his  window  daily  were  awake  to 
the  realities  of  this  marvelous  change 
of  place,  which  the  trains  accom- 
plished in  so  short  a  time.  This  morn- 
ing at  eight  o'clock,  Number  Six  was 
at  Salt  Lake  City;  to-morrow  after- 
noon she  would  be  In  Denver.  All  the 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  TOWER. 


239 


long  night  through,  as  the  Limited  flew 
swiftly  on  its  way,  the  passengers,  un- 
conscious of  the  marvel  being  wrought, 
would  sleep  unconcernedly  in  their 
comfortable  berths.  Towns  and  States 
would  flash  by,  mountains  be  crossed; 
mighty  undertakings  of  man  and  the 
stupendous  works  of  nature,  would  all 
be  a  part  of  the  panorama.  Still  they 
would  sleep,  while  hundreds  of  men 
were  awake  and  on  the  alert  that  no 
evil  should  befall  them. 

The  last  thought  awakened  a  sympa- 
thetic chord.  A  vague  recollection  of 
some  task  unfinished,  or  illy  done,  op- 
pressed him.  He  seized  a  lock  of 
hair  in  his  fingers  and  twisted  it  until 
his  scalp  stung  with  pain.  He  glanced 
uneasily  around.  Seeing  nothing  ir- 
regular, his  thoughts  returned  to  the 
girl  in  Denver. 

Suddenly,  in  a  frenzied  tattoo,  the 
sounder  began  ticking  off  his  station- 
call.  Seizing  the  key,  he  answered, 
and  immediately  the  sounder  ticked 
off: 

"Repeat  last  message." 

Repeat  last  message.  What  was 
the  last  message?  He  racked  his 
brain  in  an  effort  to  recall  it.  What 
was  the  matter  with  him,  anyway? 
Why  was  his  brain  refusing  to  perform 
its  proper  functions?  Oh,  yes;  now  he 
remembered.  A  feeling  of  intense  re- 
lief passed  over  him  as  he  sent  the 
message : 

"Number  Six  passed  going  east 
twenty  minutes  late.  Tn." 

Like  a  flash  the  reply  came  back : 

"Number  Nine,  special  freight, 
passed  going  west  ten-four.  Why 
didn't  you  hold  Six  as  per  order  thirty- 
eight.  They'll  meet  in  the  canyon." 

Culhane  fell  back  in  his  chair,  limp. 
His  face  went  white  and  his  head  fell 
over  on  his  shoulder.  His  numbed 
hands  felt  no  pain  as  the  sharp  nails 
dug  into  the  flesh.  For  a  moment  he 
lay  thus;  then,  vaguely  realizing  that 
something  must  be  done,  he  rose 
weakly  to  his  feet.  Placing  both  hands 
on  the  table,  he  leaned  heavily  thereon 
as  he  strove  to  recall  his  scattered 
senses.  The  sounder  ticked  frantically 
his  station  call,  but  it  made  no  impres- 


sion on  his  brain.  His  mind  was  else- 
where. He  could  clearly  see  the  mag- 
nificent Overland  train,  with  its  hun- 
dreds of  sleeping  passengers,  rushing 
majestically  eastward;  while  coming 
west  to  meet  it  was  the  heavy  "high- 
ball," pulled  rapidly  up  the  other  side 
of  the  divide  by  its  four  ponderous 
"freight-hogs." 

No  chance  for  them  to  see  each 
other  amongst  the  abounding  tunnels 
and  canyons.  The  roaring  wind  would 
shut  off  any  sound  of  the  whistles. 
Fate  had  chosen  that  one  moment  to 
place  his  mind  in  eclipse ;  he  felt  him- 
self merely  the  tool  of  the  Divine  Will. 

Then,  suddenly  rousing  from  his 
stupor,  he  resumed  control  of  himself. 
Under  the  harrowing  circumstances, 
it  was  as  if  the  wreck  had  already 
occurred.  The  victims  of  his  criminal 
negligence  were  dead;  some  one  must 
now  take  charge  of  the  remains.  He 
seized  the  key  and  called  frantically 
to  Grand  Junction,  asking  for  the 
wrecking-train,  doctors,  nurses — all 
the  horrible  appurtenances  of  an  ap- 
palling railroad  wreck.  Every  sounder 
in  the  room  ticked  his  station  call. 
Again  his  mind  lapsed.  He  felt  the 
concentrated  thought  of  all  the  train- 
men on  the  division  pressing  him 
down.  Abstractedly,  ;he  touched  a 
key  and  answered  the  call.  Immedi- 
ately there  burst  forth  a  torrent  of 
questions : 

"Where  is  the  wreck?" 

"When  did  it  happen?" 

"Send  details." 

"Why  didn't  you  hold  Six?" 

Why — why?  That  was  what  he 
couldn't  grasp,  himself. 

What  had  been  the  cause  of  this 
deadening  of  his  thinking  powers,  af- 
ter all  his  experience  and  railroad 
knowledge,  at  a  crucial  moment?  He 
listened,  but  the  storm  drowned  all 
other  sounds.  He  stepped  to  the  win- 
dow, opened  it  and  leaned  far  out,  but 
could  hear  nothing  but  the  wind  and 
the  beating  of  the  rain. 

He  closed  the  window  and  stepped 
back  into  the  room.  The  sounders  still 
called  him  wildly;  they  drove  him  mad 
with  their  incessant  and  senseless 


240 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


questions.  Questions,  when  scores  of 
human  beings  were  lying  torn  and 
mangled  far  up  in  the  lonely  canyon. 
What  were  needed  were  deeds,  quick, 
decisive  action  on  the  part  of  some 
one  with  more  ability  than  he.  With 
uncontrolled  rage  he  picked  up  a  lump 
of  coal  and  dashed  it  against  an  of- 
fending instrument;  then  dropped 
weakly  to  his  knees  and  whimpered  a 
prayer. 

Suddenly  a  sound,  foreign  to  that 
of  the  storm,  reached  his  ears.  "The 
wrecker,"  he  thought,  and  sunk  to  the 
floor.  Then,  remembering  that  it  was 
too  soon  for  that,  he  rose,  reached  for 
a  lever  and  looked  out.  But  what  was 
this?  He  could  now  hear  the  whistle 
plainly,  and  it  came  from  the  east- 
ward. His  thoughts  ran  riot.  How 
could  any  train  parss  the  wreck?  As 
if  in  answer,  through  the  night  two 
red  lights  appeared,  lighting  up  an  ob- 
servation platform  beneath.  He 
gasped  and  his  eyeballs  almost  started 
from  their  sockets.  The  lights  came 
to  a  standstill;  some  one  with  a  lan- 
tern dropped  from  the  platform,  ran 
along  the  track  and  threw  a  switch. 
Then  the  lantern  described  circles 
through  the  air,  three  sharp  blasts  fol- 
lowed, and  the  train  backed  slowly 
onto  the  siding. 

Culhane,  with  staring  eyes,  watched 
the  eleven  cars  go  by — an  observa- 
tion car,  seven  standard  sleepers,  a 
diner  and  two  mail  cars.  It  was  not 
until  the  engine  passed  and  the  head- 
light dazzled  his  eyes  that  he  grasped 
the  situation. 

"God,  it's  Six,  safe  and  sound."  He 
shrieked  aloud  in  his  revulsion  of 
feeling. 

He  rushed  to  the  door,  only  to  en- 
counter the  conductor  and  engineer  on 
the  threshold,  who  seized  him  by  the 
shoulders  and  threw  him  back  into 
the  room. 

"You  devil,"  hissed  the  engineer. 
"It'll  be  many  a  day  before  you  for- 
get this  night's  work.  You  came  with- 
in an  ace  of  sending  hundreds  of  lives 
into  eternity,  and  ending  yours  in  the 
penitentiary.  Look  there." 


Holding  his  hands  before  him  to 
ward  them  off,  Culhane  looked  out  of 
the  window.  As  he  did  so,  the 
freight  dashed  by  with  a  roar,  leav- 
ing behind  her  a  stream  of  sparks; 
steaming  steadily  on  her  way  west- 
ward to  the  coast.  The  revulsion  of 
feeling  weakened  him.  Turning  to  the 
trainmen,  he  asked,  half-dazed: 

"How — tell  me  what  happened." 

"We  were  saved  by  the  good  God, 
and  nothing  else,"  came  the  passion- 
ate reply.  "Joe,  on  the  'hog,'  saw  the 
reflection  of  my  light  on  the  walls  of 
the  cliff,  just  before  he  reached  the 
top  of  the  hill.  He  stopped,  and  sent 
a  red  lantern  ahead.  If  he'd  have 
once  got  to  the  top  and  started  down, 
no  power  in  heaven  or  earth  could 
have  kept  us  from  coming  together. 
At  this  minute  we'd  be  lying  in  the 
Arkansas  River,  two  thousand  feet  be- 
low the  track.  You  ought  to  thank 
God  that  you're  not  the  murderer  of 
hundreds  of  lives,  right  now." 

Culhane  hung  his  head  and  stepped 
wearily  to  the  table. 

Touching  a  key,  he  sent  the  fol- 
lowing message  to  Grand  Junction: 

"No  wreck.  Six  safe  on  siding. 
Nine  passed,  going  west  ten-thirty- 
five.  I  resign;  send  relief  at  once.  Tn." 

The  next  day  he  stood,  broken- 
hearted, before  the  superintendent, 
and,  through  his  sobs,  stammered  forth 
his  story : 

"I've  done  with  railroading,  sir;  I'm 
going  back  to  Denver,  to  the  dry- 
goods  counter  where  I  belong.  That 
tower  needs  a  different  kind  of  a  man 
than  I  am.  If  there  had  been  a  wreck 
that'd  have  been  the  end  of  me,  then 
and  there.  God  knows  how  I  lived 
through  it.  A  thousand  people  are 
cursing  me  to-day.  I  have  just  one 
comfort:  This  has  come  at  a  time 
when  I  was  called  on  to  decide  on  my 
future  course  in  life.  It  has  shown  me 
on  what  a  slender  thread  hangs  a  rail- 
road man's  salvation.  It  is  not  yet 
too  late  to  begin  again." 

An  hour  later  he  was  speeding  east- 
ward to  claim  his  bride,  and  begin  life 
again  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder. 


THE  BLOOD  OF  THE  TROPICS" 


By  Blanche  Howard  Wenner 


IT  IS  AUGUST  of  1893.  The  won- 
derful hush  of  a  windless  after- 
noon lies  over  Brewster's  great 
sugar  plantation,  and  has  fallen 
like  a  spell  on  the  silent  palms  of  his 
magnificent  garden.  The  lambent 
crimson  of  the  hibiscus  seems  to  swim 
from  the  hedges  in  a  flood  of  light, 
and  the  air  is  saturated  with  the 
dreamy  hum  of  bees  as  they  search 
out  the  liquid  sweetness  of  the  ole- 
anders. 

But  there  is  another  sound  in  the 
garden.  From  the  low,  white  Brew- 
ster  home  it  comes,  and  sounds  like 
the  measured  thump  of  a  stick  on  a 
hollow  instrument  and  the  soft  beat  of 
a  dancer's  feet. 

On  the  great  palm-sheltered  lanai 
she  dances :  a  woman  of  splendid  pro- 
portions, her  light  wrapper  caught  up 
with  a  scarlet  ribbon  and  her  bare 
feet  beating  the  floor  in  ever-quick- 
ening time,  while  her  whole  body 
moves  to  the  graceful  thrusts  of  her 
beautiful  arms,  and  from  her  olive- 
tinted,  high-bred  face,  her  great,  dark 
eyes  rest  as  in  a  trance  on  the  heat- 
drenched  beauty  of  the  garden. 

For  half  an  hour  she  has  been 
dancing  thus  while  the  brown  skinned, 
ugly  Hawaiian  girl  crouches  on  the 
yellow  mat,  beating  her  strange  instru- 
ment and  watching  with  a  fascinated 
gaze  the  dancing  woman  outlined  on 
a  mass  of  loose  black  hair. 

At  length  the  girl  quickens  the  time, 
and  with  a  last  roll  of  notes  ceases, 
and  the  woman  sinks  down  on  the 
cushion  beside  her,  breathing  quickly, 
her  cheeks  crimson. 

"It  is  good,  Mrs.  Brewster,"  said 
the  girl,  with  a  funny  little  accent. 
"You  have  learned  the  dance  and  you 


do  it  now  better  than  any  of  us/' 
she  added,  enviously. 

"You  forget,  Marie,  that  my  grand- 
mother danced  for  a  great  Hawaiian 
King,  and  my  mother,  too,  was  a 
dancing  girl  before  my  father  came." 

The  woman  spoke  proudly,  with 
bated  breath,  evidently  beyond  her- 
self. And  the  girl  looked  at  her  curi- 
ously, but  said  nothing.  Instead,  she 
rose  to  go. 

"And  you  will  not  >want  me  to- 
morrow?" 

"No,  Marie,  I  shall  not  want  you 
any  more.  Mr.  Brewster  returns  from 
the  States  to-morrow.  It  has  been 
good  of  you  to  help  me  pass  the  lone- 
liness while  he  was  gone." 

"You  do  not  go  out  to  parties  much." 

"No.  Why  should  I?  I  do  not  love 
the  parties  without  him — and  then,  I 
have  the  baby." 

"Oh!    The  baby." 

"You  should  have  a  baby,  Marie, 
and  a  little  home.  Wouldn't  you  like 
it?" 

"No.    For  me  the  dance." 

"You  love  the  dance  so  much?" 

"It  is  an  easy  way  to  make  money." 

"Is  that  the  only  reason?" 

"No.  Try  it  once— the  night— the 
people — the  motion — then  you  would 
know  why  we  dancers  never  can  give 
it  up." 

Mrs.  Brewster's  eyes  followed  the 
girl  as  she  went  down  the  avenue  to 
where  her  dingy  little  horse  was  tied, 
and  watched  her  as  she  rode  off  in  the 
direction  of  Honolulu.  Her  words 
seemed  to  ring  behind  her:  "We 
dancers  never  can  give  it  up."  And 
as  she  dressed  that  evening,  studying 
in  the  mirror  the  high-bred,  classic 
features  (the  gift  of  her  father)  and 


242 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


thinking  with  joy  of  the  return  of  her 
splendid  husband,  a  voice  from  her 
dark  mother  seemed  to  sound  within 
her,  "Never  can  give  it  up/' 

But  the  next  day  all  thoughts  of 
the  dance  had  vanished,  for  Frank 
Brewster  was  back  on  his  great  plan- 
tation, and  he  and  his  wife  were  hav- 
ing a  second  honeymoon  after  their 
first  separation.  They  walked  in  the 
garden  on  that  first  evening  after  his 
return,  Brewster's  powerful  Anglo- 
Saxon  frame  and  blonde  head  tower- 
ing above  the  olive  beauty  of  his  part 
Hawaiian  wife.  He  w^s  joyous  at  be- 
ing back  again,  and  talked  much  of 
parts  of  his  trip,  but  she  noticed  that 
he  spoke  not  often  of  his  home.  In 
her  heart  was  a  yearning  to  know  if 
the  violent  prejudices  of  those  far 
Easterners  had  become  softened  when 
Frank  had  come  home  and  explained 
just  how  different  things  were  on  the 
Islands — how  refined  and  educated 
and  lovable  a  wife  he  had;  one  whose 
beauty  and  charm  would  grace  even 
the  proud  home  of  his  father's.  She 
laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"And  your  father  and  mother,"  she 
said,  "do  they  understand  about  me 
now?  Do  they  want  to  see  me  with 
you  the  next  time?" 

His  voice  was  very  gentle.  "What 
does  it  matter,  love,  so  that  I  under- 
stand ?" 

"Then  they  don't?" 

"They  can  never  become  accus- 
tomed to  your  mother." 

"But  my  father — think  how  high  he 
stood :  a  missionary  who  converted  my 
mother  and  educated  her.  Do  they 
know  all  that?" 

"They  know  it  all,  dear!" 

"And  I  can  never  go  with  you  to 
your  home?" 

"In  time  they  must  see  it  my  way, 
Eulalie,"  he  said,  and  took  her  in  his 
arms,  while  about  them  the  tropic 
night  beat  in  fragrant  pulsations  of 
joy,  and  through  the  palms  the  trade 
winds  breathed  a  sigh,  a  sigh  that  too 
often  breathes  over  the  loves  of  the 
tropics. 

Eulalie  thought  often  of  that  night 
in  the  days  that  followed:  thought 


with  wistful  sorrow  of  Frank's  sepa- 
ration from  his  family,  and  dwelt  with 
a  certain  curiosity  on  the  varied  life 
of  her  mother. 

It  was  an  unusually  hot  August,  and 
many  of  their  friends  had  left  the 
Island  for  the  summer.  The  baby 
was  not  well,  so  that  they  could  not 
go  out  much,  and  Frank  was  very 
busy  on  the  plantation,  so  that  Eulalie 
found  the  days  longer  than  she  had 
ever  known  them. 

Something  in  her  seemed  to  crave 
excitement,  and  until  this  summer  she 
had  always  had  it.  One  of  the  rich- 
est and  most  beautiful  girls  of  the 
Island,  with  royal  blood  in  her  veins, 
her  girlhood  had  been  full  of  joy,  and 
the  short  two  years  of  her  married 
life  had  been  even  more  replete  with 
attention.  She  fretted  and  grew  pale 
and  ceased  to  read  as  much  as  for- 
merly, while  nearly  the  live-long  day 
she  spent  alone  or  with  the  baby, 
dreaming  in  the  glory  of  the  great 
garden.  She  longed  for  Marie,  but 
something  in  her  conversation  with 
Frank  on  that  first  night  had  made 
her  withhold  from  him  the  confidence 
of  her  dancing  lessons.  She  looked 
back  on  them,  and  her  joy  in  them, 
with  an  indefinable  horror,  feeling 
that  they  had  fostered  something  with- 
in her  that  set  her  apart. 

One  afternoon  when  the  heat  vi- 
brated down  the  winding  walks  of  the 
great  garden  and  she  sat  by  the  blue 
water  lily  pond,  sewing  and  singing 
in  her  rare  voice  which  was  as  mourn- 
ful and  penetrating  as  a  native's, 
Frank  came  home  unexpectedly.  He 
would  not  be  back  for  dinner  that 
night,  he  said,  as  business  would  keep 
him  in  Honolulu  until  a  late  hour,  and 
after  that  a  meeting  at  the  University 
Club. 

"Isn't  there  anything  you  would 
like  to  do  to  amuse  yourself?"  he 
asked  tenderly.  "You  look  so  tired 
lately,  Eulalie." 

A  sudden  thought  struck  her,  and 
her  cheeks  flushed:  "Leave  word  for 
Marie,  the  dancer,  to  come  and  see 
me.  She  interests  me,  and  I  have 
some  old  clothes  for  her." 


THE  BLOOD  OF  THE  TROPICS. 


243 


He  seemed  glad  to  find  something 
to  amuse  her  in  his  absence. 

Marie  came  on  her  little  dingy 
horse.  She  had  not  been  there  five 
minutes  before  she  began  on  the  great 
topic  of  interest  to  her.  There  was  to 
be  a  great  Luau,  a  native  feast,  that 
night  for  the  entertainment  of  some 
tourists,  and  the  native  dances  were 
to  be  given. 

Listening  to  her  there  in  the  gar- 
den, Eulalie's  senses  suddenly  became 
dizzy,  for  there  had  risen  in  her  that 
which  was  stronger  than  all  else,  and 

she  foresaw  the  end. 

*  *  *  * 

It  was  a  perfect  night  for  the  Luau. 
The  full  moon  lingered  over  the 
Islands  in  a  flood  of  splendor,  and 
even  the  trade  winds  had  ceased  to 
fret  the  tall  cocoanut  palms.  The 
night  blooming  cereus,  in  a  riot  of  pure 
loveliness,  clung  to  the  rough  lava 
walls,  and  the  spiral  purple  of  the 
banana  seeds  hung  motionless. 

The  feast  was  held  out-doors,  where 
a  cluster  of  royal  Hawaiian  palms  cast 
their  stiff  shadows,  and  the  party 
from  the  hotel  were  merry  in  the  nov- 
elty and  joy  of  it. 

They  had  seen  the  roasted  pig 
pulled  from  the  hot  stones  in  his 
redolent  wrappings  of  tea  leaves,  and 
had  dipped  gingerly  fingers  in  the 
shining  calabashes  of  poi.  And  now 
the  dances  were  announced. 

The  people  grouped  themselves 
about,  some  sitting  on  mats  in  the 
moonlight,  others  leaning  against  the 
trunks  of  the  great  palms,  and  in  the 
clear  space  in  front  an  ancient  Ha- 
waiian man,  squint-eyed  and  scrawny, 
seated  himself  and  began  beating  his 
hollow,  gourd-like  instrument,  while 
he  muttered  a  rhythmic  nonsense. 

And  then  the  dancers  came — dark- 
skinned  Hawaiian  girls,  six  in  num- 
ber, with  white  blouses  and  short,  red 
skirts  and  dusky  hair  flowing.  About 
their  bare  ankles  they  wore  scarlet 
ruffs,  and  jade  bracelets  clacked  on 
their  arms.  But  there  was  a  seventh. 
She  wore  the  same  costume,  yet  her 
face  was  white  against  the  flowing 
beauty  of  her  hair,  and  her  features 


were  classically  beautiful.  She  led 
the  dancers.  Her  eyes,  alight,  seemed 
not  to  see  the  audience,  for  her  glance 
lay  trance-like  where,  in  the  opening 
of  palms,  the  sea  heaved  and  mur- 
mured restlessly  in  his  silver  dreams. 

Slowly  the  beat  of  bare  feet  an- 
swered the  throb  of  the  instrument. 
Gracefully  the  bare  arms  seemed  to 
push  from  the  dancers  all  fetters. 
They  finished  the  first  part  of  the 
dance  in  a  surge  of  applause,  for  the 
audience  had  caught  the  thrill  of 
something  out  of  the  ordinary. 

And  now  they  came  out  again;  the 
old  man  bends  to  his  instrument  with 
new  fervor,  and  Eulalie's  eyes  are 
flashing.  Her  spirit  answers  the  call 
of  the  ages  behind  her.  She  hears  not 
the  little  whisper  of  "Brewster"  that 
already  has  begun  to  slip  through  the 
crowd.  She  is  nothing  but  a  savage 
dancing  girl,  caught  in  the  flame  of 
the  dance — pulsing  to  the  rhythm  of 
that  persistent  beat  that  her  blood  has 
answered  since  first  the  savage  moved 
to  express  a  feeling.  She  is  like  the 
reincarnation  of  her  grandmother 
dancing  on  the  sands  of  Waikiki  to 
please  the  great  king ;  she  is  the  whis- 
per of  her  mother — finding  voice;  she 
is  the  child  of  the  tropics  throwing 
away  from  her  all  the  bonds  of  civili- 
zation in  this  one  triumphant  revela- 
tion of  what  she  is. 

The  old  musician  redoubles  his 
time  with  gleaming  eyes,  muttering 
to  "himself  of  bygone  tropic  nights. 
The  girl  calls  to  the  dancers  in  vi- 
brating native  language  and  moves 
forward.  A  man  leans  toward  her, 
fascinated;  her  eyes  meet  his — she 
seems  to  dance  for  him  only,  but  she 
sees  him  not — she  is  beyond  the  scene 
— a  savage,  dancing  on  the  sands  of 
an  unpeopled  island  with  all  the  free- 
dom of  her  ancestors  who  danced  thus 
to  win  a  girdle  of  white  sea  shells,  or 
a  king  for  a  lover.  Faster  her  bare 
feet  beat  the  grass;  closer  she  comes; 
the  blood  of  the  tropics  surging  hot  in 
every  vein.  Faster  beats  the  rhythm 
into  her  very  brain,  and  the  silent 
palms  swim  into  an  immeasurable  dis- 
tance of  silver  light,  and  then — she 


244 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


sees  his  face  there  iti  the  shadows  be- 
tween the  great  trees,  his  face  set, 
white,  agonized,  unbelieving. 

With  a  great  cry  the  dance  comes 
to  an  end,  and  the  surprised  dancing 
girls  trail  into  the  little  shelter  be- 
hind the  palms.  All  the  flush  has 
gone  from  Eulalie's  face  now,  and  the 
despair  of  an  intelligence  and  educa- 
tion that  can  grasp  the  full  enormity 
of  her  act  has  settled  in  the  tragic 
shadows  of  her  eyes.  She  throws  her 
long  dark  cape  about  her,  and  bare- 
footed and  alone,  rushes  through  the 
trees.  But  she  is  too  late.  She  only 
gains  the  road  to  see  him  fling  himself 
on  his  horse  and  gallop  off  in  white 
swirls  of  dust.  She  calls,  but  only 
to  be  answered  by  the  resounding  beat 
of  hoofs.  Choking,  sobbing,  she  runs 
on  after  him,  along  the  silent,  dust- 
stirred  road  that  leads  up  to  the  great 
Brewster  plantation  two  miles  away. 
Sometimes  she  stumbles  on  her  long 
cape  so  that  her  loose  hair  lies  in  the 
dust,  but  she  rises  and  rushes  on. 

At  last  in  utter  fatigue  she  drops 
in  the  shadows  of  a  great  banyan  tree 
and  clutches  the  weird  roots  which 
fall  around  her  like  the  hair  of  Me- 
dusa. When,  after  a  long  time,  she 
rises  and  walks  on,  she  is  calmer,  but 
her  shoulders  heave  when  she  comes 
to  the  great  gate.  Is  he  waiting  in 
that  home,  white  in  the  moonlight? 
Is  he  waiting  there  for  the  woman  who 
has  disgraced  him  and  his  child?  Will 
he  speak?  She  moves  forward  be- 
tween the  shining  hedges  of  hibiscus. 

The  house  is  dark;  the  lanai  empty 
and  silent,  flooded  with  moonlight  and 
weird  with  the  slender  shadows  of 
palm  leaves.  She  passes  through  the 
deserted  house  to  her  room.  She 
tears  off  the  gaudy  dress  of  the  dan- 
cing girl,  a  horrible  shame  burning 
her;  all  the  heritage  of  dignity  from 
her  father  and  a  long  line  of  mission- 
ary ancestors  cries  out  at  the  thing 
she  has  done  this  night. 

She  seizes  a  soft,  white,  crepe 
kimona  with  silver  butterflies  cling- 
ing to  its  border — his  gift — and  a 
feeling  of  relief  comes  to  her  as  the 
soft  folds  fall  from  shoulders  to  feet. 


She  winds  her  hair  high  on  her  head, 
no  more  the  passionate,  fiery  dancing 
girl,  but  a  pale-faced  woman,  weary 
of  the  tragedy  of  life. 

Over  in  a  corner  in  a  small  cradle 
the  baby  sleeps,  and  here  Eulalie 
pauses,  and  lifting  the  netting,  takes 
her  child  in  her  arms  and  passes  down 
to  the  great,  deserted  lanai,  where  she 
seats  herself  on  the  cushions  on  the 
steps  and  waits. 

Over  the  garden,  the  garden  that  is 
alive  with  memories  of  love,  the 
moonlight  lies  in  floods  of  splendor. 
The  breath  of  tropical  flowers  hangs 
in  the  exquisite  stillness  of  the  night. 

Eulalie  holds  her  baby  close;  it  is 

so  little  and  so  white She  lays  it 

down  on  a  heap  of  cushions  and  starts 
down  a  winding  walk  that  leads  to 
the  lily  pond.  From  the  shadows  in 
weird  grots,  grotesque  Japanese  idols 
grin  at  her  as  she  passes.  She  reaches 
the  pond  where  the  lilies  half  open  to 
the  brilliant  light  of  the  moon.  Then 
she  starts.  He  is  standing  there, 
silent,  arms  folded,  head  bent.  Doubt- 
less his  soul  is  bleeding  as  the  fra- 
grant memories  of  past  hours  rise 
from  that  silent  place  and  numbs  his 
senses.  Oh,  if  she  could  only  go  to  him 
and  sob  out  her  shame  in  his  arms. 
But  there  is  an  aloofness  about  his 
attitude  that  frightens  her.  Yet  she 
must  speak.  She  steps  falteringly 
from  the  dark  shadows  to  the  side  of 
a  crumbling  granite  shrine  on  which 
the  moonlight  falls  in  silver  charms. 

"Frank!" 

He  starts  and  turns  toward  her, 
but  there  is  no  answer.  White  and 
still  she  stands,  the  moonlight  glis- 
tening on  the  exquisite  butterflies  that 
cling  to  her  soft  robe. 

"Frank,  I  know  you  think  there  is 
nothing  to  say,  but  I  must  explain.  I 
must  speak!" 

"Speak,  Eulalie!"  His  voice  is 
hard  and  far  distant. 

"You  can  never  understand  what 
made  me  dance  to-night.  I  can  scarcely 
believe  it  now.  I  never  thought  of 
doing  it  until  Marie  came  this  after- 
noon, and  told  me  of  the  Luau.  Then 
something  rose  in  me  like  a  fever;  I 


THE  FEAR. 


245 


thought  of  nothing  else.  I  could  not 
reason;  I  knew  that  I  would  do  it,  and 
that  nothing  could  help  it.  And  I  did. 
I  was  carried  away.  I  knew  nothing 
until  I  saw  your  face,  and  then,  oh, 
Frank,  how  bitterly  I  knew.  Often  I 
have  felt  a  desire  like  that,  and  this 
summer  I  was  so  lonely  that  I  had 
Marie  come  and  teach  me  the  dance. 
I  loved  it  so!''  She  paused. 

"You  deliberately  learned  that 
dance  without  my  knowing  it?"  His 
voice  was  like  thin  ice — the  break- 
ing point  near. 

From  the  distant  house  the  waver- 
ing wail  of  the  baby  arose. 

"Yes,  meaning  to  tell  you;  but 
when  you  came  home  after  seeing 
your  family,  I  felt  if  I  told  you  it 
would  make  you  feel  differently  about 
me.  I  began  to  see  my  mother  as 
you  and  your  family  must  see  her  and 
I  hated  myself  for  learning  the  dance. 
I  meant  never  to  do  it  again.  Yet  I 
did  it,  Frank,  for  it  is  in  me.  Oh, 
Frank,  can  I  help  it!  My  mother,  my 
grandmother — they  are  a  part  of  me, 
just  as  much  as  my  father." 

"It  would  seem  more." 

The  words  cut  into  her,  but  she 
clung  to  the  old  shrine  and  stammered 
on: 

"Yes,  more;  but  whose  fault  is  it? 
Not  mine."  A  fire  was  gathering  in 
her  tones.  "Didn't  my  father  know 
when  he  married  my  mother  what  I 


would  be?  Didn't  you  know  when 
you  married  me?  You  knew  what  I 
was,  and  as  for  my  dancing  mother,  I 
shall  never  be  ashamed  of  her  after 
to-night.  She  lived  what  she  felt.  Oh, 
you  can  never  understand  how  we  of 
the  tropics  live  what  we  feel.  You 
can  never  know  how,  when  I  danced 
to-night,  I  danced  in  a  wild  passion  of 
expression,  expression  of  life  that  I 
love  because  of  you  and  the  baby." 

"But  if  you  loved  us,  couldn't  you 
have  stayed  away  for  our  sakes? 
Couldn't  you  have  saved  us  this  dis- 
grace ?" 

She  gave  a  little  moan  where  she 
stood,  then  turned  away,  her  proud 
head  thrown  back,  but  pitiful  shadows 
about  her  eyes. 

"It  is  no  use,"  she  said.  "I  thought 
you  would  help  me."  Her  voice 
shook.  "But  there  is  nothing  stronger 
than  the  blood  of  the  tropics."  She 
started  back  along  the  shadowed 
walk. 

"Eulalie!"  His  voice  vibrated  in 
the  silent  garden.  She  paused,  trem- 
bling. 

"Eulalie!"  He  was  by  her  side. 
"There  is  one  thing  stronger,"  he  said 
as  he  caught  her  to  his  heart:  "God, 
and  God  is  Love!" 

"Ah!"  she  murmured  wearily,  her 
lids  drooping  over  her  shadowy  eyes. 
"For  us  of  the  Islands,  Love  is  God." 
And  a  great  hush  fell  on  the  garden. 


THE     FEAR 

Throughout  the  dreary  years  it  followed  me, 

I  dared  not  look  behind  and  face  the  sight 

Of  that  I  feared.    Yet  try  with  all  my  might, 

I  could  not  from  its  dreaded  presence  flee, 

Nor  find  a  refuge  from  this  enemy. 

The  day  could  not  alleviate  my  plight, 

And  in  the  lonely  hours  of  the  night 

It  came  to  fill  dreams  with  agony. 

There  came  a  time  it  was  so  close  I  knew 

It  was  upon  me.    Desperate  I  grew, 

And  turned  about  and  met  it  face  to  face; 

But  as  I  clutched  at  it  to  hold  it  fast, 

It  vanished  phantom-like.    Lo,  not  a  trace 

Of  it  remained,  and  I  was  free  at  last! 

KATHARINE  BEARDSLEY, 


BLACK    HEART 


By    Ronald    Temple 


BUT  for  the  low,  moaning  wail  of 
the  woman  kneeling  by  the 
wounded  man,  and  the  rhyth- 
mic booming  of  the  surf-beat  on 
the  Bight,  the  hush  of  full  night  lay 
on  the  coast.  The  whopping  of  the 
Mausers  had  died  into  silence  with  the 
few  last  straggling  volleys — your 
Haussa  is  hard  to  wean  from  his  fight 
— and  already  the  frightened  chatter- 
ing of  the  sleepy  little  monkeys  clus- 
tered overhead  had  ceased.  A  sud- 
den pool  of  silver  verdigris  poured  in 
over  the  oily  sea,  and  the  big  African 
moon  floated  up  like  a  giant  balloon, 
drawing  the  bamboo  pole  shadows 
across  the  foreshore  like  the  bars  of 
a  mighty  gridiron.  Then  a  long 
shadow  fell  athwart  me,  and  my 
Haussa  sergeant  saluted — six  feet  and 
a  half  of  splendid  ebony  brown. 

"Ou-ai,  sah,"  he  reported,  his  fea- 
tures expanded  into  a  broad  grin; 
"make  him  much  fire  palaver.  Slaber 
go  pop-pop — wa-ha!" 

A  quick  crackling-like  miniature 
small-arm  fire,  and  the  drifting  sting 
of  rotten  wood  burning,  filled  the  air. 
Under  my  orders,  the  nauseous  slave 
dhoiv,  with  the  filth,  romance,  and  evil 
of  its  trade,  would  soon  be  but  a  rec- 
ord on  the  books  of  the  Haussa  head- 
quarters at  Lagos.  It  was  the  cul- 
mination of  many  weary  months  of 
hunting  and  fighting.  I  turned  to  the 
grinning  sergeant. 

"All  right,"  I  confirmed,  in  the 
speech  used  between  white  officer  and 
black  trooper  on  the  Coast.  "You 
catch  him  Johnny  Haussa  for  chop  all 
along  sometime  now.  Make  him  walk 
march  for  Lagos  byembye  at  sunup. 
How  savvy?" 

The  sergeant  saluted  again,  wheeled 


smartly  about,  and  departed.  A  sud- 
den flare  from  the  burning  dhow  lit  the 
foreshore.  I  approached  my  captive, 
the  wounded  man. 

"Anything  I  can  do  to  make  you 
mere  comfy?"  I  hazarded. 

"Thanks,  no,"  he  replied  in  a  voice 
that  stamped  him  a  "gentleman,"  at 
least  by  earlier  association;  "unless 
you  chance  to  have  any  'baccy  ?  Cigars 
— Latakia,  too,  by  Jove!  Gad,  you 
take  me  back  to  India  and  the  mess — 
but  that  is  none  of  your  business,  as 
Kipling  says.  Have  you  a  match? 
Thanks!!" 

I  struck  one,  and  held  it  for  him  to 
light  from,  for  he  was  badly  hurt,  ex- 
amining his  features  by  the  last  light 
of  his  dhow  burning  to  the  water's 
edge.  Curiously,  it  was  a  high,  pur- 
poseful type  of  countenance,  delicately 
chiseled,  and  intellectual.  A  small, 
black  mustache  lay  over  the  thin,  firm 
lips,  and  a  crop  of  crisp,  closely-cut 
silver-gray  curls  surmounted  the  head. 
The  eyes  were  keen  and  well  set,  a 
trifle  bloodshot  now  with  his  pain ;  the 
form  lithe,  strong,  graceful.  Alto- 
gether he  was  one  intended  by  Nature 
to  command.  I  am  not  a  psychologist. 
Why,  I  asked  myself  involuntarily, 
should  this  man  have  descended  to 
crime  ? 

As  an  officer  of  Haussas  I  had  some 
information  that  must  be  noted  for 
future  report. 

"Your  name?"  I  asked. 

He  laughed,  in  a  soft,  well-bred  yet 
insolent  tone. 

"What's  the  odds?"  he  shrugged. 
"You  may  make  your  report  read,  'one 
— Jones';  yes,  that'll  do  nicely,  plain 
Jones.  They're  a  very  large  and  re- 
spectable family,  anyway." 


BLACK  HEART. 


247 


"  'Jones'  be  it,"  said  I.  "Well,  Mr. 
'Jones,'  it  is  my  duty  to  inform  you 
that  you  will  be.  taken  to  Lagos  to- 
morrow morning  early,  there  to  be 
tried  for  the  capital  offense  of  slave 
dealing;  and  in  the  meantime,  any- 
thing you  may  say  will  be  used  against 
you  if  necessary." 

'"'You're  an  ass,"  retorted  Jones, 
pleasantly;  "I'll  never  see  Lagos. 
What  I  mean  to  say,  your  .44  caught 
me  in  the  groin — I'll  be  gone  before 
the  sun  pops  up  over  the  skyline. 
Competition's  too  strong;  shutters 
have  gone  up.  By  the  way,  see  any- 
thing of  another  white  man — big  chap 
— gold  beard — wore  an  eyeglass?" 

"He  went  out  fighting,"  I  said.  "We 
are  going  to  take  his  body  to  Lagos  to- 
morrow." 

"Good  man,"  said  Jones,  simply. 
"Floreat  Etona! .  We  pulled  on  the 
Eton  shell  together  in  '90.  Hasheesh 
got  Archie — abominable  habit ! — so  he 
drifted  into  the  'trade.'  Au  revoir,  Ar- 
chie!" 

Although  well-born  blackguards  are 
no  rarity  on  the  Coast,  I  felt  a  sudden, 
singular  sympathy  for  this  one,  some- 
how. 

"I  say,"  I  stammered,  "you're  in  the 
wrong,  of  course,  but — I  was  a  Pub- 
lic School  boy  myself — anything  I  can 
i  » 

"Take  you  at  your  word,"  inter- 
rupted Jones.  "Let  me  talk  to  you — 
only  thing  that'll  ease  me — damnably 
painful — your  bullet  must  have  torn 
a  hole  in  me  big  enough  to  shove  your 
fist  into." 

He  spoke  to  the  woman  still  kneel- 
ing beside  him,  in  up-country  dialect, 
and  she,  obedient  to  his  word,  betook 
herself  off  to  a  little  distance  where 
she  subsided  into  squatting  posture. 
I  rolled  a  blanket  and  placed  it  under 
Jones'  head;  then  sat  cross-legged  be- 
fore him. 

"Queer  thing— 'Black  Heart/"  ob- 
served Jones,  regarding  the  distant 
woman  musingly.  "Archie  never 
could  understand  it — memory  of  some 
girl  at  home,  I  think;  but  then  he  used 
to  chew  hasheesh — rotten  trait.  Speak- 
ing of  Lagos,  do  you  know  Valentine 


of  Yours?  I  hadn't  seen  him  since 
the  old  Eton  days  till  I  came  to  this  in- 
fernal country;  he  cox'd  the  '90  shell. 
I  was  fresh  from  India — none  of  your 
business  why  I  left  the  Regiment — 
when  I  first  hove-to  over  the  Lagos 
Bight  and  cleared  the  running  bars  in 
those  rummy  surf  boats.  Then  I  fell 
unexpectedly  across  Valentine,  and  he 
took  me  up  to  the  Haussa  mess.  Later 
we  met  again.  I'll  come  to  that  later. 

"That  night,  I  remember,  was  large 
with  Fate  for  me.  Down  by  the  docks 
— after  I'd  got  away  from  Valentine — 
whom  should  I  run  into  but  old  Ar- 
chie. God  knows  why,  but  he'd  been 
running  a  donkey-engine  on  a  Coast 
tramp — fancy  the  girl  at  home  must 
have  had  something  to  do  with  it. 
Anyway,  all  that  was  left  of  the  old 
Archie  I  knew  was  the  gold  beard  and 
eyeglasses.  We  turned  into  a  filthy 
dock  gin-mill,  and  over  a  glass  of 
wretched  vanderhun,  Archie  unbos- 
omed himself. 

"We  didn't  touch  on  'pasts'  and  'rea- 
sons'— can't  ask  questions  below  -the 
'Line,'  y'know — but  presently  Archie 
told  me  he  was  out  for  blood,  and 
needed  a  pal. 

"  'There's  a  mint  of  filthy  shekels 
in  it,'  said  he.  'I've  half-way  got  a 
dhow,  and  there's  a  gang  of  unlicked 
kroo  boys  on  this  beastly  old  tramp 
who'll  come  to  heel  if  I  whistle.  No; 
it  isn't  piracy.  The  dhow's  owned  by 
an  old  Mohammedan  bounder  of  a 
merchant  here  who's  willing  to  put  up 
the  boodle  and  go  halves  with  some 
Johnny  who'll  work  her.  'Black 
ivory's'  thick  up  the  rivers,  and  he 
needs  a  white  man  for  partner.  They're 
paying  a  fat  whack  for  women  along 
the  Sudan;  we  could  buy  the  old  rot- 
ter out  in  a  couple  of  trips  and  go  it 
off  our  own  bat.  You're  welcome  to 
half  of  mine  if  you  care  to  chip  in.' 

"I  hadn't  much  thought  of  'black- 
birding'  as  a  profession,  but  being 
rather  at  odds  and  ends,  was  ripe  for 
anything  from  pitch-and-toss  to  man- 
slaughter that  showed  the  where- 
withal. 

"  'Right-o,'  said  I  at  once;  and  that 
same  nierht  saw  me  enrolled  as  half- 


248 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


captain  of  a  slaver  and  its  crew  of 
niggers. 

"You  know  the  'black  birding'  game, 
so  I  shan't  take  up  your  time  with  any 
descriptions,  excepting  to  say  that  we 
found  plenty  of  niggers  and  good 
marts — especially  for  men  for  old 
Leopold's  chaps — and  will  come  lances 
in  lead  to  the  chain  of  incidents  that 
enabled  Valentine  to  put  you  on  our 
spoor.  I  know  my  guess  is  right — 
eh?" 

Jones  regarded  me  keenly.  I  main- 
tained an  unmoved  countenance.  He 
laughed,  weakly : 

"Gad,  what  a  poker  player  you  must 
be,"  he  observed. 

"It  was  about  this  time  a  year 
since,"  he  continued.  "Archie'd  trot- 
ted off  across  country  with  a  convoy 
of  Senegal  women  for  Abyssinia,  leav- 
ing me  in  sole  charge  of  the  dhow. 

"  'Better  take  a  flier  up  the  Doulou- 
bugoo,'  he  suggested  at  parting. 
'There's  a  cad  has  a  'station'  up  there 
a  way — Beasley  by  name — who's  said 
to  know  of  a  good  'lay.'  He's  sharp, 
I  hear.  Keep  your  eye  peeled  for 
Johnny  Haussas — and  for  God's  sake, 
keep  off  'Black  Heart.'  It'll  ruin  the 
whole  bally  show  if  you  don't.  I'll 
meet  you  here  this  day  month.' 

"He  rode  off  chewing  hasheesh  like 
one  o'clock — it  never  seemed  to  more 
than  screw  him  up — and  the  next  day 
I  started  off  up-stream  as  he'd  ad- 
vised. The  Douloubugoo's  a  shallow 
old  trickle,  full  of  sand  bars,  man- 
grove swamps,  crocos,  kank  and  hippo. 
Elsewhere  it's  jungle,  with  the  trees 
sticking  their  roots  out  over  the  banks 
so  that  the  oysters  can  grow  on  them, 
and  livened  up  a  bit  by  dog-gorillas 
that  bark  at  you  day  and  night.  Once 
in  a  great  while  you  strike  a  village 
with  a  lot  of  dug-outs  floating  at  its 
front,  where  the  natives  all  shy  off 
inland  at  your  approach.  Ten  days 
up-stream  I  struck  a  clearing  that  was 
Beasley's  trading  post,  and  disem- 
barked. 

"Beasley  was  a  cad,  as  Archie  had 
warned  me — but  then  one  has  to  asso- 
ciate with  all  sorts  of  queer  fish  on  the 
Coast.  His  post  was  set  in  a  clearing 


of  deep  jungle,  pretty  well  surrounded 
with  rubber  once,  I  should  judge.  Ideal 
place  for  'black  birding'  and  miasma. 
I  saw  the  latter  as  soon  as  I'd  toddled 
up  to  his  hut  and  clapped  my  eyes  on 
his  blue  chops  and  liver  colored  lips. 
He  was  a  small  johnny,  and  ugly  as 
sin ;  shivering  his  life  away  there  with 
the  thermometer  God  knows  what,  and 
a  couple  of  Cape  blankets  over  him. 
I  don't  mind  mentioning  his  name,  be- 
cause you  can't  harm  him  now; 
snuffed  out  with  fever  six  months 
since,  or  somebody  shot  him — I  forget 
which.  After  a  dram  or  so  of  post 
gin  I  opened  up  on  him. 

"  'How's  business?'  I  asked,  making 
the  secret  trademark  of  the  slaver  with 
my  finger  on  my  palm. 

'  'Pretty  slow,'  replied  Beasley,  cau- 
tiously. "Feathers  are  about  done  out, 
and  the  niggers  don't  care  a  damn 
whether  they  fetch  rubber  or  not.  It's 
no  use  to  punish,  either/ 

"  'Might  be  something  else,'  I  haz- 
arded, carelessly. 

"Beasley  gave  me  a  knowing  wink. 

'  'Smelled  it  the  minute  ye  hove  to, 
Cappy,'  he  leered.  'I  was  expectin'  to 
'ave  a  call  from  you  gents,  sooner  or 
later.' 

"  'But  it  won't  do,'  he  went  on.  'It's 
too  dangerous  since  the  Johnny  Haus- 
sas got  wind  of  the  'lays'  hereabouts.' 

:'  'Seen  anything  of  them?'  I  asked. 

'  'There's  a  'arf  company  went  by 
here  down  stream  last  week,'  he  an- 
swered, 'under  the  command  of  a 
feller  by  the  name  of  Valentine — 
mean,  nasty  little  beggar.' 

"'Oh-ho!'  thought  I.  'So  Master 
Valentine  is  in  the  game,  eh?'  Then 
and  there  I  should  have  been  warned. 

;'  'Oh,  well,'  I  said  aloud  to  Beas^- 
ley,  'Haussas  never  catch  anything 
but  chills  and  fever,  and  they're  gone, 
anyway.  What  price  your  'lay?' 

"Beasley  stuck  his  ugly  face  across 
the  table,  his  teeth  chattering  with 
the  recurrent  swamp  chills. 

'  'Understand  once  and  for  all  that 
I've  nothin'  on  that  race,  Cappy,'  he 
answered.  'If  it  was  'Black  Heart/ 
now/  he  continued,  'I  might  oblige.  I 
know  a  single  'lay'  not  a  thousand 


BLACK  HEART. 


249 


miles  from  here.  It'll  cost  ye  a  ten- 
ner, but  by  God,  she's  a  black  pearl.' 

"I  couldn't  make  out  whether  the 
fellow  was  really  scared  of  Haussas, 
or  holding  off  on  the  big  'lay'  for  a 
stiff  price;  so  I  thought  I'd  chance  his 
offer  of  a  single  'bird'  as  leading  to 
something  better,  perhaps.  I  chucked 
the  coin  on  his  glass-rimmed  table. 

"  'You  be  damned,'  said  I,  rising. 
Tm  going  for  a  stroll.  Where's  your 
pearl  fisheries?' 

"Beasley  accompanied  me  to  the 
hut  door  and  pointed  across  the  clear- 
ing. 

'  'Bout  a  'arf  mile  through  the  tan- 
gle,' he  explained;  'follow  close  by  the 
river  bank,  and  look  out  for  snakes — 
they're  thick.  Ye'll  find  a  small  clear- 
ing there.  Bet  ye  an  even  'thick  'un' 
ye  drop  at  sight  of  her,  Gappy;  but 
keep  a  weather  eye  open  for  her  man, 
Kiva — he's  gun-shy  and  nasty.' 

"  'Done — on  the  bet,'  I  replied.  'So 
long.  If  any  of  my  kroo  boys  get  to 
looting  your  godown,  shoot  'em  up.' 

"Following  Beasley's  directions,  I 
struck  off  to  the  jungle,  and  after  a 
bit,  worked  through  the  heavier  un- 
dergrowth to  a  clearing  patch.  It  was 
late  afternoon,  and  the  rubber  plants 
about  it  were  throwing  long,  heavy 
shadows,  so  that  I  was  unobserved.  In 
the  center  of  the  clearing  was  a  reed- 
thatched  hut.  Before  the  door  of  this 
hut  was  a  woman " 

He  ceased  gently,  and  with  a  look 
in  her  direction,  indicated  the  woman 
who  was  squatting  at  some  little  dis- 
tance from  us,  among  the  bamboo 
poles. 

"Life  aboard  a  slaver  soon  knocks 
the  beauty  spots  off,"  observed  Jones. 
"But  if  you  had  seen  her  as  I  did  first, 

in  their     clearing Beasley     was 

right :  eyes  flowing  like  black  pools  on 
a  night  sea,  and  the  form  of  a  bronze 
statuette  of  one  of  the  Sabine  wo- 
men  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  help- 
lessly. 

"She  was  seated  just  without  their 
hut  door,  playing  on  a  marimba  shod 
with  orchid  tendrils.  Kiva — her  man 
— was  pounding  kank  against  the  mor- 


row.  It  was  damned  peaceful.  Every 
now  and  then  he'd  cease  from  his 
labors  and  start  capering  around  the 
kank  trough  to  the  music;  then  they'd 
both  clap  their  hands  and  laugh  at 
each  other.  It  was  absurd,  of  course, 
but  do  you  know — for  the  moment — 
it  actually  flashed  a  picture  through 
my  head  of  an  old-fashioned  garden 
sloping  to  the  Avon,  and  a  little  chap 
dancing  gleefully  around  his  mother 
as  she  played  to  him  on  her  guitar. 
The  marimba  ceased,  and  I  walked  into 
the  clearing. 

"Kiva  stood  forth,  a  sudden,  trou- 
bled look  on  his  face,  while  the  wo- 
man disappeared  hastily  within  the 
hut.  I  sized  my  man  up.  He  was  an 
Ajuba,  big  and  ugly  as  a  gorilla,  and 
wary.  First  glance  I  saw  he  was  an 
old  bird  who'd  been  shot  over  be- 
fore. 

"  'How  savvy  for  catch  him  'black 
tracker?'  I  asked. 

'  'Ugh !'  he  grunted.  'All  boys  gone 
for  catch  him  river-horse  hunt.' 

"I  saw  I'd  got  to  use  strategy. 

"  'My  want  to  catch  him  'feathers' 
all  along  now,  maybe  three,  five  day,' 
I  explained.  'S'pose  can  make 
palaver?' 

"He  eyed  me  a  moment,  still  evi- 
dently suspicious;  then,  with  another 
grunt,  led  the  way  within  his  hut.  It 
was  the  usual  type — bare,  earth  floor, 
kaross  of  hides,  and  a  couple  of  big, 
earthen  bowls.  We  squatted  near  the 
door — Kiva  between  me  and  the  gen- 
eral interior.  Dusk  was  creeping  over 
the  jungle  like  a  gaunt  wolf,  and  in  the 
half-light  I  made  out  the  outline  of  a 
knob-kerrie  under  Kiva's  crossed  legs. 
I  managed  to  slip  my  knife  sheath 
around  to  the  front,  unobserved.  The 
woman  placed  a  gourd  of  milk  and 
some  black  bread  between  us.  The 
day  fell. 

"Night  fulled  as  we  sat  there  palav- 
ering away — Kiva  suspicious  of  my 
every  suggestion  and  move,  I  racking 
my  brains  for  some  means  of  dispos- 
ing of  him  and  coming  at  the  woman. 
Funny  go,  but  I  absolutely  couldn't 
hit  on  any  feasible  plan;  so  there  we 
sat  playing  a  sort  of  tit-tat-to  with 


250 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


each  other  till  the  moon  rose  and  came 
spilling  into  the  hut.  Anyway,  it's  not 
ordained  that  a  black  shall  best  a 
white,  you  know,  so  the  white  man's 
gods  took  a  hand  in  the  game. 

"I  think  I  mentioned  I  was  sitting 
close  by  the  open  entrance,  Kiva  just 
across  a  gourd  from  me — the  woman 
had  turned  in  in  the  kaross  over  in  the 
corner,  and  was  fast  asleep.  All  in  a 
moment  while  we  were  dickering,  Kiva 
stiffened,  and  his  hand  crept  swiftly 
to  his  knob-kerrie.  I  thought  it  was 
all  off  with  me,  and  had  got  my  knife 
out  somehow,  when  Kiva  leaned  over 
me  and  struck  at  something;  I  saw  it 
was  a  snake.  Like  a  flash  my  one 
chance  had  come.  Before  Kiva  could 
recover  himself  I  whipped  my  knife 
between  his  shoulder  blades — got  him 
fairly !  The  spurt  of  blood  half-choked 
him,  and  I  throttled  his  groans.  In  a 
moment  it  was  over.  The  woman  still 
slept.  I  saw  the  snake  was  still  wrig- 
gling despite  its  broken  back,  so  I 
stamped  on  its  head.  Lucky  for  me 
Kiva  smashed  it  with  his  knob-kerrie : 
it  was  a  jungle  cobra.  One  time  on 
record  when  the  snake  brought  happi- 
ness for  some  one  into  the  Garden  of 
Eden.  Then  I  lifted  up  Kiva  and  bore 
him  to  the  river  bank,  where  I  chucked 
him  over.  I  didn't  want  to  leave  any 
traces,  and  I  knew  the  crocos  would 
yaffle  him  before  morning.  I  returned 
to  the  hut;  the  woman  still  slept.  The 
moon  was  dribbling  a  pad  of  liquid 
silver  over  the  hut  floor,  and  on  the 
kaross  of  hides  where  she  lay.  I  don't 
know  if  you've  ever  fought  for  the  first 
great  prize  of  all,  but  I  tell  you  a  fine 
triumph  was  in  me  then.  And  she  was 
only  an  Ajuba  woman — as  you  can 
see.  I  tidied  up  the  scene  of  the  scuf- 
fle as  well  as  I  could,  and  kicked  the 
dead  snake  into  the  clearing  without. 
The  Black  Pearl  was  mine." 

Again  Jones  ceased,  his  thoughts 
reminiscent;  and  a  feeling  of  nausea 
for  the  ungrateful  blackguard  filled 
me.  Surely  no  Hell  could  be  lower 
than  that  reserved  for  the  deliberate 
murderer  of  one  who  has  just  saved 
his  life!!  Ardently  I  longed  for  the 
arrival  of  the  gunboat  that  was  to 


fetch  us.  If  any  power  of  mine  could 
keep  him  alive  till  then  he'd  swing  on 
a  gallows  at  Lagos.  Suddenly  he 
groaned  for  the  first  time,  and  sank 
more  limply  against  the  blanket  I  had 
propped  his  back  up  with  at  the  open- 
ing of  his  story. 

"Curse  your  rotten  marksmanship!" 
he  quavered.  "Why  don't  they  teach 
you  how  to  shoot  in  the  Johnny  Haus- 
sas?  Don't  you  know  that  the  heart, 
or  the  brain,  kills  a  man  quicker  than 
the  groin?" 

He  lay  breathing  heaVily  a  few 
moments;  then,  as  the  pain  eased, 
glanced  over  to  where  the  woman  was 
still  squatting.  Saving  for  her  loin 
cloths,  and  barbaric  display  of  arm 
bands  and  anklets,  she  was  nude,  and 
the  night  mists  hung  heavily  over  the 
fever-ridden  shore. 

"Poor  devil!"  sighed  Jones.  "See 
how  she  shivers.  I  say,  take  this  blan- 
ket from  behind  my  back,  will  you, 
and  throw  it  to  her." 

I  arose,  and  did  as  he  bade.  Then 
I  looked  at  the  man.  The  blanket  had 
been  his  sole  support  against  the 
agony  of  his  wound ;  now  he  was  bear- 
ing it  uncomplainingly.  In  spite  of 
myself,  I  couldn't  help  a  sneaking  lik- 
ing for  the  fellow — perhaps  I  was 
somewhat  influenced  because  he,  too, 
had  been  a  Public  School  boy,  and  a 
soldier.  I  stripped  off  my  accoutre- 
ments, discarded  my  service  Norfolk 
jacket,  and  rolling  it  into  a  ball, 
propped  him  up  with  it.  The  moon 
was  shining  down  straight  so  that  I 
could  see  the  winsome  smile  upon  his 
handsome  features.  Jones  was  really 
grateful. 

"Thanks,  old  chap,"  said  he,  as  I 
resumed  my  seat.  "You're  a  good  sort 
Archie'd  have  liked  you.  By  the  way, 
'member  me  to  little  Valentine  after 
I'm  gone.  To  reshume,  as  Mulvaney 
says: 

"I  woke  ^the  Black  Pearl  and  told 
her  that  Kiva  had  gone  a  couple  of 
days'  spoor  into  the  jungle  for  me,  but 
that  I  was  to  pick  him  up  at  a  certain 
point  a  three  days'  sail  down  the 
stream.  She  worried  at  that,  so  I 
offered  to  take  her  along  in  the  dhow, 


BLACK  HEART. 


251 


and,  as  I  expected,  she  rose  to  the 
bait.  I  looked  up  Beasley,  and  paid 
him  the  sovereign  we'd  bet,  but  lied 
about  Kiva  and  the  woman — I  didn't 
trust  him;  and  that  same  night  I 
smuggled  her  aboard  the  dhow,  and 
we  cast  off  under  a  full  moon,  leaving 
Beasley  and  his  infernal  stench-pot 
to  rot  away  in  seclusion. 

"Black  Pearl  ihad  Archie's  cabin 
for'rad — I  wouldn't  herd  her  with  the 
kroo  boys  between  decks,  of  course — 
and  on  the  second  day  I  sent  for  her 
and  explained  the  situation.  Of  course 
she  put  up  a  holy  row.  I'm  no  believer 
in  a  milk-and-water  procedure,  and 
the  only  way  to  deal  with  a  woman, 
white,  brown,  or  black — is  a  kiss,  or  a 
blow.  Sh'e  chose  the  latter,  and  got  it. 
God,  how  she  hated  me!  For  three 
days  I  flogged  the  white  fear  in- 
to her;  then  she  gave  in.  In  the  end 
she  came  to  love  me,  as  I'll  prove.  It's 
raw  but  it's  the  'Coast.'  That's  the 
glory  of  it,  old  man,  I  made  her  love 
me.  I  don't  expect  you  to  understand 
that  now.  But  one  of  these  days  you'll 
go  home  and  wed  some  peaches-and- 
cream  girl  who'll  lead  you  by  the  nose; 
and  then  you'll  sigh  and  think  of  a 
dead  man  on  the  West  Coast  of  Africa 
who  made  a  woman  love  him  so  that 
nothing  could  wash  his  name  from  her 
mouth,  and  you'll  wish  to  God  you 
were  dead,  too.  See  if  I'm  not  right!' 

"That  trip  was  my  honeymoon — 
lucky,  but  the  beginning  of  the  end. 
You  know  the  glory  of  a  primal  Afri- 
can river  in  full  color.  I  wasn't  ex- 
actly a  spring  chicken — to  put  it  mild- 
ly, and  my  bride — to  say  the  least — 
was  more  than  a  bit  dusky,  but — we'll 
let  it  go  at  that.  Here  and  there  on  the 
way  down  stream  I  managed  to  appro- 
priate a  bit  of  'black  ivory' — rare  luck 
that! — and  finally  we  drew  near  my 
rendezvous  with  Archie,  a  bit  late  but 
with  our  hold  crammed  with  good, 
marketable  'black-birds!'  At  the  last 
village  we  pillaged  I  got  some  news 
that  hastened  my  departure — the 
Johnny  Haussas  were  on  the  war- 
path. 

"Black  Pearl  had  accompanied  me 
ashore,  for  I  gave  her  full  liberty;  but 


after  rounding  up  my  kroo  boys  and 
bit  of  'freight'  she  failed  to  show  up. 

"The  headman  and  I  beat  up  the 
village  together,  but  without  results. 
She'd  disappeared  as  completely  as  if 
the  crocos  had  nabbed  her — an  impos- 
sibility in  daylight,  of  course.  Finally 
we  lit  on  her  spoor  running  off  into 
the  jungle — and  a  big  anger  was  in 
my  heart.  Ordinary  commonsense  dic- 
tated that  I  should  lose  no  time  get- 
ting aboard  the  dhow  and  making 
down  stream;  but  wrath  gripped  me 
and  chivied  me  off  into  the  under- 
growth on  Black  Pearl's  spoor. 

I  sent  the  dhow  on  down  stream 
under  charge  of  my  head  kroo  boy, 
bidding  him  heave-to  in  some  hidden 
islands  we  knew,  and  took  a  half- 
dozen  kroo  boys  with  me  and  a  surf- 
boat.  If  I  wasn't  at  my  rendezvous 
in  three  days'  time,  the  dhow  was  to 
continue  on  down  stream  and  pick  up 
Archie.  Then  they  hauled  sail,  and 
we  cached  the  surfboat  and  took  up 
the  spoor  of  Black  Pearl. 

"For  two  days  and  nights  we  be^t 
that  cursed  jungle  high  and  low,  but 
never  aught  but  her  disappearing 
spoor  did  we  see  of  the  woman.  The 
early  morning  of  the  third  day  saw  us 
on  our  way  to  join  the  dhow,  empty- 
handed,  sore  and  savage.  I  don't  like 
to  think  of  that  trip  down  stream;  I 
had  a  lot  of  time  for  thinking,  and  I 
was  mad — sheer,  fighting  mad  all 
through.  It  wasn't  just  chagrin,  it  was 
something  stronger — bigger — perhaps 
because  I'd  made  her  conquest  the  one 
fulfilled  ambition  of  my  life.  I'd  risked 
and  fought  for  her,  too.  Why  the 
devil  had  she  left  me  ?  White,  brown 
or  black — and  I've  known  a  goodish 
few  of  the  two  former  in  my  time — 
a  woman's  psychology  is  as  reliable 
as  a  marimba;  you  never  can  tell  its 
tones.  Anyway,  something  had  to 
break — and  it  did. 

"My  kroo  boys  dug  in,  and  we  made 
good  time  after  the  dhow;  the  drowsi- 
ness of  the  late  afternoon  making  me 
reminiscent.  I  remember  I  was  think- 
ing of  the  old  school,  and  all  the  fel- 
lows one's  lost  track  of  out  here. 
Somehow,  my  mind  got  on  a -walk  Val- 


252 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


entine  and  I  had  once  taken  together 
in  term  time — we  were  both  Sixth 
Form  boys  then — and  of  an  old  Gypsy 
woman  whose  palm  we'd  crossed  for 
the  fun  of  the  thing.  I  can't  recall 
her  whole  yarn,  but  the  gist  of  it  was 
that  a  dark  woman  would  bring  Valen- 
tine and  myself  together  some  day, 
and  be  the  death  of  one  of  us.  I  was 
just  musing  on  this  idly — not  con- 
necting it  with  any  actual  occurrence — 
when  I  heard  the  whop  of  a  Mauser, 
and  simultaneously  we  rounded  a 
bend  of  the  river.  Before  us  lay  a 
straight  sheet  of  water  and  the  island 
rendezvous;  just  below  them  the  dhow 
with  a  surf  boat  half  in-slung;  and 
still  further  down  stream — yet  closing 
in  quickly — was  a  Haussa  river  boat 
with  the  bloody  Cross  of  St.  George 
flung  over  her  stern.  I  caught  one 
glimpse  of  a  motley  of  red  tarbooshes 
and  grinning  black  faces  thrust  over 
the  Haussa  boat's  bulwark,  then  a 
crackling  volley  leapt  from  her  side, 
splintering  against  the  dhow  and  kick- 
ing up  the  water  in  spurts  about  us. 
My  kroo  boys  bent  to  their  oars  with 
a  mighty  pull,  and  we  shot  to  the 
dhow,  scraping  our  bow  along  her  lee 
side,  and  swarmed  aboard.  Simul- 
taneously there  was  a  crash  and  a 
grinding  while  the  dhow  literally  stag- 
gered ;  and  I  fell  over  some  one.  When 
I  picked  myself  out  of  the  mess,  I  saw 
the  some  one  was  Archie.  The  Haus- 
sas  had  grappled  us  stem  and  stern; 
a  line  of  steel  wavered  over  our  bul- 
wark. 

"You  know  what  a  fight  with  a' 
slaver  is  like — matter  of  fact  you  put 
up  a  pretty  little  shindy  yourself  not 
half  a  dozen  hours  ago.  It  was  'all- 
in/  kick  or  bite,  for  about  ten  minutes ; 
gradually  the  Johnny  Haussas  pushed 
us  forward  to  the  mast.  Things  were 
looking  serious  for  us,  and  more  than 
half  our  kroo  boys  were  down  on  the 
deck.  Then  Archie  bawled  out  to  me : 

"  'Drop  down  into  the  hold,  old  man, 
and  loose  the  freight!' 

"And  simultaneously  another  voice 
yelled : 

"  'Floreat  Etona!' 

"  'Damme !'  roared  Archie,  'it's  Val- 


entine.   Hurry  up  with  those  niggers! 
Jolly  boating  weather!' 

"As.it  happened,  I  was  close  by  the 
'fore-companion,  hacking  away  at  a 
couple  of  buck  Haussas,  when  Archie 
sang  out ;  so  all  I  had  to  do  was  to  kick 
the  hatch  cover  off  and  disappear.  The 
hold  was  blacker  than  the  Styx,  and 
because  of  the  rotten,  uncaulked  state 
of  our  decks  there  was  a  steady  drip* 
drip,  drip,  and  the  pungent  odor  of 
new  blood,  in  the  'blackbirds'  pit.  It 
was  a  fool  thing  that  I  did.  The  nig- 
gers had  gone  mad  with  the  blood,  and 
the  fight  overhead,  and  had  torn  the 
benches  they  were  chained  to  up  and. 
apart.  As  I  lit  among  them  they  rushed 
me,  and  passed  up  through  the  open 
hatch,  their  chains,  with  pieces  of 
planking  hanging  to  'em,  dangling 
from  their  wrists  and  ankles.  After- 
wards, Archie  told  me  they  turned 
the  fight  for  us,  with  nothing  but  their 
bare  hands  and  those  pieces  of  hang- 
ing timber.  You  can  say  what  you 
please,  but  a  big  buck  nigger  that's 
clean  bred  out  of  a  line  of  fighting  men 
is  a  jolly  handy  thing  to  have  around 
in  a  free-for-all  shindy. 

"Anyway,  I  got  a  clip  over  the  head 
as  the  'black  ivory'  passed  over  me, 
and  when  I  came  to,  I  was  lying  in 
that  inky  hold  with  something  warm 
dripping  on  me  through  those  un- 
caulked deck  seams  overhead.  When 
I  could  make  shift  to  swarm  up 
through  the  hatch,  I  found  that  the 
Johnny  Haussas  had  struck  their  colors 
to  us.  Valentine  and  his  men  were 
prisoners  of  war,  and  he  and  Archie 
were  over  by  a  bulkhead  binding  each 
other's  wounds  and  chatting  away 
about  Eton  and  the  old  days.  Then, 
and  not  till  then,  did  I  begin  to  apply 
the  prophecy  of  the  old  Gypsy  hag  to 
Valentine  and  myself,  and  did  some 
pretty  serious  thinking. 

"On  the  morrow,  Valentine  and  his 
Haussas  were  mustered  to  clear  away 
to  their  river  boat — we  couldn't  have 
held  'em  for  lack  of  accommodations 
and  food,  and  Valentine  passed  his 
word  not  to  attempt  to  molest  us  again 
for  four-and-twenty  hours;  moreover, 
we  wouldn't  degrade  the  old  flag  that 


BLACK  HEART. 


253 


Valentine  served — when  I  called  Val- 
entine to  one  side. 

"  'Val,  old  man,'  said  I,  'I  want  to 
ask  you  a  straight  question — yes  or 
no:  did  you  tumble  on  to  us  by  acci- 
dent?' 

"  'Nothing  half  so  silly/  he  re- 
joined. 'We've  been  hot-foot  after 
you  with  malice  aforethought  for  three 
full  days.' 

"  'How'd  you  know  where  the  dhow 
was?' 

"  'Ajuba  woman,'  answered  Valen- 
tine, simply.  'We  were  in-shore, 
camped  for  the  night,  when  she  stole 
in  upon  us,  and  told  us  of  your  dhow 
and  'cargo.'  Seemed  to  have  her  knife 
into  you.  What?' 

"After  Valentine  and  his  Johnnies 
had  gone  aboard  their  river  boat,  I  ex- 
plained this — and  most  about  the 
Black  Pearl — to  Archie.  He  was  hop- 
ping mad,  and  swore  that  a  krooman 
was  a  gentleman  compared  to  myself; 
wound  up  by  saying  that  the  woman 
ought  to  be  beaten  to  a  jelly,  and  that 
he'd  be  damned  if  he  couldn't  do  it 
with  his  two  hands  if  by  any  chance 
we  ever  ran  across  her  again.  I  could 
not  complain;  he  had  the  right  to  pile 
it  on. 

"As  we  stood  thus,  leaning  over  the 
poop  and  calling  each  other  names 
about  the  Black  Pearl — Archie  talk- 
ing murder  and  I  standing  up  for  her 
— there  came  a  splashing  directly  be- 
low us,  and  our  hanging  stern  line 
jerked  and  taughtened.  Before  I 
could  imagine  what  caused  it,  some- 
thing came  clambering  up  to  the  taf- 
frail,  hand  over  hand — and  the  Black 
Pearl  stood  on  the  deck  before  us! 
She  was  nude  and  dripping  with  water 
— and  her  feet  and  ankles  were  cut 
and  bleeding  from  thorns.  How  she'd 
ever  swum  that  crocodile-infested 
stream  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you. 

"I  shan't  forget  that  scene — until 
dawn  of  to-morrow;  or  to-day,  is  it? 
The  kroo  boys  were  busy  forward,  and 
Archie,  she  and  I  had  the  after-deck 
to  ourselves.  The  sun  was  just  setting 
— had  slid  somewhere  behind  the  jun- 
gle, in  fact — but  the  river  reaches 
were  still  gold,  and  opal,  and  red  cop- 


per in  the  clinging  tree-tops,  and  on 
the  open  water  spaces.  Suddenly 
Black  Pearl  spoke: 

"  'Assay/  she  said,  simply,  Vpose 
can  make  wife  palaver  now!' 

"She  had  asked  for  the  blow  and 
the  kiss,  together — funny  thing,  a  wo- 
man's psychology. 

"I  called  a  kroo  boy  and  bade  him 
bring  me  a  gut  thong ;  Black  Pearl  bent 
her  bare  back.  Then,  before  the  blow 
could  fall,  a  hand  gripped  my  wrist 
and  two  blue  eyes  were  thrust  close  to 
mine.  Archie's  voice  was  saying : 

'  'Hit  her,  and  by  God,  I'll  kill  you/ 

"Then  he  released  his  hold  of  me, 
fell  back  and  said  in  his  normal  tones : 

"  'Don't  do  it,  old  man ;  I  ask  you 
as  a  pal/ 

"I'm  not  built  to  walk  in  fear  of 
any  man — so  it  wasn't  for  that  reason ; 
really,  I  don't  know  exactly  why.  Any- 
way I  didn't — and  I've  never  re- 
gretted it." 

*  *  *  * 

Jones'  voice  trailed  off  weakly,  and 
a  long  silence  followed.  Suddenly  a 
cold,  faint  half-light  crept  over  us 
as  the  two  gray  fingers  of  Daybreak 
parted  the  heavy  drape  of  Night. 
Away  out  on  a  slate  sea  I  made  out  a 
tiny  speck  with  a  black  spiral  stand- 
ing straight  up  from  it.  I  turned  to 
Jones. 

"The  gunboat  is  coming!"  I  ex- 
claimed. 

Jones  was  sunken  to  a  shriveled-up 
posture,  and  his  lips  were  working 
spasmodically  for  speech.  His  face 
was  blue  and  fallen  away;  his  features 
over-prominent;  his  eyes  glazed.  I 
knelt  by  him :  his  hour  was  at  hand. 

Suddenly  he  raised  his  head  slightly 
and,  with  strained,  open  eyes,  gazed 
up  into  the  leaden  sky — and  beyond. 

"Not  guilty,  my  Lord,"  said  he — 
once  Jones,  the  "blackbirder." 

I  closed  the  eyes  and  covered  the 
face.  That  was  all  I  ever  knew  of 
him.  Like  two  fleeting  clouds  be- 
tween dark  ranges,  we  had  touched 
and  passed — saving  the  prophecy  that 
he  made  to  me.  What  was  it?  Some 
day  I  would  go  home  and  marry  a  girl 
all  peaches  and  cream,  who  would  lead 


254 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


me  by  the  nose;  and  then  I  would 
think  of  a  dead  man — Jones — who 
made  a  woman  love  him,  so  that 
thenceforth  she  was  ever  beyond  other 
earthly  loves,  and  wish  I  were  dead, 
too.  As  it  happened,  there  was  a  girl 
at  home. 

The  prophecy  held  me,  thinking.  I 
felt  a  touch  on  my  elbow.  The  wo- 
man— an  Ajuba — stood  beside  me. 

"He  is  dead,"  said  I,  somehow  over- 
whelmingly sorry.  She  nodded,  almost 


indifferently,  it  seemed  to  me. 

"Him  gone,"  she  repeated  unemo- 
tionally; and  then,  to  me:  -"Assay, 
s'pose  can  make  wife  palaver  now?" 

I  try  to  believe  that  because  the 
main  prop  was  removed,  the  mind  sim- 
ply fell  mechanically  back  to  its  pri- 
mal inheritance.  Overcome  with  sud- 
den disgust,  I  turned  to  await  the  on- 
coming of  the  gunboat  over  the  Bight. 

In  a  rare  tousle  of  raw  gold,  real 
Dawn  broke. 


THE     CLOUDS     AT     CARAEL 


The  little  clouds  that  float  about, 
That  wander  in  and  wander  out 
From  many  a  cool,  deep,  dingle  dell 
Where  Carmel's  hills  so  greenly  swell; — 
They  are  like  balls  of  cotton  floss, 
So  light,  so  white,  just  blown  across 
From  lofty  pine  to  tow'ring  fir, 
Where  healing  breezes  softly  stir. 

Then  one  by  one  they  wander  out 
From  canyon's  height,  and  drift  about 
Across  the  sky  of  clearest  blue; 
They  are  not  bringing  winds  or  showers, 
They're  playing  games  as  children  do, 
And  dropping  dews  among  the  flowers, 
Or  comforting  the  springs  that  well 
Down  in  each  leafy  dingle  dell. 


The  sun-touched  clouds  no  storms  compel, 
They  wear  the  west  wind's  kindly  spell ; 
And  they  are  pictured  on  my  heart 
E'er  since  that  I  day  I  went  apart 
And  saw  sweet  Carmel-by-the-Sea, 
And  felt  its  blessed  mystery, 
For  loosed  is  every  sorrow  there 
Where  Carmel's  hills  lie  green  and  fair. 


LILLIAN  H.  S.  BAILEY. 


THROUGH    THE    AIST 


By  Catherine   Adair 


WELL,  EVELYN,  you  are 
flushed  and  excited  enough 
to  have  said  'yes,'  at  last." 

Evelyn  frowned,  more  at 
the  hopefulness  in  her  mother's  voice 
than  at  the  words. 

"I  haven't  said  'yes,'  Mother,  and  I 
wish  I  had  said  'no.'  Three  pro- 
posals in  ten  days  from  one  man  are 
too  much,  even  for  me." 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  have  put 
Captain  Raymond  off  again?  You 
said  yourself  that  you  would  have  to 
give  him  a  decided  answer  the  third 
time." 

"I  know  I  said  so;  but  when  the 
time  came  I  couldn't  say  'yes,'  and 
'no'  wasn't  ready  either;  so  I  told  him 
to  keep  on  waiting."  Evelyn  smiled  at 
her  mother's  reproachful  look.  "But, 
mother,  I  really  promised  something 
definite  before  we  leave." 

"We  leave  at  the  end  of  the  week," 
said  Mrs.  Carter. 

"Yes,  so  there's  no  hope.  I  must 
make  up  my  mind."  Evelyn  paused, 
then  said  in  a  serious  tone:  "I  don't 
really  love  him,  mother." 

"Oh,  Evelyn,  what  nonsense!  You 
are  old  enough  to  have  outgrown  ro- 
mantic notions  about  love,  if  you 
ever  had  any.  Captain  Raymond  is 
suitable  in  every  way,  and  I  am  sure 
you  care  enough  for  him  to  marry 
him.  Don't  worry  about  the  future. 
There  is  no  doubt  about  his  side  of 
the  matter." 

"I  should  think  not.  He  has  been 
at  my  elbow  all  winter  in  town,  and 
at  my  heels  every  minute  of  these 
days  in  the  Valley.  I  know  I  have 
nothing  against  him.  I  almost  wish 
I  had.  He's  a  dear  fellow,  and  I'm 
of  him — in  a  gentle,  sisterly  sort 


of  way."  Evelyn  was  silent  for  a  few 
moments,  then  said,  vehemently:  "I 
am  capable  of  more  than  that, 
mother,  and  the  man  I  marry  ought 
to  have  the  best." 

Mrs.  Carter  did  not  answer.  Her 
daughter  puzzled  her  sometimes  with 
unexpected  revelations. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and 
weary  tourists,  in  small  groups  and 
larger  parties,  were  returning  to  the 
camp  at  the  foot  of  Yosemite  Falls. 
They  had  been  viewing  the  wonders 
of  the  great,  western  valley  and  sur- 
rounding mountains;  some  from  Gla- 
cier Point,  with  its  over-hanging  rock; 
some  from  Cloud's  Rest,  looking  far 
over  the  High  Sierras;  and  others, 
climbing  Eagle  Peak,  stopping  on  the 
way  at  the  head  of  Yosemite,  where 
the  waters  dash  over  the  precipice 
for  their  fall  of  twenty-six  hundred 
feet. 

Mrs.  Carter,  at  a  tent-door,  had 
watched  anxiously  for  her  daughter, 
who  had  gone,  with  Captain  Raymond, 
to  Bridal  Veil  Fall  in  time  to  see  the 
late  afternoon  rainbow  across  the 
waters.  She  was  disappointed  when 
the  girl  came  into  camp  alone. 

As  the  silence  following  her  last 
earnest  speech  became  oppressive, 
Evelyn  went  into  the  tent,  so  that  her 
mother's  back  was  turned  as  she  drew 
a  letter  from  her  pocket  and  read  it 
over  carefully. 

"We  stopped  at  the  post-office  com- 
ing back,  mother.  I  have  a  letter 
from  David." 

Mrs.  Carter  started,  and  looked  un- 
comfortable. 

"What  news?"  she  asked,  coldly. 

"Good  news.  He  will  arrive  on  the 
stage  this  afternoon."  Evelyn  avoided 


256 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


.her  mother's  eyes  turned  on  her.  "He 
.says  that,  when  he  received  my  let- 
ter, he  remembered  how  we  used  to 
plan  a  trip  to  the  valley,  climbing  the 
heights,  and  going  through  the  mist, 
and  seeing  everything  we  read  about 
— and  he  determined  to  meet  us 
here." 

"When  did  Captain  Raymond  ask 
you  to  marry  him,  Evelyn :  before  you 
reached  the  post-office  or  after?" 

Evelyn  blushed  as  she  replied :  "Af- 
ter." There  v/as  no  avoiding  her 
mother's  eyes  now. 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  have  any 
lingering  tenderness  for  David?  He 
belonged  to  childhood  days." 

"I  was  grown,  mother,  when  we  left 
the  ranch,  and  David  and  I  had  been 
friends  always." 

"Friends,  certainly.  When  he  left 
I  feared  you  were  tending  towards 
something  more.  I  was  anxious  to 
take  you  away  before  it  would  be  too 
late." 

"Why  did  you  object  to  David?" 

Mrs.  Carter  hesitated.  "I  can't  say 
I  objected  to- him;  I  felt  he  was  not 
the  man  for  you;  I  hoped  for  more  in 
your  future  than " 

"Isn't  that  evading  the  question?" 

"I  should  think  you  could  see  for 
yourself.  Evelyn."  Mrs.  Carter  was 
annoyed  at  her  daughter's  directness. 
"When  we  left  the  old  place,  you 
hardly  knew  another  man.  These 
years  of  travel  and  real  life  have  given 
you  experience,  besides  opportunities 
for  comparison." 

Evelyn  said  nothing.  She  could  not 
tell  her  mother  that  every  man  who 
approached  her  seriously  had  been 
mentally  held  up  beside  David,  and 
been  found  wanting. 

"You  have  been  attractive,  in  spite 
of  your  indifference,"  Mrs.  Carter  con- 
tinued. "You  have  met  men  of  edu- 
cation and  broad  culture,  with  the 
highest  social  position,  not  to  speak 
of  wealth — men  whom  any  girl  might 
be  proud  to  marry."  Mrs.  Carter 
noticed  Evelyn  was  getting  impatient. 
"Not  that  I  blame  David  for  lack- 
ing  " 

"I  should  think  not,  mother,"  Eve- 


lyn interrupted.  "It  was  not  his  fault 
that  he  had  to  do  without  many  ad- 
vantages. When  I  think  what  he  has 
made  of  himself,  in  spite  of  obstacles, 
I  almost  feel  contempt  for  the  men 
who  have  everything  provided,  almost 
forced  upon  them.  David  is  a  man, 
through  and  through;  beside  him, 
some  of  the  others  you  have  brought 
to  mind  are  only  apologies  for  the  real 
thing." 

"You  are  taking  David's  part  very 
earnestly." 

Evelyn  realized  she  had  shown  too 
much  feeling,  so  she  tried  to  laugh  off 
the  impression  made  on  her  mother, 
and  said,  reassuringly:  "Don't  worry, 
mother  dear,  David  will  not  care  for 
such  a  heartless  butterfly  as  these 
years  have  made  me — so  you  may 
yet  have  your  wish— and  Captain  Ray- 
mond may  hear  'yes'  in  the  end." 

This  speech  was  hardly  finished 
when  Evelyn  heard  the  stage  ap- 
proaching; a  moment  more,  and  she 
was  scanning  the  passengers  as  it 
passed.  She  recognized  David  at 
once,  and  had  time  to  note  the  changes 
in  his  appearance  before  he  caught 
sight  of  her.  She  had  left  a  tall, 
gaunt,  manly  fellow,  with  strength  in 
every  line  of  face  and  figure,  but  awk- 
ward and  self-conscious,  and,  now  and 
then,  with  a  hard  expression  in  the 
eyes  and  around  the  mouth.  David's 
boyhood  had  been  a  struggle  between 
ambition  and  duty.  As  he  came 
nearer,  she  was  struck  by  his  com- 
plete self-possession;  he  had  the  air 
of  being  master  of  himself  as  well  as 
of  his  surroundings.  There  was  a  new 
look  in  his  face,  too,  not  less  strong, 
but  more  gentle. 

Mrs.  Carter  took  mental  notes  of 
David's  eagerness,  and  Evelyn's  warm 
welcome,  while  she  tried  to  shake  off 
her  annoyance  at  this  interruption  of 
cherished  plans. 

There  were  many  questions  to  ask, 
and  many  reminiscences  to  recall, 
around  the  camp-fire  that  spring  even- 
ing, Mrs.  Carter  and  David  doing 
most  of  the  talking,  for  Evelyn  had 
grown  strangely  quiet  after  the  first 
excitement. 


THROUGH  THE  MIST. 


257 


David  watched  his  former  comrade, 
first  wonderingly,  then  realizing  her 
development  along  many  new  lines. 
That  she  was  handsomer  than  when 
she  left  home  there  could  be  no  ques- 
tion ;  the  arts  and  graces  unconsciously 
acquired  in  social  life  were  hers,  as 
well  as  all  the  style  of  a  well-dressed, 
well-bred  woman.  David  looked  far- 
ther, detecting  new  lines  of  serious 
thoughtfulness  in  the  girlish  face,  lost 
when  she  smiled,  half-hidden  when 
indulging  in  meaningless  small  talk 
with  Captain  Raymond,  and  deepen- 
ing again  as  she  turned  to  him. 

"What  plans  for  to-morrow,  Miss 
Carter?"  Captain  Raymond  asked.  He 
was  acustomed  to  being  in  Evelyn's 
party  on  every  occasion. 

"No  very  large  plan,  Captain.  When 
David — Mr.  Thorne — and  I  were 
children,  we  planned  many  excursions 
over  guide-book  pictures  of  Yosemite 
Valley,  and  to-morrow  we  are  going  to 
realize  the  first." 

David's  face  brightened.  "Any- 
where you  choose  to  go,  Evelyn. 
Through  the  mist  means  the  footpath 
to  Vernal  Fall,  if  I  remember  the  old 
book." 

"Yes;  the  loveliest  walking  trip  in 
the  valley." 

"The  most  romantic  as  well,  you 
might  add,  Miss  Carter,"  said  Captain 
Raymond,  his  voice  disagreeably  sug- 
gestive. 

Evelyn  raised  her  eyebrows,  a 
trick  of  hers  when  annoyed. 

"Nature  is  always  romantic  to  the 
sentimentalist,"  she  answered  tersely. 
"I  am  generally  supposed  to  be  minus 
sentiment,  and  I  doubt  if  the  quality 
has  ever  been  discovered  in  Mr. 
Thorne." 

"The  mist  may  act  as  a  developer," 
replied  the  Captain,  who  was  smart- 
ing under  his  evident  omission  in 
plans  for  the  morrow. 

"I'll  have  to  kodak  you  in  the  vari- 
ous stages,  Dave,"  said  Evelyn,  striv- 
ing to  overcome  the  strain  of  the  sit- 
uation. 

Mrs.  Carter  was  annoyed.  She 
changed  the  subject,  knowing  it  would 
be  useless  to  thwart  Evelyn  in  the 


present  crisis.  The  girl  had  taken  the 
reins.  She  held  them  to  the  carrying 
out  of  her  plan  next  morning. 

There  was  an  early  start  across  the 
valley;  then  over  the  bridge,  and  along 
the  road  by  the  river  to  the  opening 
of  the  trail.  Through  the  woods  they 
went;  at  first  silently,  with  a  shyness 
neither  had  felt  before.  The  trees 
were  bursting  into  full  leaf  above 
their  heads,  the  first  wild-flowers  were 
opening  to  light  and  life  at  their  feet. 
The  influence  of  spring  was  irresist- 
ible, calling  the  man  and  woman  to 
the  pure  and  joyful  freedom  of  Nature 
— to  open-hearted  honesty  with  each 
other  and  with  themselves. 

David  cast  off  restraint  first,  for 
singleness  of  purpose  was  his,  while 
Evelyn  had  more  than  one  problem  to 
solve. 

"It  was  good  of  you,  Evelyn,  to 
arrange  this  old-time  tramp.  You  re- 
member— over  the  guide-book — a 
third  person  was  never  included  in 
our  plans." 

Evelyn  looked  up  with  a  bright 
smile. 

"We  had  a  narrow  escape  this 
time,"  she  replied;  "but  I  could  not 
resist  the  opportunity  to  be  our  old 
selves,  just  once  again." 

An  almost  pathetic  look  had  fol- 
lowed the  smile. 

"Tell  me  of  yourself,  David:  how 
have  the  years  treated  you?  Your 
letters  came  seldom,  and  told  few  of 
the  details  I  wanted  to  know." 

David's  story  was  short;  he  was  not 
the  man  to  talk  much  of  his  own  af- 
fairs, or  of  his  struggles  against  ob- 
stacles. Evelyn  could  fill  in  breaks 
in  the  narrative,  following  step  by 
step,  where  he  leaped  over  periods  of 
hardship.  When  at  last  she  under- 
stood that  opportunity  had  favored 
him,  and  that  he  stood  on  the 
threshold  of  success  no  one  could 
have  rejoiced  more  heartily. 

In  his  turn,  David  heard  a  different 
tale:  of  travel  and  keen  enjoyment; 
then  of  a  social  life,  more  or  less 
forced,  with  running  comments  on  its 
various  phases,  sarcastic  or  slightly 
bitter. 


258 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


As  David  listened  to  the  Evelyn  of 
old,  thinking  aloud,  fearless  because 
she  trusted  him — he  read  beyond  the 
words  to  a  heart  not  yet  won  by  any 
other  than  himself,  and  to  a  mother's 
ambition  under  the  guise  of  maternal 
love. 

They  had  passed  the  "Happy  Isles" 
— so  named,  perhaps,  because  of  the 
rushing  waters  that  play  unceasingly 
about  them,  and,  following  the  road, 
reached  the  lower  bridge  where  one 
gets  the  first,  never-to-be-forgotten 
view  up  the  rocky  gorge  with  its 
seething  water,  to  the  precipice,  over 
which  Vernal  Fall  leaps  in  a  broad 
mass,  casting  up  the  spray  that  fills 
the  canyon  with  a  fleecy  mist. 

David  took  Evelyn's  hand  to  lead 
her  along  the  narrow  trail.  As  child- 
ren, they  went,  their  minds  and  hearts 
clearing  as  the  mist  enfolded  them  in 
its  embrace. 

They  were  close  to  the  fall,  in  a 
veritable  temple,  when  David  told 
Evelyn  of  the  love  of  years. 

"I  loved  you  as  a  boy,  and  as  a  man 
when  we  parted,  Evelyn.  I  think  you 
knew  it;  but  I  could  not  speak,  for 


what  was  I  but  a  poor  country  fellow 
to  be  left  behind;  while  you,  in  youth 
and  beauty,  were  going  out  into  the 
gay  world,  with  a  brighter  future  than 
I  could  dream  of.  Every  effort  of 
these  years  has  been  for  you,  and  the 
joy  of  achievement  and  success  is  to 
lay  them  at  your  feet." 

The  soul  of  the  man  was  in  his 
words. 

Evelyn  could  not  speak,  but  she  did 
not  withdraw  her  hand.  When,  at 
last,  she  looked  up,  David  read  his 
answer  in  her  eyes,  and,  as  he  drew 
her  toward  him,  he  heard  it  strong 
and  sweet: 

"I  thought  you  had  forgotten;  then 
I  feared  you  could  not  care  for  me, 
changed  as  I  am;  but  I  could  never 
love  any  one  save  you." 

It  was  mid-day.  At  the  foot  of  the 
fall  they  saw  the  rainbow,  with  its 
glorious  promise.  A  stone  fell  from 
the  height  above.  The  water  foamed 
and  splashed  around  it.  Evelyn  looked 
up  in  time  to  see  a  man  turn  from  the 
railing  at  the  top  of  the  precipice. 
Brass  buttons  gleamed  in  the  sunlight 
on  a  uniform  of  olive-drab. 


HER     FACE 

I'll  ne'er  forget  the  beauty  of  her  face, 

The  gentleness,  the  sweetness  and  the  grace 

That  hallowed  it  and  made  it  seem 

The  incarnation  of  a  dream. 

It  comes  before  me  in  my  waking  hours, 

Surpassing  far  the  radiance  of  the  flowers. 

That  lift  their  faces  from  the  cooling  grass, 

And  smile  and  nod  their  greeting  as  I  pass. 

In  times  of  doubt,  in  days  of  grim  despair, 

The  trustful  look  that  she  was  wont  to  wear 

Has  made  me  long  to  know  the  Higher  Power 

That  keeps  men  safe  in  every  trying  hour. 

I  could  not  wish  her  back — she  longed  to  go — 

But  oh,  I  loved  her,  and  I  miss  her  so ! 

And  this  my  prayer,  that  when  I  sail  away 

To  the  fair  shores  of  Everlasting  Day, 

When  Life  shall  loose  me  from  its  long  embrace, 

I  may  be  good  enough  to  see  her  face. 

MARJORY  C.  NEWTON. 


THE    PRAIRIE    FANG 


By  Oney  Fred   Sweet 


TO  BEGIN  with,  it  was  three 
miles  from  Chefs  shack  to 
where  Kansas  had  staked  his 
claim,  but  the  anticipation 
which  all  through  the  night  had  taken 
possession  of  his  being  caused  the 
dry  buffalo  grass  of  the  trailless  prai- 
rie to  have  the  spring  of  clouds,  and 
it  seemed  but  a  step's  distance  in  his 
scheme  of  things  for  the  day.  He 
had  rather  expected  old  Kansas  to 
balk  at  first.  Interrupted  from  his 
sleep,  the  bearded  fellow  came  yawn- 
ing to  the  doorway  of  his  half-sod, 
half-board  shanty. 

"You  don't  mean  to  stand  there  and 
tell  me  you  want  me  to  go  forty  miles 
with  you  down  to  Pierre  just  for  a 
show?"  the  hardened  homesteader 
drawled,  after  listening  to  the  young 
homesteader's  suggestion. 

"But  it's  a  dandy  one,  and  in  a 
tent  with  a  band,"  exclaimed  the  boy. 
"Sid  Latham  dropped  in  to  tell  me 
about  it  on  his  way  past  last  night. 
It's  been  there  all  week,  and  to-night's 
the  last  night.  Think  of  how  long  a 
winter  it's  going  to  be  when  there 
won't  be  no  chance." 

Kansas,  now  fully  awake,  leaned 
against  the  doorway  and  slowly  filled 
his  pipe,  the  while  he  gazed  in  char- 
acteristic fashion  to  the  line  where 
the  strip  of  Dakota  prairie  seemed 
sewed  to  the  Dakota  sky. 

"Homesteadin'  means  doin'  with- 
out a  whole  lot  of  things  besides 
shows,"  he  philosophized.  "Now, 
when  I  first  tried  it  down  in  Kansas, 
I  did  have  a  hoss  that  we  might  have 
gone  to  town  with,  but  forty  miles 
hoofin'  it  and  running  the  risk  of 
ketchin'  rides  is  another  matter." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  to  light 


the  strong-smelling  tobacco,  giving  his 
visitor'  a  knowing  scrutiny  as  he 
tossed  away  the  match.  "Sid  told  you, 
too,  I  s'pose,"  he  added,  "about  there 
bein'  a  gal  with  the  show." 

The  boy,  caught  unawares,  shifted 
his  tall  frame  from  one  booted  foot 
to  the  other,  and  his  full-lipped  mouth 
twitched  with  embarrassment. 

"Of  course.  There's  always  a  girl 
with  any  show,"  he  retorted.  "Would 
not  be  much  of  a  show  without  one." 
Then  his  eyes  found  a  place  of  their 
own  on  the  uninterrupted  horizon. 
"But  Sid  says  this  girl  is  a  'peach' — 
black  eyes  and  hair,  and  little  and 
smiling." 

Kansas  took  a  low,  slow  puff  at  his 
pipe.  "I  knowed  you  had  plenty  of 
flour  for  another  month,"  he  concluded. 
"I  knowed  it  was  another  kind  of 
hunger.  Have  some  more  breakfast 
with  me,  and  we'll  see  if  we  can  get 
over  to  Tracey's  Corner  in  time  to 
ketch  the  mail  route  man." 

The  Standing  Rock,  the  one  bit  of 
formation  which  Nature  had  deposited 
on  the  reservation  to  relieve  the  mo- 
notony of  the  great  sea  of  land,  was 
the  guide  for  the  pair  when  the  man- 
prepared  meal  was  finished.  Never 
were  there  any  fences,  never  any 
trees.  The  roads  were  even  yet  to 
be  traced. 

"You  look  sort  of  blue-like,  sonny," 
commented  Kansas,  noting  a  wistful 
expression  on  the  boy's  face  in  turn- 
ing suddenly  from  the  nothingness  of 
the  landscape.  "You  ain't  tired  of 
pioneerin'  it  already,  are  you?" 

"It's  great  out  here,"  the  boy  an- 
swered reverently.  "It'll  all  be  like 
Iowa  some  day.  I've  figured  out  just 
where  I'm  going  to  have  my  big  red 


260 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


barn  and  the  windmill  beside  it,  and 
the  row  of  willows  along  the  road 
leading  up  to  the  house.  Pioneerin's 

fine,  only It  ain't  because  I've 

got  any  fear  about  the  soil  nor  the  hot 
and  cold  spells,  but  if  there  was  some- 
one to  take  care  of  your  shack — some 
one  to  have  supper  ready  for  you — 
say  a  girl  with  black  hair  and  eyes, 
who  is  little  and  smiling." 

Kansas  stopped  abruptly  and  put 
his  hands  to  his  hips.  "You  don't  cal- 
culate to  bring  that  'ere  show  girl 
out  here,  do  you?"  he  exclaimed.  "Go- 
ing forty  miles  just  to  see  her  sing 
and  dance  is  bad  enough,  but  I  hope 
you  ain't  got  no  fool  marryin'  notion 
in  your  head." 

"Course  not,"  the  boy  answered,  his 
face  averted.  "Girls  that's  going  all 
over  the  country  and  meeting  all  kinds 
of  fellows  ain't  apt  to  pick  up  with 
a  guy  like  me.  I  just  want  to  see 
what  a  girl  looks  like  after  all  these 
months." 

"Well,  if  you  get  her,"  chuckled 
Kansas,  resuming  his  pace,  "you  can 
count  on  me  to  hunt  up  the  preacher 
to  tie  the  knot." 

The  boy  did  not  laugh.  Instead,  he 
seemed  to  give  a  bit  more  attention 
to  the  methodical  placing  of  one  foot 
ahead  of  the  other,  his  shoulders  in- 
clined as  if  in  aid  of  progress.  He 
gave  a  sigh  of  relief  when  Tracey's 
Corner  was  reached  in  plenty  of  time 
before  the  mail  carrier  arrived.  Once 
in  the  buggy,  he  knew  that  the  Au- 
gust-brown prairie  with  its  gumbo  hills 
and  occasional  claim  shack  would  be 
triumphed  over  in  faster  fashion. 

After  the  stop  at  the  roadhouse,  half 
way  in,  the  trip  was  a  race  with  the 
waning  afternoon.  They  reached  the 
Missouri  bluffs  when  the  low  sun  was 
sending  long,  deep  shadows  across 
the  river,  but  above  them  loomed  the 
new  State  capitol  building  to  reflect 
the  dying  western  rays  with  its  white 
and  gold. 

"There's  Pierre!"  announced  Kan- 
sas as  the  sudden  surmounting  of  a 
bluff  revealed  the  view.  But  the  boy 
did  not  respond. 

He  was  still  undemonstrative  when 


the  two  came  out  of  "The  New  York 
Restaurant"  to  hear  the  band  playing 
at  the  corner  where  the  unpretentious 
business  streets  intersected.  To  the 
boy,  the  blare  of  the  brass  on  the  still- 
ness was  melancholy  in  its  effect. 
Crowding  with  Kansas  close  to  the 
players,  he  saw  that  the  faces  of 
many  of  them  were  hard  and  coarse, 
and  that  the  two  drummers  permitted 
cigarettes  of  their  own  making  to 
droop  from  their  lips  while  they  in- 
differently gave  the  proper  touches 
to  the  selections. 

"Do  you  s'pose  the  gal's  around 
here  anywhere?"  asked  Kansas,  when 
one  of  the  pieces  came  to  an  end 
with  a  crash.  The  boy,  instead  of 
giving  reply,  looked  up  at  the  early 
night,  which  somehow  seemed  to  have 
been  altered  by  the  music.  Buildings 
and  people  were  strange  after  so  many 
days  with  just  the  wind  and  the  in- 
sects. 

At  the  tent,  stretched  on  the  vacant 
lot  back  of  the  hotel,  Kansas,  assum- 
ing the  commercial  responsibility, 
bought  the  tickets  of  the  thin-faced 
man  standing  on  the  green  box  be- 
side a  flickering  gas  jet. 

"That's  the  way  all  of  these  shows 
fake,"  he  grumbled,  as  he  humped 
himself  a  few  minutes  later  on  one 
of  the  board  seats.  "Part  of  the  band 
is  turning  into  an  orchestra.  One  of 
'em  will  be  around  sellin'  song  books 
before  you  know  it.  S'pose  it'll  be  an 
hour  before  the  curtain  goes  up." 

But  the  boy  was  all  ears  for  the 
plaintive  notes  of  the  violins  and  the 
clarinet,  even  as  they  were  tuning. 
At  his  feet  he  noticed  that  the  fox- 
tail and  the  mullen  had  withstood  the 
show's  encroachment.  Each  swaying 
of  the  curtain  from  the  night  breeze  of 
the  prairie  caused  his  fancy  to  take 
the  most  wonderful  flights  behind  it. 

When  she  finally  appeared,  he  felt 
the  pang  most  because  she  was  so 
lovely  and  so  far  away.  He  did  not 
applaud  her  song  because  his  hands 
were  gripping  the  board  seat  at  either 
side  of  him.  Long  absence  from  wo- 
man and  song  had  keyed  his  apprecia- 
tion until  he  was  bursting.  Though 


THE  PRAIRIE  PANG. 


261 


for  the  audience  her  song  was  gay  and 
her  smile  was  bright,  the  boy  was 
sure  he  detected  a  longing  in  the  notes 
— a  peculiar  twist  about  her  mouth,  a 
mistiness  in  her  black  eyes. 

"Come  on:  it's  all  over,"  Kansas 
was  saying.  "I  s'pose  you're  satisfied 
now.  We've  got  to  go  and  get  to 
bed  if  we  start  back  with  that  mail 
man  in  the  morning." 

When  they  reached  the  night  again 
they  found  that  roustabouts  were  al- 
ready busy  preparing  for  the  next 
week's  stand.  The  significance  caused 
a  lump  to  rise  in  the  boy's  throat,  and 
he  gripped  Kansas'  arm  until  the 
crowd  could  push  by.  As  they  lin- 
gered, the  girl  herself  came  smack 
before  them.  She  was  fixing  her  hair 
beneath  her  big  black  hat  as  she  hur- 
ried along,  and  from  her  arm  dangled 
a  hand  bag.  She  seemed  even  smaller 
than  she  had  on  the  stage. 

"She'll  go  down  to  'The  New  York' 
and  get  something  to  eat,"  muttered 
Kansas.  "Show  folks  always  do. 
There  ain't  no  use  of  our  taggin'  on. 
We've  seen  her  and  that's  all  there 
is  to  it." 

The  boy  envied  the  white-faced 
clerk  at  "The  New  York"  when,  with 
Kansas,  a  few  minutes  later,  he  saw 
him  smiling  in  easy  fashion  at  the 
girl  who  had  taken  one  of  the  little 
tables  opposite  the  lunch  counter. 

"You  can  go  in  and  get  something 
to  eat  if  you  want  to,"  remarked  Kan- 
sas at  the  boy's  suggestion.  "I  can 
get  all  the  eye  full  I  want  out  here  in 
the  street.  Go  on  in.  I'll  bet  you're 
afraid  to." 

Just  the  restaurant  alone  was 
enough  when  one  had  been  a  long 
time  on  the  prairie,  but  with  her  sit- 
ting there Once  the  boy  in  get- 
ting up  to  speak  a  piece  at  school  had 
had  the  blood  surge  over  him  the 
same  way.  Yet,  somehow,  he  did  it. 
He  went  until  he  stood  beside  her,  his 
hat  in  his  hand — tall,  embarrassed, 
earnest. 

"Don't  get  sore,"  he  hastened,  as 
she  looked  up,  offended.  "I  come 
clear  in  forty  miles  to  see  you."  The 
fear  of  not  getting  a  fair  hearing  gave 


him  nerve  and  eloquence.  "Don't 
think  I'm  like  the  guys  in  other  towns 
who  try  to  butt  in  and  get  acquainted. 
Out  there  there  ain't  much  chance  to 
get  introductions  and  that  stuff.  Can't 
you  see  it's  different  with  me?  Ain't 
you  tired  of  the  show?  Don't  you 
feel  like  you  wanted  a  home  and  some 
one  to  take  care  of  you?  If " 

She  was  on  her  feet  and  stamping 
one  of  them.  Her  face  was  flushed. 
"I  never  saw  you  before,"  she  stam- 
mered. 

"Nor  I  you,"  he  answered  evenly, 
as  they  both  became  seated,  "but  I 
knew  you  were  the  girl  who  was  meant 
for  me  when  I  first  saw  you — before 
that,  when  Sid  Latham  first  told  me 
about  you.  I've  got  a  home  that'll  be 
all  your  own  to  give  you.  'Course  it's 
forty  miles  from  town,  but  it'll  be  all 
ours.  It  won't  be  (like  traveling 
around  over  the  country,  but  it'll  be 
a  real  home." 

He  was  trembling  as  he  finished. 
It  was  a  long  time  before  she  spoke, 
her  eyes  drinking  deep  from  his,  as 
he  leaned  eagerly  towards  her. 

"Traveling  around,  as  you  say,  ain't 
so  nice  as  it  sounds,"  she  said,  finally. 
"The  last  few  weeks  it  has  seemed  as 
if  I  couldn't  stand  it  another  day, 
never  knowing  where  I  was  going  to 
sleep  or  eat.  It's  been  nothing  but 
strange  towns,  strange  folks  and 
weariness  always."  She  paused,  then 
continued,  half-ashamed.  "Somehow, 
I  had  pictured  you.  I  felt  I  was  soon 
going  to  meet  you  as  I  went  out  to  the 
lot  to-night  and  looked  off  over  the 
prairie  with  the  sky  looking  different 
like.  I " 

The  boy  reached  to  put  his  own  big 
brown  hands  over  hers  that  lay  on  the 
table.  She  did  not  try  to  pull  them 
away. 

"What  you've  spoke  to  me  about  is 
real,"  she  went  on.  "You've  meant 
what  you  said.  The  home  you've 
spoken  about  would  be  a  real  home. 
It's  been  a  long  time  since  I've  known 
anything  that  was  that  way.  Men 
have  always  been  'joshing'  in  their 
talk  with  me.  They  lied  and  I  could 
tell  they  lied  just  as  I  could  tell  you 


262  OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 

were  speaking  from  your  heart.    You  to  live  real.    I — I  do  want  to  go  with 

are   big,   like   the   country   out   here.  you.    I  would  like  a  home  out  on  the 

Ever  since  we  came  on  to  where  there  free  and  open  prairie." 
was  so  much  prairie,  I've  wanted  to         It  was  Kansas  who  interrupted.    He 

be  real,  like  it  was.     I've  been  tired  had  come  into  the  place,  his  eyes  glis- 

of  pretending  and  have  folks  pretend  tening  and  his  mouth  perked  in  em- 

to  me  and  living  just  nowhere.    And  I  barrassment.    The  boy,  seeing  him  as 

thought  you  would  be  big  and  young,  if  through  a  haze,  turned  clumsily, 
with  just  a  little  wave  in  your  hair         "Kansas,"  he   said,   a   smile   again 

like  you  have.     I  had  planned  that  coming   into  the  lips  that  had  been 

you  would  be  real  with  the  real  look  tense.     "You   can   see   about  getting 

in  your  eyes,  and  the  real  foundation  that  preacher  to  tie  the  knot." 


A     CALIFORNIA     CABIN 

Deep  nestled  in  the  hollow  of  the  hills 

That  rise  above  the  perfumed  citrus  groves, 

Bathed  in  the  crystal  air  the  songster  thrills, 
Surrounded  by  the  deep  trees'  silent  coves. 

I  have  a  little  cabin  made  of  logs, 

From  whose  front  porch  I  watch  the  world  go  by. 
I  see  the  ocean  raise  its  mighty  fogs, 

I  see  them  vanish  in  the  azure  sky. 

The  orange  trees  burst  into  waxen  flower, 

And  clothe  the  foothills  with  their  hymen  white, 

And  then  there  comes  the  magic  golden  shower, 
And  lo,  Hesperides  lies  full  in  sight. 

Beyond  the  fields  grown  green,  the  reapers  mow, 

The  full-girthed  melons  ripen  in  the  sun, 
And  Bacchus,  in  the  vineyards  far  below, 

With  dark-eyed  maidens  keeps  his  ancient  fun. 

The  world  is  here  before  my  cabin  door: 

The  Arab's  sands,  his  fruits,  and  wondrous  skies; 

The  olive  of  old  Palestine  hangs  o'er 

The  Spanish  grape ;  and  yonder  Athens  lies. 

Close  on  the  breast  of  God's  most  perfect  sea; 

Behind  the  Alps  rise  sheer  in  virgin  snow, 
Far  grander  than  the  ones  of  Italy, 

And  on  their  slopes  the  pines  of  Norway  grow. 

Small  wonder  that  I  wish  to  spend  my  days 
In  this  log  house,  wisteria  clambering  o'er, 

When  California  brings  the  world,  and  lays 
It  out  before  my  poppy-haunted  door! 

RALPH  BACON. 


TORTOISESMELL   TOA 


By  R.  F.  O'Neal 


MRS.  SIMPKINS  was  all  upset. 
Her  favorite  songster  would 
sing  no  more.    It  was  the  old 
tragedy  of  the  canary  and  a 
cat.    The  head  of  the  household  was 
ever  a  man  of  peace;  and,  when  the 
good  woman's  nerves  were  unstrung, 
he  was  a  strong  believer  in  the  effi- 
cacy of  fresh  air.     The  big  red  car 
was  standing  at  the  curb. 

Mrs.  Simpkins  laid  the  chamois  on 
the  hat-rack.  "No,"  she  declared,  "I 
can't  go.  And  let  me  tell  you  that  if 
you  had  the  job  of  running  this  big 
house,  instead  of  that  of  bossing  a  lot 
of  directors  and  cashiers  and  clerks 
down  at  that  old  bank,  you  wouldn't 
have  so  much  time  for  your  country 
spins." 

"But,  my  dear " 

"No  use  talking  to  me  now.  This 
is  Saturday  afternoon,  and  nothing 
can  be  done  until  Monday.  But  if 
that  measly  lot — those  celebrated 
mousers — if  they  are  not  cleaned  out 
by  Tuesday  morning,  then  John  Henry 
Simpkins  will  surely  hear  from  me." 

Once  a  year  the  old  banker  heard 
from  the  tax-assessor,  but  that  was 
simply  a  matter  of  telling  the  whole 
truth;  twice  a  year  he  heard  from  the 
old  line  companies,  'but  that  was  a 
matter  of  writing  a  few  checks;  five 
times  a  year  he  heard  from  the  Comp- 
troller of  the  Currency,  but  that  was 
simply  a  matter  of  accounting  for  two 
million  capital,  as  much  surplus,  and 
a  good  deal  of  undivided  profits.  But 
hearing  from  Mrs.  Hannah  Simpkins 
— that  was  an  entirely  different  affair. 

Down  at  Fifth  and  Broadway,  the 
old  financier  was  paid  twenty  thou- 
sand a  year  for  his  talent  for  doing 
things;  but  out  at  2313  Lindell  Place 


he  made  no  charge  for  the  exercise  of 
the  perhaps  rarer  gift  of  knowing  when 
to  let  things  alone.  With  a  concilia- 
tory wave  of  the  hand, 'he  quietly  left 
the  hall;  and  in  less  than  two  minutes 
he  was  striking  a  lively  clip  in  the 
direction  of  the  Big  Bottoms  Road 
And  he  was  all  alone,  for  he  would 
not  tolerate  a  driver  with  a  hifalutin 
name. 

Soon  the  machine  was  passing  the 
city  limits,  and  the  suburban  lots 
seemed  to  be  turning  round  on  pivots 
as  the  town  was  left  behind.  A  blue- 
bird darted  from  a  hole  in  the  ten- 
mile  post;  a  kingbird  twittered  as  he 
pursued  a  crow;  a  molly  showed  her 
heels  as  she  took  her  cotton-tail  to 
safety.  The  plow-boy  in  the  field  by 
the  roadside  looked  with  envious  eyes 
at  an  old  man  in  a  big  skedaddle; 
an  old  man  slowed  down  as  he  watched 
the  turf  shedding  from  the  shining 
mold-board.  The  bray  of  the  old  gray 
mule  awoke  the  slumbering  memories 
of  the  long  ago ;  and  somehow  the  lazy 
flopping  of  his  ears  reminded  the  man 
of  millions  of  the  faithful  beast  on 
which  he  used  to  ride  a  turn  to  mill. 
It  was  the  difference  between  pursuit 
and  possession.  It  was  the  contrast 
between  forward  and  backward. 

Mr.  Simpkins  was  dreaming;  and, 
like  most  day-dreamers,  he  soon  lost 
his  way.  A  man  may  be  able  to 
thread  the  labyrinths  of  finance,  and 
yet  be  utterly  incapable  of  grasping 
the  mystery  of  the  forks  of  a  country 
road.  That  is  a  riddle  in  the  guessing 
of  which  any  coon-dog  has  more  gump- 
tion than  a  banker.  There  was  a  time 
when  Mr.  Simpkins  had  the  intuition 
of  direction,  but  prosperity  and  ur- 
banity had  smoothed  out  the  baser  in- 


264 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


stinct.  He  realized  that  he  was  a 
good  long  way  from  home,  and  he  saw 
that  he  was  in  the  course  of  an  ap- 
proaching storm.  And  just  here  we 
must  give  the  craft  credit  for  the  de- 
velopment of  rare  skill  in  taking  their 
belongings  to  shelter  in  times  of  un- 
suspected danger.  In  a  skirt  of  woods 
was  a  comfortable  cottage,  and  nearby 
was  a  roomy  shed.  When  the  down- 
pour came,  the  60  h.  p.  car  was  under 
shelter;  and  its  owner  and  Mrs.  Clop- 
ton  were  talking  together  like  two  old 
friends. 

"It's  nigh  on  ter  twenty  years  sence 
he  lef  this  place  fer  me,"  said  the 
provident  widow,  as  she  glanced  at  a 
picture  on  the  wall,  "an'  we — that's 
William  and  me — we've  lived  here 
iver  sense." 

"You  have  a  comfortable  home,  and 
I'm  sure  you  are  a  good  housekeeper," 
Mr.  Simpkins  observed,  as  his  eyes 
went  from  the  strings  of  red  pepper 
to  the  white  counterpanes. 

"Yes,  and  William  he's  doin'  mighty 
well.  He's  ticket  taker  at  one  of  them 
ar  nic'lodins;  an'  Helen — she's  what 
the  boys  call  thar  honey  and  molasses 
— she  does  trimmin'  an'  fixin'  down  at 
Kreider's  mill'nery  store." 

Mr.  Simpkins  knew  something  about 
that  particular  moving-picture  show. 
He  remembered  that  when  it  was 
started  the  man  asked  the  loan  of  two 
hundred  dollars,  with  good  endorse- 
ment, and  that  he  was  turned  down 
because  of  the  probable  smallness  of 
the  account.  He  also  remembered  that 
in  less  than  a  year  this  same  man  was 
a  director  in  a  rival  bank.  He  also 
knew  something  of  Kreider's  place. 
As  the  head  of  the  largest  bank  in 
town,  he  was  in  touch  with  trade  in 
general;  and  as  the  paymaster  of  a 
family,  including  three  marriageable 
daughters,  he  had  a  suspicion  that  the 
millinery  business  was  one  in  which 
there  was  a  good  amount  of  velvet. 
"They  ought  to  do  well,"  he  said  in 
a  congratulatory  way,  "and  I  know 
you'll  be  glad  to  have  her  for  a 
daughter." 

The  old  lady  was  looking  in  the 
direction  of  the  shed.  "They're  both 


jes'  wild  fer  a  ortymobile.  But  they 
shan't  fool  with  that'n,"  she  added,  as 
her  hand  closed  on  that  part  of  her 
calico  dress  in  which  was  the  long 
pocket  that  held  the  key. 

Just  then  a  bedraggled  cat,  with  a 
chipmunk  in  her  mouth,  appeared  at 
the  open  door.  For  a  moment  she 
stood,  as  only  felines  can  stand,  yel- 
low-eyed, marking  with  her  tail  the 
graceful  curves  that  her  forebears 
brought  down  from  the  jungle.  She 
eyed  the  stranger  for  a  moment,  then 
disdainfully  took  her  departure. 

"That's  Ole  Torty,"  Mrs.  Clopton 
said.  "She's  al'ys  a'ter  ground  squir- 
rels an'  sich  like." 

Mr.  Simpkins  squirmed  a  little  at 
the  turn  of  affairs. 

"We  have  a  fine  one  at  home,  and 
very  much  like  her,"  he  said,  "but  I 
believe  we  call  him  Tom."  The  old 
trader  had  a  creepy  feeling  that  he 
was  long  on  cats  and  short  on  time. 

"Yes,"  continued  Old  Torty's  owner, 
"she's  been  a  mighty  good'n  in  her 
day.  You  know  the  dif'rence  'tween 
a  cat  and  a  dog  ?  A  good  dog  '11  grab 
a  rat  or  a  mouse,  then  drap  it  an' 
grab  anuther,  and  keep  on  till  he  kills 
a  lot  of  'em.  But  cats  ain't  that  way. 
They'll  run  off  wif  er  stinkin'  little 
mouse  and  let  er  whole  litter  git  away. 
That's  cats— 'cept'n  Ole  Torty.  Why, 
up  at  ther  depot,  whar  they  wuz  mov- 
ing grain,  she  killed  'bout  twenty  in 
less'n  five  minutes.  And  when  the 
agent  sent  'er  home,  he  sent  me  er 
dollar,  an'  tole  'em  to  tell  me  he'd  like 
to  rent  'er  once'n  a  while,  and  'bout  a 
dozen  more  jes'  like  'er." 

The  old  lady  looked  sharply  at  her 
guest.  "See  here,"  she  said,  "you  look 
like  a  business  man.  Couldn't  you  sell 
me  'bout  a  dozen  or  so  cats  ?" 

Mr.  Simpkins  was  a  diplomatic  lis- 
tener. He  could  take  in  a  long  story 
at  one  ear,  and  between  smiles  could 
permit  it  to  come  out  with  equal  facil- 
ity at  the  other.  In  his  business  it  was 
a  convenient  arrangement;  but  out  in 
the  ozone-laden  country  air  the  com- 
monplace words  of  the  widow  were 
lurking  and  lodging  in  the  furry 
depths.  "Sell  you  cats!"  he  exclaimed 


TORTOISESHELL  TOM. 


265 


"No;  but  I  have  a  big  barn  and  a  lot 
of  good  ones,  and  I'll  gladly  give  you 
as  many  as  you  want."  The  prospect 
of  hearing  from  somebody  was  fading 
away. 

The  widow  took  a  dip  of  snuff.  "Did 
you  say  your  torty  is  a  Tom?"  she 
asked  nonchalantly. 

Mr.  Simpkins  frowned  as  he 
scratched  his  head,  in  the  effort  to 
call  the  mousers  before  his  mind's  eye. 
"Yes,"  he  said  slowly;  "I  know  he  is. 
And  a  very  fine  cat  he  is,  too." 

Mrs.  Clopton  took  another  dip. 
"Thar's  sev'ral  kinds  o'  torties,"  she 
said,  "an'  I'd  give  mos'  anything  fer 
a  Tom  jes'  like  I  want." 

It  was  evident  that  the  man  with  a 
corner  had  found  a  receptive  market. 
"I  would  not  disappoint  you  for  the 
world,"  he  said,  with  warmth. 

Mrs.  Clopton  took  up  the  corner  of 
her  gingham  apron.  "I  don't  want  no 
white  in  his  breast  an'  laigs,"  she  said. 
"That  kind  soon  gits  dirty  and  dingy." 

Mr.  Simpkins  struck  forefinger 
against  thumb.  "I'll  remember  that," 
he  said. 

"And  I'd  be  thankful  ef  you'd  pick 
out  one  with  nice,  friendly-lookin'  eyes 
— kinder  yaller  like'n  orange." 

"That's  easy  to  remember."  It  was 
forefinger  against  forefinger. 

"As  fer  markin's,"  the  old  lady  con- 
tinued, "well,  jes'  say  a  kind  er  mix- 
ture— black  an'  orange  an'  yaller — 
pepper  an'  butter  an'  aig." 

The  head  of  the  First  National 
laughed  right  out  as  he  clapped  his 
hands  upon  his  knees.  He  was  not  a 
margin  trader,  and  for  the  moment  he 
was  neither  bull  nor  bear.  "I'd  fill 
that  order,"  he  declared,  "if  cats  were 
jumping  clear  over  the  moon." 

The  country  woman  did  not  catch 
the  enthusiasm.  "When,"  she  asked, 
"kin  I  count  on  you  fetchin'  'em  out?" 

"Monday  afternoon." 

"Sure?" 

"Without  fail." 

Mr.  Simpkins  looked  at  his  watch. 
It  was  5 :32,  and  he  could  see  the  yel- 
low water  still  rushing  through  the  cul- 
vert. The  train  would  be  passing  at 
5:44.  He  had  never  driven  the 


machine  on  a  slippery  road.  Would  it 
be  safe  to  leave  it  for  a  couple  of 
days?  It  was  a  good,  strong  padlock, 
and  he  felt  that  it  was  an  honest  wo- 
man who  had  the  key  in  that  long 
pocket.  But  somehow  his  mind's  eye 
caught  the  vision  of  a  ticket-taker,  a 
feather-fixer  and  a  big  red  streak  along 
a  country  road.  The  man  of  affairs 
touched  the  widow's  arm.  "Mrs. 
Clopton,"  he  said,  "if  you  had  a  five 
thousand  dollar  automobile,  would  you 
consider  it  safe  out  there  in  that 
shed?" 

"And  it  mine?"  The  country  wo- 
man was  not  well  up  on  hypothetical 
situations. 

Mr.  Simpkins  thought  a  moment. 
The  question  of  ownership  had  not  oc- 
curred to  him  as  a  factor  in  the  case. 
"Yes,"  he  replied,  "if  it  were  yours." 

"Then  nobody'd  touch  it.  William 
an'  the  rest  of  'em  know  better'n  to 
fool  'round  my  things."  Widowhood 
imposes  the  necessity  of  being  able  to 
command. 

"You  don't  mean  that  you'd  allow 
anyone  to  lay  hands  on  my  property  ?" 
Mr.  Simpkins  asked,  in  an  aggrieved 
tone. 

"Now,  look  here,  don't  yer  know  yer 
wouldn't  be  sich  a  fool  as  ter  risk  yer 
life  fer  somebody  else's  belongin's?" 
The  old  lady  stepped  briskly  to  the 
door  and  threw  a  few  handful s  of 
corn  to  a  lot  of  good-looking  hens  that 
had  just  come  in  from  the  field.  "It 
makes  'em  lay,"  she  said,  "to  feed  'em 
jes'  afore  roostin'  time." 

Being  a  banker  trains  one's  mind  for 
grasping  nice  distinctions.  At  a  board 
meeting  of  the  First  National,  Mr. 
Simpkins  would  have  frowned  upon 
any  shifting  of  title  as  a  matter  of 
convenience.  "But,"  he  reasoned  with 
himself,  "it's  twenty-five  miles  to 
town,  and  the  chickens  are  getting 
ready  to  go  to  roost." 

"Don't  be  hurrying,"  the  good  wo- 
man was  saying,  "an'  I'll  skeer  up  a 
little  supper  afore  yer  go."  She 
prided  herself  on  her  milk  and  butter, 
and  on  the  lightness  of  her  salt-rising 
bread. 

Mr.   Simpkins  wiped  the  perspira- 


266 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


tion  from  his  brow.  "Mrs.  Clopton," 
he  began,  with  all  the  persuasiveness 
that  comes  with  years  of  successful 
negotiation,  "I  know  that  you  are  a 
woman  that  I  could  trust  any  and 
everywhere." 

Her  eyes  wandered  to  the  picture  on 
the  wall.  But  it  was  only  for  a  mo- 
ment. "Wait,"  she  replied,  "till  I  git 
them  cats.  Then  I'll  know  wher  I  kin 
trust  youT 

And  then  there  was  a  little  scene 
that  would  have  set  aristocratic  Lin- 
dell  Place  by  the  ears.  "Upon  my 
honor  as  a  man,"  the  old  banker  was 
pleading,  and  with  earnestness  that 
was  eloquent,  "I  promise  that  I  will 
not  disappoint  you.  But  I  will  not 
ask  you  to  take  the  word  of  a  stranger. 
If  you  will  promise  me  that  that  shed 
door  shall  not  be  opened,  then  that 
machine  is  yours,  unconditionally  and 
absolutely,  until  I  carry  out  my  prom- 
ise to  the  letter." 

"I'll  put  my  word  'gainst  yours,  an' 
it's  not  pie-crust  what's  made  ter  be 
broke,"  was  Mrs.  Clopton's  earnest 
reply.  Then  the  rich  banker  and  the 
poor  widow  shook  hands  with  the  cor- 
diality of  two  people  who  have  full 
confidence  in  each  other.  "A  woman 
who  is  alone  in  the  world  must  al- 
ways be  on  the  lookout  for  sharpers," 
was  his  kindly  word  of  caution. 

Her  lesson  had  been  learned  in  the 
hard  school  of  experience.  "An*  a 
man,"  she  replied,  "must  al'ys  be 
keerful  not  to  bite  off  no  more'n  he 

kin  chaw." 

*  *  *  * 

Mr.  Simpkins  hurried  along  the 
slippery  path  to  the  little  station  on 
the  Wabash.  And  as  the  slanting  rays 
of  the  April  sun  glistened  through  the 
rain  drops  that  hung  from  the  breeze- 
swayed  branches  of  the  sweet-smell- 
ing woods,  the  liquid,  lute-like  notes 
of  a  wood-thrush  added  melody  to  the 
freshness  and  beauty  of  the  scene.  The 
strong  man  was  in  harmony  with  his 
surroundings,  and  happy  in  the  con- 
sciousness that  in  carrying  his  point — 
even  by  subterfuge — he  had  not  been 
unmindful  of  the  rights  and  feelings 
of  a  simple-minded  old  woman. 


The  early  risers  among  the  young 
gentry  about  the  bank,  when  they  saw 
the  boss  at  his  desk  at  8 :30,  were  sure 
that  something  was  in  the  air.  The 
investigation  that  Mr.  Simpkins 
started  on  reaching  home  resulted  in 
the  important  discovery  that  his  torty 
would  not  fill  the  bill.  Rastus  had  al- 
ready started  to  the  feed  stores  and 
commission  houses  along  the  river 
front;  and  he  would  probably  be  back 
within  an  hour.  The  dollar  down,  and 
promise  of  another,  could  reasonably 
be  expected  to  stimulate  him  to  his 
best  efforts  in  securing  just  what  he 
had  been  sent  out  to  get.  But  the 
hands  of  the  clock  were  nearing  eleven 
when  the  old  porter  put  in  his  appear- 
ance. And  he  was  empty-handed 
and  crest-fallen. 

"Dey  jes'  laf  in  me  face,"  he  said, 
"an'  one  man  'lowed  dar  ain't  no  sich 
cat  in  all  de  worl'." 

The  vision  in  Mr.  Simpkins'  mind's 
eye  suddenly  took  another  shape;  he 
was  beginning  to  smell  a  mouse.  "Fif- 
teen!" he  said,  as  he  stepped  into  the 
elevator  of  the  building.  On  the  fif- 
teenth floor  was  the  den  of  Dr.  Koch, 
a  small  depositor,  but  known  every- 
where as  an  authority  on  birds  and 
reptiles  and  four-footed  creatures. 

"A  tortoiseshell  Tom,  and  without 
any  white?  I'm  afraid  you're  on  a 
cold  trail,"  the  man  of  science  said, 
as  he  polished  his  nose-glasses,  "for 
it  seems  to  be  an  example  of  Nature's 
sumptuary  legislation  that  a  Tom-cat 
shall  not  array  himself  in  three 
colors." 

Mr.  Simpkins  grasped  the  two  arms 
of  his  chair.  "You  don't  mean  to  tell 
me  that  there  is  no  such  thing?" 

"No;  I  shouldn't  like  to  put  myself 
on  record  with  that  statement.  It  was 
Mivart,  I  believe,  who  advanced  the 
somewhat  novel  theory  that  the  tor- 
toiseshell is  the  female  of  the  par- 
ticular strain  of  which  the  sandy  Tom 
is  the  male.  Darwin  noted  the  fact 
that  nearly  all  three-colored  cats  are 
females.  My  old  friend,  Harrison 
Weir,  for  many  years  president  of 
The  National  Cat  Club,  and  whose  ob- 
servations extended  over  more  than 


AN   ARMY    BAND. 


267 


half  a  century,  at  the  London  shows 
saw  one  or  two  of  the  kind  you  are 
looking  for;  and  Miss  Simpson,  whose 
"The  Book  of  the  Cat"  was  made  up 
from  many  sources,  reaches  the  con- 
clusion that  among  short-haired  cats, 
a  tortoiseshell  Tom  is  a  rare  animal, 
and  that  among  the  long-haired 
variety,  one  has  never  been  seen  or 
heard  of." 

Mr.  Simpkins  was  not  a  man  who 
was  in  the  habit  of  putting  down  col- 
lateral and  then  failing  to  take  it  up. 
He  might  have  lost  some  good-sized 
blocks  of  securities  and  nobody  would 
have  been  any  the  wiser.  But  an  au- 
tomobile— when  would  he  ever  hear 
the  last  of  that! 

The  elevator  dropped  from  the  fif- 
teenth floor  to  the  first.  "Gee!" 
thought  the  boy,  as  he  passed  the  red 
signals  without  stopping,  "the  old 
man  certainly  must'  ave  been  dream- 
ing about  snakes." 

It  was  the  first  time  Mr.  Simpkins 
had  ever  been  late  at  a  board  meeting, 
and  he  started  the  business  with  a 
rush.  Smith  got  about  half  as  much 


as  he  asked  for;  Thompson's  line  was 
high  enough;  Jones  got  turned  down 
cold.  Just  then  there  was  a  hasty  rap. 

"Come  in!!"  said  the  man  nearest 
the  door.  Some  of  the  directors 
frowned,  others  were  putting  their 
hands  in  their  pockets.  It  was  the 
easiest  way  of  getting  rid  of  an  im- 
portunate beggar. 

"My  lands,  Mr.  Simpkins,  bein'  a 
banker's  cert'nly  powerful  fine!" 

The  old  lady  saw  the  polish  of  the 
solid  mahogany  and  felt  the  spring  of 
the  velvet  carpet  as  she  walked,  basket 
on  arm  and  head  erect,  to  the  farther 
end  of  the  long  table.  "I  wuz  comin' 
ter  town,"  she  continued,  "with  er  few 
fresh  aigs  from  my  dommecker  hens, 
and  I  jes'  drapped  in  ter  shake  yer 
hand.  And  bein's  this  is  the  las'  day 
o'  the  month,"  she  added  in  a  con- 
fidential way,  "ef  you've  got  that  ar 
Tom  cat  handy,  yer  mought  jes'  go  out 
wi'  me  on  the  two  erclock  train  and 
fetch  back  yer  ortymobile." 

It  was  the  widow  Clopton  at  the  last 
wag  of  the  hammer  calling  for  specific 
performance  of  contract. 


AN     ARAY     BAND 


Low-spreading  live-oaks,  in  a  summer  land; 

Breath  of  magnolias,  and  a  salt  wind  free 
Winging  from  off  a  far-horizoned  sea; 

And  the  gay  music  of  an  army  band! 

A  summer  day,  and  eyes  that  wistful  meet 
To  utter  longings  that  the  lips  keep  dumb; 

The  shadow  of  a  stolen  smile,  so  sweet, 
And  the  barbaric  beating  of  a  drum! 

Ah,  the  enchantment  of  that  summer  land! 

Go  dreams!    Go,  visions  of  the  Yesterday! 
Leave  me  in  peace !    Let  me  forget,  I  pray, 

The  vanished  music  of  that  army  band! 

MARION  ETHEL  HAMILTON, 


THE  HEART  OF  FAT  AAGARITY 


By   Ardella   Z,    Stewart 


WHEN  the  doctors  pronounced 
me  tubercular,  and  recom- 
mended outdoor  life  as  the 
only  hope  for  my  recovery, 
I  shut  up  my  house  in  town,  sent  my 
wife  and  baby  to  my  wife's  mother,  for 
an  indefinite  period,  fitted  up  a  covered 
wagon  with  camping,  hunting  and  fish- 
ing paraphernalia,  took  Pat  Magarity, 
my  man  of  all  work,  as  my  traveling 
companion,  and  set  out,  gypsy  fashion, 
over  wagon  roads,  for  the  Sunny 
South. 

Magarity  had  been  in  my  employ 
for  about  two  years,  and  in  all  that 
time  I  had  never  heard  him  make 
any  reference  to  himself  in  any  way 
except  on  rare  occasions,  when  he 
would  clap  his  hand  upon  his  left  leg, 
below  the  knee,  as  if  in  sudden  and 
violent  pain,  and  by  way  of  expla- 
nation, say: 

"Quid  throuble,  sorr." 

"Rheumatism?"  I  asked,  on  one  oc- 
casion. 

"Broken  bone,  sorr,"  he  replied,  and 
was  gone  without  another  word. 

So  great  was  Magarity's  reticence 
in  regard  to  himself  that  it  imbued 
others  with  the  same  spirit.  I  had 
never  questioned  him  in  any  way.  I 
had  taken  him  in  the  capacity  of  "a 
man  about  the  place,"  and  as  he  filled 
every  requirement  satisfactorily,  I  had 
little  cause  for  inquiry  as  to  what  he 
could  or  could  not  do,  and  I  was  sur- 
prised, and  greatly  pleased,  to  find, 
after  we  were  on  our  way,  that  he 
seemed  familiar  with  every  phase  of 
camp  life.  My  forebodings  as  to  be- 
ing able  to  manage  things  were  at 
an  end.  I  turned  everything  over  to 
Magarity,  and  tried  to  take  life  easy. 
Each  night  around  our  camp  fire  we 
planned  for  the  next  day's  hunting, 
fishing  or  traveling,  but  as  soon  as 
our  plans  were  laid,  Magarity  would 
shut  up  like  a  clam,  and  only  grunt  his 
answers  to  any  further  conversation 
attempted  by  me.  I  passed  the  first 


few  weeks  very  comfortably,  reading 
and  writing  letters  back  home,  to  fill 
in  the  idle  hours,  but  as  time  went  on, 
a  feeling  of  loneliness  overcame  me. 
From  day  to  day  I  saw  no  familiar 
face  except  that  of  Pat  Magarity,  and, 
judging  him  by  its  expression,  he  was 
always  in  a  brown  study. 

I  caught  myself  on  more  than  one 
occasion  wishing  that  I  might  read  his 
mind,  for  I  felt  it  must  hold  an  inter- 
esting story.  I  tried  to  think  of  some 
way  to  draw  him  out,  but  always  gave 
it  up  before  making  the  attempt,  and 
the  incident  that  set  him  talking  came 
all  unexpectedly. 

One  night  when  he  prepared  the 
coals  for  broiling  before  preparing  the 
meats,  I  laughed  and  said : 

"You're  an  Irishman,  Magarity." 

"Divil  a  hoff  av  an  Irishman  am  I, 
sorr,  for  me  mother  was  hoff  an  Aing- 
lishman  an'  hoff  a  Scotchman,  but  if 
ye  had  known  me  afore  the  days  av 
Cattie  O'Shannon,  ye  would  ha'  taken 
me  for  an  Irishman  full  born. 

"Not  that  Cattie  O'Shannon  was  not 
hoff  an  Irishman  hersilf,  for  her 
mother  was  an  Irishman  while  her 
father  was  an  Ainglishman,  but  Cattie 
O'Shannon  niver  took  to  the  Irish  side 
av  hersilf,  naither  to  the  Irish  side 
av  me. 

"  'Spake  Ainglish,  Pattie,'  she  said, 
'spake  Ainglish,  an'  be  a  gintleman. 
Uts  no  good  bein'  an  Irishman,'  an' 
full  soon  I  didna  know  mesilf  for 
aiven  a  hoff  av  an  Irishman." 

After  this,  Magarity  grew  silent,  and 
in  order  to  lead  him  on,  I  said,  mus- 
ingly : 

"Cattie  O'Shannon?    Pretty  name." 

"An'  as  pretty  a  leettle  colleen  as 
iver  ye  laid  eyes  upon.  Angil  face. 
Wan  that  makes  a  man  want  to  walk 
the  straight  an'  narrow  path  av  the 
married  man  an'  forgit  his  ould  thricks. 
That's  the  way  I  felt,  sorr,  for  a 
divil  of  a  wild  Irishman  I  had  been 
afore  I  met  Cattie  O'Shannon.  I  had 


THE  HEART  OF  PAT  MAGARITY. 


269 


broke  the  'arts  av  more  women  than 
ye  could  count  in  a  day,  for  uts  'and- 
some  I  was  in  thim  times  an'  a  ladies' 
man. 

"  'Ut's  all  right  bein'  a  ladies'  man, 
Pattie,'  I  says  to  mesilf,  'so  long  as 
you're  not  a  married  man,  for  I  had 
no  great  faith  in  women,  an'  no  love 
for  thim,  aither,  except  as  a  pastime, 
until  I  saw  Cattie  O'Shannon. 

"Ut  was  dhurin'  the  war  betune  the 
States  that  I  first  set  eyes  upon  her. 
I  had  been  knockin'  about  thro'  the 
North,  satisfyin'  me  love  for  roamin', 
whin  the  war  broke  out.  My  sympathy 
was  wid  the  rebels,  so  I  shipped  south 
an'  joined  forces  anent  the  North. 

"I  was  inlisted  in  the  13th  Tennes- 
see, Cheatham's  Division,  Hardee's 
Corps,  and  ut's  some  good  fightin'  we 
done  in  the  battles  of  Belmont,  Shi- 
loh  an'  Murpheysboro,  as  well  as 
ithers,  but  I  coome  out  av  ut  all  wid- 
out  a  scratch. 

"Afther  the  last  named  battle,  sorr, 
we  marched  to  Shelbyville,  where  we 
spint  a  goodish  part  av  the  winter.  Ut 
was  there  that  Cattie  O'Shannon 
coome  into  me  life. 

"Wan  day  a  young  private  named 
Carther,  an'  mesilf,  wint  into  the 
woods  to  see  what  we  could  scare  up 
in  the  way  av  somethin'  to  eat,  an' 
afther  goin'  about  two  miles  widout 
seein'  a  livin'  thing,  we  coome  to  a 
leettle  cabin  settin'  back  amongst  the 
trees,  an'  all  but  hid  by  the  under- 
growth. Niver  a  livin'  thing  there 
seemed  to  be  inside,  but  we  wint  up 
an'  tapped  at  the  door,  an'  Mother 
O'Shannon,  as  we  didna  know  thin, 
put  her  face  in  the  door,  an'  right  be- 
hind ut  was  the  face  av  the  lassie, 
an'  while  I  spoke  to  the  mother  I  had 
me  eyes  glued  on  the  face  behind 
her.  Whin  Mother  O'Shannon  found 
I  was  an  Irishman,  she  spoke  to  the 
daughter  an'  said: 

"  'Ut's  wan  av  your  counthrymen, 
dearie.  Coome  out  an'  give  him  your 
hand.'  And  Cattie  O'Shannon,  as  shy 
as  a  bird,  coome  out  an'  put  her  slim 
fingers  in  me  rough  hand.  Ut  was  in 
Hivin  I  was  thin,  till  that  divil  av  a 
private  coome  an'  took  the  ither  hand 


an'  kissed  ut.  I  could  ha'  killed  him 
thin  an'  there,  but  I  knowed  ut  was 
no  good  fightin',  so  I  set  me  mind  to 
worrk  to  lay  a  plan  to  win  the  girrl.  I 
was  there  ivery  chance  that  coome, 
but  that  divil  av  a  private  was  there 
afore  me  or  soon  afther,  so  I  took  me 
axe  and  wint  into  the  woods  to  cut 
some  stuff  for  the  camp  fire,  an'  while 
I  was  cuttin',  I  turned  the  butt  av 
the  axe  toward  me  shin,  an'  let  her 
glance.  The  deed  was  done,  sorr,  an' 
all  for  the  love  av  Cattie  O'Shannon. 

"Carther  was  wid  me,  an'  to  him  ut 
was  an  acthedint,  an'  to  all  the  ithers. 
I  was  taken  to  the  camps,  where  the 
bone  was  set,  but  not  proper,  sorr, 
for  I  niver  grew  sthrong  enough  to 
carry  arms  agin. 

"I  sint  a  message  to  Mother 
O'Shannon  by  the  private,  as  didn't 
guess  me  meanin'  in  ut,  an'  Mother 
O'Shannon  put  in  a  claim  for  me,  as 
was  wan  av  her  counthrymen,  an'  I 
was  taken  to  the  leettle  'ouse  in  the 
woods  to  be  nursed  back  to  hilth.  But 
that  divil  av  a  private  kept  hanging 
aroun'  till  ut  all  but  worreted  the  life 
out  av  me,  bein'  sick  an'  helpless  as 
I  was.  Thin  the  worrd  coome  that 
sint  our  command  to  Chikamauga,  an' 
that  divil  of  a  Carther  wid  ut. 

'  'Divil  a  hoff  av  an  Irishman  are 
ye,  Pattie,'  says  I  to  mesilf,  'or  ye 
niver  could  ha'  worked  a  plan  like 
this,  for  Cattie  O'Shannon  was  soon 
me  promised  bride,  an'  in  the  spring 
there  was  a  weddin'  in  the  leettle  'ouse 
an'  Cattie  O'Shannon  becoome  the 
Misthress  Magarity,  tho'  I  niver  called 
her  ither  than  Cattie  O'Shannon. 

"Afore  the  fall,  Mother  O'Shannon 
died,  an'  Cattie  an'  mesilf  were  lift 
alone  in  the  leettle  'ouse  as  belonged 
to  Mother  O'Shannon,  an'  thin  to  Cat- 
tie,  wid  foive  acres  av  ground  goin' 
along  which  made  us  a  comfortable 
livin'  afther  I  was  able  to  work,  an' 
we  lived  the  lives  av  the  blessed,  me 
an'  Cattie  O'Shannon,  altho'  the  war 
clouds  hung  over  the  land.  Thin 
coome  the  surrinder  an'  the  soldiers 
returnin'  to  their  'omes. 

"Ut  was  wan  mornin'  whin  I 
waked  up  an'  found  Cattie  O'Shannon 


270 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


up  afore  me  widout  me  a-knowin'  av 
ut.  I  called  into  the  nixt  room,  which 
was  the  kitchen. 

"  'Why  didna  ye  wake  me,  Cattie 
O'Shannon?  Uts  not  Pat  Magarity 
that  ye  should  be  buildin'  fires  wid 
your  pretty  'ands,'  an'  I  hurried  into 
me  things  an'  wint  into  the  room,  but 
the  stove  was  could  an'  no  Cattie 
O'Shannon  iny where.  I  wint  into  the 
town,  where  they  told  me  she  had 
gone  wid  that  divil  av  a  private  as 
had  been  hangin'  aroun'. 

"I  didna  let  on  I  was  hurt  afore  no- 
body, but  whin  I  coome  'ome  an'  wint 
into  the  'ouse  an'  there  hung  her  leet- 
tle  bonnet  on  the  peg,  an'  the  long 
apron  as  she  wore  about  her  'ouse- 
work,  me  'art  wint  nigh  on  to  breakin', 
an'  I  cried  like  a  woman. 

"That  night  I  kept  a  blaze  on  the 
'earth  an'  a  light  in  the  window  in 
case  she  coome  stealin'  back.  I  hung 
the  long  apron  on  the  bed  post  an'  the 
leettle  bonnet  atop  av  that  so  I  might 
look  up  an'  think  she  was  there  in  me 
wakin'  moments. 

"But  Cattie  O'Shannon  coome  only 
in  me  drames.  Night  upon  night  me 
thought  that  she  coome  an'  stood  aside 
me,  an'  sometimes  me  thought  the 
drame  was  thrue,  an'  agin  I'd  ken  ut 
was  a  drame.  Thin  I'd  say  in  me 
sleep : 

'  'Ye  are  foolin'  me,  Cattie  O'Shan- 
non. Ut's  only  a  drame,  an'  whin 
I  waken  ye'll  be  gone,  an'  me  thought 
she'd  smile  doon  at  me  an'  say: 

"  'Nay,  Pattie,  ut's  me.  I've  coome 
to  sthay,'  but  whin  I  was  awake  ut 
would  be  only  a  drame. 

"I  didna  sthop  to  think  what  I 
would  do  should  Cattie  O'Shannon 
coome  back  in  thruth  wid  a  blot  on 
her  life  as  had  been  as  pure  as  an  an- 
gel's to  me.  I  couldna  put  Cattie 
O'Shannon  an'  sin  in  the  same  sin- 
tence,  an'  I  wouldna.  She  was  aye 
Cattie  O'Shannon  to  me:  as  pure  as 
an  angel. 

"I  kept  the  light  burnin'  an'  a  blaze 
on  the  'arth,  whin  the  weather  was  a 
bit  gloomy,  for  nigh  on  to  two  years, 
an'  she  kept  coomin'  in  me  drames 
bight  upon  night,  till  at  last  I  shtopped 


dramin',  an'  the  drame  came  no  more. 
I  was  worse  off  thin  than  iver.  I  loved 
the  drames.  They  were  comp'ny  to- 
me an'  I  longed  for  'em. 

"Thin  wan  night  I  dramed  agin',  an' 
as  clear  as  day  I  saw  Cattie  O'Shan- 
non's  face  pressed  agin  the  window- 
pane  as  she  peered  into  the  room. 
Whin  she  saw  the  long  apron  an'  the 
bonnet  atop  av  ut,  she  dhrew  back  as 
if  she  thought  ut  was  some  ither  wo- 
man standin'  aside  me,  an'  I  laughed 
in  me  sleep  to  think  she  would  ha'  a 
fear  like  that.  Thin  I  saw  her  face 
agin.  This  time  she  saw  what  ut  was 
on  the  bed  post,  an'  wid  a  glad  cry 
she  sprang  to  the  dcor,  as  was  always 
left  open  for  her,  an'  me  thought  she 
coome  an'  stood  aside  me  an'  I  hild 
out  me  'and  an'  she  slipped  her's  into 
ut.  'Ye  canna  fool  me,  Cattie  O'Shan- 
non,' says  I.  'Ut's  but  the  ould  drame, 
an'  whin  I  waken  ye'll  be  gone.' 

A  smile  more  pitiful  than  tears 
coome  over  her  face : 

"  'Nay,  Pattie,'  says  she,  'ut's  na  a 
drame.  Ut's  Cattie  O'Shannon,  but  ye 
dinna  want  me,  Pattie,  except  in  your 
drames.'  She  threw  her  arms  about 
me  neck,  an'  wint  into  tears.  Thin  I 
knowed  ut  was  no  drame,  but  Cattie 
O'Shannon  in  truth. 

"I  got  up  and  stirred  the  blaze  on 
the  'earth,  for  ut  was  chilly  weather, 
an'  whin  I  looked  aroun'  she  was 
standin'  there,  waitin'.  I  hild  out  me 
arms,  an'  she  was  in  thim  in  a  minit. 

'  'Ye  dinna  want  me,  Pattie,  whin 
ye  ha'  time  to  think,'  says  she. 

"  'I've  had  time  to  think,  Cattie 
O'Shannon,'  says  I.  'Did  I  take  ye  for 
better  or  for  worse?' 

'  'Yes,  Pattie,'  says  she. 

'  'Thin  'ere's  your  'ome,  Cattie 
O'Shannon,  an'  ye're  aye  'better'  to 
me.  Ye  could  be  nothin'  ilse. 

"  'But,  Pattie,'  says  she. 

"  'Niver  mind,'  says  I.  'Whin  ye 
took  me  did  ye  ask  aught  about  me- 
silf  ?' 

"  'Nay,  Pattie,'  she  says. 

"  'Thin  I  ask  naught  about  thee, 
Cattie  O'Shannon.  Ye're  an  angel 
from  Hivin  as  compared  to  Pat  Ma- 
garity.' Thin  I  kissed  her  an'  said : 


THE  HEART  OF  PAT  MAGARITY. 


271 


'"Do  ye  love  me,  Cattle?' 

"'Yes,  Pattie,'  says  she;  'had  I 
known  how  much  I  loved  ye ' 

"  'Do  ye  know  now?'  says  I,  break- 
ing in. 

'  'Yis,'  says  she. 

"  That's  enough,'  says  I,  an'  for 
twelve  years  we  lived  a  life  av  con- 
tintmint. 

"Cattie  O'Shannon  was  no  flighty 
woman,  but  as  quiet  a  leettle  dame  as 
ye  iver  set  eyes  on.  We  were  'appy 
in  our  leettle  'ome  an*  no  one  iver  dis- 
turbed us  till  wan  mornin'  I  waked  up 
an'  Cattie  O'Shannon  wasna  there.  I 
guessed  the  meanin'  this  time  widout 
bein'  told.  That  divil  av  a  Carther 
had  turned  up  agin. 

"I  didna  keep  the  light  burnin'  that 
night.  I  locked  up  the  'ouse  an' 
coome  away.  Ye  know  the  rest,  sorr; 
I've  been  wid  ye  since  thin." 

I  had  heard  the  story  in  silence.  A 
silence  which  I  feit  was,  even  now, 
better  unbroken,  and  we  sat  gazing  at 
the  fire  until  the  dying  embers  re- 
minded us  that  it  was  far  into  the 
night.  The  next  morning  we  planned 
our  trip  for  the  day. 

We  were  now  well  into  Tennessee, 
and  as  Magarity  seemed  familiar  with 
the  country,  I  followed  his  lead  with- 
out question.  In  another  two  weeks 
we  pitched  our  tent  near  the  town  of 
Shelbyville.  No  mention  of  Ma- 
garity's  past  had  been  made  by  either 
of  us  since  the  night  he  told  his  story, 
and  although  I  knew  we  must  be  near 
the  scenes  of  his  old  home,  I  made 
no  reference  to  it,  nor  did  he. 

"There's  plenty  av  quail  an'  ither 
small  game"  in  these  parts,"  said  he 
that  night,  "an'  the  morrow  we'll  take 
a  thrip  into  the  woods." 

Early  the  next  morning  we  struck 
out  north  from  the  town,  and  after 
going  a  short  distance,  turned  into  a 
narrow  path  that  led  off  to  the  right 
of  the  road.  We  startled  a  covey  of 
quail  here  and  there,  and  bagged  about 
as  many  as  we  could  use  before  we 
had  gone  more  than  a  mile.  Still  Ma- 
garity kept  ahead.  We  had  gone 
about  two  miles  when  we  came  to  a 
cabin  setting  well  back  from  the  path 


and  almost  hidden  by  the  trees.  I 
knew  in  a  moment  that  it  was  Magar- 
ity's  old  home.  I  looked  at  him,  but 
his  eyes  were  on  the  ground  and  his 
face  gave  no  sign  of  what  he  might 
feel.  After  going  a  short  distance  be- 
yond this,  we  faced  about  and  retraced 
our  steps. 

That  night,  by  the  light  of  the  camp 
fire,  I  studied  Magarity's  face.  I  had 
never  seen  him  look  as  he  did  then. 
Suddenly  he  looked  up  and  said: 

"Ut's  leavin'  your  service  I  am, 
sorr,  as  soon  as  ye  find  anither 
guide." 

"What?"  said  I,  unable  to  believe 
what  I  had  heard. 

"Ut's  leavin'  your  service  I  am,  sorr, 
as  soon  as  ye  find  anither  guide,"  he 
repeated. 

"And  why?"  I  asked,  showing  my 
disappointment  in  the  tone. 

"Ut's  the  ould  feelin',  sorr,  coome 
back.  We  passed  the  leettle  'ouse  to- 
day." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  I. 

"Ut's  a  baste  av  an  Irishman  I  ha' 
been  to  leave  ut  dark  an'  could  these 
miny  months.  Ut's  dark  an'  could  to- 
night, Cattie  O'Shannon,  but  to-mor- 
row night  there'll  be  a  blaze  on  the 
'arth  an'  a  light  in  the  window." 

"You  surely  wouldn't  take  her  back 
again?"  said  I. 

"Whin  she  took  me,  did  she  ask 
how  miny  times  I'd  been  asthray? 
Nay.  Neither  shall  I  ask  her." 

"You're  a  fool,  Magarity.     Let  her 

go." 

"An'  who  ilse  in  all  the  world  is 
there  to  care  for  her  but  Pat  Magar- 
ity? I  took  her  whin  she  was  but  a 
child;  whin  ut  seemed  there  was  noth- 
ing ilse  for  her  to  do  but  marry  me, 
an'  if  I  failed  to  be  all  her  'art  desired 
was  ut  her  fault?  Nay,  sorr,  ut's  a 
baste  av  an  Irishman  I  ha'  been." 

I  did  not  try  to  dissuade  him,  and 
the  next  day  we  went  into  the  town  to 
secure  another  guide.  This  done,  I 
continued  my  journey  southward,  leav- 
ing Pat  Magarity  to  burn  the  light  in 
the  solitary  window  of  his  little  home 
and  await  the  second  return  of  Cattie 
O'Shannon. 


ADELE 


By   Cy   Marshall 


WHEN  I  stopped  at  the  railing 
behind  which  our  city  edi- 
tor sat  at  his  desk,  he 
handed  me  a  telegram  with 
the  remark  that  it  was  against  the 
rules  for  members  of  the  staff  to  re- 
ceive love  letters  by  wire.  I  laughed, 
but  opened  it  with  trembling  hands. 
I  always  feel  nervous  about  opening 
one  of  those  yellow  envelopes.  What 
I  read  inside  of  this  one  simply 
amazed  me.  It  was  brief,  but  I  had 
waited  three  anxious  years  for  the 
message,  and  its  coming  was  more 
than  a  shock.  Just  five  words  were 
there,  but  each  one  thrilled  me  un- 
speakably. She  was  coming  next  day. 
I  could  hardly  realize  it  as  I  sat  be- 
fore my  desk  and  stared  at  the  mes- 
sage over  the  simple  signature  of 
Adele. 

I  must  have  been  dazed,  for,  when 
I  was  called  to  answer  the  'phone,  I 
jumped  as  though  I  had  been  shot  at. 
It  was  a  message  from  Bill  Dorsey, 
one  of  the  staunchest  friends  I  ever 
had,  who  had  just  landed  in  town. 
When  I  put  the  receiver  back,  it 
was  with  the  promise  that  I  would 
meet  him  in  my  rooms  that  night. 
Bill  and  I  had  been  cubs  together  in 
Chicago.  Many  a  time  had  we  staked 
each  other  to  "coffee  and,"  when  one 
of  us  happened  to  be  out  of  funds. 

All  through  the  day  I  did  my  work 
like  an  automaton.  I  tried  to  tell  my- 
self that  everything  was  real.  I  had 
never  confided  the  story  behind  the 
telegram  to  any  one  on  the  staff.  But 
I  intended  to  tell  Bill  as  soon  as  he 
appeared  in  my  rooms. 

Evening  came  at  last,  and  I  wel- 
comed it,  believe  me.  I  had  something 
on  my  mind,  and  I  wanted  to  get  it 


off.  I  had  about  convinced  myself 
that  what  I  had  waited  for  so  long  was 
going  to  happen.  When  Dorsey  came, 
I  made  short  work  of  reminiscences. 
He  appeared  to  be  curious,  but,  Dor- 
sey-like,  he  let  me  start  my  story  with- 
out attempting  to  coax  it  out  of  me. 
Afterwards,  he  remarked  that  I  had 
robbed  the  Blade  of  a  good  feature, 
but  I  gave  my  opinion  on  that  as  well. 
However,  here  is  the  story,  without 
any  further  preliminaries: 

It  was  easily  4  o'clock  when  I  left 
the  building  that  night.  I  remember  it 
all  quite  distinctly.  It  was  my  night 
on  late  watch  at  the  Blade.  I  was  the 
last  to  leave  the  editorial  room  as  I 
had  remained  behind  to  rattle  off  a 
note  I  wanted  to  leave  for  the  city 
editor.  I  wanted  him  to  get  it  the  first 
thing  Monday  morning. 

I  had  had  an  extra  heavy  day,  as 
we  were  short-handed,  and  I  had  sup- 
plemented my  regular  run  by  helping 
our  courthouse  man  in  the  afternoon. 
After  the  hour  of  midnight,  when  the 
staff  had  dwindled  down  to  a  few  copy 
readers,  the  "old  man,"  and  a  couple 
of  boys,  four  police  stories  broke, 
which  I  took  over  the  'phone  from  our 
night  man  down  at  Central  Station. 
I  did  not  have  time  to  take  forty  winks 
as  we  sometimes  do  on  quiet  nights. 
When  I  left  the  office  I  was  pretty 
well  tired  out,  and  ready  to  beat  it 
home  without  the  customary  cup  of 
Java.  I  lived  only  a  few  blocks  away, 
so  I  did  not  take  a  street  car.  As  I 
walked  along  with  my  head  down  and 
my  mind  busy  with  the  details  of  the 
last  story  from  police  headquarters, 
the  thing  happened. 

She  knew  me,  although  I  could  not 
make  her  tell  me  how.  As  I  said,  I 


ADELE. 


273 


was  thinking  and  not  taking  any  no- 
tice of  anything,  as  I  hurried  up  the 
street.  Well,  I  came  to  a  sudden  halt 
when  a  hand  clutched  at  my  coat- 
sleeve.  Instinctively,  I  took  a  tighter 
grip  on  the  cane  I  always  carried, 
thinking  that  it  was  some  dead-beat 
after  a  piece  of  change.  When  I  saw 
that  it  was  a  woman,  and  a  well- 
dressed  one  at  that,  I  was  too  dumb- 
founded to  speak.  I  just  stood  there 
like  a  simp,  with  my  mouth  open. 

Then  I  heard  the  sweetest  voice  it 
has  ever  been  my  good  fortune  to 
hear.  "I  know  it  is  terrible,  Mr.  Avery, 
for  me  to  be  out  at  this  hour.  But  I 
need  help  and  need  it  badly.  Will 
you  let  me  depend  on  you?"  I  knew 
that  her  lips  were  trembling  while  she 
spoke,  and  I  could  literally  hear  the 
tears  in  her  voice.  But  how  did  she 
know  my  name  and  who  was  she?  I 
wondered  if  it  was  money  she  wanted. 

The  low  pitched,  wonderfully  mag- 
netic voice  took  hold  of  me,  but  I 
shook  myself  together  the  while  I 
tried  to  decide  what  to  do.  I  didn't 
know  but  that  she  was  some  street 
woman  who  was  looking  for  an  easy 
dupe.  She  spoke  again,  noticing  my 
hesitancy,  and,  I  suppose,  sensing  my 
thoughts.  "I  know  what  you  will 
think,  Mr.  Avery,  but  I  am  forced  to 
do  this,  and  you  are  the  man  whom  I 
know  I  can  fully  trust  to  help  me. 
Will  you  do  what  I  ask?"  Her  voice, 
and  the  feeling  that  she  must  be 
square,  got  the  better  of  me,  so  I 
asked  her  what  she  wished  me  to  do. 

She  insisted  that  I  take  her  to  my 
rooms  and  she  would  tell  me.  It  took 
me  off  my  feet,  but  I  fell,  and  before 
many  minutes  we  were  seated  in  the 
little  room  which  serves  me  for  den 
and  sitting  room. 

She  wore  a  heavy  veil,  and  I  could 
not  see  her  face  clearly.  I  felt  cer- 
tain that  she  was  beautiful.  Her 
dress  was  modish.  Its  cut  served  to 
accentuate  the  beauty  of  her  lithe  fig- 
ure, and  her  manner  added  to  the 
charm.  I  wished  that  she  would  let 
me  have  a  look  at  -her  when  she  asked 
a  question  which  took  my  breath 
away. 


"Will  you  let  me  stay  in  your  rooms 
until  Monday,"  she  said,  "and  then 
will  you  procure  a  license  and  marry 
me?"  I  sat  staring  at  her,  too  dumb- 
founded to  speak.  My  visitor  leaned 
forward  in  deep  earnestness,  and  I 
could  feel  her  eyes  piercing  mine.  I 
guess  we  sat  looking  at  each  other 
for  about  five  minutes,  when  her  hands 
fluttered  to  her  head,  and  in  a  second 
she  had  raised  her  veil.  The  face  I 
then  saw  I  shall  never  forget.  Words 
are  inadequate  to  describe  its  won- 
drous beauty. 

Her  hands  again  went  up,  and  she 
removed  her  hat.  I  know  I  cannot  do 
her  justice,  but  I'll  try  to  describe  her. 
I  can  see  her  as  plainly  as  though  she 
were  seated  before  me  this  very  mo- 
ment. Eyes  like  hers  are  the  kind 
which  have  lured  men  since  the  be- 
ginning of  time.  They  were  neither 
dark  nor  light.  They  were  complex. 
As  I  looked  into  them,  they  were  lim- 
pid swimming  pools,  but,  instinctively, 
I  knew  that  they  could  be  cold  and 
hard  as  steel.  It  was  perhaps  the 
luminous  hypnotism  of  their  depths 
that  caused  me  to  answer  as  I  did.  Her 
features  were  regular  and  the  color  in 
her  face  was  a  natural  rose  tint.  Her 
lips,  a  vivid  blood-red,  were  delicately 
curved.  Her  hair  was  neither  copper 
nor  gold — it  was  an  indefinable  combi- 
nation of  both.  And  the  marble-white 
neck  which  I  glimpsed  through  the 
lace  at  her  throat  and  breast,  was 
statuesque  in  its  rounded  fulness. 
There  was  something  regal  in  the  set 
of  her  head. 

Well,  enough  of  description.  You 
shall  see  for  yourself  soon.  And  then 
you  will  know  why  I  say  words  cannot 
describe  her. 

As  I  have  said,  her  question  dazed 
me  for  what  seemed  an  hour,  but  was 
only  a  few  moments.  Then  the  lure 
in  her  eyes  drew  the  answer  she 
wanted.  I  consented,  but  sat  look- 
ing at  her,  incapable  of  further  speech. 
She  spoke  again,  and  I  only  half 
heard  what  she  had  said.  After  she 
had  talked  about  five  minutes,  I  had 
to  ask  her  to  repeat  it.  I  suppose 
she  realized  that  I  was  paying  her 
4 


274 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


a  back-handed  compliment,  for  she 
blushed  most  becomingly. 

What  she  told  me  was  vague,  but  I 
couldn't  shake  her  or  prevail  upon  her 
to  tell  me  more.  She  was  wealthy, 
she  said,  and  her  parents  lived  in  a 
city  not  many  miles  away.  She 're- 
fused to  say  where.  Her  name  was 
Adele  Lloyd  and  it  was  imperative 
that  it  should  not  remain  so  after 
Monday  morning. 

"But  will  you  not  tell  me  why?"  I 
asked.  And  I  asked  the  question 
several  times  with  the  same  result.  I 
found  that  it  was  up  to  me  to  make 
her  Mrs.  Dick  Avery  without  any 
questions.  Of  course,  I  had  said  yes, 
when  she  fired  the  leap  year  proposal, 
so  I  couldn't,  or  wouldn't,  back  down. 

We  must  have  been  talking  about 
two  hours,  when  I  realized  that  she 
was  ready  to  fall  to  pieces.  She  had 
been  terribly  excited  and  the  strain 
had  begun  to  tell  on  her.  It  was  ex- 
tremely unconventional  I  knew,  but  I 
turned  my  room  over  to  her,  and  lay 
down  on  the  couch  in  my  writing  den 
at  the  other  end  of  the  hall.. 

Sunday  passed,  with  no  satisfac- 
tion to  me  in  my  effort  to  learn  the 
meaning  of  it  all.  She  refused  to  go 
out  to  a  restaurant  to  dine  with  me, 
preferring  to  go  alone.  How  she 
knew  me  she  also  refused  to  explain, 
although  she  admitted  having  watched 
for  the  opportunity  to  speak  to  me  for 
several  days. 

Monday  morning  I  obtained  a  mar- 
riage license,  and  by  means  best 
known  to  myself,  I  kept  the  fact  from 
all  the  papers  in  town.  I  had  asked 
for  a  part  of  the  day  off,  and  we 
were  married  at  noon  by  an  Episcopal 
clergyman  I  knew.  His  wife  and  ser- 
vant were  the  only  witnesses.  After 
the  marriage,  my  strange  bride  and 
I  lunched  together.  I  had  a  late  as- 
signment for  the  afternoon,  but  I 
spent  the  hours  up  to  five  o'clock  with 
her.  Beyond  the  kiss  on  her  forehead, 
after  we  were  pronounced  man  and 
wife,  I  had  not  been  permitted  any 
familiarities.  When  we  reached  my 
rooms,  I  again  endeavored  to  ascer- 
tain why  she  had  made  this  strange 


marriage.  But  it  was  useless.  She 
told  me  to  wait  and  I  would  know. 
In  the  meantime,  I  must  be  content 
with  knowing  that  she  was  mine,  and 
that  I  could  be  certain  of  never  having 
cause  to  be  ashamed  of  the  fact. 

The  time  came  for  me  to  leave.  I 
sat  on  the  couch  at  her  side,  and, 
somehow  or  other,  I  found  myself 
holding  her  hands  in  mine,  while  I 
looked  into  her  eyes.  Again,  they 
were  the  limpid  pools  I  had  first 
looked  into.  But  there  was  a  new  light 
in  them.  And  there  was  a  hint  of 
tears. 

A  few  moments  later  I  left  her,  in- 
tending to  return  in  a  short  time.  But 
when  I  did,  my  wife  of  a  few  hours 
was  gone.  The  knowledge  stunned 
me.  After  a  while,  I  found  her  note. 
It  told  me  that  she  loved  me.  But  she 
had  left  before  I  could  tell  her  how 
I  loved  her,  too.  There  was  conso- 
lation in  the  fact  that  she  told  me  that 
I  might  wait  and  hope. 

Well,  I've  waited.  I  never  tried  to 
ferret  out  her  identity,  nor  the  reason 
for  what  is  still  a  mystery.  I  had 
promised  her  that  I  would  wait  for 
her  to  tell  me.  She  telegraphed  this 
morning  she  is  coming  to-morrow. 

So  ended  my  story.  For  a  while  Bill 
and  I  sat  there  without  speaking  a 
word.  Looking  at  him,  I  saw  a  pecu- 
liar look  in  his  face,  and  wondered. 

Just  then  a  knock  sounded,  and  I 
called  to  the  visitor  to  enter.  I  sat 
looking  into  the  bowl  of  my  pipe.  Then 
I  heard  the  swish  of  a  woman's  skirts, 
and  I  saw  Bill  spring  to  his  feet.  It 
was  my  wife,  and,  as  I  took  her  in  my 
arms,  I  caught  again  that  peculiar  look 
from  Bill. 

Adele  removed  her  wraps  and  sat  on 
the  arm  of  my  chair  while  Dorsey 
enlightened  me  as  to  the  meaning  of 
his  peculiar  look,  while  I  had  been 
telling  my  story.  And  I  soon  found 
that  I  had  unknowingly  filled  the  stel- 
lar role  in  a  romance  which  is  rarely 
found  in  real  life.  A  fortune  had 
been  left  to  her  by  a  very  eccentric 
and  distant  relative  who  had  a  scape- 
grace son.  There  was,  of  course,  a 
condition,  and  that  is  where  I  came  in. 


THE  SWORD  OF  LA  FITTE. 


275 


According  to  the  will,  Adele  was  to 
receive  half  of  the  fortune  if  she  mar- 
ried the  ne'er-do-well  by  a  certain 
date.  In  the  event,  however,  of  her 
being  already  married  to  some  one 
else,  that  date,  she  was  to  receive  it 
all.  But  the  latter  condition  had  an- 
other provision — she  was  to  leave  her 
husband  and  remain  separated  from 
him  for  three  years.  Well,  to  make 
a  long  story  short,  Adele  wanted  that 
money  because  her  father  was  threat- 
ened with  financial  difficulties,  and 
having  heard  a  lot  about  me  from  her 
stepbrother,  and  knowing  of  my  repu- 
tation for  "gameness,"  she  hit  upon 
the  plan  of  giving  me  the  leading  part 


in  the  drama.  She  did  not  take  Bill 
into  her  confidence  until  a  few  months 
before  her  three  years'  separation  had 
expired,  and  had  pledged  him  to  se- 
crecy. Adele  tells  me  she  always 
loved  the  mysterious — that  is  why  she 
kept  me  in  the  dark.  Moreover,  she 
felt  pretty  certain  that  I  would  wait 
for  her  to  come  back  to  me. 

Yes,  the  will  was  a  crazy  one,  but 
I  am  glad  it  was,  for  it  gave  me  my 
wife,  and  we've  been  absurdly  happy 
for  three  months.  Oh,  yes,  I'm  still  in 
the  newspaper  game,  and  not  because 
I  have  to  be,  but  because  I  love  it. 
But  Bill  and  I  own  the  Blade  now 
where  I  drew  pay  for  so  many  years. 


THE    SWORD     OF     LA     FITTE 


Hang  there,  old  sword,  upon  my  wall! 

A  bearded  pirate  wielded  thee, 
And  yet  I  shiver  to  recall 

Legends  of  horror  told  to  me. 

Yet  in  the  infant  Nation's  need, 

Beside  the  river's  swollen  tide, 
He  swung  thee  in  heroic  deed. 

And  chose,  for  once,  the  weaker  side. 

Nor  flinched  he  at  the  scarlet  charge, 

Backwoodsmen  brothers  were  to  him, 
As  ever  towards  the  river's  marge, 

They  forced  the  British  columns  grim. 

No  hunter  of  the  Tennessee, 

Nor  "Old  Kentucky"  struck  more  sure, 
'Gainst  desperate  odds  won  Victory, 

And  Fame  abounding  and  secure. 

Though  on  the  Ledger's  credit  side 

This  deed  of  Valor  be  thine  all; 
'Midst  blades  of  those  who  stainless  died, 

Hang  there,  old  sword,  upon  my  wall. 

ELEANOR  PUNCAN  WOOD. 


The  Spot  on  Which  Aoses  Read  the 
Ten  Commandments 


"And  Moses  called  all  Israel  and  said  unto  them,  Hear,  0  Israel,  the 
statutes  and  judgments  which  I  speak  in  your  ears  this  day,  that  ye  may 
learn  them,  and  keep,  and  do  them." — Deut.  5-1. 


MT.  SINAI,  Asia  Minor 
The  photograph  tells  more 
graphically  than  words  the 
very  dismalness  of  Ras  Es 
Safsaf,  where  the  Cross,  the  symbol 
of  Christianity,  is  planted  on  the  very 
spot  where  Moses,  that  great  leader 
of  the  Jews,  stood  and  gave  to  them 
the  laws  by  which  they  have  re- 
ligiously abided  to  this  very  day.  Un- 
peopled and  deserted,  its  very  lone- 
someness  fills  us  with  awe,  and  "the 
silence  of  the  tomb"  is  no  more  im- 
pressive and  inspiring  than  the  "veil 
of  silence"  that  has  been  thrown  over 
Ras  Es  Safsaf  and  its  bleak  and  bar- 
ren surroundings. 

Five  thousand  years  ago  there  were 
gathered  at  the  command  of  Moses, 
on  the  Plain  of  Assemblage,  in  the  Mt. 
Sinai  Valley,  all  of  the  Children  of 
Israel  to  listen  to  the  reading  of  the 
laws  that  were  revealed  to  Moses  dur- 
ing the  "forty  days  and  forty  nights" 
he  spent  in  the  midst  of  a  cloud  com- 
muning with  the  God  of  the  Chosen 
People. 

Civilization  to-day  is  founded  on 
the  Ten  Commandments  that  were 
read  by  Moses  from  the  stone  on 
which  they  were  writ.  Onward,  ever 


onward,  has  modernization  spread 
since  those  days  in  the  long,  long  ago, 
when  the  worship  of  the  Golden  Calf 
was  forsaken,  and  man  turned  his  face 
towards  the  "God  who  created  him  in 
His  own  image." 

Nations  have  risen  to  mighty  power, 
only  to  go  down  to  decay  and  oblivion. 
Unpeopled  plains  have  been  con- 
verted into  hives  of  industry,  and 
hives  of  industry  have  been  con- 
verted into  unpeopled  plains.  New 
lands  have  been  discovered  and  peo- 
pled; new  seas  have  been  navigated 
and  charted.  Everywhere  Progress 
has  changed  the  physical  condition  of 
the  people.  Everywhere,  Progress 
has  changed  the  historical  and  geo- 
graphical importance  of  nations  and 
countries. 

Here  alone,  in  the  Mt.  Sinai  Valley, 
where  the  nation  that  gave  us  the 
Savior,  first  sprang  into  prominence. 
Progress  has  stood  still.  Surrounded 
by  the  peaks  of  the  mountains  of  the 
"Forty  Martyrs,"  all  is  hushed  and 
still  on  the  plain  where  once  the  hum 
of  thousands  of  voices  were  heard, 
and  where  the  valley  rang  with  the 
resounding  march  of  the  Children  of 
Israel. 


The  historical  spot  where  Moses  read  the  Ten  Commandments. 
(Copyrighted  by  Underwood  &  Underwood,  New  York.) 


A  Zyrian  in  his  hunting  outfit  accompanied  by  the  usual  dog.     The  short 
gun  is  -for  small  game,  and  the  pike  in  his  right  hand  is  for  bear,  which  the 
hunter  attacks  without  hesitation. 


PECULIAR    LIFE    OF    ZYRIANS 


By  Basil  A.  Izhuroff 


TEN  YEARS  ago  I  was  arrested 
by  the  Russian  government  for 
an  alleged  violation  of  the  law 
— i.   e.,  spreading  of  the  pro- 
paganda of  the  idea  in  my  school  and 
among  the  people.    Ten  days  after  the 
arrest,  a  police  officer  told  me  that  I 
was  to  be  deported  by  an  order  of 
the   Governor-General  to  the  city  of 
Ust-Sysolsk,  government  of  Vologda, 
for  eight  years.    As  I  expected  to  get 
a  longer   sentence,  the  time  did  not 
surprise   me,   but  the  place   did.     It 
was  in  the  northernmost  part  of  Euro- 
pean Russia. 

Although  it  was  nearer  than  Siberia 
this  region  was  populated  by  a  people 
— Zyrians — whose  language  I  did  not 
know.  Likewise,  I  could  not  continue 
my  professional  work,  teaching,  or 
propagate  my  ideas  of  liberty.  But  I 


knew  that  it  was  useless  to  argue  with 
the  officials,  so  that  I  had  to  leave 
my  mother-city,  Moscow,  and  go  to  the 
center  of  the  Zyrians'  country. 

From  Moscow  to  Vologda,  the  capi- 
tal city  of  my  new  government,  I  went 
with  comfort  by  rail.  From  there  I 
had  to  travel  to  Ust-Sysolsk,  nine 
hundred  and  eighty-five  miles  north- 
east, on  foot  or  by  horses.  More- 
over, it  was  a  winter  with  the  tempera- 
ture often  many  degrees  below  zero  in 
Vologda,  and  twenty  degrees  below 
zero  at  the  end  of  my  journey.  There 
was  a  Russian  population  in  the  first 
six  hundred  miles ;  then  came  the 
Zyrians.  The  well  known  northeastern 
green  virgin  forests  appear  in  the 
same  time  as  the  Zyrians'  villages. 
Through  these  forests,  covered  by 
snow  from  seven  to  ten  feet  deep,  ran 


THE  PECULIAR  LIFE  OF  THE  ZYRIANS. 


279 


a  horse-path,  which  was  trampled 
down  five  or  six  feet  deep,  and  was 
wide  enough  for  only  one  horse  and 
narrow  sledge  to  travel.  As  it  was 
necessary  for  me,  owing  to  my  heavy 
baggage,  to  have  three  horses,  they 
were  hitched  before  a  sledge,  one 
ahead  of  the  other.  There  was  always 
great  trouble  when  we  met  another 
team.  Neither  coachman  would  go 
out  of  his  way  into  the  snow.  Ordi- 
narily the  smaller  team  gave  way, 
and  in  case  of  equal  teams,  the  title 
and  the  position  of  the  passenger 
solved  the  question;  but  I  told  nobody 
my  rank  or  position,  and  there  was  no 
argument  for  my  coachman.  A  sledge 
— although  it  is  narrow — is  very  con- 
venient. It  is  covered  all  round,  so 
that  neither  frost  nor  snow  can  get 
in.  In  spite  of  all  inconveniences,  I 
reached  my  new  home  safely,  and  be- 
gan a  new  life,  full  of  peculiarities 
and  new  customs. 

The  Zyrians  are  a  Finno-Urgian 
tribe  numbering  about  one  hundred 
and  five  thousand.  They  came  from 
Asia  about  seven  centuries  ago;  long 
after  the  settlement  of  the  main  tribe 
of  this  family,  Finns,  in  Finland. 
Their  first  settlement  was  on  the  head- 
waters of  the  Petchora.  Now  they 
are  spread  practically  over  the  whole 
Petchora  and  Vuchegda  Rivers,  with 
their  tributaries  (but  not  on  the  Dvina, 
as  mentioned  in  the  International  En- 
cyclopedia) so  that  they  occupy  an 
area  from  64  deg.  to  77  deg.  E.,  and 
from  60  deg.  to  65  deg.  N.  They  are 
brachycephalic,  the  index  being  82.2. 
They  are  not  very  tall,  and  of  a  light 
complexion;  their  presence  of  mind  is 
very  remarkable.  The  best  ability 
they  show  in  the  schools  is  in  mathe- 
matics and  in  philosophy;  the  worst,, 
in  foreign  languages.  Although  they 
were  Russianized  five  centuries  ago 
and  compelled  to  adopt  the  Russian 
language  in  the  schools  and  in  public 
offices,  still  not  more  than  thirty-five 
per  cent  can  speak  and  read  Russian. 
Or,  also,  it  may  be  due  to  the  Zyrians' 
strength  to  keep  their  own  language 
and  customs  from  the  Russian  influ- 
ence what  they  keep  successfully;  they 


have  still  at  the  present  time  a  pure 
Zyrian  language,  habits  and  customs. 

The  history  of  the  adoption  of 
Christianity  by  the  Zyrians  serves  as 
a  good  illustration  of  their  character; 
it  was  accomplished  without  any 
bloodshed.  Between  the  years  1350 
and  1397  a  Russian  missionary,  Ste- 
phen, went  among  them,  and  baptized 
the  Zyrians.  He  also  invented  for 
them  an  alphabet,  which  he  derived 
from  the  Greek  and  Slavonic.  Like- 
wise he  translated  the  Bible  and  other 
religious  books  into  their  language. 
("The  Life  of  Stephen,"  by  the  Holy 
Synod.) 

During  all  his  struggle  against  the 
heathenism  of  the  Zyrians,  Stephen 
was  ill-treated  but  once;  it  was  when 
he  burned  their  main  sanctuary.  The 
greatest  resistance  in  his  work  Ste- 
phen encountered  in  Pan,  the  main 
sacrificator  of  the  Zyrians,  with  whom 
Stephen  disputed  often.  Their  dis- 
putes did  not  satisfy  the  Zyrians,  and 
they  always  required  proofs  regard- 
ing them.  Once  they  made  two  holes 
in  the  ice  on  a  river,  half  a  mile  one 
from  the  other,  and  requested  the  dis- 
putants, in  order  that  they  might  prove 
the  righteousness  of  their  respective 
doctrines,  to  dive  in  one  of  the  holes 
and  come  out  through  the  other.  On 
another  occasion,  they  made  a  great 
fire,  and  asked  both  preachers  to  go 
through  the  fire.  "Which  God  is 
greater  will  save  His  priest/'  the  Zy- 
rians said.  In  both  cases,  Pan  was 
frightened,  and  Stephen  won.  Hav- 
ing established  Christianity  among 
them,  Stephen  took  a  census  of  the 
population,  went  to  the  Czar  of  Mos- 
cow, and  reported  that  a  new  people, 
the  Zyrians,  begged  his  protection. 
Since  then  they  have  paid,  offering  no 
resistance  whatever,  small  taxes  to  the 
Russian  government.  The  taxes  were 
collected  by  the  Zyrians  themselves, 
and  one  of  their  elders  carried  them 
to  the  officials  of  the  Russian  govern- 
ment. The  elder  made  his  journey  on 
foot,  and  on  the  way  was  heartily 
welcomed  by  his  people  and  provided 
with  everything  he  needed. 

Brawling  and  fighting  among  them, 


280 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


and  with  the  neighboring  tribes,  and 
being  forced  to  take  peaceable  lives 
by  the  Russian  government,  as  men- 
tioned in  the  Russian  literature,  is  pure 
imagination.  There  is  not  any  reason 
for  that;  all  their  ancient  songs  and 
stories  does  not  tell  anything  about 
that. 

In  addition  to  these  comments  on 
the  Zyrians,  it  may  be  added  that  they 
have  never  been  in  servitude.  That 
is  why  they  are  not  so  humbled  as  the 
Russian  or  other  European  peasants. 
There  is  no  humiliation  before  the  offi- 
cials of  the  government  and  the  rich, 
but  a  feeling  of  human  equality.  This 
is  intensified  by  the  fact  that  they 
have  never  before  had  any  kind  of 
officials  or  government,  except  a  sac- 
rificial officer,  who  had  not  any  power 
over  the  people.  This  fact  is  proved, 
also,  by  the  national  songs  and  stories, 
in  which  there  is  no  mention  of  any 
superior  or  leader  or  chief. 

On  arriving  at  Ust-Sysolsk,  I  was 
surprised  at  its  civic  progress.  Al- 
though the  administration  was  just  the 
same  as  the  central  part  of  Russia,  the 
civic  life  was  entirely  different.  There 
was  freedom  more  than  in  any  repub- 
lic. The  organizations  of  the  social- 
democratic  and  social-revolutionary 
parties  were  meeting  freely  without 
asking  permission  or  notifying  the 
chief  of  police.  There  were  no  ar- 
rests, no  class  distinctions;  even  the 
police  court,  it  seemed  to  me,  was 
cordial  to  every  one  of  us.  Although 
the  city  pleased  me  in  all  respects, 
I  was  told  that  the  living  is  cheaper 
in  a  village  than  in  the  city;  so  I  left 
it  after  a  few  days  to  go  to  a  village, 
Kortkeross,  fifty  miles  north  from  the 
city.  Of  course,  the  police  court  of 
this  place  had  nothing  against  that. 

The  Zyrians'  villages  are  all  alike. 
They  are  situated  on  the  higher  banks 
of  the  rivers,  Vuchegda  and  Petchora, 
which  have  banks  much  higher  than 
other  streams.  Usually  in  the  middle 
of  a  village,  appears  a  beautiful, 
white  church  and  a  school,  which  is 
surrounded  by  fairly  large  houses, 
crowded  without  any  order.  Every 
house  is  built  of  logs  from  twelve  to 


eighteen  inches  in  diameter,  the  crev- 
ices packed  with  moss.  There  are  no 
houses  smaller  than  twenty-five  by 
thirty-five,  and  twenty-five  feet  high. 
Owing  to  the  high  cost  of  glass,  there 
are  few  windows.  They  usually  build 
two  such  houses  ten  or  twelve  feet 
apart,  connect  them  with  an  entrance- 
hall,  and  cover  by  the  same  roof.  The 
Zyrians  are  compelled  to  build  two 
houses  on  account  of  the  cockroaches. 
The  red  and  black  cockroaches  ap- 
pear in  the  houses  where  the  Zyrians 
live  in  very  large  numbers.  The  fam- 
ilies are  compelled  to  change  the 
houses  every  four  or  five  months  and 
to  freeze  them  in  order  to  kill  their 
little,  but  troublesome,  enemies.  In- 
side the  house,  one-third  of  the  space 
is  occupied  by  a  big  brick  oven  with 
flat  top.  Another  third,  side  by  side 
with  the  oven,  is  occupied  by  a  loft. 
The  oven  and  loft  are  the  favorite 
places  of  the  house;  they  are  the  bed- 
room as  well  as"  the  parlor.  Since  the 
oven  is  heated  during  four  or  five 
hours,  it  gives  off  heat  uniformly  all 
day.  , 

Besides  these  houses  there  are  still 
at  the  present  time  some  very  primor- 
dial houses,  called  "smoke  houses/' 
This  is  a  common  Zyrian  house,  but 
without  a  chimney.  Instead  of  the 
chimney  there  is  a  hole  which  is  made 
in  the  wall  opposite  the  oven.  When 
there  is  a  fire  in  the  oven,  the  entire 
room  is  filled  with  smoke,  which  is 
slowly  traveling  from  the  oven  to  the 
hole.  While  the  fire  is  burning  in  the 
oven,  all  the  members  of  a  family  are 
sitting  on  the  floor,  with  their  heads 
bent,  tears  flowing  from  their  eyes, 
and  coughing  heavily.  After  the  fire 
is  out,  all  holes  and  windows  are  shut 
down,  and  the  interior  is  warm  all 
day.  Of  course,  the  walls  and  the 
ceiling  are  covered  with  soot,  as  in  a 
chimney. 

In  Kortkeros,  I  was  welcomed 
by  the  Zyrians  very  cordially.  I  found 
a  clean,  good  room  with  board  for  six 
roubles  (about  three  dollars)  a  month. 
This  price  surprised  me,  but  later  I 
learned  that  one  rouble  was  worth  for 
the  Zyrians  more  than  ten  roubles  for 


/.  A  typical  Zyrian  village.  The  building  in  the  foreground  is  a  school. 
2.  Zyrian  types :  in  the  background  is  a  wooden  cross,  the  kind  erected  in  the 
villages.  3.  A  procession  with  cross  and  banners  making  its  rounds  of  the 

field  on  St.     Stephen's  Day. 


St.  Stephen's  Cathedral  in  Ust-Sysolsk.     The  building  was  erected  at  a 
cost  of  more  than  a  million  roubles.     It  is  generally  regarded  as  the  finest 
and  largest  church  in  the  land  of  the  Zyrians. 


me,  and  that  the  board  did  not  cost  • 
even  these  six  roubles — it  was  so 
poor.  Barley  soup,  fish,  fungi,  pota- 
toes, and  sometimes  boiled  meat,  were 
the  dish  list  of  the  Zyrians.  The  cli- 
mate, eight  months  of  winter  and  four 
months  of  summer,  allows  only  barley 
and  rye  to  grow,  so  that  the  Zyrians 
can  have  only  rye  bread,  and  they 
cook  from  the  barley  only  a  few  kinds 
of  soup  and  gruel.  Even  these  corns 
are  not  sufficient  for  the  whole  year. 
Living  in  the  forests,  they  try  to  util- 
ize them  for  food  as  much  as  possi- 
ble. In  the  very  early  spring  they  get 
birch-tree  sap  for  drinking.  They 
make  a  hole  about  one  inch  deep  in 
an  old  birch-tree,  from  which  a  sap, 
like  clear  water,  runs  slowly  into  a 
pail.  It  has  a  peculiar,  sweet  taste.  A 
little  later  the  Zyrians  get  the  fir-tree 
sap  in  the  form  of  a  thick  syrup.  By 
taking  off  the  bark  of  a  young  fir-tree, 
there  is  left  about  one-eighth  of  an 
inch  of  solidified  tree-sap,  which  has 
not  yet  formed  into  wood.  It  is  fairly 
tasteful,  but  cannot  be  preserved  for 
a  long  time.  In  the  autumn,  the 
Zyrians  gather  fungi  and  berries, 
which  they  preserve  by  drying  and 


salting  for  the  winter.  Although  Zy- 
rians are  good  hunters,  they  do  not 
use  much  meat,  because  they  have  to 
sell  everything  that  they  kill  in  order 
to  get  a  little  money  for  taxes  and 
gun  cartridges. 

Clothing  is  a  very  important  prob- 
lem with  the  Zyrians.  On  account  of 
the  lack  of  industries  in  the  six  hun- 
dred miles  around  them,  and  the  scar- 
city of  means  of  earning  money,  the 
Zyrians  are  compelled  to  produce  all 
their  necessities  in  clothing  by  hand- 
work. This  labor  is  laid  entirely  upon 
the  women.  In  the  summer  they  raise 
flax  and  hemp;  in  the  autumn  they 
prepare  them  for  the  spinning,  and 
all  winter  the  spinning  and  weaving  of 
cloths  goes  on.  Although  they  do  not 
use  any  modern  instruments,  they  can 
produce  several  kinds  and  colors  of 
the  cloths.  Linens,  shirts  and  skirts 
are  made  of  the  finest  cloths;  over- 
ccats  are  rough  ones.  For  the  autumn 
overcoat  they  make  a  thick  woolen 
cloth  of  the  common  sheep  wool.  For 
the  winter  they  have  a  sheep  fur  coat, 
also  a  parka,  which  is  made  of  deer 
skin  with  the  fur  on  the  outside,  in  the 
form  of  a  night-shirt,  with  the  cap 


THE  PECULIAR  LIFE  OF  THE  ZYRIANS. 


283 


and  gloves  sewed  to  it.  The  summer 
shoes  are  made  in  the  simplest  form 
of  leather,  coated  with  wood  tar, "and 
winter  boots  are  sewed  from  a  young 
deer  skin,  or  felted,  about  two  and  a 
half  feet  high,  with  sheep  wool. 

The  character  of  the  Zyrians.  is  ex- 
plained by  their  environment.  They 
are  very  laborious.  Only  hard  work 
has  saved  them  in  such  a  climate.  All 
summer  they  work  fourteen  or  fifteen 
hours  a  day  in  the  field,  preparing 
the  hay  and  corn.  In  the  winter,  all 
men  above  sixteen  years  of  age  go 
into  the  thick  wood  to  hunt,  fifty  or 
sixty,  or  even  a  hundred  miles  away 
from  their  home.  In  their  spare  time 
they  make  all  household  necessities 
from  wood.  ^Besides  furniture  and 
tools,  they  make  the  wooden  spoons, 
iorks,  plates,  cups,  looms  for  weaving 
and  shovels,  harrows,  ploughs,  every- 
thing, even  the  tiny  splints  for  the  illu- 
mination of  the  house.  They  do  not 
use  gas,  kerosene,  nor  candle,  for  il- 
luminating their  houses.  Instead, 
they  shave  the  thin,  long  splinters 
from  a  dry  birch-tree  block,  fasten 
these  splinters  between  the  iron  fork- 
link,  under  which  a  wooden  basin  is 
put  down  for  the  ashes,  and  set  fire 
to  the  splinters.  The  splinters  burn 
with  dull  flames,  and  after  four  or 
five  hours  the  room  is  full  of  smoke. 
•  In  this  world  there  are  no  more 
hard-working  women  than  the  Zy- 
rians. Besides  working  in  the  fields 
like  the  men,  and  doing  all  the  house 
work,  th'ey  also  take  care  of  the  cattle, 
and  they  actually  provide  clothing  for 
the  whole  family.  It  is  common  to 
see  the  women  sitting  long  after  mid- 
night, spinning  beside  the  dull  splin- 
ter flame. 

The  Zyrians  are  no  less  honest  than 
laborious.  For  years  there  had  been 
no  need  for  locks  of  any  kind.  Only 
in  the  last  few  years  have  locks  be- 
come necessary  for  the  warehouses, 
but  practically  all  of  them  can  be 
opened  by  one  key.  It  is  customary 
for  neighbors  to  use  the  same  key  in 
case  a  key  is  lost.  Ne\er  does  one  find 
the  door  of  a  house  locked.  Instead 
of  a  key  they  put  a  stick  across  the 


door,  as  a  sign  that  nobody  is  at  home. 
In  the  summer,  when  no  one  over  ten 
years  of  age  is  in  the  village,  all 
nouses  are  open,  with  only  a  stick 
across  the  door.  Even  what  little 
money  there  is  lies  safely  on  the  shelf. 
There  are  no  banks.  Nobody  recol- 
lects a  single  robbery,  and  very  rarely 
is  there  murder  or  theft. 

The  .Zyrians  are  fearless,  resolute 
and  fertile  in  expedients.  These 
characteristics  are  the  result  of  hunt- 
ing in  the  endless  thick  forests  for 
so  many  years.  Without  realizing  the 
industrial  and  class  struggle,  the  Zy- 
rians are  very  kind-hearted  and  un- 
selfish. There  was  a  case  years  ago 
when  a  Russian  judge' condemned  one 
of  the  Zyrians  to  be  punished  with 
rods,  but  it  was  impossible  to  find  any- 
body to  perform  this  punishment. 
Only  in  recent  years  has  intemperance 
appeared.  It  came  when  the  people 
began  to  communicate  with  the  Rus- 
sians. Even  in  the  Zyrian  language 
there  is  no  corresponding  expression 
for  drunkenness  or  drunkard.  There 
are  very  few  beggars  among  the  Zy- 
rians. Although  they  never  refuse  to 
give  something  to  a  beggar,  they  think 
it  shameful  and  immoral  to  be  a  beg- 
gar. Their  education  stands  on  a 
higher  level  than  it  is  in  the  central 
part  of  Russia.  The  financial  side  -of 
it 'is  wholly  in  their  cwn  hands.  They 
build  schools  and  houses  for  teachers, 
and  the  only  money  paid  is  the  salary 
of  the  teachers.  At  the  present  time 
there  is  a  school  practically  in  every 
village,  and  education  has  made  great 
progress  in  the  last  few  years. 

Although  the  Zyrians  were  bap- 
tized by  the  Greece-Russian  Church 
over  five  hundred  years  ago,  still  they 
have  retained  some  customs  of  their 
original  religion.  One  of  the  traces 
is  the  sacrifice  of  animals,  usually  an 
.ox,  before  the  church.  It  happens 
twice  a  year.  There  is  always  some 
one  who  is  willing  to  sacrifice  his  ox 
or  cow  to  the  church.  The  attendants 
of  the  church,  in  a  little  ceremony,  kill 
the  animal,  cook  it  and  divide  it 
among  the  people;  every  one  who 
wishes  gets  a  part  of  it.  Practically 


284 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


the  sacrifice  is  always  left  to  the  poor, 
as  the  better-off  residents  leave  it  for 
them.  At  the  same  time,  the  Zyrians 
make  their  beloved  beverage,  "sur." 
The  entire  village  participates  in  its 
making.  Every  family  in  the  village 
contributes  its  share.  This  beverage 
is  brewed  of  rye  flour,  malt  and  hops. 
It  is  something  like  beer,  only  the  per- 
centage of  alcohol  in  it  is  very  small. 
It  is  a  very  palatable  and  wholesome 
beverage.  The  church  also  divides 
this  "sur"  among  the  people,  where 
again  the  greater  part  falls  to  the 
share  of  the  poor.  The  custom  arose 
as  follows: 

.  Years  ago,  the  Zyrians,  usually  the 
whole  village,  went  twice  a  year  into 
the  woods,  hunting.  When  they  re- 
turned home  after  a  long  and  toilsome 
hunting  trip  with  an  abundance  of 
game,  they  made  a  joyful  feast  for 
the  whole  village,  with  the  thanksgiv- 
ing sacrifice  to  the  god  of  hunting, 
"Vursa."  After  their  conversion  to 
Christianity,  this  custom  grew  into 
charity  for  the  poor. 

This  custom  is  mentioned  in  the 
International  Encyclopedia,  with  the 
explanation  that  these  sacrifices  were 
made  formerly  in  birch  groves,  which 
were  held  sacred,  and  that  in  them 
was  carried  on  the  worship  of  a  being 
called  the  "Old  Woman  of  Gold."  It 
is  true  that  there  was  the  sacred  birch 
tree,  but  I  never  heard  from  the  Zy- 
rians, nor  read  in  any  book,  the  name 
of  this  tree.  But  the  name  of  "Old 
Woman  of  Gold"  belongs  to  a  woman 
who  really  existed*  She  was  a  very 
strong  and  clever  woman;  physical 
strength  being  a  very  estimable  qual- 
ity among  the  Zyrians.  This  woman 
accomplished  much  good  for  them  by 
her  wise  counsels,  and  was  of  great 
help  to  the  women  in  the  absence  of 
their  husbands.  That  is  why  her  mem- 
ory lives. 

Another  custom  ir»  the  Zyrian  re- 
ligion, which  is  also  for  the  benefit  of 
the  poor,  is  to  provide  a  good  dinner 
for  the  poor  after  some  one  in  the 
family  has  died.  If  the  family  in 
which  the  death  occurs  is  well-to-do, 
several  such  dinners  are  given. 


The  most  devotional  holidays  of  the 
Zyrians  are  Easter  and  St.  Stephen's 
day,  celebrated  in  honor  of  their  bap- 
tizer.  At  Easter,  they  express  their 
enthusiasm  by  firing  their  guns  and 
burning  tar-barrels.  At  the  St.  Ste- 
phen's day  the  Zyrians  go  in  proces- 
sion with  cross  and  banners  around 
villages  and  fields.  Crosses  are 
erected  in  the  fields,  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  from  each  other,  and  prayers 
are  held  at  those  crosses.  Attention 
to  the  church  is  very  great.  In  every 
village  there  is  a  church  with  beau- 
tiful adornments;  and  the  people  will- 
ingly pay  a  good  salary  to  the 
preachers. 

The  social  life  of  the  Zyrians  is 
very  peculiar.  It  is  customary  to  see 
in  the  streets,  even  in 'the  day-time, 
young  men  and  young  women  walking, 
caressing  and  embracing  each  other. 
Likewise,  at  an  evening  party,  it  is 
common  to  see  boys  sitting  on  the 
knees  of  the  girls  and  embracing 
them.  Moreover,  after  an  evening 
party,  young  people  do  not  go  home, 
but  remain  there  to  pass  the  night, 
where  they  sleep  in  pairs,  a  boy  and  a 
girl  together.  Such  evening  parties 
are  frequent.  No  invitations  are  made 
— whoever  comes  is  welcome. 

Although  there  is  apparently  a  very 
close  relation  between  the  young  men 
and  women,  they  are  far  from  being 
dissolute.  Practically  all  of  the  youths 
are  virgin  when  they  marry.  They 
have  a  higher  moral  standard  than  is 
found  among  the  so-called  cultured 
people  in  the  large  cities  of  Europe 
and  America. 

Contrary  to  this  simple  life,  a  wed- 
ding is  a  most  complicated  affair 
among  the  Zyrians.  A  girl  begins  to 
prepare  herself  for  marriage  at  ten 
years  of  age.  She  has  to  weave  at 
least  two  dozen  towels,  three  dozen 
pairs  of  stockings,  the  same  amount 
of  gloves,  one  or  two  dozen  shirts, 
and  one  hundred  yards  of  cloth.  All 
this  clothing  is  to  be  presented  to  the 
family  and  to  the  relatives  of  the 
bridegroom  at  the  wedding.  The  quan- 
tity and  quality  of  this  stuff  is  her 
chief  recommendation,  and  the  choice 


THE  PECULIAR  LIFE  OF  THE  ZYRIANS. 


285 


of  the  bride  by  the  bridegroom's  fam- 
ily depends  entirely  upon  it. 

The  wedding  itself  is  divided  into 
three  parts:  the  betrothing,  the  cere- 
mony at  the  church,  and  the  feast.  It 
takes  not  less  than  two  weeks  for 
these  ceremonies  to  be  carried  out. 
They  are  full  of  what  appears  to  be 
superstitions;  there  is  a  definite  rule 
in  each  step  and  in  each  motion  of  the 
married  couple.  Even  conversation 
must  be  in  the  established  form.  The 
most  interesting  part  of  the  wedding 
is  the  betrothing.  An  important  part 
of  this  ceremony  is  the  lamenting  of 
the  bride  before  her  betrothal.  In  the 
morning,  when  all  the  guests  sit  at  the 
table,  the  bride  sits  down  on  a  bench; 
the  bridegroom  covers  her  with  a 
shawl,  and  pinches  or  strikes  her 
slightly;  then  she  starts  to  cry.  She 
cries  really  and  sorrowfully,  -and  in 
the  form  of  a  woful  song  she  appeals 
with  parting  words  to  her  mother, 
father  and  other  relatives  and  play- 
mates. She  expresses  herself  freely; 
thanks  those  who  were  good  to  her, 
and  blames  those  who  were  not  just 
to  her.  Then  she  appeals  to  the  bride- 
groom, and  prays  him  to  be  friendly 
with  her,  to  love  her  always  and  not 
to  affront  her.  Likewise,  she  appeals 
to  the  father-in-law,  mother-in-law,  to 
all  with  whom  she  may  have  to  live 
afterwards.  Usually,  towards  the 
evening  her  voice  grows  hoarse,  then 
her  friends  help  her.  The  day  be- 
fore they  go  to  church,  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  have  to  take  the  steam 
bath,  which  is  performed  under 
special  songs  of  her  friends  and  with 
the  observation  of  several  other  cus- 
toms. After  the  bath  the  young  couple 
are  ready  to  be  married. 

The  bathing  in  the  steam  bath  •  is 
not  only  most  highly  valued  by  the 
Zyrians,  but  it  is  looked  upon  as  a 
sacred  duty;  no  one  will  go  to  a 
church  on  Easter-day  or  on  Christmas 
without  taking  previously  a  steam 
bath.  Besides  this  the  bath  is  a 
substitute  for  many  pleasures;  it  is 
a  treat  to  a  guest,  a  luxury  for  a  holy- 
day,  and  a  cure  for  all  kinds  of  sick- 
ness. However  ill  a  Zyrian  may  be 


he  treats  himself  with  a  vapor  bath 
only.  He  takes  the  baths  every  day, 
until  he  is  cured  or  dead.  The  rriain 
purpose  of  taking  the  bath  is  not  tb 
wash  the  body,  but  to  exasperate  it. 
For  this  purpose,  they  keep  in  a  bath- 
room a  temperature  of  120  degrees  F. 
or  more,  and  strike  themselves  with  a 
birch  bath-broom  in  every  possible 
way.  Such  a  self-punishment  is  con- 
tinued with  very  pleasant  sounds,  and 
until  the  person  is  exhausted.  On 
account  of  this  custom,  there  is  not  a 
family,  which  has  not  a  special  bath- 
house about  five  hundred  feet  from 
the  living  house.  It  has  become  of 
such  importance  to  the  Zyrians  that 
whenever  they  build  a  living  house  the 
foundation  of  the  bath-house  is  laid  at 
the  same  time. 

Besides  these  strange  customs  in 
the  wedding  and  in  taking  baths , 
the  Zyrians  have  some  very  good  and 
beneficial  ones.  One  of  the  most  im- 
portant is  the  communistical  land 
holding.  All  land  is  divided  among 
the  inhabitants  proportionally  to  the 
number  of  members  in  a  family.  In 
order  to  keep  this  propo^ion  constant, 
they  redivide  the  lixid  every  ten 
years.  Moreover,  if  in  ten  years 
one  family  increases  and  another 
decreases,  a  corresponding  portion 
of  the  land  goes  from  the  second 
family  to  the  first  "one.  Although  the 
Russian  Government  urges  the  Zyrians 
to  take  the  land  as  private  property 
with  many  immunities,  the  Zyrians  do 
not  take  it.  They  say :  "The  land  be- 
longs to  Nature,  as  air,  and  nobody 
has  a  right  to  be  the  owner  of  it." 
This  communism  is  general  in  every 
way.  One  valuable  thing  may  be 
used  for  an  entire  district,  though  it  is 
purchased  by  an  individual  man. 
Likewise,  a  tool,  not  used  in  every- 
day life,  travels  from  hand  to  hand 
always.  The  Zyrians  never  refuse  to 
lend  any  one  what  they  have. 

In  the  belief  of  the  Zyrians  there  is 
a  remarkable  characteristic.  First, 
they  strongly  believe  in  animism.  The 
.expression  "kulem"  (dead)  or  "lov- 
tem"  (without  soul),  they  apply 
equally  to  a  person  and  to  matter. 


286 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


They  say  "lov-tem  mort"  (person  with- 
out soul)  "lov-tem  chery"  (fish  with- 
out soul),  "lov-tem  poo"  (tree  with- 
out soul),  etc.,  so  that  they  do  not 
distinguish  the  source  of  the  life  be- 
tween a  man  and  a  tree,  but  believe 
in  the  universal  soul  of  Nature. 
Second,  they  believe  in  the  existence 
of  two  souls  for  every  person  and 
animal.  One  soul  is  in  the  person 
another  follows  him  outside.  The 
first  they  call  "lov,"  the  second  "ort." 
The  "lov"  is  the  enlivening  soul  of  the 
oody.  The  life  is  the  existence  of  the 
"lov"  in  the  body,  death  is  the  leaving 
of  it,  and  birth  is  the  union  of  it  with 
the  body.  Before  accepting  Chris- 
tianity they  believed  that  "lov"  after 
leaving  the  body  goes  to  Nature  and 
may  go  into  the  body  of  animals.  If 
a  person  were  a  sinner,  his  "lov"  has 
to  go  in  a  lizard,  or  in  some  other  rep- 
tile. According  to  this  they  think  it 
is  a  great  virtue  to  kill  a  lizard;  i.  e.,  to 
deliver  a  human  soul  from  a  lizard 
body  and  to  give  it  a  chance  to  take 
a  better  form.  A  good  person's  soul, 
"lov,"  may  get  in  the  birds,  doves,  or 
some  other  superior  animal.  But  the 
"ort"  is  entirely  different.  She  follows 
the  person  invisibly  everywhere.  She 
is  his  friend  and  protector.  If  a  per- 
son will  have  an  accident,  "ort"  pre- 
dicts it  by  suddenly  rousing  him  in 
the  night,  or  by  an.  unusual  noise,  etc. 
A  Zyrian  often  tells  you  how  he  heard 
distinctly  the  footsteps  of  his  "ort,"  or 
how  he  heard  something  calling 
him  by  his  name.  And  always  some- 
thing bad  has  happened  after  that. 
Before  a  serious  accident,  like 
death,  the  "ort"  may  take  the  form 
of  his  person  and  appear  to  him  vis- 
ibly. After  the  death  of  the  person, 
"ort"  does  not  disappear,  and  she  does 
not  go  into  nature  like  the  "lov,"  but 
may  be  seen  by  the  relatives  of  the 
person  who  died. 

The  general  occupation  of  the  Zy- 
rians  at  the  present  time  are  agricul- 
ture and  hunting.  For  a  long  period 
they  hunted  only;  but  about  two  hun- 
dred years  ago  they  started  to  culti- 
vate the  land.  The  cultivation  of  the 
soil  is  conducted  in  a  very  primitive 


way.  As  the  endless  forests  are  un- 
der very  careless  control  of  the  Rus- 
sian government  (one  forester  for 
eight  hundred  thousand  acres)  the  Zy- 
rians  have  a  good  chance  to  use  them 
as  they  like.  Calling  together  ten  or 
twenty  families  in  the  spring,  they 
choose  an  out-of-the-way  spot  in  the 
woods,  and  cut  down  all  the  trees  not 
over  three  feet  in  diameter.  In  the 
early  autumn,  when  the  fallen  trees 
are  dry,  the  Zyrians  burn  them,  and  in 
the  remnants  of  ash  is  and  embers  they 
sow  the  rye.  The  next  summer  they 
always  have  good  crops.  Many  thou- 
sands of  acres  are  burned  out  for  this 
purpose. 

For  hunting,  the  Zyrians  make  a 
party  of  twenty  to  thirty  men,  and  go 
into  the  woods  fifty  or  a  hundred  miles 
from  home.  A  Zyrian  hunter  is  armed 
very  poorly.  He  has  only  one  little 
gun  with  one-eighth  of  an  inch  of  muz- 
zle, one  knife,  a  long  spear,  and  is 
accompanied  by  two  dogs.  He  is  a 
first-class  shooter;  he  rarely  fails  to 
hit  his  mark.  He  uses  cartridges  with 
great  care,  and  thus  reduces  their  cost 
to  the  minimum.  He  buys  only  gun- 
powder; the  shots  he  makes  himself. 
For  this  purpose  he  has  lead  wire 
bound  across  his  shoulders,  and  bites 
off  a  small  piece  of  it  as  the  necessity 
for  that  arrives,  and  chews  the  bit 
until  it  becomes  spherical.  Their  gun 
and  cartridges  are  good  only  for  small 
animals;  in  attacking  a  bear  they  de- 
pend solely  on  their  spear.  It  is  very 
dangerous  to  fight  a  bear  with  a  spear, 
but  frequently  a  hunter  goes  alone  to 
meet  his  quarry.  The  Zyrian  hunter 
does  not  fear  any  danger  in  the  for- 
est, but  he  does  fear  that  his  dogs  will 
be  crippled  by  sorcery.  He  believes 
that  other  hunters,  knowing  the  sor- 
cery, may  steal  the  scents  of  his  dogs. 
For  their  protection,  in  the  morning  he 
lets  the  dogs  out  between  his  legs. 
There  are  so  many  stories  about  dogs 
being  bewitched.  One  hunter  has 
good  dogs;  another  has  poor  ones,  but 
he  knows  the  sorcery.  The  sorcerer  by 
conjuration  stole  the  scents  of  his 
dogs.  He  seeks  another  conjuror  to  re- 
store them  by  his  magic  art. 


An  Indian  village  on  the  edge  of  the  desert. 


Yuma,  the  Hottest  Place  in  America 


By  Felix  J.  Koch 


DOWN  at  Yuma,  on  the  border 
between  the  new  State  of  Ari- 
zona and  the  older  one  of  Cali- 
fornia, they  revel  in  the  distinc- 
tion  of   possessing   the   hottest   place 
under  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  When  the 
rest  of  the  republic  has  been  gripped 
by  winter,  in  Yuma  the  thermometers 
register  one  hundred  odd,  while  just 
what  extremes  they  won't  reach  in  the 
summer   no   man   has   as   yet   vouch- 
safed. 

That  Yuma  is  inhabited  by  human 
salamanders  goes  without  the  saying. 
Only  people  who  like  such  heat  would 
come  here  of  choice,  and  only  those 
who  don't  know  better  would  not  try 
to  get  away,  by  and  by. 


There  are  several  features  of  Yuma 
that  excite  the  attention  of  the 
stranger.  All  of  them  savor  of  just 
the  sort  of  place  you'd  pictured  Yuma 
before  you  came. 

First  among  these  are  the  Indians. 
Here,  alone,  of  all  the  places  under  the 
flag,  Uncle  Sam  authorizes  polygamy, 
and  the  Yuma  buck  is  permitted  to 
maintain  as  many  wives  as  he  can  in- 
duce to  live  with  him  in  the  wigwam. 
Then,  again,  the  prison  at  Yuma  is 
different  from  prisons  anywhere  west 
of  Gibraltar.  In  fact,  the  only  coun- 
terpart of  the  village  jail,  which  is  a 
sort  of  stepping  stone  to  the  prison,  is 
in  the  heart  of  Turkey.  And  the  peo- 
ple of  Yuma  are  otherwise  so  typically 


288 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


Mexican  that  one  wonders  almost  if  he 
be  under  the  rule  of  the  Stars  and 
Stripes. 

The  whole  experience  of  a  jaunt  to 
Yuma  is  southwestern  and  strenuous. 
You  leave  Tucson  8:45  at  night.  At 
6:15  in  the  morning  you're  at  Yuma. 
On  the  map  the  journey  seems  as  noth- 
ing, but  out  in  the  West  the  distances 
are  startling  in  their  magnitude. 

The  hotel  is  what  Dickens  might 
have  described  as  a  depot-restaurant, 
built  over  the  station  itself,  and  with 
its  porches  looking  down  into  the 
turbid  Colorado,  as  is  the  fashion  in 


gether  too  few  sight-seers  get  off  here 
to  win  them  over  to  affability.  The 
bucks,  who  squat  along  the  changing 
river  banks  in  their  straw  hats  and 
jeans,  idle  the  year  round,  and  are, 
in  fact,  positively  discourteous  to  the 
stranger. 

Yuma,  once  one  has  left  his  belong- 
ings in  the  hotel  and  started  to  ex- 
plore, is  interesting  for  what  it  lacks 
in  modernity.  There  is  practically  but 
one  long  street,  of  low  one  or  two-story 
cottages,  built  of  frame,  and  housing, 
almost  without  exception,  saloons  and 
shops,  in  addition  to  the  homes  of  the 


A  corner  of  America  where  the  sun  shines  hottest. 


Spain.  There  is  a  bridge,  with  the 
Indian  women  trundling  past  con- 
stantly, and  the  boat-landing  below; 
while  on  the  opposite  bank  one  has  the 
Government  Indian  school.  Every- 
where there  are  Indians,  the  Yumas, 
after  whom  the  town  is  named.  At 
Yuma,  however,  the  gay  garment  and 
blanket  of  the  Indian  are  genuine,  and 
not  put  on  simply  to  attract  the  tour- 
ist. As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Yumas 
hate  the  whites,  and  while  they  sell 
trinkets  to  these  at  the  station,  alto- 


house-holders.  There  are  plenty  of 
vacant  lots  between  the  'dobes,  so 
that  any  newcomer  may  settle  if  he 
will. 

There  is  a  fair  public  school  build- 
ing and  a  Catholic  church,  this  latter 
interesting  for  its  Indian  communi- 
cants, who  come  here,  the  women's 
faces  inclosed  by  the  black  'shawl 
worn  round  the  head  and  about  the 
shoulders,  as  did  the  redmen  to  the 
missions  in  the  pre-Mexican  days  in 
California.  At  the  time  of  day  that 


natural  monument  in  Apache  land. 


Typical  roadside  scene  near  Yuma. 


you  are  out,  Yuma  is  still  half  in  its 
slumbers.  Apart  from  a  flight  of 
crows  on  the  main  highway,  the  quiet 
of  dawn  reigns  supreme.  You  can 
walk  over  the  entire  place  in  an  hour 
nicely,  and  you  do  so  while  you  may, 
unobserved.  There  are  lemons  grow- 
ing in  one  garden,  the  first  you  will 
have  encountered  in  traveling  west. 
To-day  it  is  cold  until  the  sun  has 
risen,  but  then,  and  in  summer,  Yuma 
is,  next  to  Death  Valley,  the  hottest 
place  in  the  world,  so  that  you  may 
lock  for  tropical  foliage. 

You  have  just  wondered  at  the  fool- 
ish custom  of  the  milkmen  of  Yuma, 
up  betimes,  who  knock  at  each  house- 
door  until  told  by  the  tenants  to  leave 
the  milk  outside,  a  custom  whose  ori- 
gin lies  shrouded  in  mystery,  when 
two  women,  seemingly  drunk,  attract 
your  attention.  They  are  following  a 
man,  expostulating  as  only  Mexicans 
can,  and  so  you,  too,  follow  at  a  safe 
distance.  They  lead  to  the  court- 
house in  a  side  street,  where  you,  per- 
haps, would  not  have  ventured.  It  is 
a  low  building,  this,  with  a  door  in 


the  center,  admitting  to  a  sort  of  lobby 
— floor,  roof  and  walls  all  of  wood. 
On  the  right  opens  the  court  room,  a 
few  chairs  and  a  stool  on  the  platform, 
the  sort  of  court  room  you  see  on  the 
stage  now  and  then.  On  the  left,  of- 
fices open.  In  the  rear  there  extends, 
an  enclosed  court  yard  or  patio,  and 
directly  across,  admitting  to  this,  is 
a  heavily  grated  iron  door,  behind 
which,  all  in  one  ceil,  as  in  the  prisons 
of  Turkey,  are  the  prisoners. 

It  is  to  this  jail  that  the  women  are 
directing  their  footsteps.  The  one  is 
weeping,  the  other  seems  angry.  Both 
begin  pleading  with  the  jailor.  Last 
night  the  husband  of  the  weeping  wo- 
man came  home  furiously  drunk,  and 
began  using  the  knife  upon  her.  So 
the  police  were  called,  and  now  he  is 
here.  She,  however,  had  no  idea  it 
was  so  vile  a  place,  and  now  she  had 
come  to  beg  his  release.  When  she 
finally  became  convinced  that  her 
pleadings  were  vain,  she  drew  up  her 
skirt — for  conventionalities  are  un- 
known at  Yuma,  and  took  from  her 
garter  something,  coin,  probably,  to 


YUMA,  THE  HOTTEST  PLACE  IN  AMERICA. 


291 


"bribe,  which  she  handed  her  husband 
through  the  bars.  Then,  looking  nei- 
ther to  right  nor  left,  she  and  her 
friends  departed.  Such,  however,  are 
the  side-lights  one  gets  on  the  day's 
work  at  Yuma. 

With  the  court-house  and  a  stroll 
•among  the  homes  and  the  gardens, 
their  sterile  soil  overgrown  with  the 
olive  and  the  castor  bean,  one  has 
-about  finished  Yuma.  There  is  the 
post-office,  some  shops,  and  The  Sen- 
tinel office,  but  they  afford  little  of 
interest. 

It  is  the  environs  of  the  town  that 
attract.  In  the  rainy  season,  when  the 
narrow,  dark-brown,  shrunken  Colo- 
rado rages  beneath  the  great  iron 
bridge  of  the  railway,  steamers  run 
to  the  gulf,  or  up  river,  one  of  the  most 
interesting  trips  in  the  West.  In  drier 
times,  stages  follow  the  Colorado 
•along  to  Laguna,  where  the  govern- 
ment has  built  the  second  largest  dam 
in  the  world.  The  purpose  of  this 
dam  is  not  to  hold  the  waters  of  the 
'Colorado,  but,  copied  after  the  dam  of 
the  Nile,  to  control  them,  this  being 
done  by  catching  the  water  here,  and 
then,  by  means  of  sluices,  feeding  it 
over  a  territory  of  about  ten  miles.  So 
Uncle  Sam  will  not  alone  prevent 
floods  in  the  vicinity  of  Yuma,  but  he 
will  be  enabled  to  irrigate  the  land  as 
well. 

Over  the  bridge  lies  the  Indian 
reservation,  and  on  its  borders  an 
interesting  primitive  corral  for  the 
horses  of  the  stage  plying  into  the 
interior,  is -built.  Of  course,  no  roof 
to  this  shed  is  needed,  for  it  practi- 
cally never  rains  in  Yuma,  and  the 
stages  themselves  consist  of  three 
open  wagonettes,  the  covers  of  which 
iiave  long  since  been  lost. 

You  get  a  new  idea  of  Indian  con- 
trol in  the  Southwest  as  you  step  past 
the  corral.  There  is  a  sign  forbidding 
"whites  to  proceed,  unless  they  have 


legitimate  business  with  the  Indians, 
and  stating  a  heavy  penalty  for  trad- 
ing with  the  Redskins.  Furthermore, 
it  is  forbidden  to  enter  the  reservation 
without  a  permit.  The  whole  arrange- 
ment seems  well-nigh  despotic.  The 
Yumas  live  in  a  sort  of  forbidden  land. 

Squaws,  with  the  gay  colored  blan- 
kets, pass  out.  Old  men,  with  the 
hair  down  their  backs  in  innumerable 
braids,  so  that,  from  the  rear,  one  can 
scarcely  distinguish  them  from  wo- 
men, saunter  in  or  stop  to  watch  the 
stages  being  harnessed,  and  perhaps 
to  lend  an  indolent  hand  to  hitching 
the  four  horses. 

The  homes  of  these  Indians  are  pic- 
turesque, if  nothing  else.  Built  at  in- 
tervals over  the  reservation,  on  which 
they  may  settle  where  they  please, 
one  finds,  almost  everywhere,  the 
primitive  adobes  in  little  groups,  or 
else  miles  from  the  nearest  neighbor. 
Some  are  on  the  open  desert,  where 
the  summer  sun  beats  in  fury;  others 
are  hidden  away  in  the  tall  arrowwood 
prairie.  Basically,  each  hut  is  square, 
while  from  the  front  there  extends  a 
roof  of  dry  brush  and  mud  to  a  pole  at 
either  corner. 

Under  this  hut,  the  gayly-clad  Red- 
skins squat,  while  outside  are  set 
poles,  great  cages  being  formed,  as  it 
were,  and  serving  as  corrals  for  the 
horses.  Dogs  are  everywhere,  but 
noiseless  as  their  owners,  who  slink 
along  silent  as  the  Arab. 

Children,  likewise,  are  numerous, 
but  their  quiet  demeanor  makes  them 
even  more  conspicuous.  Two  Indian 
boys  will  occasionally  gallop  past  on 
a  horse;  otherwise  the  reservation 
seems  to  repose  in  perpetual  quiet. 

Maybe  it's  the  heat  that  drives  folks 
to  silence — it's  like  the  lethargy  of  a 
mid-summer  noon-hour.  At  any  rate, 
it  saps  all  the  strength  from  you,  and 
you've  neither  energy  nor  desire  to 
stir  here  among  the  Redskins  of  Yuma. 


'Baguio,  Simla  of  the  Philippines 


By  /Aonroe  Woolley 


Author 
Manila 


of   "Hongkong,  the  Storehouse  of  the  Chinese  Empire"  "Modern 
ila,"  "How  They  Hustle  in  Japan"  "Chinese  Consistency"  Etc. 


SUMMER  capitals  have  long  been 
the  rage  everywhere,  except  in 
the  United  States.  The  crowned 
heads  of  Europe,  not  satisfied 
with  a  paltry  few,  have  whole  clusters 
of  capitals  here,  there  and  every- 
where throughout  their  realms,  so  that 
when  tiring  of  one  executive  center 
they  simply  move  on  to  the  attractive 
novelty  of  a  new  surrounding.  This 
habit  works  nicely  with  royalty,  the 
members  of  which  do  not  have  to 
worry  over  packing  boxes,  shipping 
tags,  railroad  freight  rates,  and  care- 
less draymen. 

On  the  other  hand,  democracies  are 
happily  not  much  given  to  these  lux- 
uries, any  more  than  perspiring  wage 
earners  are  prone  to  encumber  them- 
iselves  with  summer  homes  and 
gardens. 

Uncle  Sam,  however,  believes  in 
summer  capitals  where  they  are  really 
needed,  and  there  being  no  liberal- 
pocketed  Presidents  in  his  colonial  de- 
pendencies to  provide  Oyster  Bays 
and  Beverlys,  Uncle  Sam  long  since 
got  busy  in  his  capacity  of  high  stew- 
ard of  the  Philippine  Isles,  and  built, 
mostly,  if  not  solely,  with  insular 
funds,  a  beautiful  summer  home,  in- 
cluding administration  buildings,  for 
his  official  family. 

Thus,  the  officials  of  the  Philippines 
have  one  on  their  brothers  of  the  dip- 
lomatic service  who,  denied  a  house 
at  government  expense  to  live  in 
abroad,  are  compelled  to  dig  down  in 
their  private  pockets  and  rent  suitable 
quarters. 

Early  in  the  game  of  our  occupation 
of  the  Islands,  the  imperative  need  of 


some  place  for  recuperation  from  the 
onslaughts  of  the  heated  term  in 
Manila,  within  easy  distance  of  town,, 
was  soon  realized  by  the  adminis- 
tration. 

In  the  end,  trips  into  the  mountains 
of  Benguet  province — a  chain  locally 
known  as  the  Philippine  Alps — got 
to  be  the  thing  in  lieu  of  expensive> 
time-consuming  jaunts  abroad  to 
China,  Siam,  Japan,  or  the  Straits  Set- 
tlements between  February  and  June 
of  each  year,  the  period  when  Manila 
sizzles  and  sears — that  is,  in  the 
mind  of  the  unacclimated  pale  face. 

Baguio,  the  capital  of  Benguet  prov- 
ince, nestles  amid  the  rugged  pines 
(the  only  group  in  the  archipelago), 
on  the  summit  of  a  fine  mountain 
range.  With  it,  Governor  Taft  was 
greatly  impressed  after  a  few  visits, 
and  his  recommendations  to  convert 
the  miserable  trail  wending  its  way 
across  jungle,  vale  and  mountain,  over 
innumerable  streams  and  through  im- 
posing gorges,  into  a  wagon  road  wor- 
thy the  name,  eventually  •  led  to  the 
building  of  the  famous  Benguet  road, 
more  nearly  resembling  a  turnpike  or 
modern  boulevard,  and  a  thoroughfare 
elaborate  with  eccentric  curves,  cuts, 
and  hundreds  of  bridges  and  culverts. 
The  road,  which  cost  several  millions 
of  pesos  and  not  a  few  lives  from  ac- 
cidents, such  as  dynamite  explosions, 
and  from  disease  breaking  out  in  the 
construction  camps,  has  been  par- 
tially a  failure,  whereas  the  capital 
itself  is  proving  a  great  success  from 
many  standpoints.  With  the  coming 
of  the  rainy  season,  great  expendi- 
tures for  up-keep  are  necessary  in  re- 


BAGUIO,  SIMLA  OF  THE  PHILIPPINES. 


293 


placing  bridges  and  portions  of  road- 
way carried  off  by  floods  which  dash 
down  the  mountain  streams  and  by 
landslides  from  the  towering  moun- 
tains onto  the  highway. 

Ten  years  ago,  only  the  best  guides 
with  pack  animals  could  by  much 
labor  and  fatigue,  after  many  days  of 
struggle,  reach  the  mountain  capital. 
Now,  Pullman  cars,  or  rather  what 
answers  for  standard  sleepers  in  the 
Islands,  run  to  within  about  twenty 
miles  of  the  Philippine  Simla.  Taxis 
carry  the  crowds  the  remainder  of  the 
way  through  the  finest  specimens  of 
tropical  scenic  splendor.  Or,  auto- 
mobiles may  leave  Manila  and  run 
straight  through  over  the  famous  high- 
way almost  without  a  halt.  Sumptu- 
ous inns  are  scattered  along  the  route. 

Baguio,  which,  by  the  way,  when 
fixed  up  in  American  style,  means 
"storm,"  has  a  decidedly  invigorating 
climate  as  a  result  of  her  five  thousand 
feet  of  elevation.  Ice  has  been  known 
to  form  there  during  the  cooler  nights, 
and  an  extra  supply  of  blankets,  some- 
thing entirely  unnecessary  in  town,  is 
required  to  eliminate  a  shivering  skin 
and  chattering  teeth.  A  decade  ago 
there  were  few  white  settlers — pos- 
sibly not  more  than  half  a  dozen 
Spaniards.  These  arrived  after  a 
perilous  journey  over  the  frightful 
trail  since  giving  way  to  the  new  road, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  railway.  The 
town  now  boasts  an  ice  plant,  electric 
lights,  telephones,  telegraph  system, 
and  a  taxi  service,  and  few  residences 
in  Manila,  in  point  of  beauty  from 
without  and  comfort  from  within,  at 
least,  can  equal  the  snug  homes  built 
there.  While  the  government  build- 
ings are  of  the  bungalow  type,  they 
are,  nevertheless,  roomy  and  highly 
commodious. 

The  hotels  are  large  and  comfort- 
able, and  give  excellent  service — >sur- 
prising  service  for  institutions  situ- 
ated away  off  in  the  jungle  on  the  ex- 
treme edge  of  nowhere. 

Baguio's  parks  should  serve  as  fit- 
ting examples  for  our  smaller  towns 
here  at  home.  It  may  be  conserva- 
tively asserted  that  no  American  coir  • 


munity  anywhere  of  equal  size  can 
equal,  let  alone  excel,  her  drives  and 
plazas. 

But  then,  few  American  towns  have 
any  other  save  municipal  treasuries  to 
gratify  their  whims  in  parking.  And 
Baguio  is  what  she  is  only  because 
Uncle  Sam,  with  his  accustomed  lib- 
erality, wanted  a  nice  place  to  send 
his  officials  during  the  hot  spell.  The 
Spaniards  made  all  sorts  of  fun  of 
the  project  in  the  beginning,  saying 
they  survived  for  centuries  without  a 
Baguio — that  is,  one  of  the  town  sort 
— but  last  summer  ?.  number  of  swel- 
tering Dons  made  the  pilgrimage 
when  the  pavements  in  town  com- 
menced to  radiate  heat. 

The  hot  spell  in  the  Islands  does 
not  come  at  the  time  summer  strikes 
the  United  States.  When  our  Presi- 
dent is  enjoying  the  chilliness  of  early 
spring,  or,  in  other  words,  when  he  is 
getting  in  his  best  licks  when  not  out 
boosting  himself  for  another  term,  the 
officials  of  Manila,  military  and  civil, 
borrow  an  extra  outfit  of  bed  clothing, 
box  up  their  clerks  and  typewriters, 
and  trek  hurriedly  to  Baguio.  There 
they  remain,  doing  as  little  work  as 
possible,  until  about  the  time  old  Sol 
begins  to  make  things  unpleasant  in 
Washington. 

The  officials  at  Baguio,  whether  at 
the  desk  or  on  the  recreation  field, 
keep  in  touch  with  Manila  and  the  out- 
side world  by  wire  and  wireless.  Few 
are  supposed  to  work  except  the  un- 
boxed clerks,  the  typewriters,  and  the 
telegraphers. 

Baguio  so  excels  as  a  health  resort 
that  the  military  long  since  erected  a 
fine^  modern  hospital  there.  Ailing 
soldiers  and  officers  are  regularly  sent 
into  the  hills  of  Northern  Luzon  to  re- 
cuperate from  malignant  fevers  and 
other  ills.  In  this  way,  much  money 
has  been  saved  to  the  government, 
as,  otherwise,  many  patients  would 
have  to  be  sent  home  for  a  change  of 
climate. 

A  military  post  for  a  battalion  of 
troops,  550  acres  in  extent,  and  bear- 
ing the  name  of  Camp  John  Hay,  in 
honor  of  our  deceased  Secretary  of 


294 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


State,  is  located  adjacent  to  the  town. 
And  if  Baguio  is  a  model  municipal- 
ity, Camp  John  Hay  should  wear  a 
blue  ribbon  as  a  military  post.  Both 
projects,  from  standpoints  of  sanita- 
tion, comfort  and  beauty,  are  entitled 
to  a  grand  prix. 

In  season,  Baguio  is  a  gay  place. 
Titled  foreigners  from  China,  Japan, 
the  East  Indies,  and  Europe,  may  be 
found  mingling  at  social  functions 
with  tHe  cosmopolitan  populace  of  the 
summer  capital.  Several  hundred 
American  school-ma'ams  make  the  pil- 
grimage annually  to  the  capital  to 
attend  the  teachers'  camp,  and  inciden- 
tally to  get  in  on  the  merriment.  The 
person  that  doesn't  go  to  Baguio  does 
not  amount  to  much,  in  a  social  way, 
you  know.  That's  the  idea.  It  is  the 
only  thing  that  makes  'Baguio  unpopu- 
lar with  the  masses,  particularly  the 
peasantry. 

Now  and  then  the  Governor-Gen- 
eral, drunk  with  Yankee  democracy, 
dons  a  baseball  uniform  to  play  the 
game  with  his  Cabinet.  Maybe  the 
Count  of  Sen-Sen,  from  Kobe,  or  a 
mandarin  from  Tien-Tsin,  or  a  Sultan 
from  Sulu,  with  a  British  Lord  from 
Hongkong,  form  a  part  of  the  oppos- 
ing team,  in  which  case  the  opposing 
team  goes  down  to  defeat,  for  no  such 
mixture  of  races  can  hope  to  win 
against  the  originators  of  the  game.  If 
superior  ability  fails  to  win  for  the 
Yankees,  then  an  interpretation  of  the 
rules  may  be  relied  upon. 

As  tourists  are  now  coming  from 
everywhere  over  the  Far  East  to  Ba- 
guio, thereby  to  much  extent  warrant- 
ing the  construction  of  the  expensive 
road,  the  town  has  finally  been  incor- 
porated and  laid  out  in  lots,  double 
city-size.  Of  course,  the  price  of  the 
plots  is  effective  in  keeping  out  un- 
desirables. Besides,  the  plan  has  the 
added  advantage  of  keeping  many  dol- 
lars at  home  which  formerly  went 
abroad  in  search  of  recreation.  Those 
who  own  cottages  in  the  summer  capi- 
tal never  think  of  going  away  to  other 
shores  in  hot  weather. 

Railroad  fare  to  Baguio  is  quite 
reasonable.  The  round  trip  may  be 


made  for  $13.75,  good  for  six  months; 
whereas,  in  the  early  days  the  trip 
could  not  be  made  for  less  than  fifty 
dollars,  if  for  that,  one  way.  These 
remarkable  transportation  facilities 
are  having  the  desired  effect  of  at- 
tracting thousands,  where  there  were 
formerly  but  tens  in  the  yearly  exo- 
dus to  the  hills.  Indeed,  so  great  has 
been  the  demand  for  accommodations 
in  late  years  that  the  hotels  are  soon 
to  be  doubled. 

There  are  a  number  of  beautiful 
residences  of  the  bungalow  type  in 
the  town.  Chief  among  these  is  "Top 
Side/'  owned  personally  by  Governor- 
General  W.  Cameron  Forbes,  who,  by 
the  way,  is  a  grandson  of  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson.  Mansion  House  is  the  Gov- 
ernor-General's official  residence,  built 
by  the  government.  Both  these  build- 
ings are  constructed  of  Benguet  pine 
and  stone.  At  Camp  John  Hay  a  very 
imposing  set  of  quarters  has  been 
built  by  the  Federal  government  for 
the  commanding  General  of  the  Phil- 
ippine Division,  at  present  Major- 
General  J.  Franklin  Bell.  General 
Bell's  residence  is  surrounded  by 
many  pretty  cottages  for  the  ©fficers 
of  his  staff. 

"Government  Center"  includes  the 
civil  government  administration  build- 
ing, occupied  by  secretaries  and  de- 
partments, and  numerous  other  build- 
ings, among  which  is  a  central  mess 
hall.  The  Constabulary  School,  or 
West  Point  of  the  native  provincial 
police  corps,  is  also  at  Baguio.  The 
Boys'  School  gives  the  children  of  for- 
eign residents — American,  British, 
German,  Spaniard,  French,  etc. — the 
benefit  of  modern  training  in  a  bracing 
climate.  There  is  also  a  country  club, 
a  teachers'  club,  an  officers'  club,  golf 
links,  a  polo  field,  tennis  court,  base- 
ball diamond,  basket  ball  ground — all 
of  which  may  or  may  not  infer  that 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  fun  and  play 
in  connection  with  running  the  gov- 
ernment out  there  for  half  the  year. 

The  Jesuit  monks,  who  for  decades 
have  maintained  the  best-equipped 
observatory  in  the  Far  East  in  Manila, 
are  now  busy  building  a  colossal  stone 


SAN  FRANCISCO. 


295 


monastery  and  observatory  on  the 
highest  summit  of  Baguio.  Already 
there  is  a  band  of  priests  at  the  sum- 
mer capital.  This  Order  may  in  due 
course  build  a  large  convalescent  hos- 
pital at  the  summer  barrio. 

Just  now  an  effort  is  being  made 
to  induce  capitalists  to  build  a  rail- 
road for  the  remaining  twenty  miles 
into  Baguio,  along  the  top  of  the 
divide,  to  avoid  the  awful  landslides. 
The  character  of  the  country  offers 
many  engineering  difficulties,  which 
the  present  Manila  &  Dagupan  Rail- 
road, a  small  line,  has  so  far  refrained 
from  undertaking. 

Benguet  is  a  famous  gold  produc- 
ing province,  and  many  other  valuable 
minerals  are  found  in  the  mountains. 
A  number  of  Americans  own  rich 
mines  about  the  summer  capital.  Also, 
the  soil  of  the  country  thereabouts  is 
rich,  and  with  an  average  temperature 
of  75  deg.  maximum  and  51  deg.  mini- 
mum, many  things — strawberries  for 


one — may  be .  raised  there  which  da 
not  thrive  elsewhere  over  the  great 
archipelago.  In  fact,  the  Baguio  cli- 
mate is  more  nearly  that  of  a  temper- 
ate zone  than  that  of  a  tropical  section. 

Because  of  these  facts,  the  govern- 
ment continues  to  build  additional 
homes  for  its  employees,  and  to  make 
the  trip  less  expensive  each  year.  The 
government  believes  that  the  improved 
physical  condition  resulting  from  a  so- 
journ at  Baguio  gives  returns  in  the 
form  of  better  service  and  a  greater 
degree  of  contentment. 

And  the  Filipinos,  no  doubt  catch- 
ing a  rebellious  spirit  from  "Storm 
Town"  expenditures,  against  which 
they  were  once  bitterly  arrayed,  are 
gradually  being  taught  by  experience 
the  value  of  the  salubrious,  invigorat- 
ing climate  of  their  hill-country. 

Then,  too,  India  had  best  look  care- 
fully to  her  laurels  that  Baguio  may 
not  some  day  not  far  distant  outshine 
quaint  Simla. 


SAN  •  FRANCISCO 


Sun,  and  the  flash  of  a  seagull's  wing 

Aglint  with  sun. 
The  throb  of  the  engine's  beats  that  sing, 

The  siren's  tongue. 
A  silver  flash  on  the  wrinkled  blue 

Of  the  age-old  bay; 
Then  the  city's  towers  spring  up  to  you 

Out  of  the  day. 


Night,  and  the  sweep  of  the  seagulls'  flights, 

Half-seen,  half-guessed. 
Night,  and  the  gleam  of  the  restless  lights — 

Night,  but  no  rest. 
The  shy  waves  whispering  to  the  shores, 

Then  a  blaze  of  light — 
And  the  city's  face  springs  up  to  yours 

Out  of  the  night. 

MARY  CAROLYN  DAVIES. 


LITTLE    MOTHERS 


By  Emma  5.  Nesfield 


SOMETIMES  in  this  queer  old 
world,  blessings  are  thrust  upon 
us,  and  we  simply  take  them  for 
granted — accept  them  as  our 
right — and  think  no  more  about  them. 
One  of  the  most  common  of  these  are 
the  Little  Mothers.  Nearly  every 
large-sized  or  even  moderately  large 
sized  family,  and  oftentimes  just  or- 
dinary little  families,  have^one.  Some- 
times they  don't  even  know  they  have 
them,  'because  these  precious  blessings 
are  born,  like  every  other  baby, 
squalling  into  the  world,  and  by  the 
time  they  have  seriously  taken  up 
their  life-work,  why,  they're  just  one 
of  the  family. 

Once  there  was  a  real,  large  old- 
fashioned  family  of  five  boys  and  four 
girls,'  and  the  second  girl,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  the  third  baby,  was  one 
of  those  things  I've  been  telling  you 
about.  She  wasn't  particularly  strong 
in  body — very  often  they  are  not — 
but  she  made  up  for  it  in  mind,  in  love, 
in  sympathy,  in  all  the  golden  ab- 
stractions of  true  womanhood. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  story,  the 
family  was  very  prosperous,  but  like 
many  large,  old-fashioned,  high-prin- 
cipled families,  each  year  saw  pros- 
perity fading  away  into  the  dim  and 
distant  "used-to-be's."  So,  by  the 
time  this  Little  Mother  was  well  on  in 
her  work,  the  world  at  large  seemed  to 
be  one  big,  struggling,  strangling 
problem. 

When  the  last  baby  came,  the  Real 
Mother  of  the  Family  "somehow  didn't 
have  the  strength  to  go  on  struggling, 
and  thougli  life  meant  very  much  to 
her,  though  her  work  was  waiting  for 


her,  giving  the  little  new  baby  to  her 
oldest  girl,  she  stopped  living. 

This  oldest  girl,  like  many  another 
girl,  scarce  grown,  simply  stepped  into 
her  mother's  place.  She  washed  and 
combed,  dressed  and  prayed  over  the 
little  ones.  She  managed  on  narrow 
margin  to  keep  the  large  family  to- 
gether, with  a  fair  amount  of  the  hap- 
piness and  good  times  that  always 
come  to  large  families,  even  under  the 
most  distressing  pressures.  And,  when 
her  little  charges  were  well  on  their 
way;  when  the  older  ones  were  pre- 
pared to  begin  life's  work — to  swell 
the  little  margin  to  comfortable  ap- 
pearances— a  big,  lonely,  homeless 
man  came  and  begged  her  to  help  him 
gather  Household  Gods. 

Then  the  Little  Mother  took  the 
helm:  Somehow,  it  seemed  natural. 
For  ever  so  long,  "the  boys,"  now  big 
brothers,  had  been  coming  to  her  for 
sympathy — for  advice,  which  was 
mostly  so  good  that  it  was  seldom 
acted  on — for  comfort,  when  misfor- 
tune followed  failure  to  be  advised. 
And  they  never  found  her  wanting; 
because,  being  what  she  was,  she 
couldn't  help  herself.  She  often 
scolded  them  with  righteous  indigna- 
tion, and  then  relented  of  her  cruelty 
in  tears.  How  those  brothers  loved 
her  best  of  all  the  sisters;  how  they 
pained  her  most,  is  only  a  repetition 
of  what  always  happens  to  her  kind. 

One  by  one,  the  brothers  and  sisters 
married,  started  new  circles,  named 
new  babies  for  this  well-loved  sister, 
and  had  her  godmother  the  little  new- 
comers. While  she  just  struggled  on 
trying  to  make  ends  meet  as  a  reduced 


MARCUS  WHITMAN. 


297 


gentlelady  only  can,  by  teaching 
petted  darlings  of  the  moneyed  people 
in  the  world;  and  by  giving  readings 
and  lectures  to  small  circles  of  seekers 
after  culture. 

At  last,  one  day,  a  cold  gripped  her 
with  a  merciless  hold,  and  she,  having 
nothing  left  to  struggle  for — no  more 
mothering  to  do — had  not  the  strength 
to  fight  it  off.  When  they  had  buried 
her  by  her  father  and  mother,  and  left 
her  forever,  to  go  back  to  their  world 
of  husbands  and  wives  and  babies, 
then  this  family  realized,  for  the  first 
time,  that  God  had  sent  them  a  "Little 
Mother,"  and  they  had  not  known  it: 


had  taken  her  for  granted  until  she 
was  gone — and  her  life  had  been  only 
half  lived. 

But  that  is  the  way  with  "Little 
Mothers."  You'll  find  them  the  world 
over,  in  the  tenements  and  alleys,  in 
the  palaces  and  mansions.  They  give 
all  they  have.  They  worry  and  grieve, 
comfort  and  scold;  shield  and  protect, 
and  when  they  have  nothing  left  to 
mother,  they  mostly  die.  For,  after 
all,  they  are  blessings  thrust  upon  us, 
and  we  simply  take  them  for  granted 
— accept  them  as  our  right — and  think 
no  more  about  them,  giving  them  be- 
lated appreciation  when  they  are  gone. 


MARCUS     WHITMAN 

He  stood  beneath  young  Oregon's  great  firs, 
His  heart  turned  Godward,  and  his  human  eye 
Piercing  the  East,  which  way  his  path  did  lie, 
For  Duty's  call  rang  clear,  "Go  now!"    Ah,  sirs, 
A  worthy  message  filled  a  worthy  mind. 
Nor  kind  entreaty,  neither  tears  nor  smiles 
Could  lure  him  from  the  peril  of  long  miles, 
That  led  him  East.    Great  calls  but  seldom  find 
Great  messengers.    Whitman  knew  the  word, 
The  time,  the  way,  and  rode  in  faith  to  fame. 
His  message  to  the  nation  struck  a  flame, 
That  blossomed  into  stars;  for  eyes  unblurred, 
Beyond  the  Rockies,  stretching  on  and  on, 
Now  saw  in  glory  rise  great  Oregon ! 

J.  WILEY  OWEN. 


When   Accounts    are    Balanced 


By  Elizabeth  Vore 


THE  ROOM  was  flooded  with  the 
warm  sunshine  of  midsummer, 
and  redolent  with  the  perfume 
of  flowers — old-fashioned  jon- 
quills,  great  bunches  of  them,  with 
their  white,  waxen  blossoms  and  their 
yellow  circle  of  stamens.  They  seemed 
peculiarly  a  part  of  the  elegant  draw- 
ingroom,  of  the  light  and  the  sunshine 
and  that  indefinable  atmosphere  which 
stamps  a  room  with  the  individuality 
of  its  owner,  while  through  it  drifted 
the  delicate,  pungent  odor  of  sandal- 
wood  from  various  rare  boxes  brought 
from  foreign  lands. 

The  woman  standing  by  the  window 
was  past  youth,  but  had  not  yet  at- 
tained middle  age.  Her  slender,  silk- 
gowned  figure  was  drawn  to  its  fullest 
height,  her  head — regal  with  its  crown 
of  red-gold  hair — was  held  proudly, 
and  an  imperious  pride,  the  inheri- 
tance of  a  long  line  cf  unblemished  an- 
cestors, was  evident  in  every  line  of 
the  svelte  figure.  The  deep  crimson 
of  the  sweet,  haughty  mouth  was  the 
only  hint  of  color  in  her  face,  which 
just  now  was  as  white  as  the.  waxen 
petals  of  the  flowers  she  wore. 

The  man  standing  abashed  before 
her  bore  the  unmistakable  look  of  the 
condemned — the  abandonment  of  self- 
condemnation,  rather  than  the  recoil 
of  another's  edict,  although  it  was 
that,  of  the  one,  from  whom,  of  all 
others,  he  dreaded  to  receive  it. 

Every  fibre  of  his  being  quivered 
under  the  pride  and  haughtiness  in  her 
face.  That  she  must  feel  inexpressible 
scorn  for  him,  he  did  not  doubt,  but  he 
accepted  it  humbly,  although  the 
agony  of  it  had  whitened  his  face — it 
looked  drawn  and  ghastly  in  the  mer- 
ciless light  of  the  afternoon. 


"I  have  no  right  to  ask  it — no  right 
to  even  hope  for  your*  forgiveness, 
Diane;  but  you  cannot  know — you 
cannot  understand — I — I  loved  you  al- 
ways, dear — must  love  you,  always — 
for  all  time — : — " 

She  held  up  an  imperative  hand  to 
check  the  torrent  of  words  upon  his 
lips. 

"No,"  she  said,  coldly,  her  mouth 
hardening,  "I  cannot  understand  that 
which  men  call  love — an  unstable 
thing  which  can  be  broken  and  cast 
aside  in  a  moment's  time — as  easily 
as  I  can  tear  asunder  this  fragile 
thing" — she  rent  her  handkerchief  of 
lace  in  twain  and  cast  its  fragments 
contemptuously  aside — her  eyes  were 
black  with  sudden  passion,  whether  of 
scorn,  of  love,  or  undying  resentment 
in  that  hour  it  was  not  for  him  to 
know. 

"I  only  know,"  she  continued,  "that 
I,  your  promised  wife,  waited  for  the 
letter  which  was  to  tell  me  the  date 
of  your  arrival.  Instead,  the  news  of 
your  marriage  to  another  was  my  re- 
ward— the  reward  of  the  love  and 
loyalty  and  trust  of  an  undoubting 
heart!  You  are  right:  I  never  could 
and  I  never  have  forgiven  it!  There 
are  some  things  that  may  not  be  wiped 
.out,  not  even  by  repentance — and  the 
man  without  honor  is  an  exile  whose 
banishment  is  hopeless." 

To  the  man,  at  that  moment,  words 
seemed  inadequate.  He  stood  with 
bowed  head — all  that  he  had  hoped 
for  in  life  had  slipped  away  from  him 
since  he  had  entered  the  room.  All 
was  lost— irretrievably  lost.  He 
turned,  then,  silently,  and  went  out, 
walking  uncertainly,  as  one  walking 
in  the  night  where  the  way  is  difficult. 


WHEN  ACCOUNTS  ARE  BALANCED. 


299 


The  woman  stood  motionless,  gaz- 
ing at  the  door  through  which  he  had 
gone.  Suddenly,  she  put  up  her  hands 

and  burst  into  uncontrollable  sobs. 
*  *  *  * 

On  the  moonlit  piazza  of  the  great 
summer  hotel,  groups  of  light-hearted 
people  were  gathered,  musical  voices 
and  soft  laughter  floated  on  the  air 
of  the  night,  and  in  the  iridescent  light 
one  caught  the  flash  of  jeweled  hands. 

The  honk-honk  of  an  automobile 
was  heard  above  the  laughter,  the 
hugh  machine  came  chugging  up  to 
the  hotel  laden  with  returning  pleas- 
ure seekers,  hungry  and  happy,  and 
in  the  midst  of  the  merry  exchange  of 
greetings,  the  air  of  the  perfect  night 
was  rent  by  the  loud  blast  of  a  horn. 

Up  the  winding  drive,  through  the 
bloom-laden  acacias,  and  white  blos- 
somed orange  trees,  came  a  heavily 
laden  tally-ho,  rocking  perilously  as 
the  driver,  sure  of  his  skill,  with  reck- 
less speed  whirled  the  crowded  vehicle 
around  the  curves,  and  with  another 
blast  of  the  horn  amidst  shouts  of 
laughter,  brought  the  steaming  horses 
to  a  stand-still  in  front  of  the  piazza. 

The  woman,  swinging  back  and 
forth  in  the  hammock  under  the  Pas- 
sion flowers,  brought  the  swaying  ham- 
mock also  to  a  stand-still,  and  with 
her  friend,  a  slender  figure  in  white, 
who  sat  beside  her,  allowed  the  con- 
versation to  lag  for  an  instant,  to 
watch  the  return  of  the  pleasure- 
seekers. 

"I  never  lose  interest  in  a  scene  like 
this,  in  some  way :  it  never  grows  old," 
said  her  friend  as  the  returning  parties 
drifted  in  to  dinner,  and  quiet  was 
again  restored. 

The  woman  in  the  hammock  gazed 
thoughtfully  before  her,  with  that  ret- 
rospective, far-away  look  in  her  eyes 
which  characterizes  but  comparatively 
few  people.' 

In  the  moonlight  her  face  was  start- 
lingly  distinct.  It  bore  the  stamp  of 
nobility,  the  nobility  of  nature  as  well 
as  of  lineage,  and  the  calm  tranquility 
which  comes  only  to  those  who  have 
learned  the  great  lessons  of  life 
through  suffering. 


"Yes,"  she  said  gently,  "there  is  a 
happiness  in  seeing  others  happy.  It 
is  one  of  the  greatest  lessons  in  life 
to  derive  sincere  happiness  in  the  joys 
of  others."  She  hesitated  a  moment, 
and  then  continued:  "Life,  Alicia,  is 
so  full  of  tragedies  that  it  is  a  blessing 
to  forget,  for  .a  time,  and  to  know  that 
others  forget  their  existence." 

A  shadow  passed  over  the  face  of 
her  friend. 

"That  reminds  me,"  she  said,  "of 
the  saddest  story  of  a  life  that  has 
been  all  tragedy — the  life  of  an  old 
acquaintance  of  mine,  poor  Chester 
Norton,  who  is  dying  at  the  Parole 
Hospital  in  the  city.  It  is  a  pathetic 
story,  but  if  you  care  to  hear  it,  I  will 
tell  you — it  is  not  always  well  to  for- 
get the  sorrows  of  others,  even  in  the 
gaieties  of  a  place  like  this." 

The  face  of  the  woman  in  the  ham- 
mock was  hidden  by  one  slender,  jew- 
eled hand. 

"Please  tell  it  to  me,"  she  said,  but 
the  sound  of  her  own  voice  was  like 
that  of  a  stranger  to  her  ears. 

"Chester  began  .life,"  said  her 
friend,  "with  all  the  promise  of  suc- 
cess a  man  could  have:  weaker,  per- 
haps, in  some  respects  than  many  men, 
as  sometimes,  otherwise  very  lovable 
natures  are — but  never  unprincipled. 
Sensitive  as  a  woman,  entirely  lacking 
in  all  commercial  instincts,  but  very 
talented,  full  of  the  impracticable 
dreams  which  are  the  misfortune  of 
those  whom  genius  has  only  touched 
in  passing,  leaving  the  mere  shadow 
of  itself,  which  brings  its  almost  cer- 
tain heritage  of  misfortune. 

"He  was  engaged  to  be  married  to 
a  girl  he  met  abroad.  A  young  lady  of 
fine  family  and  fortune.  I  do  not  re- 
member her  name,  if  I  ever  knew  it — 
I  have  deeply  regretted  this,  since  a 
few  days  ago  I  learned  the  story  of  his 
life  and  of  his  nearness  to  death.  Al- 
most immediately  after  his  engage- 
ment he  was  summoned  home  to  ad- 
just the  affairs  pertaining  to  his  small 
inheritance,  and  found  his  young  ward 
— a  distant  relative — at  the  point  of 
death  with  an  obscure  heart  trouble, 
which  had  baffled  her  physicians. 


300 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


That  she  was  dying,  no  one  for  a  mo- 
ment doubted. 

"To  Chester's  amazement,  he  found 
that  this  girl  loved  him.  Weakened 
by  illness  and  suffering,  she  threw 
aside  the  pride  that  womanhood,  ac- 
cording to  tradition,  must  preserve, 
and  begged  him  not  to  leave  her,  but 
to  marry  her  and  make  her  last  mo- 
ments happy.  She  was  as  dear  to  him 
as  a  sister,  and  touched  and  broken  by 
her  love  and  passionate  appeal,  he  did 
the  fated  thing — married  her,  believ- 
ing that  her  days,  and  even  hours, 
were  numbered,  and  with  implicit  con- 
fidence in  the  woman  he  loved — cer- 
tain in  his  own  mind  that  he  could,  ex- 
plain to  her,  and  that  she  would  un- 
derstand. 

"It  was  one  of  those  strange  in- 
stances of  the  irony  of  fate.  The  girl 
lived,  contrary  to  the  expectations  of 
every  one,  she  recovered.  For  Ches- 
ter, the  situation  was  hopeless;  yet  he 
never  allowed  the  agony  of  it  to 
touch  her;  he  was  a  gentleman,  and 
the  young  wife  at  least  was  happy. 
Two  years  later  she  died,  and  left  him 
with  a  little  daughter,  the  counterpart 
of  herself. 

"He  hoped  for  happiness  then,-  and 
sought  the  other  woman,  the  woman 
he  loved,  whom  he  is  dying,  loving — 
the  woman  he  had  so  greatly  wronged 
yet  with  so  little  desire  to  wrong  her. 
But  she  sent  him  away  with  scornful 
words — one  finds  it  difficult  to  forgive 
her — yet  how  could  she  know?  Ches- 
ter's lips  were  sealed — he  would  not 
betray  the  weakness  of  his  child's 
mother.  Pardon  me,  dear,  they  are 
calling  me  in  there.  I  will  return  in 
a  moment." 

But  when  she  returned,  the  ham- 
mock was  empty,  its  occupant  had 
vanished;  on  the  floor,  where  it  had 
fallen,  lay  a  bruised  and  broken  Pas- 
sion flower. 

The  next  morning,  Alicia  not  seeing 
her  friend  in  her  customary  place, 
inquired  for  her. 

"She  has  gone,"  said  the  clerk, 
politely.  "She  left  a  letter  for  you, 
I  believe." 

She  took  the  note  in  some  surprise, 


and  read  its  brief  contents: 

"Dear  Alicia — I  have  gone  to  Ches- 
ter. I  am  the  other  woman.  Diane." 

With  the  letter  still  in  her  hand,  Ali- 
cia went  out,  and  stood  in  silence  un- 
der the  Passion  flowers.  Her  eyes 

were  full  of  tears. 

*  *  *  * 

.  The  doctor  held  the  door  open  for 
the  slender  figure  in  gray;  the  nurse 
arose  and  departed  quietly;  only  the 
woman  with  the  white  face,  framed  in 
its  masses  of  red-gold  hair,  was  in  the 
ward,  where  a  life  was  fast  ebbing 
away.  She  knelt  down  by  the  side 
o"f  the  still  form  on  the  bed,  and  drew 
the  dark  head  to  her  breast. 

"Chester,"  she  said,  brokenly, 
"Chester,  I  am  here,  dear — Diane. 
Speak  to  me,  if  only  a  word  of  for- 
giveness and  pity." 

Into  the  dim  realm  of  the  mysterious 
unknown,  on  the  border  of  which  his 
soul  was  hovering,  her  voice  pene- 
trated. His  eyes  opened,  and  a  great 
light  of  wondering  joy  entered  them. 

"Diane!"  he  whispered,  unbeliev- 
ingly. "That  this  great  miracle  should 
come  to  pass!  Here?  With  me! — 
you,  Diane?  My  darling!!  Suddenly 
he  choked,  and  then,  as  words  failed 
him,  he  slipped  a  wasted  hand  in  hers 
as  if  he  thus  would  hold  himself  to 
life  and  to  her. 

"Diane!"  he  whispered  again. 
"Your  arms  are  about  me — who  am  so 

unworthy — that  you   should   come  to 
»» 

"Hush!"  she  said,  gently.  "Where 
else  should  I  be,  Chester,  but  with  the 
man  I  love?" 

Tears  filled  his  eyes  and  rolled 
down  his  wasted  face.  Diane  kissed 
them  away  with  her  quivering  lips. 

"I  have — nothing — more  to  wish 
for,"  he  murmured.  "No  anxiety — 
only  Marjory — my  poor — little — 
motherless  girl!" 

"I  have  thought  of  that,  dear,"  she 
told  him.  With  superb  courage,  her 
voice  had  become  calm  and  strong. 
"I  want  you  to  give  Marjory  to  me, 
Chester.  She  shall  be  my  most  sacred 
trust." 


THE  BOW  OF  PROMISE. 


301 


He  wept  then,  unrestrainedly,  with 
Diane's  face  against  his  own,  her 
hand  clasped  in  his  failing  grasp. 

"I  meant — to  do  such  great  things," 
he  whispered,  "but  I  always  failed. 
Failure  everywhere — at  every  turn — 
I  have  met  defeat.  Mistakes,  Diane — 
mistakes — always." 

"It  will  be  all  right,  dear,"  she  told 
him.  "Success?  What  is  it?  Who 
can  define  it?  The  greatest  failure  of 
life  may  be  the  threads  out  of  which 
the  garments  of  eternity  are  woven. 
Mistakes  are  not  sins — sin  leaves 
scars — but  when  accounts  are  balanced 
it  will  be  as  if  our  mistakes  had  never 
been  made."  Through  the  storm  of 
agony  which  shook  her  slender  form, 


the  faith  of  a  life-time  had  come  back 
with  steadying  composure.  "It  will  be 
all  right  in  the  morning,  dear,  when 
accounts  are  balanced.  Rest,  now, 
and  sleep,"  she  added,  bravely. 

"In  the  morning;  when  accounts  are 
balanced,"  he  whispered  solemnly.  A 
great  awe  mingled  with  the  sudden 
radiance  which  illumined  his  face. 

With  a  last  effort  he  lifted  his  eyes 
and  gazed  long  and  earnestly  into  her 
face. 

"May  God  forever  love  and  bless 
you!"  he  said.  "May  God — forever — 
love  and — bless  you!"  And  so,  whis- 
pering the  words  over  brokenly,  again 
— with  the  tenderness  of  them  still 
upon  his  lips — he  fell  asleep. 


THE     BOW     OF     PROMISE 


Nay,  this  is  not  the  end !    Behold  on  high — 
With  flame  of  colors,  wonderful  and  rare, 
Reaching  from  ocean  rim  to  mountain  lair — 
A  promise-bow  athwart  the  clearing  sky. 
The  thunders  with  a  last  faint  rumble  die, 
And  lightnings  flicker,  fading  in  the  air; 
Storm  furies  tame,  and  forth  the  sunbeams  fare 
With  strands  of  gold  to  bind  the  blessed  tie. 
And  now  there  is  no  need  for  saddened  heart, 
For  tempests  nevermore  may  crush  the  soul. 
I  look  above  the  earth  into  the  blue, 
And  read  the  promise  writ  with  magic  art : 
"Though  mighty  storms  may  beat  and  surge  and  roll, 
This  bow  extends  between  your  God  and  you." 

CHARLES  H.  CHESLEY. 


Fains   of   Hell    Explained   to    Us 


By  C  T.  Russell,  Pastor  of  London  and   Brooklyn   Tabernacles 


THE   DISCOURSES     of    Pastor 
Russell,   published    weekly    in 
several     hundred     newspapers 
throughout  America     and     Eu- 
rope, are  causing  a  great  awakening 
in   the   Christian    world   and   creating 
a   new    interest   in   true    Bible    study 
everywhere.    Recently  he  gave  a  not- 
able address  "before  an  assembly  of 
Bible  Students  on  the  text:  "The  sor- 
rows of  death  compassed  me,  and  the 
pains  of  hell  gat  hold  upon  me." — 
Psalm  116:3. 

Opening  his  address,  the  Pastor 
apologized  for  the  selection  of  such  a 
text.  He  would  much  prefer  to  talk 
along  the  lines  of  Christian  character- 
building,  and  the  necessity  of  growing 
in  grace  and  love,  and  thus  becoming 
more  and  more  copies  of  God's  dear 
Son.  His  apology  was  that  his  text, 
a  sample  of  many  other  Bible  state- 
ments, is  so  grievously  misunderstood 
as  to  stand  in  the  way  of  Christian  pro- 
gress. In  conjunction  with  other  Scrip- 
tures, it  was  woven  into  terrible  theor- 
ies during  the  Dark  Ages.  Those 
theories  became  imbedded  in  the  vari- 
ous creeds  of  the  time,  and  so  ob- 
structed the  channels  of -thought  that 
the  grace,  truth  and  .beauty  of  the 
Bible  were  hidden.  Many  noble 
hearts,  he  claimed,  are  famishing  for 
lack  of  the  refreshment  of  God's  Truth 
by  reason  of  the  fossilized  errors 
which  block  the  way. 

"Perish  for  Lack  of  Knowledge" 

The  Scriptures  foretell  conditions 
exactly  as  they  are  today.  They  de- 
clare that  there  shall  be  "a  famine  in 
the  land — not  a  famine  of  bread,  nor 
a  thirst  for  water,  but  of  hearing  the 
Word  of  the  Lord."  (Amos  8:11). 


Again  the  Scriptures  declare,  "My 
people  are  destroyed  for  lack  of  know- 
ledge." (Hosea  4:6.)  It  is  certainly 
true  that  there  are  as  many  honest- 
hearted,  conscientious,  well-meaning, 
people  in  the  world  today  as  have  ever 
lived — perhaps  more.  Yet  these  well- 
meaning  people  are  perishing,  famish- 
ing, for  lack  of  spiritual  nourishment. 
True,  there  are  some  who  claim  to  be 
well-nourished  and  to  find  in  the  popu- 
lar pulpits  of  the  land  all  the  spiritual 
refreshment  and  strength  they  need. 

But  these  are  as  nothing  compared 
with  the  millions  who  give  a  different 
testimony.  I  am  glad  that  those  who 
attend  worship  regularly,  and  are  well- 
nourished  and  well  satisfied,  have  what 
they  desire,  at  the  mouth  of  a  hundred 
thousand  preachers.  I  am  reaching, 
out  after  "the  lost  sheep  of  the  House 
of  Israel,"  through  the  secular  press. 
They  tell  me  that  I  am  reaching  mil- 
lions of  the  unchurched  every  week. 
My  readers  are  the  discontented,  the 
unsatisfied,  perishing  fpr  lack  of 
knowledge,  hungering  and  thirsting, 
after  the  right  ways  of  God — the  real 
teachings  of  the  Bible. 

My  heart  goes  out  to  those  as  the 
heart  .of  Jesus  went  out  to  the  same 
class,  nearly  nineteen  centuries  ago. 
We  read,  "He  had  compassion  on  the 
multitude,  for  He  beheld  that  they 
were  like  sheep  having  no  shepherd." 
I  am  seeking,  as  an  under  shepherd,  ta 
bring  these  hungering,  thirsting,  per- 
ishing sheep  to  the  true  "Shepherd 
and  Bishop  of  souls" — the  Lord  Jesus. 

I  am  seeking  to  remove  from  their 
minds  the  prejudice  and  various  ob- 
structions which  have  hindered  the 
flow  of  God's  grace  and  truth  to  their 
hearts.  I  am  seeking  in  the  Master's. 


PAINS  OF  HELL  EXPLAINED  TO  US. 


303 


name  to  present  to  them  the  Bread  of 
Life,  the  Water  of  Life.  I  am  not 
seeking  to  build  up  another  denomin- 
ation. 

Results  show  a  certain  measure  of 
success  already  attained.  I  am  re- 
ceiving more  than  five  thousand  letters 
a  week  from  hungry  sheep  and  others, 
who,  so  far  as  denominational  Chris- 
tian systems  are  concerned,  are  home- 
less. Everywhere — all  over  the  world 
— -these,  instead  of  forming  a  new 
denomination,  are  associating  them- 
selves with  Bible  classes  for  the  study 
of  God's  Word.  I  am  simply  doing 
all  in  my  power  to  help  them  out  of 
•darkness  into  God's  marvelous  light — 
out  of  misunderstandings  of  -the  Bible 
into  a  right  appreciation  of  it;  out  of 
ignorance  into  a  knowledge  of  God; 
out  of  ignorance  of  the  Savior  and  His 
work  into  a  true  knowledge  of  Him 
and  His  glorious  Kingdom,  which  is 
yet  to  bless  all  of  the  families  of  the 
earth. 

It  may  be  interesting  to  know  that 
while  I  am  advertised  by  the  news- 
paper syndicate  as  the  Pastor  of  the 
Brooklyn  Tabernacle  congregation  of 
independent  Christians,  and  of  a  simi- 
lar congregation  of  London  Taber- 
nacle, and  of  the  congregation  of 
Washington  Temple,  I  have  addition- 
ally been  chosen  pastor  of  more  than 
one  hundred  and  fifty  of  these  classes 
of  Bible  students,  to  which  I  have  al- 
ready referred.  They  elected  me  pas- 
tpr  without  any  suggestion  or  solici- 
tation on  my  part.  In  so  doing,  I  un- 
derstand them  to  signify  that  they 
recognize  the  Lord  Jesus  as  the  great 
divinely  appointed  Shepherd  of  the 
true  sheep,  and  that  they  desire  me  to 
serve  them  in  any  way  that  I  can  as 
an  under-shepherd. 

Through  the  columns  of  The  Watch 
Tower  I  visit  these  classes  regularly 
twice  a  month,  doing  a  pastoral  work 
to  the  best  of  my  ability — leading 
them  to  the  fountain  of  grace  and  truth 
and  breaking  for  them  the  living 
bread,  the  word  of  God.  Additionally, 
they  have  my  weekly  sermon  and  a 
weekly  treatise  on  the  International 
Sunday  School  Lessons. 


The   True-Hearted*  Should  Rejoice. 

One  would  suppose  that  all  of  the 
one  hundred  thousand  ministers  and 
all  their  flocks  would  rejoice  to  know 
that  the  unchurched,  straying  sheep 
are  being  reached  with  a  message  of 
God's  love  and  mercy  which  is  ap- 
pealing to  their  hearts  and  working 
a  transformation  in  their  lives.  Many 
do  rejoice,  but  alas !  a  few  are  jealous, 
as  were  some  of  the  scribes  and  Phari- 
sees of  Jesus'  day.  Of  these  we  read : 
"They  were  grieved  that  He  taught 
the  people" — the  people  whom  they 
could  not  reach,  the  sheep  that  were 
straying  and  famishing. 

As  those  jealous  scribes  and  Phari- 
sees antagonized  Jesus  and  the  Apos- 
tles, because  their  hearts  were  out  of 
harmony  with  the  good  tidings,  so  it 
is  to-day  with  some.  Unable  to  up- 
hold the  doctrines  which  have  driven 
away  so  many  of  the  intelligent  of 
their  flocks,  famished  for  truth,  a  few 
ministers  are  angry  with  us.  True  to 
the  Master's  prophecy,  these  seek  to 
say  all  manner  of  evil  falsely  against 
us,  for  His  sake,  for  the  truth's  sake. 
Yet,  in  spite  of  their  unchristian 
course,  the  poor,  straying  sheep  are 
hearing  and  recognizing  the  voice 
divine,  are  coming  back  to  the  word 
of  God,  are  being  sanctified  by  the 

word  of  truth. 
/ 

/  Proceed  With  My  Text. 

If  this  were  the  only  text  mistrans- 
lated and  misunderstood,  the  ordinary 
reader  would  doubtless  pass  it  by,  say- 
ing :  "I  do  not  understand  it.  Probably 
it  is  a  figure  of  speech."  But  this  text 
is  merely  a  combination  of  mistrans- 
lations, all  of  which  are  connected 
with  an  eternal  torment  system  of  doc- 
trines invented  during  the  Dark  Ages. 
It  is  this  combined  system  which  has 
such  power  over  men's  minds.  This 
power  of  error,  this  power  of  fear,  is 
turning  intelligent  minds  away  from 
the  Bible.  Hence  it  is  our  duty  to 
break  down  the  false  doctrines,  and 
to  clear  away  the  obstacles  which  hin- 
der the  flow  of  truth  to  the  minds  and 


304 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


hearts  of  the  people  of  God — the 
straying  sheep.  Nor  are  these  stray- 
ing sheep  all,  or  chiefly,  the  ignorant. 
They  include  many  of  the  ablest 
minds  and  truest  hearts  in  the  world — 
minds  and  hearts  too  true  and  too  logi- 
cal to  believe  palpable  falsehoods,  or 
to  profess  what  they  do  not  believe. 

The  Psalmist  is  merely  telling  of  his 
severe  illness,  from  which  by  the  grace 
of  God  he  recovered.  He  would  have 
us  understand  that  it  was  not  merely  a 
slight  ailment.  He  described  his  emo- 
tions in  the  language  of  our  text,  say- 
ing :  "The  sorrows  of  death  compassed 
me  about" — that »?  to  say,  the  sadness 
associated  with  the  thought  that  he 
was  about  to  die,  about  to  leave  his 
friends.  In  the  poetic  form  of  the 
Hebrew  language,  he  repeated  this 
thought,  namely,  "The  pains  of  hell 
gat  hold  upon  me."  In  our  modern 
language  this  would  mean  the  pains 
of  death,  or  the  pains  of  the  tomb. 
They  were  pains  that  indicated  the 
approach  of  dissolution.  Nothing  in 
this  text  has  the  slightest  reference 
to  anything  in  the  future  life. 

Our  Baptist  friends,  in  their  revised 
translation  of  the  Bible,  have  chosen 
for  such  passages  as  this  the  expres- 
sion, "the  underworld,"  instead  of  the 
word  "hell."  Yet  even  here  there  is 
danger  of  the  average  reader  not 
catching  the  true  thought.  Far  sim- 
pler and  far  less  liable  vto  be  misun- 
derstood, would  it  have  been  had  the 
translators  said,  "The  pains  of  the 
tomb."  The  revised  version  of  the 
English  Bible  reads,  "The  pains  of 
Sheol." 

Why  Not  the   Whole    Truth? 

Every  learned  minister  knows  that 
the  Hebrew  word  Sheol  really  means 
the  grave,  the  pit,  the  state  of  death. 
Why  do  they  hesitate  to  tell  the  people 
the  whole  truth  on  this  subject?  Why 
do  they  translate  it  part  of  the  time 
"the  grave,"  and  at  other  times  "the 
underworld?"  Why  do  they  use  the 
translation,  "the  grave,"  in  one  place, 
and  "the  pit"  in  another,  and  then  re- 
fuse to  translate  the  word  at  all  in  the 
third  instance,  but  give  the  word 


Sheol  ?  Was  it  their  intention  to  con- 
fuse the  people  ?  What  is  the  motive  ? 
We  wish  that  some  of  these  great  men 
would  explain. 

The  Reason  for  All  This. 

We  would  like  to  have  our  minis- 
terial brethren  state  their  reasons  for 
pursuing  a  course  of  hiding  the  truth 
on  the  subject  of  hell.  Only  because 
they  neglect  to  give  the  reasons  do 
we  feel  at  liberty  to  suggest  them.  It 
seems  to  me  that  these  ministers  are 
of  two  classes,  and  that  their  reasons 
are  therefore  slightly  different.  All  of 
them  seem  to  agree  that  it  would  be 
dangerous  to  tell  the  people  that  God 
is  really  a  God  of  love,  and  that  the 
doctrine  of  an  eternity  of  torture  is  en- 
tirely unscriptural,  finding  no  founda- 
tion whatever  in  the  writings  of  the 
Apostles. 

They  fear  to  tell  the  people  that 
these  doctrines  were  built  up  during 
the  Dark  Ages  by  the  very  men  who 
manifested  so  little  of  the  spirit  of 
God  and  so  little  knowledge  of  God's 
will  respecting  His  people  that  they 
burned  one  another  at  the  stake.  They 
fear  to  tell  the  people  that  during  the 
Dark  Ages  our  blinded  forefathers  took 
the  parables  and  dark  sayings  of  Jesus 
as  literal  statements,  quite  contrary  to 
the  Master's  intention.  These  they 
supplemented  with  certain  crude  mis- 
conceptions of  the  symbolisms  of  the 
Revelation.  From  the  combinations 
they  made  scarecrow  doctrines,  blas- 
phemous in  the  extreme,  which  never 
produced  saints,  but  which  led  men 
astray  into  thinking  that  they  were 
copying  God  in  the  deviltry  which 
they  accomplished  one  toward  an- 
other. 

The  fear  now  seems  to  be  lest  the 
public  should  at  once  perceive  that  the 
creeds  of  Christendom,  while  contain- 
ing much  good,  are  cankered,. wormy 
and  vitiated  by  those  doctrines  of  de- 
mons. Why  should  they  fear  to  tell 
the  people  the  truth?  Perhaps  it  is 
because  the  religion  of  our  day  is  built 
so  largely  upon  man  worship,  system 
worship,  creed  worship,  and  not  upon 
the  Bible.  Perhaps  they  fear  that  if 


PAINS  OF  HELL  EXPLAINED  TO  US. 


305 


the  creeds  were  thus  discredited  it 
would  mean  that  the  ministers  of  those 
creeds  will  be  similarly  discredited. 
Perhaps  they  fear  that  the  people 
would  never  again  have  confidence  in 
their  teachings,  and  that  thus  all  the 
various  party  walls  of  Christendom 
which  for  so  long  a  time  have  divided 
the  sheep  would  fall.  We  cannot  de- 
finitely know  of  their  reasons,  because 
they  do  not  tell  us;  we  can  only  sur- 
mise what  they  are. 

Others,  very  worldly-wise,  have  be- 
come Higher  Critics,  and  do  not  be- 
lieve in  the  Bible  at  all.  They  are 
really  agnostics.  But  they  do  not  de- 
sire to  advertise  their  lack  of  faith, 
lest  it  should  detract  from  their  es- 
teem among  men.  They  prefer  to  pose 
as  believers,  and  to  hope  that  the  time 
will  come  when  all  the  wealthy  and 
intelligent  will  become  unbelievers 
also.  Then  they  will  declare,  "We 
have  not  been  believers  for  many 
years,  but  we  kept  the  matter  secret, 
fearing  to  be  misunderstood  as  oppo- 
nents of  the  best  interests  of  society." 

All  the  while,  this  latter  class  con- 
stitutes the  greatest  menace  in  the 
world  to  law  and  order,  and  are  the 
best  agents  Satan  has  in  making  void 
the  word  of  God  and  destroying  faith 
therein.  Robert  Ingersoll's  methods 
of  antagonizing  the  Bible  were  far  less 
successful  than  the  methods  of  modern 
higher  critics  and  evolutionists. 

Fear  to  Tell  the  Truth. 

All  who  oppose  the  telling  to  the 
public  of  the  plain  truth  respecting 
hell  seem  to  have  one  common  ground 
of  objection'.  They  say,  "With  all  the 
fear  of  hell  that  has  been  preached  for 
centuries,  see  how  wicked  the  world 
is  and  how  little  human  life  is 
worth!  See  how  every  law  of  both 
God  and  man  for  the  protection  of 
life,  purity  and  property  is  endan- 
gered !  Note  that  if  it  were  not  for 
our  telegraphs,  telephones  and  im- 
mense police  forces  of  to-day,  nobody 
would  be  safe,  so  much  more  wicked 
does  the  world  appear  to  have  become 
within  the  past  fifty  years!  If  the 
fear  of  eternal  torment  and  purgatory 


were  lifted  from  the  minds  of  man- 
kind, would  it  not  make  the  dangers 
tenfold  greater  than  they  are  now? 
Would  it  not  speedily  be  necessary  to 
double  our  police  force,  if  the  masses 
lost  their  belief  in  a  place  of  eternal 
torture?" 

This  is  lame  reasoning,  it  seems  to 
us.  It  confesses  in  one  breath  that  in 
spite  of  all  the  false  teachings  of  cen- 
turies wickedness  has  been  growing. 
Would  it  not  be  wise  to  inquire  to  what 
extent  the  false  doctrines,  the  misin- 
terpretations and  mistranslations  of 
the  Bible  have  been  responsible  for 
the  increase  in  wickedness?  Are  men 
wiser  than  God?  Is  it  possible  for 
man  to  invent  some  monstrous,  un- 
thinkable delusion  which  will  have  a 
greater  power  with  men  than  the  plain, 
simple  message  of  God's  love? 

But  if  we  were  sure  that  by  blas- 
pheming God's  holy  name,  and  by 
playing  upon  the  ignorance  and  super- 
stition of  the  masses  we  could  make 
the  wicked  preserve  peace,  would  it 
be  wise  to  do  so  ?  Could  God's  bless- 
ing be  expected  upon  such  a  course? 
Would  it  not  be  wiser  for  us,  as  the 
people  of  God,  to  have  faith  in  Him, 
and  to  trust  that,  while  we  faithfully 
present  the  truth,  Divine  Providence 
will  oversee  and  overrule  its  effect, 
and  will  influence  for  good? 

Experience  proves  that  theirs  is  not 
the  proper  thought.  When  we  go  to 
the  records  of  the  various  prisons, 
penitentiaries,  etc.,  we  find  that  nearly 
all  the  worst  criminals  have  been 
taught  the  doctrine  of  eternal  torment. 
Many  of  them  confess  full  faith  in  it. 
On  the  other  hand,  many  infidels — 
once  violent  opposers  of  God  and  of 
the  Bible  and  Christianity — after 
hearing  of  the  love  of  God,  have  thor- 
oughly melted,  and  with  tears  in  their 
eyes  have  become  loyal  soldiers  of  the 
cross. 

We  heard  of  an  interesting  case  re- 
cently. A  colored  man,  in  prison  for 
crime,  somehow  came  in  touch  there 
with  my  sermons,  and  then  with  my 
books  on  Bible  study.  He  became  a 
thorough  Bible  student,  and  a  master 
at  handling  the  word  of  God.  His  fel- 

4 


C,  T.  Russell,  Pastor  Brooklyn  and  London  Tabernacles. 


low-prisoners  came  gladly  to  hear  this 
colored  man  preach  the  divine  plan*  of 
the  ages  from  God's  word,  while  they 
cared  not  at  all  to  attend  the  chapel 
services  addressed  by  the  ordinary 
chaplain. 

In  the  "wonderful  words  of  life," 
started  by  the  Master's  lips,  and 
handed  down  through  His  apostles, 
there  is  a  sweetness,  beauty  and  power 
that  cannot  be  associated  with  the 
doctrines  of  demons,  which  became  at- 
tached to  the  message  during  the  Dark 
.Ages.  The  message  of  life  everlasting 


through  the  Redeemer  and  by  obedi- 
ence to  Him,  has  its'  offset,  or  alterna- 
tive, in  death  everlasting  to  those  who 
refuse  to  obey  after  full  enlighten- 
ment. Eternal  life  is  the  gift  of  God, 
tendered  to  all  the  willing  and  obedi- 
ent, through  the  Messiah.  All  rebels 
will  be  destroyed  in  the  Second  Death. 
(Acts  3:23.)  Their  punishment  will 
not  be  everlasting  torment,  but  "ever- 
lasting destruction" — a  destruction 
from  which  they  will  never  be  recov- 
ered, most  surely  will  never  be  resur- 
rected. 


"Is     it    Enough?"    by    Harriette     R. 

Campbell. 

Unshrinkingly  and  with  an  excep- 
tionally fine  and  discriminating  touch, 
the  author  lays  stress  upon  the  peculiar^ 
duty  of  a  woman  to  love  and  to  give7 
in  order  that  she  may  find  completion. 
There  is  no  shrinking  from  the  essen- 
tial issue.  Hild  Emery,  the  heroine  is 
from  the  first  proved  by  every  test 
save  that  of  sacrifice:  to  deprive  her 
of  the  self-devotion  that  makes  her 
highest  opportunity  would  have  been, 
Mrs.  Campbell  makes  us  feel,  not  an 
act  of  benevolence,  but  an  injustice. 
Her  husband — Jean  Konte,  a  musi- 
cal genius — is  at  the  beginning  brutal 
in  the  selfishness  of  his  demands,  and 
by  common  standards  he  remains 
brutal  to  the  end.  "Sometimes  I  shall 
hate  you,"  he  says  to  her,  when  at  last 
they  have  won  success;  "sometimes 
I  shall  make  you  very  sorry.  That 
is  not  my  business :  my  business  is  to 
live — yours  is  to  love.  And  is  it  not 
enough?"  And  Hild  answers,  "It  is 
enough."  Perhaps  not  every  woman's 
soul  is  capable  as  Hild's  of  perfection 
through  suffering;  undoubtedly  not 
every  man's  genius  is  worth  what  it 
costs  in  wretchedness;  but  whatever 
may  be  thought  of  the  general  ap- 
plicability of  the  doctrine  which  the 
story  unwaveringly  maintains,  one  can- 
not but  feel  that  Mrs.  Campbell 
searches  out  and  appealingly  enforces 
a  true  significance  of  life.  Hild 
acts  by  the  logic  of  the  soul :  her  grief 
hurts;  her  happiness  is  real.  Here 
are  no  mere  sentimentalities,  nor  bare 
ethical  formulas,  but  true  human 
values.  The  story  of  Hild  Emery's 
life  might  have  been  told  as  a  series 
of  sordid  mistakes.  An  inexperienced 


girl  just  gifted  enough  to  long  for 
something  beyond  the  every-day 
round,  it  is  natural  that  she  should 
be  fascinated  by  Jean  Kontze — the 
poor,  unkempt,  mongrel  musician  who 
comes  to  board  at  her  mother's  house. 
And  it  is  natural  that  her  mother,  weak 
and  mentally  myopic,  should,  in  her 
over-anxiety  to  see  her  daughter  safely 
"settled,"  bring  pressure  upon  her  to 
marry  the  apparently  worthless  Jean. 
Such  are  the  short-sighted  motives  that 
commonly — and  especially  in  fiction 
— lead  to  disaster.  But  Hild  has  a 
soul  and  Jean  has  genius — and  there 
are  elements  of  salvation.  The  man 
is  a  kind  of  musical  Queed — cruel  in 
his  single-minded  devotion  to  his  own 
aim.  He  regards  the  woman  at  first 
as  merely  a  domestic  slave,  destined  to 
make  life  easier  for  him.  Later  he 
sees  her  soul ;  but  it  is  only  to  demand 
more — the  ideal  in  addition  to  the  reaL 
Yet  withal  there  is  a  stiffness  of  back- 
bone in  him  that  differentiates  him 
from  the  more  usual  type  of  self-in- 
dulgent child  of  genius,  and  his  singu- 
lar outflashings  of  a  more  than  half- 
true  philosophy  hold  the  attention. 
Through  the  story  of  error  and  suffer- 
ing come  glimpses  of  genuine  beauty — 
beauty  of  character  and  beauty  of 
music — so  that  it  seems  a  story  not  of 
sorrow,  but  of  the  only  kind  of  happi- 
ness that  is  worth  while.  Well  and 
simply  plotted,  cleverly  descriptive 
alike  of  a  Maine  country  village  and 
of  New  York's  bohemia,  exquisitely 
discriminating  in  the  delineation  of 
character — the  story  sweeps  on 
through  natural  stages  to  an  unhysteri- 
cal  climax  of  true  feeling. 

Published  by  Harper  &  Bros.,  Frank- 
lin Square,  New  York. 


.308 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


"Safety,"  by  W.  H.  Tolman,  Ph.  D., 
Director  of  the  American  Museum 
of  Safety,  and  Leonard  B.  Ken- 
dall. 

The  authors  make  is  glaringly  plain 
that  the  number  of  preventable  acci- 
dents occurring  in  this  country  involves 
not  only  an  amount  of  death  and  suf- 
fering shocking  to  humanitarian  feel- 
ings, but  a  tremendous  economic 
waste  as  well,  "One  of  the  most  im- 
portant phases  of  our  future  develop- 
ment," they  declare,  "is  the  work  of 
creating  an  inexpensive  handrail  at 
the  top  of  our  industrial  precipice,  to 
take  the  place  of  the  unreliable  and 
expensive  ambulance  at  the  bottom." 
Happily,  many  employers  are  begin- 
ning to  realize  that  not  only  honesty, 
but  also  humanity,  is  good  policy,  and 
it  is  both  pleasant  and  interesting  to 
read  of  what  has  been  accomplished 
in  some  quarters  through  the  installa- 
tion of  safety  devices,  the  establish- 
ment of  committees  on  safety  and  hy- 
giene, and  by  similar  means.  But 
there  .is  still  much  room  for  improve- 
ment, toward  which  "Safety"  points 
the  road.  The  book  describes  almost 
every  conceivable  device  and  method 
for  safeguarding  life  and  health,  treat- 
ing of  the  philosophy  of  safety  in  an 
illuminating  way,  and  descending  to 
somewhat  minute  details  in  dealing 
with  industrial  hygiene  and  the  pre- 
vention of  accidents.  It  offers  defi- 
nite information  to  those  directly  con- 
cerned in  the  management  of  indus- 
tries, while  its  scope  and  thoroughness 
make  it  valuable  to  the  student  of  eco- 
nomics and  social  science.  Readers 
unfamiliar  with  industrial  conditions 
will  find  -in  this  treatise  much  that  will 
interest  them,  and  perhaps  change 
ther  views. 

Published  by  Harper  &  Brothers, 
Franklin  Square,  New  York. 

"The  Inside  of  the  Cup,"  by  Winston 

Churchill. 

That  with  very  few  exceptions  the 
leading  ministers  of  the  country  would 
heartily  commend  this  book  was  not 
perhaps  so  easy  to  foresee.  From 
preachers  of  every  denomination  the 


publishers  are  receiving  letters  prais- 
ing the  novel  and  its  purpose. 

"A  wonderful  portrayal  in  fiction 
form  of  a  movement  world-wide  and 
profoundly  significant,"  is  the  char- 
acterization of  the  Rev.  George  Van 
de  Water,  pastor  of  St.  Andrew's 
Church,  New  York  City. 

"It  is  one  of  those  books  it  is  im- 
possible to  lay  aside  until  one  has 
completed  it,"  writes  the  Rev.  S. 
Parkes  Cadman,  of  the  Central  Con- 
gregational Church  of  Brooklyn,  add- 
ing that  "the  author  has  done  an  ad- 
mirable service  in  calling  our  atten- 
tion to  problems  which,  presented  in 
the  form  of  fiction,  are  frequently 
more  impressive  than  in  any  other 
garb." 

•  "The  inevitable  collision  between 
the  old  and  the  new  ideas  of  religion 
and  the  church  has  attracted  many 
writers/'  says  Dr.  Frank  S.  C.  Wicks, 
pastor  of  the  All  Souls  Unitarian 
Church  of  Indianapolis,  "but  I  know 
of  none  who  has  given  the  problem 
such  masterly  treatment  as  Churchill 
....  the  book  of  the  hour,  vital  with 
present  life." 

"I  have  read  all  the  novels  Mr. 
Churchill  has  written,  and  I  consider 
this  the  strongest  of  them  all,"  the  Rev. 
A.  A.  Shaw,  pastor  of  the  East  End 
Baptist  Church  of  Cleveland,  de- 
clares. "It  touches  with  a  skilled  hand 
one  of  the  most  vital  problems  of  our 
day." 

"It  is  a  strong  book,"  the  Rev.  Ar- 
thur N.  Ancock  of  Providence  holds, 
"and  I  hope  the  clergy  will  read  it." 

It  would  be  possible  to  quote  many 
other  expressions  of  opinion  from 
prominent  divines  further  to  demon- 
strate that  it  has  been  many  a  year 
since  the  appearance  of  a  story  over 
which  the  ministers  of  the  gospel  have 
been  so  enthusiastic. 

Published  by  the  Macmillan  Com- 
pany, 64-66  Fifth  Ave.,  New  York. 

Where  July  is  Hottest. 

Edwin  C.  Martin,  author  of  the  just- 
published  work,  "Our  Own  Weather," 
states  that  the  world's  record  for  the 
highest  absolute  heat  is  held  by  the 


IN  THE  REALM  OF  BOOKLAND. 


309 


United  States — 130  degrees  in  the 
shade  being  registered  at  Mammoth 
Tank,  California.  Though  this  is  not 
a  Weather  Bureau  record,  a  record  of 
128  degrees  at  Salton  in  the  same  re- 
gion has  the  Weather  Bureau's  in- 
dorsement. The  highest  record  in  any 
other  part  of  the  world  is  127.4  de- 
grees on  the  northern  edge  of  the 
Sahara  Desert,  according  to  "Our  Own 
Weather." 


"Sleep  and  the  Sleepless."  Simple 
Rules  for  Overcoming  Insomnia. 
By  Joseph  Collins,  M.  D.,  Physi- 
cian to  the  Neurological  Institute 
of  New  York;  Author  of  "Gene- 
sis and  Dissolution  of  the  Faculty 
of  Speech,"  etc. 

The  aim  of  this  book  is  to  help 
sleepless  people  to  cure  themselves, 
to  tell  them  practically  and  specifically 
what  should  be  done  in  the  way  of 
food,  exercise,  baths,  dress  and  mental 
attitude,  that  they  may  capture  sleep. 
The  book  is  essentially  practical  and 
free  from  puzzling  scientific  terms.  It 
sets  forth  what  can  be  done  by  each 
for  himself  without  the  help  of  nurse 
or  doctor.  Although  addressed  to  the 
layman  in  his  own  tongue  and  free 
from  technical  terms,  it  is  based  upon 
the  latest  results  of  scientific  study 
and  represents  the  essence  of  a  wide 
experience.  It  constitutes  a  reliable 
hand-book  for  insomniacs,  who,  if  they 
follow  it  as  a  guide,  should  find  relief 
and  ultimate  cure. 

Cloth,  12mo.  Price,  $1  net;  post- 
paid, $1.07.  Sturgis  &  Walton  Com- 
pany, 31-33  East  27th  Street,  New 
York. 


"Social  Welfare  in  New  Zealand:  The 
Results  of  Twenty  Years  of  Pro- 
gressive Social  Legislation  and  Its 
Significance  for  the  United  States 
and  Other  Countries."  By  Hugh 
H.  Lusk,  Author  of  "Our  Foes  at 
Home,"  etc. 

New  Zealand's  social  experiment  is 
ot  great  moment  to  the  whole  civil- 
ized world.  The  attention  given  it  in 
uncounted  articles  in  the  reviews  of 
Europe  and  America  bears  witness  to 


the  appetite  for  information  on  the 
subject.  This  book  has  no  rival  in  its 
field  on  the  score  of  scope  and  careful 
documentation,  and  could  not  have 
been  written  before  the  appearance  of 
statistics  inaccessible  until  1912.  It  is 
a  work  of  the  first  value  to  sociologists 
and  political  economists,  and  is  equal- 
ly illuminating  and  interesting  to  the 
lay  students  of  these  sciences.  The 
book  is  chiefly  a  study  and  record  of 
what  New  Zealand  has  accomplished 
in  the  way  of  legislation  and  other 
matters  of  universal  interest;  of  the 
resultant  social  well-being;  and  of  its 
significance  for  other  countries.  It 
serves  also  a  useful  purpose  in  cor- 
recting the  swarm  of  distorted  facts, 
baseless  opinions,  and  perverse  mis- 
information that  has  long  hung  over 
the  subject.  The  author  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  New  Zealand  Parliament  for 
nearly  ten  years. 

12mo.,  $1.50  net.  Sturgis  &  Walton 
Company,  31-33  East  27th  St.,  New 
York. 


"Work  and  Life :  A  Study  of  the  So- 
cial Problems  01  To-day."  By  Ira 
W.  Howerth,  A.  M.,  Ph.  D.,  Pro- 
fessor of  Sociology,  University  of 
California. 

How  to  organize  and  conduct  our 
economic  institutions,  strongly  in- 
trenched as  they  are  in  privilege  and 
power,  so  that  their  benefits  may  be 
more  justly  shared  by  all  the  members 
of  society,  is  the  problem  at  which 
Prof.  Howerth  works  to  good  purpose 
in  this  carefully  reasoned  and  practi- 
cally suggestive  book.  Recognizing 
selfishness  as  the  heart  of  the  indus- 
trial competitive  system,  this  book  re- 
nounces attempts  to  moralize  it,  and 
finds  the  direct  road  towards  a  solu- 
tion of  the  problem  through  social 
legislation — legislation  backed  by  en- 
lightened public  opinion  and  promot- 
ing the  welfare  of  society  as  a  whole. 
From  the  standpoint  of  such  socializa- 
tion, measures  like  the  initiative,  the 
referendum,  proportional  representa- 
tion and  the  extension  of  suffrage  are 
examined.  The  author's  point  of  view 
is  throughout  optimistic  and  human. 


310 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


He  contends  for  increased  co-operat- 
tion,  holding  that  its  palpable  waste- 
fulness alone  dooms  the  present  eco- 
nomic system. 

12mo,  cloth,  $1.50  net.  Published 
by  Sturgis  &  Walton  Company,  31-33 
East  27th  Street,  New  York. 


"Tad  Sheldon,  Boy  Scout:  Stories  of 
His  Patrol,"  by     John     Fleming 
Wilson,  author  of  "The  Man  Who 
Came  Back,"  etc.,  with  illustra- 
tions by  Dougherty. 
This  is  one  of  the  most  popular  of 
the  author's  Boy  Scout  stories,  which 
had  their  beginning  in  that  highly  en- 
tertaining book  for  active  boys,  "Tad 
Sheldon,   Second-Class   Scout."     The 
latter  book  won     instant     popularity, 
and  many  thousands  of  copies  were 
sent  out  officially  from  the  headquar- 
ters of  the  Boy  Scouts  of  America. 

With  the  nine  new  stories  that  make 
up  this  volume,  the  old  favorite  is  in- 
cluded. In  them,  Tad  Sheldon,  the 
Boy  Scout  hero,  appears,  lending  a 
helping  hand  everywhere,  a  modest, 
fun-loving  hero,  who  keeps  his  honor 
bright,  never  fails  in  pluck  and  dar- 
ing, is  idolized  by  every  member  of 
his  patrol,  and  still  remains  an  un- 
spoiled youngster,  sure  to  stand  high 
in  the  good  graces  of  all  readers.  This 
new  volume  adds  vivid  interest  to  the 
rounds  of  new  adventures  and  experi- 
ences of  the  plucky  and  resourceful 
Tad  Sheldon  and  his  enthusiastic  com- 
panions. These  are  stories  which  a 
healthy,  natural  boy  will  read  hun- 
grily, and  with  benefit  to  his  boyish  as- 
pirations. 

Price,  $1.  Published  by  Sturgis  & 
Walton,  New  York. 


"The  New  American  Drama,"  by 
Richard  Burton,  Professor  of  Eng- 
lish, University  of  Minnesota,  As- 
sistant Editor  of  "The  Bellman," 
and  Vice-President  of  "The  New 
Drama  League." 

Mr.  Burton's  chief  aim  is  to  trace 
the  growth  of  a  native  drama  on 
American  soil,  in  place  of  the  foreign 
importations  so  long  the  dominating 
influence.  Special  attention  is  given 


to  recent  productions  by  American 
playwrights.  The  volume  will  have 
great  value  as  the  most  up-to-date  con- 
tribution to  the  literature  of  the  stage 
by  a  recognized  authority. 

Published  by  Thomas  Y.  Crowell 
Company. 

"The  Woman  Thou  Gavest  Me,"  by 
Hall  Caine. 

The  success  of  this  novel  is  said  to 
be  very  unusual.  The  first  edition, 
August  25th,  was  followed  by  a  sec- 
ond edition  within  thirty  days.  Mary 
O'Neill,  the  heroine,  whose  remark- 
able story  is  told  in  the  novel,  is 
likely  to  become  a  character  of  wide 
discussion,  as  in  addition  to  the  edi- 
tions printed  in  England  and  America, 
the  book  is  being  translated,  and  will 
be  issued  simultaneously  in  several 
foreign  languages. 

Published  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  Com- 
pany, Washington  Square,  Philadel- 
phia. 

"Monaco     and     Monte     Carlo,"     by 

Adolphe  Smith. 

The  breaking  of  the  bank  at  Monte 
Carlo  has  been  the  theme  of  count- 
less short  stories  and  several  long 
ones.  So  great  has  been  the  publicity 
given  in  the  various  ways  to  the  gamb- 
ling that  few  people  are  aware  that 
the  principality  of  Monaco  and  Monte 
Carlo  is  the  centre  of  much  scientific 
endeavor  and  investigation.  The  pre- 
sent year  witnesses  the  Ninth  Inter- 
national Congress  of  Zoology,  opened 
by  Prince  Albert  at  the  beautiful 
museum  of  Oceanography  at  Monaco. 
It  is  the  center  to  which  eventually 
gravitate  the  leading  men  and  women 
of  Europe  and  America.  Some  find 
there  the  social  element  which  gives 
them  pleasure;  others  the  climate  and 
scenic  setting  and  still  others  the  as- 
sociation of  great  minds  interested  in 
various  economic,  social  and  scientific 
problems.  Few  books  have  been 
issued  on  this  most  interesting  country 
and  "Monaco  and  Monte  Carlo"  may 
be  said  to  be  the  only  work  which 
deals  thoroughly  with  the  history  of 
Monaco  and  that  describes  adequately 


IN  THE  REALM  OF  BOOKLAND. 


311 


all  the  varied  interests  that  one  finds 
there.  The  author  is  especially 
adapted  to  write  this  work  as  he  has 
enjoyed  a  lifelong  acquaintance  with 
Monaco  and  Monte  Carlo,  and  was  es- 
pecially fortunate  in  securing  the  con- 
sent and  aid  of  Prince  Albert  and  the 
officials  under  him  in  gathering  au- 
thentic information  and  data. 

Published  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co., 
Washington  Square,  Philadelphia. 


"A  Turkish  Woman's  European  Im- 
pressions," by  Zeyneb  Hanoum. 

The  author,  Zeyneb  Hanoum,  is  the 
daughter  of  Nourri  Bey,  who  was  under 
Secretary  for  Foreign  Affairs  under 
Abdul  Hamid.  She  escaped  from 
the  Harem,  got  out  of  Turkey  with  a 
false  passport,  the  Sultan  unsuccess- 
fully tried  to  stop  her  at  Belgrade,  but 
she  reached  Paris.  Even  in  France, 
however,  she  was  not  safe.  To 
curry  favor  with  the  Sultan,  one  of 
her  uncles  very  nearly  succeeded  in 
kidnapping  her  in  a  motor-car  when 
she  was  on  the  Riviera.  Her  father, 
unfortunately  for  him,  was  blamed 
for  his  daughter's  escape  and  in  spite 
of  his  great  ability  and  clever  efforts 
to  elude  the  Sultan's  revenge  he  died 
suddenly  one  night.  Miss  Hanoum 
is  also  well  known  as  the  heroine  of 
Pierre  Loti's  novel  "Les  Desenchan- 
tees."  Her  experiences,  adventures 
and  impressions  after  leaving  the 
harem  as  told  in  her  charming  and  de- 
lightful style,  makes  an  intensely  hu- 
man and  authentic  document.  The 
work  contains  32  interesting  illustra- 
tions from  photographs  and  a  drawing 
by  August  Rodin. 

Published  by  J.  B.  Lippincott  & 
Co., Washington  Square,  Philadelphia. 


"Confessions  of  a  Pullman  Conduc- 
tor," by  Charles  H.  Walbourn. 
This  is  a  small,  paper-covered 
pocket  book,  written  by  a  Pullman 
conductor  of  seven  years'  experience, 
setting  forth  the  helplessness  of  wo- 
men passengers  on  trains  where,  ac- 
cording to  his  story,  conductors  and 
porters  are  bribed  by  men  who  make 
a  practice  of  pressing  their  attentions 


on  unattended  women  travelers.  The 
author  claims  that  his  book  is  an  at- 
tempt to  arouse  public  sentiment  in 
the  hope  of  remedying  immoral  con- 
ditions on  sleeping  cars  and  the  bet- 
terment of  working  conditions  of  thou- 
sands of  employees. 

$1  net  by  mail.  Published  by  the 
author,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 

Mr.  Owen  Johnson,  whose  new  book, 
"Murder  in  Any  Degree,"  is  on  The 
Century  Co.'s  August  15th  list,  has 
been  living  and  working  in  Italy  for 
some  months.  It  is  interesting  to 
know  that  the  first  book  of  this  popu- 
lar author,  "Arrows  of  the  Almighty," 
was  accepted  by  the  Yale  faculty  as 
the  equivalent  of  five  months'  aca- 
demic work,  lost  through  illness. 

Lace  That  Grows  on  Trees. 

Alpheus  Hyatt  Verrill,  author  of 
"Harper's  Book  for  Young  Natural- 
ists," tells  of  a  tree  cloth  or  lace  which 
Indian  girls  in  South  America  use  for 
clothes.  "In  order  to  procure  this 
beautiful  material,"  he  says,  "it  is 
only  necessary  to  break  open  a  branch 
of  the  lace  tree,  pull  out  the  pith,  and 
unroll  it  into  sheets.  Often  these 
sheets  of  delicate  fibre  are  over  a  yard 
square,  and  they  are  used  by  the  South 
American  girls  and  ladies  as  veils, 
handkerchiefs,  mosquito-netting,  por- 
tieres, sheetings,  etc.  Although  very 
delicate  and  pretty,  yet  the  lace  is  ex- 
tremely strong,  and  is  often  made  into 
harness,  ropes,  hammocks,  and  even 
suspension  bridges  across  the  moun- 
tain streams.  It  is  so  abundant  that 
it  is  seldom  washed,  for  it  is  far  easier 
to  cut  some  new  lace  from  a  near-by 
tree  than  to  wash  that  which  is  soiled." 

Robert  Haven  Schauffler's  "Roman- 
tic America"  will  be  published  in  book 
form  in  the  fall,  with  many  illustra- 
tions by  such  notable  artists  as  Max- 
field  Parrish,  Joseph  Pennell,  Winslow 
Homer,  Albert  Herter,  etc.  Mr.  Schauf- 
fler's sympathetic  descriptions  cover 
Mt.  Desert  and  the  Maine  coast, 
Provincetown,  the  California  Missions, 
New  Orleans,  Mamniouth  Cave,  the 


312 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


Grand  Canyon,  the  Yosemite,  Yellow- 
stone Park,  and  Pittsburgh. 

Published  by  The  Century  Com- 
pany, Union  Square,  New  York. 

"Lanagan,  Amateur  Detective,"  by 
Edward  H.  Hurlbut. 

Good  detective  stori'  j  are  perenially 
entertaining,  as  the  reading  world  has 
discovered  ever  since  Poe  uncovered 
that  field  of  literature  with  his  master- 
pieces. A  few  authors  have  appeared 
since  then  who  have  had  the  detective 
sense  grafted  on  their  instinct  values 
in  story  telling,  but  for  the  most  part 
the  ordinary  detective  stories  turned 
out  by  the  ton  are  simply  rot.  In 
"Lanagan,"  however,  the  reader  will 
find  the  genuine  test  of  the  real  detec- 
tive story — holding  the  suspense  and 
intense  interest  from  cover  to  cover. 
Their  locale  is  San  Francisco,  a  city 
that  has  furnished  some  of  the  most 
sensational  and  colorful  crimes  of  the 
last  fifty  years.  The  author  is  a 
trained  police  reporter  on  one  of  the 
San  Francisco  dailies.  His  stories  are 
the  fruit  of  his  experiences,  some  of 
them  based  on  occurrences,  and  have 
the  actual  thrill  of  the  recital  of  an 
eye-witness.  Nothing  so  good  in  their 
line  as  these  stories  has  been  published 
in  a  long  while,  and  Mr.  Hurlbut  has 
scored  an  initial  success  in  a  field 
where,  by  all  tradition,  he  ought  to 
make  a  name  for  himself. 

Price,  $1.25  net.  Published  by  Stur- 
gis  &  Walton,  New  York, 


The  Century  Company's  children's 
list  this  fall  includes  "Miss  Santa 
Claus  of  the  Pullman,"  by  Annie  Fel- 
lows Johnston,  author  of  "The  Little 
Colonel  Series;"  a  new  edition  of 
Mother  Goose  lavishly  illustrated  by 
Arthur  Rackham;  a  new  Palmer  Cox 
Brownie  Book,  and,  for  very  little 
folk,  "Sonny  Boy's  Day  at  the  Zoo," 
the  illustrations  from  photographs  of 
a  real  little  boy  who  spent  much  time 
in  the  New  York  Zoological  Park  the 
summer  he  was  two. 


in  her  characteristic  way  of  how  a 
Southern  beauty  decides  to  break  the 
deadlock  of  sex  inequality  by  propos- 
ing to  the  man  of .  her  choice.  She 
calls  the  book  "The  Tinder  Box,"  and 
The  Century  Company  will  issue  it  in 
the  fall. 


Maria  Thompson  Daviess,  author  of 
"The  Melting  of  Molly,"  has  written 


"Perceptions,"     by     Robert    Bowman 
Peck. 

A  pocket  edition  of  verse  on  the 
world  and  its  flexing  emotions,  as 
viewed  by  the  author.  The  first  offer- 
ing, "The  Chimney  Wind,"  strikes  the 
keynote  in  style  and  impression: 

"Does  the  wind  whistle  so  at  home, 

O  fellow  forlorn  and  lone? 

By  strange  chimney-seats     in     queer 

foreign  streets, 
Does  the  wind  whistle  so  at  home  ? 

"Does  the  wind  whistle  so  at  home, 

Or  is  it  a  poor,  buried  moan, 

With  no  fire  to  atone  and  love  left 

alone  ? 
Does  the  wind  whistle  so  at  home  ?. 

"Does  the  wind  whistle  so  at  home? 
Away  where  you  long  and  roam, 
The  fire  in  your  heart  is  the  hearth 

apart. 
Does  the  wind  whistle  so  at  home?" 

Published  by  Elkin  Mathews,  Cork 
Street,  London. 

Archibald  Colquhoun,  author  of 
"China  in  Transformation,"  has  called 
attention  to  the  Asiatic  immigration 
question  as  it  affects  Canada.  In  1906, 
he  says,  the  large  Japanese  immigra- 
tion into  British  Columbia  was  the 
cause  of  anti-Asiatic  riots.  A  Cana- 
dian minister  was  sent  to  Tokio,  and 
Japan  intimated  that  she  would  not 
"insist  upon  the  complete  enjoyments 
of  the  rights  and  privileges"  to  which 
her  position,  by  the  treaty  of  1894,  still 
entitled  her.  In  the  new  edition  of 
"China  in  Transformation,"  brought 
up  to  date,  Mr.  Colquhoun  has  noted 
that  "any  attempt  to  differentiate  be- 
tween Chinese  and  Japanese  in  inter- 
national intercourse  can  only  be  tem- 
porarily successful." 


"AVY  CALIFORNIA" 
By  Marion  Ethel  Hamilton 


"My  California!"  where  the  palm  and 

pepper 

Side  by  side  in  idle  breezes  sway. 
"My    California!"    where   the  copper 

sunset 
Links  the  silver  night  to  golden  day. 

"My  California!"  where  the  peaks  of 

purple 
Like  dream   mountains  in  a  dream 

seajdrift. 
"My  California!"  where  like  scenes  in 

stage-land, 

Wondrous  painted  shadows  slip  and 
shift 

"My  California!"  where  thegood  monk's 

phantom 

Lingers  by  the  ruined  mission's  wall. 
"My  California!"  from  whose  mountain 

passes, 
Voices  of  dead  bandits  seem  to  call. 


OCT  8 

JQEUATUM,  1U- 


OVERLAND 


Founded  1868 


MONTHLY 


BRET  HAUTE 


VOL.  LXII 


San  Francisco,  October,  1913 


No.  4 


The  Fonda,  or  Exchange  Hotel,  terminus  of  Santa  Fe  trail,  Santa  Fe. 


THE    SANTA    FE    TRAIL 


By  John   L.  Cowan 


OF  THE  historic  highways  of  the 
West,    there    are    three    whose 
very  names  stir  the  most  slug- 
gish imaginations,  and  kindle  a 
spark  of  patriotic  fire  in  the  hearts  of 
the  most  indifferent.     These  are  the 


Santa  Fe  Trail,  the  Oregon  Trail  and 
El  Camino  Real. 

The  Santa  Fe  Trail  was  a  trade 
route,  established  for  the  barter  and 
sale  of  merchandise.  Its  history 
abounds  in  thrilling  incidents  and  tales 


318 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


of  heroic  deeds;  but  the  dominant 
note  is  commerce  and  the  pursuit  of 
gain. 

The  Oregon  Trail  was  the  path  of 
Empire.  It  was  not  the  pursuit  of 
dollars,  but  the  love  of  adventure,  that 
led  the  fur  traders  and  trappers  to  the 
Pacific  Northwest;  and  who  shall  say 
that  it  was  not  Destiny  that  dispatched 
after  them  Jason  Lee  and  Marcus 
Whitman,  who  went  as  missionaries, 
and  became  the  colonizers  and  Empire 
builders?  In  any  event,  it  was  the 


men.  And  as  long  as  California  lures 
the  dwellers  in  less  friendly  climes  to 
come  to  bask  in  the  sunshine  of  her 
shores  and  inhale  the  perfume  of  her 
flowers,  so  long  will  the  glamor  of 
romance  surround  the  old  missions  and 
glorify  every  mile  of  El  Camino  Real 
with  legends  of  the  Icves  and  sighs  of 
forgotten  Juans  and  Juanitas  of  old 
Spanish  days. 

The  Santa  Fe  Trail  was  laid  out  by 
the  engineer  who  planned  the  universe. 
Trade  routes,  like  trade  centers,  are 


A  modern  street  in  a  town  on  the  old  trail. 


emigration  of  1842  and  1843,  over  the 
Oregon  Trail,  that  defeated  the  well- 
laid  plans  of  the  British,  and  settled 
for  all  time,  in  favor  of  the  United 
States,  the  long-standing  controversy 
as  to  the  ownership  of  the  Oregon 
country. 

El  Camino  Real  is  the  pathway  of 
romance.  The  padres  were  the  great- 
est of  all  altruists,  laboring  neither  for 
the  greed  of  gold,  nor  for  the  lust  of 
conquest,  but  for  love  of  their  fellow 


located  and  determined  by  nature, 
rather  than  by  the  arbitrary  caprice 
of  man;  and  this  was  the  highway 
that  nature  planned  and  prepared  for 
the  connection  of  the  region  of  the 
Great  Plateau  with  the  Great  Plains. 
Today  it  is  followed  by  one  of  Amer- 
ica's most  important  railroad  systems. 
A  half  century  ago  it  was  traversed 
by  caravans  of  clumsy  wagons,  drawn 
by  oxen,  mules  and  horses,  carrying 
a  traffic  valued  at  millions  of  dollars 


A  wayside  stopping  place  in  New  Mexico. 


annually.  More  than  three  and  a  half 
centuries  ago,  much  the  same  course 
was  taken  by  the  Spanish  explorers  in 
their  journeys  through  the  unknown 
land  whose  peoples  they  believed  it 
was  their  mission  to  conquer  and  con- 


vert. And  if  we  could  dissipate  the 
mists  that  shroud  the  ancient  history 
of  aboriginal  America,  we  might  be- 
hold the  march  and  countermarch  of 
armies  of  plumed  and  painted  war- 
riors, and  tribes  of  savage  nomads  of 


Relics  of  an  old  Mission  on  the  trail. 


320 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


plain  and  desert,  moving  on  to  con- 
quest, or  fleeing  in  wild  retreat  over 
this  highway  of  the  ages. 

It  is  said  that  French  traders  from 
the  Mississippi  valley  established  a 
trading  post  near  the  present  site  of 
Pueblo,  Colo.,  as  early  as  1763;  but 
the  modern  history  of  the  Santa  Fe 
Trail  must  be  considered  as  beginning 
in  1804.  In  that  year,  William  Mor- 
rison, of  Kaskaskia,  111.,  sent  Baptiste 
Lalande,  a  French  Creole,  to  Santa  Fe, 
with  a  small  stock  of  goods.  Lalande 
reached  Santa  Fe  in  safety,  sold  the 
goods  at  attractive  prices,  and  liked 
the  country  so  well  that  he  decided  to 
stay,  keeping  his  employer's  money. 


1807,  Lieut.  Salcedo  demanded  his 
surrender  on  account  of  his  unjustifi- 
able invasion  of  Spanish  territory.  He 
was  first  conducted  to  Santa  Fe,  and 
thence  to  Chihuahua,  where  he  was 
questioned  by  the  military  authorities. 
Then  he  and  his  men  were  liberated, 
but  they  were  conducted  out  of  the 
country,  through  Texas  to  United 
States  soil,  in  Louisiana. 

Before  Pike's  expedition,  little  was 
known  of  distances,  directions,  ob- 
stacles or  opportunities  in  the  unde- 
fined region  called  "Kanzas,"  and  in 
the  possessions  of  Spain  that  lay  be- 
yond. Pike  mapped  the  way  from  the 
Great  Bend  of  the  Arkansas  to  the 


Old  home  of  Kit  Carson  at  Taos,  New  Mexico. 


Two  years  later,  Captain  Zebulon 
M.  Pike  set  forth  on  his  famous  expe- 
dition, designed  to  reconcile  the  differ- 
ences of  several  Indian  tribes,  and  to 
explore  the  Arkansas  and  Red  rivers. 
Pike  strayed  outside  of  United  States 
territory  into  the  possessions  of  Spain, 
but  whether  this  was  by  accident  or  by 
design  need  not  here  be  debated.  He 
reached  the  Rio  Grande,  which  he 
said  he  thought  was  the  Red  river,  and 
camped  not  far  from  the  present  loca- 
tion of  the  town  of  Alamosa,  in  south- 
ern Colorado.  There,  on  February  26, 


Rocky  Mountains,  and  thence  to  Santa 
Fe  and  Chihuahua.  His  report  was 
published  in  1810,  and  gave  to  the 
American  people  their  first  definite 
knowledge  of  the  vast  region  he  had 
traversed,  and  of  its  possibilities  of 
commercial  exploitation. 

But  it  had  always  been  Spain's  set- 
tled policy  to  monopolize  the  trade  of 
her  colonies,  and  it  was  qujte  gener- 
ally known  that  profitable  trade  with 
Santa  Fe  was  out  of  the  question  so 
long  as  Mexico  remained  a  possession 
of  Spain.  The  revolt  of  1810,  led  by 


Grave  of  Kit  Carson,  Taos,  New  Mexico.    Photo  by  John  L.  Cowan. 


Hidalgo,  the  patriot  priest,  gave  rise 
to  the  hope  that  Spanish  rule  was 
about  to  be  terminated.  This  hope 
was  not  altogether  dissipated  by  the 
capture  and  execution  of  Hidalgo,  as 
another  revolutionary  leader  appeared 
upon  the  scene  to  take  his  place. 

In  1812,  Robert  McKnight,  Samuel 
Chambers  and  James  Baird,  with  a 
few  companions,  set  out  from  the  Mis- 
souri river  for  Santa  Fe,  hoping  that 
fortune  would  favor  them  in  their  at- 
tempt to  open  up  trade  with  a  region 
that  was  manifestly  more  favorably 
situated  for  doing  business  with  St. 
•Louis  than  with  the  cities  of  Mexico. 
Their  hope  was  vain.  They  were 
.seized  as  spies,  their  goods  were  con- 


fiscated, and  they  were  thrown  into 
prison.  Not  until  after  the  overthrow 
of  Spain's  power  in  Mexico  by  Itur- 
bide,  in  1821,  were  they  released. 

Three  years  later,  Auguste  Chou- 
teau  and  Julius  De  Mun,  of  St.  Louis, 
with  a  number  of  companions,  tempted 
fate  in  the  same  manner.  They  were 
arrested  and  tried  by  court  martial  at 
Santa  Fe,  and  their  goods,  said  to  be 
worth  $30,000,  were  confiscated.  Then 
each  of  them  was  given  a  horse,  and 
they  were  told  to  get  out  of  the  coun- 
try. 

That  ended  all  efforts  to  establish 
overland  trade  with  Mexico  until  after 
the  success  of  Iturbide's  revolution  be- 
came assured.  In  1821,  several  parties 


The  old  palace. 


of  traders  set  out  from  different  points 
on  the  Missouri  river,  led  by  William 
Becknell,  Braxton  Cooper,  Jacob  Fow- 
ler and  Hugh  Glen.  None  of  these 
parties  carried  large  stocks  of  goods, 
but  the  merchandise  they  did  take  was 
disposed  of  at  a  profit;  so  that  the 
year  1821  is  memorable  in  the  annals 
of  the  Santa  Fe  Trail  as  witnessing 
the  first  successful  trading  expeditions 
ever  conducted  over  it  by  Americans. 
The  next  year,  Becknell  made  an- 
other trip,  taking  with  him  three 
wagons.  These  were  the  first  wheeled 
vehicles  that  ever  succeeded  in  cross- 
ing the  plains.  The  fact  that 
their  use,  without  preliminary  road- 
making,  proved  practicable,  shows 
how  truly  the  Santa  Fe  Trail  was  a 
natural  highway.  Becknell's  success, 
and  the  accounts  he  gave  of  the  prizes 
that  awaited  the  enterprising,  led 
many  others  to  undertake  the  same 
journey,  and  the  traffic  to  Santa  Fe 
soon  began  to  attain  important  pro- 
portions. Thus  was  inaugurated  the 
"commerce  of  the  prairies."  The  jour- 
ney from  the  Missouri  river  to  Santa 


Fe  was  short  in  comparison  with  that 
over  the  great  trade  route  of  South 
America,  from  Lima,  the  chief  seat 
of  Spanish  power  on  that  continent,  to 
Buenos  Aires.  It  was  short  in  com- 
parison with  that  over  the  Oregon 
Trail,  which  was  to  become  a  common- 
place of  later  years;  but  it  was  by  far 
the  longest,  most  difficult  and  most 
hazardous  commercial  journey  over- 
land that  the  American  people  had,  up 
to  that  time,  undertaken.  For  long 
distances  the  trail  lay  across  treeless 
plains,  with  stretches  of  waterless 
desert,  swept  by  blinding  sandstorms 
and  terrifying  cyclones.  Indian  hos- 
tilities along  the  route  date  from  1828, 
when  Samuel  McNees  and  Daniel 
Munro  were  killed  by  a  party  of  Paw- 
nees. For  forty  years  thereafter,  the 
Pawnees,  Comanches,  Apaches,  Ara- 
pahoes  and  other  tribes  lost  no  oppor- 
tunity to  plunder,  harrass,  kill  and 
scalp  freighters  and  travelers  over  the 
road  to  Santa  Fe. 

Beginning  in  1829,  in  times  of 
particular  danger  from  the  Indians, 
the  government  furnished  military  es- 


View  of  one  part  of  the  New  Mexico  country  through  which  the  trail  passed. 


certs  for  freighting  caravans.  How- 
ever, the  freighters  were  well  armed, 
and  usually  traveled  in  large  parties, 
so  that,  as  a  rule,  they  depended  upon 
their  own  resources  for  defense 
against  the  attacks  of  hostile  war 
parties.  In  1849,  the  white  bandit,  or 
road  agent,  made  his  initial  appear- 
ance, and  from  that  time  forward  con- 
stituted a  danger  as  real  as  the  Indians 
themselves  to  stage  coach  passengers 
and  travelers  not  connected  with  large 
caravans. 

In  1824,  a  caravan  of  25  wagons,  ac- 


companied by  a  long  train  of  pack 
mules,  made  the  journey,  and  the  trade 
with  Santa  Fe  ceased  to  be  of  an  ex- 
perimental and  tentative  nature.  Cut- 
lery, firearms,  cotton  goods,  silks,  vel- 
vets and  finery  were  the  articles  dealt 
in  most  largely.  The  traffic  fluctuated 
greatly  in  volume  from  year  to  year; 
but  by  1843  it  had  reached  $750,000  in 
annual  value. 

In  1844,  President  Santa  Anna,  fore- 
seeing the  impending  war  with  the 
United  States,  closed  the  cities  of 
Mexico  against  American  traders,  and, 


View  of  the  National  Cemetery,  Santa  Fe.     The  one  on  the  left  shows 
the  grave  of  Governor  Bent. 


for  the  time  being,  the  traffic  with 
Santa  Fe  came  to  a  close.  In  the  sum- 
mer of  1846,  the  Army  of  the  West, 
commanded  by  General  Stephen  Watts 
Kearny,  traversed  the  trail,  entered 
Santa  Fe  on  August  16,  and  pro- 
claimed New  Mexico  a  possession  of 
the  United  States.  The  first  stage 
coach  from  the  states  that  ever  en- 
tered the  plaza  at  Santa  Fe  arrived  in 
1849.  At  first  only  monthly  trips  were 
made.  The  fare  from  Independence 
was  $250  in  gold.  Each  stage  coach 
was  guarded  by  an  escort  of  eight 
men,  each  carrying  a  "Hawkins"  rifle 
and  two  revolvers.  In  1849,  also,  be- 
gan the  rush  to  California.  Most  of 
the  goldseekers  followed  the  Oregon 
and  California  Trails,  but  there  were 
thousands  who  took  the  Santa  Fe 
Trail  instead.  Late  in  the  '60's  and 
early  in  the  70's,  it  is  claimed  that 
merchandise  valued  at  from  $5,000,- 
000  to  $8,000,000  passed  over  the 
trail  each  year.  Much  of  this  was 
destined  for  California,  for  by  that 
time  the  Santa  Fe  Trail  had  become  a 
mere  reach  on  the  long  journey  to  the 
coast. 

Traffic  over  the  Santa  Fe  Trail  was 
brought  to  a  close  by  the  construc- 
tion of  the  Atchison,  Topeka  and 
Santa  Fe  railroad,  the  freighters  re- 


treating as  the  construction  crews  ad- 
vanced. By  1872,  the  line  had  been 
completed  as  far  as  Wichita,  Kan., 
where  it  stopped,  because  capital  hesi- 
tated to  venture  far  into  the  unpro- 
ductive "desert"  that  lay  beyond.  But 
in  a  few  years  the  railroad  builders 
took  fresh  courage  and  work  was  re- 
sumed, the  goal  being  California.  Las 
Vegas,  in  New  Mexico,  was  reached 
in  1879;  and  a  branch  line  from  Lamy 
to  Santa  Fe  was  completed  February 
9,  1880. 

From  Independence  to  Santa  Fe,  the 
distance  was  about  785  miles  by  way 
of  the  Cimarron  desert,  and  nearly  one 
hundred  miles  farther  by  way  of  Fort 
Bent.  The  longer  route  was  often  pre- 
ferred, because  it  was  safer  and  at- 
tended with  less  hardship.  The  route 
taken  by  the  freighters  varied  from 
time  to  time,  so  that  it  was  only  in 
places  that  identically  the  same  course 
was  taken  by  the  caravans  year  after 
year.  In  many  such  places,  after  the 
lapse  of  a  third  of  a  century,  the  ruts 
worn  by  the  wagon  wheels  and  the 
paths  beaten  by  the  feet  of  the  oxen 
may  even  be  traced  on  the  plains  of 
Kansas  and  Colorado  and  over  the 
hills  of  New  Mexico. 

Several  years  ago,  the  Daughters  of 
the  American  Revolution  started  a 


An  example  of  the  old  Zuni  architecture. 


movement  for  the  erection  of  appro- 
priate monuments  and  markers  along 
the  trail.  The  State  legislatures  of 
Missouri,  Kansas  and  Colorado,  the 
school  children  in  the  states  traversed, 
and  various  patriotic  societies,  individ- 
uals and  corporations,  gave  material 
assistance,  so  that  the  old  road  has 
been  blazed  again  from  end  to  end. 

The  Santa  Fe  Trail  has  few  natural 
landmarks  of  very  picturesque  or  spec- 
tacular interest.  Perhaps  the  best 
known  is  Pawnee  Rock,  between  Great 
Bend  and  Larned,  Kansas.  It  is  a 
great  sandstone  promontory  jutting 
out  upon  the  bottom  lands  of  the  Ar- 
kansas river.  It  is  now  owned  by  the 
State,  and  is  protected  from  further 
vandalism  than  it  has  already  suffered. 

A  few  miles  beyond  Raton  Pass,  in 
New  Mexico,  is  Starvation  Peak,  on 
which  it  is  said  that  a  number  of 
freighters  were  once  besieged  by  the 
Indians  until  they  perished  of  thirst 
and  hunger.  Whether  the  legend  is 
based  upon  fact  or  not  is  uncertain. 

Memorials  of  historic  or  sentimental 
interest,  also,  are  few  and  far  between. 
At  Council  Grove,  Kansas,  where  cara- 
vans were  organized  and  leaders 
chosen,  and  where  many  conferences 


between  the  Indians  and  whites  were 
held  in  the  early  days,  may  be  seen  an 
old  bell  that  used  to  summon  the  peo- 
ple of  the  settlement  to  political  and 
religious  gatherings,  and  to  give  the 
alarm  of  fire  or  Indian  incursions.  The 
old  stone  tower  in  which  the  bell 
swung  in  frontier  days  was  blown 
down  years  ago  by  a  cyclone;  but  a 
new  one  has  been  built  of  stones  sup- 
plied by  the  school  children  and  citi- 
zens. 

The  most  famous  stopping  place  on 
the  old  trail  was  Bent's  Fort,  on  the 
Arkansas,  built  by  the  Bent  brothers, 
who  were  the  largest  operators  in  the 
fur  trade  of  the  Rocky  mountain  re- 
gion, with  the  single  exception  of  the 
American  Fur  Company.  Their  first 
fort,  or  trading  post,  was  built  in  1826, 
on  the  north  bank  of  the  Arkansas, 
about  midway  between  the  present 
sites  of  Pueblo  and  Canon  City,  Colo- 
rado. In  1829,  they  began  the  con- 
struction of  a  much  larger  and  stronger 
trading  post,  not  many  miles  from 
where  La  Junta,  Colo.,  is  now  located. 
This  became  the  pivotal  point  in  the 
history  of  the  Southwest,  and  was  by 
far  the  most  important  stopping  place 
on  the  Santa  Fe  Trail,  between  Inde- 


326 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


pendence  and  Santa  Fe.  After  the 
fur  trade  ceased  to  be  profitable,  Wil- 
liam Bent  endeavored  to  sell  the  fort 
to  the  United  States  government  for 
military  purposes.  Exasperated  by 
his  inability  to  get  what  he  regarded 
as  a  fair  price  for  the  property,  he 
blew  it  up  with  gunpowder,  in  1852. 
Two  years  later  he  built  another  fort, 
a  few  miles  east  of  the  present  town 
of  Lamar,  evidently  with  the  expecta- 
tion of  selling  it  to  the  government. 
The  negotiations  dragged  for  years, 
but  it  was  finally  purchased  by  the 
War  Department  and  renamed  Fort 
Wise. 

On  the  last  lap  of  the  road  to  Santa 
Fe — only  25  miles  from  that  city — was 
the  Pueblo  Indian  town  of  Pecos.  This 
was  once  the  largest  of  the  Pueblo 
communities,  with  a  population  of 
perhaps  2,500.  .  War  and  pestilence 
decimated  the  community  to  such  an 
extent  that  in  1847  the  few  survivors 
deserted  it  and  went  to  live  in  other 
villages.  Gradually  the  great  com- 
munal buildings  fell  into  ruin,  until 
now  there  is  little  left  but  the  crum- 
bling red  adobe  walls  of  the  old  mis- 
sion church.  This  old  mission  was  a 
prominent  landmark  of  the  trail  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  of  traffic,  and 
remains  to  this  day  one  of  the  inter- 
esting historic  memorials  of  the  Old 
Southwest,  dating  back  to  1617. 

About  80  miles  north  of  Santa  Fe, 
on  the  Rio  Grande,  near  the  Colorado- 
New  Mexico  line,  is  the  village  of 
Taos,  not  far  from  the  Indian  town  of 
the  same  name.  William  Becknell,  on 
his  expedition  of  1822,  reached  Santa 
Fe  by  way  of  Taos.  This  road  was 
often  used  by  the  early  traders,  and 
always  continued  to  be  a  well  traveled 
highway,  so  that  it  is  properly  con- 
sidered a  part  of  the  Santa  Fe  Trail. 
In  the  village  of  Alcalde,  on  the  road 
from  Taos  to  Santa  Fe,  the  old  stage 
station  and  corral  are  still  standing  in 
an  excellent  state  of  preservation. 

Taos  is  notable  in  the  annals  of  the 


Santa  Fe  Trail  because  it  was  there 
that  Kit  Carson  made  his  home.  That 
famous  frontiersman  made  his  bow 
upon  the  Western  stage  in  the  humble 
capacity  of  mule-driver  on  the  Santa 
Fe  Trail,  for  Ceran  St.  Vrain,  a  busi- 
ness partner  of  the  Bent  brothers. 
From  1834  to  1842,  he  spent  the  hunt- 
ing season  each  year  shooting  buffalo 
and  other  wild  game  to  supply  the  em- 
ployes and  guests  of  Bent's  Fort  with 
meat.  The  late  winter  months  were 
passed  trapping  beaver,  and  the  sum- 
mer season  usually  found  him  at  his 
ranch  near  Taos.  From  that  point  he 
made  frequent  trips  over  the  Santa  Fe 
Trail,  as  guard  for  freighting  caravans. 
His  old  home  in  Taos  is  still  stand- 
ing, and  not  much  more  than  a  stone's 
throw  distant  is  his  grave.  In  Taos, 
too,  is  the  house  in  which  Charles 
Bent,  one  of  the  fur-trading  firm  that 
owned  Bent's  Fort,  and  the  first  Ameri- 
can Governor  of  New  Mexico,  was 
killed  in  the  Taos  insurrection  of  1847. 
In  Santa  Fe,  the  most  interesting 
memorial  of  the  trail  is  its  terminus, 
"The  Fonda,"  known,  after  the  Ameri- 
can occupation  as  the  Exchange  Hotel. 
This  was  the  rendezvous  of  all  the 
scouts,  freighters,  plainsmen,  pioneers, 
bad  men,  soldiers,  travelers  and  set- 
tlers of  the  Southwest,  in  the  days 
when  Santa  Fe  was  on  the  frontier. 
Many  a  stirring  melodrama  of  the  real 
Wild  West  here  had  its  setting.  Diag- 
onally across  the  plaza  from  the  Ex- 
change Hotel  is  the  famous  "Old  Pal- 
ace," a  long,  low,  one-story  building 
that  was  the  seat  of  Spanish,  Mexican 
and  American  authority  for  almost 
three  hundred  years.  It  was  to  the 
Old  Palace  that  Pike  was  taken  a 
prisoner  in  1807,  and  it  was  over  the 
same  historic  building  that  General 
Kearny  raised  the  American  flag,  Au- 
gust 16, 1846.  It  is  now  the  headquar- 
ters of  the  New  Mexico  Museum  and 
School  of  Archaeology,  so  that  its 
preservation  as  a  relic  of  the  heroic 
past  is  assured. 


DUNCAN 


OF 
nETLAKAHTLA 


DESERTED 


By 


Father  Duncan,  Met- 

lakahtla,  Alaska. 
(From  a  recent  photo- 
graph.} 


Harold    French 


A  GLOOMY  winter  of  discontent 
broods  over  Metlakahtla,  long- 
lauded  as  "the  Indian  Arcadia 
of  Alaska/'  Its  founder, 
Father  Duncan,  after  devoting  fifty- 
five  years  of  his  life  to  the  moral  up- 
lift and  the  material  welfare  of  his 
wards,  is  now,  at  four-score,  forsaken 
by  a  generation  who  know  not  their 
Joseph.  Under  his  paternal  guidance, 
the  Tsimpsheans,  a  tribe  of  erstwhile 
cannibals,  were  transformed  into  a 
community  which  deeply-impressed 
visitors  have  compared  to  the  early 
Christians  because  of  the  simple  faith 
and  brotherly  love  displayed  by  these 
people.  So  remarkable  was  the  social, 
political  and  economic  development  of 
the  Metlakahtlans  that  they  won  the 
warm  approval  of  President  Roosevelt, 
who,  in  a  message  to  Congress  in  1905, 
characterized  these  exceptional  natives 
as  being  "highly  intelligent,  civilized, 


and  fully  entitled  to  all  the  rights  and 
privileges  of  citizenship." 

Now,  in  his  old  age,  evil  days  have 
come  to  the  patriarch,  Duncan.  Nearly 
all  his  younger  colonists  have  emi- 
grated to  new  districts  of  industrial  ac- 
tivity, where  higher  wages  and  free- 
dom from  restraint  have  proven 
stronger  attractions  than  the  conditions 
of  living  under  the  strict  and  uncom- 
promising rule  of  their  religious  and 
temporal  overlord.  If  this  significant 
exodus  continues  at  the  present  rate 
of  depopulation  for  another  summer, 
this  idyllic  island  home  of  the  Metla- 
kahtlans will  become  but  a  memory. 
Scattered  along  the  labyrinthine  coast- 
line of  Alaska,  and  left  to  their  own 
devices,  the  future  of  these  long- 
shielded  children  of  Father  Duncan's 
flock  is  not  difficult  to  foresee  by  all 
who  are  familiar  with  the  ways  of 
whites  with  a  weaker  race  whom  they 


328 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


no  longer  fear.  In  William  Duncan's 
long  and  eventful  career,  he  has  won 
many  victories  over  vice  and  greed. 
Barbaric  superstition  and  the  thrall- 
dom  of  ecclesiastical  bigotry,  he  has 
banished  from  the  minds  of  his  native 
followers.  But  now,  at  fourscore, 
fighting  alone  in  his  last  ditch  against 
corrupting  phases  of  commercialism, 
he  has  reluctantly  signaled  for  succor. 

Duncan  Comes  to  New  Caledonia. 

The  story  of  "The  Apostle  of 
Alaska"  was  fully  recorded  up  to  a 
few  years  ago  by  his  devoted  Boswell, 
Mr.  John  W.  Artcander,  in  his  fascinat- 
ing volume  with  the  fitting  caption 
quoted  above. 

Born  at  Beverly,  Yorkshire,  in  April, 
1832,  Duncan  early  acquired  a  dual 
aptitude  for  religious  work  and  the 
mastery  of  business  methods.  As  a 
boy  chorister  in  the  old  Beverly  Cathe- 
dral, his  clear  soprano  voice  attracted 
noteworthy  appreciation.  His  skill  as 
a  penman  and  accountant,  his  tact  as  a 
confidential  clerk,  and  his  resourceful- 
ness as  a  traveling  salesman,  won  him 
such  well  remunerated  recognition 
that,  at  twenty-one,  he  received  an  of- 
fer of  five  thousand  dollars  a  year  from 
a  prominent  firm  which  vainly  endeav- 
ored to  induce  him  to  reconsider  his 
resolution  to  devote  his  versatile  tal- 
ents to  the  service  of  the  English 
Church  Missionary  Society. 

While  preparing  for  his  life  calling 
at  Highbury  College,  he  learned 
-through  Captain  Prevost  of  the  Royal 
"Navy  of  a  remarkable  tribe  of  Indians 
inhabiting  the  coast  of  British  Colum- 
bia, who  were  called  the  Tsimpsheans, 
"the  livers  along  the  Skeena  River,"  as 
their  native  name  signified.  Although 
they  possessed  many  superior  quali- 
ties, they  were  still  steeped  in  the 
mental  miasma  of  superstition,  resort- 
.-*  ing  at  times  to  the  most  revolting  rites 
•'  bordering  upon  cannibalism.  Further- 
more, they  were  rapidly  becoming  vic- 
tims to  the  vices  and  wiles  of  liquor- 
selling  traders.  In  response  to  the  ur- 
gent appeal  of  Captain  Prevost,  anony- 
mous patrons  of  the  Church  Mission- 
ary Society  subscribed  $2,500  for  the 


purpose  of  sending  a  missionary  to  this 
remote  corner  of  "New  Caledonia,"  as 
Canada's  Farthest  West  was  then 
called. 

A  British  man-of-war  brought  Dun- 
can to  Victoria  in  June,  1857.  On  the 
voyage,  the  now  long-forgotten  officers 
and  High  Church  chaplain  repeatedly 
snubbed  their  passenger,  the  lowly  lay- 
man missionary.  He,  in  turn,  rather 
than  dine  at  their  table,  subsisted  for 
weeks  upon  dry  biscuits  which  he 
bought  at  ports  en  route.  Upon  his  ar- 
rival at  Victoria,  the  Chief  Factor  of 
the  Hudson  Bay  Company,  Mr.  Doug- 
lass, warned  Duncan  against  entrusting 
himself  to  the  caprices  of  the  reputedly 
treacherous  Tsimpsheans.  "It  is  as 
much  as  your  life  is  worth  to  go  among 
these  savage  and  bloodthirsty  In- 
dians," this  pioneer  trader  declared. 

Nevertheless,  on  September  25, 
1857,  he  finally  was  permitted  to  de- 
part on  board  a  Hudson  Bay  steamer 
bound  to  Fort  Simpson,  six  hundred 
miles  northward,  and  near  the  historic 
boundary  of  50  deg.  40  min.  Duncan, 
during  his  first  week  of  residence  at 
the  fort,  found  the  Tsimpsheans  were 
"just  as  bad  as  they  had  been  painted 
to  be."  He  witnessed  the  slaying  of  a 
slave  by  Chief  Legaic  and  the  mutila- 
tion of  the  warm  body  in  a  semi-canni- 
bal fashion  before  the  horrified  but 
helpless  gaze  of  the  garrison.  Similar 
deviltries  were  of  common  occurrence, 
and  the  handful  of  whites  at  the  Hud- 
son Bay  post  were  powerless  to  inter- 
fere. Later,  Legaic  became  one  of 
Duncan's  most  earnest  disciples.  The 
favorite  pastime  of  these  children  of 
nature  was  the  tearing  of  a  living  dog 
to  pieces  with  their  teeth.  Direst 
superstitions  clouded  their  minds. 
Their  medicinemen,  shamans,  or,  pho- 
netically, "shoomansh,"  pretended  to 
cure  disease  by  the  most  barbarous 
practices,  attributing  their  failures  to 
effect  cures  to  evil  spells  conjured  by 
some  unfortunate  old  man  or  woman 
whom  they  then  subjected  to  torture. 
And  yet,  withal  their  bestial  degra- 
dation, their  innate  nobility  was  made 
manifest  in  many  ways.  Until  they 
came  '  into  corrupting  contact  with 


The  famous  Indian  band  at  Metlakahtla. 


shifty  whites,  theft  and  dishonesty 
were  unknown  to  the  Tsimpsheans. 
Their  open-hearted  hospitality  was  an- 
other redeeming  trait.  Soft  and  pleas- 
ing was  their  native  tongue.  Working 
with  wood,  stone  or  metal,  they  dis- 
played ingenuity  and  artistic  skill. 

Duncan  refrained  from  making 
serious  overtures  to  these  Indians  until 
he  had  mastered  their  language  and 
studied  their  nature,  customs  and  code 
of  aboriginal  etiquette.  After  nine 
months  of  careful  preparation,  he  sal- 
lied forth  from  the  fort  on  Sunday, 
June  13,  1858,  to  preach  all  day  to  the 
dusky,  doubting  Thomases  in  the 
Tsimpshean  dialect.  With  infinite 
tact,  he  gradually  dispelled  their 
superstitions  by  expounding  a  common 
sense  interpretation  of  natural  laws  in 
a  physical  world.  After  an  alternation 
of  initial  successes  and  set-backs,  he 
persuaded  some  twelve  hundred  of  this 
tribe  to  abandon  their  shamans  and 
their  deviltries.  At  first,  he  induced 
them  to  cease  indulging  in  liquor  and 
gambling.  Then  they  agreed  to  strictly 
observe  the  Sabbath,  and  to  send  their 
children  to  school.  In  a  couple  of 
years  they  were  domiciled  in  clearly, 
civilized  homes,  and  had  won  a  wide- 


spread reputation  for  their  honesty  in 
trade  and  their  unflagging  faithfulness 
in  their  performance  of  labor. 

Matlakahtla,  the  Pioneer  Colony. 

,  Realizing  that  close  contact  with  the 
exploiting  white  traders  and  their 
camp  followers  was  a  factor  not  con- 
ducive to  the  welfare  of  his  converts, 
Duncan  went  prospecting  for  a  Prom- 
ised Land  to  which  he  could  lead  them. 
Seventeen  miles  to  the  southward,  he 
found  "an  inlet  with  an  outlet,"  called 
Metlakahtla  in  the  Tsimpshean  tongue. 
Its  sheltered  harbor  and  fertile  clear- 
ings among  magnificent  forests  af- 
forded exceptional  advantages  to  set- 
tlers. Thither  Duncan  and  fifty  pio- 
neers paddled  their  canoes  in  May  of 
1862,  followed  by  a  thousand  more 
who  flocked  to  their  new  home.  Ere 
winter,  all  were  snugly  housed,  and  a 
bountiful  harvest  of  potatoes  stocked 
their  storehouses.  A  commodious 
church  and  school  house  were  also  con- 
structed. 

Duncan  was  decades  ahead  of  his 
times  in  his  ideas  of  the  duties  of  a 
missionary.  He  realized  that  it  was 
a  simple  task  to  convert  heathen  com- 


330 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


The  first  and  only  church  at  Met- 
lakahtla. 


pared  to  the  complex  problem  of  know- 
ing what  to  do  with  them  afterwards. 
But  this  Superman  possessed  the  fore- 
sight of  a  modern  social  engineer.  His 
theory  was  that  the  true  elevation  of 
the  Indian  was  not  to  be  effected  by 
driving  dogmas  into  his  head,  but  by 
making  him  a  self-supporting,  respon- 
sible man  of  many  resources.  In  or- 
der to  lead  his  converts  up  the  social 
ladder,  Duncan  planned  to  place  it  on 
a  firm  economic  foundation.  The  new 
order  of  living  demanded  higher  stand- 
ards. But  even  the  staple  commodi- 
ties of  civilized  life  were  costly  luxu- 
ries upon  this  far  frontier.  It  be- 
came necessary  for  him  to  develop 
home  industries  and  an  export  trade 
with  the  balance  in  favor  of  Metlakah- 
tla.  He  acted  on  the  principle  that  the 
only  way  to  make  a  good  Indian  was  to 


make  him  industrious.  With  a  genera- 
tion of  young  men  coming  to  maturity,, 
mischief  would  surely  ensue  unless 
they  were  given  opportunities  to  sup- 
ply their  growing  needs  by  increas- 
ing their  earning  capacities. 

The  fundamental  principle  of  ail 
progress,  respect  for  rightfully  consti- 
tuted authority,  Duncan  inculcated  in 
his  converts,  who,  in  1862,  after  four 
years  of  his  teaching,  had  advanced  so 
far  as  to  co-operate  in  a  happy  com- 
bination of  autonomy  and  autocracy. 
Flocking  to  town-meetings  of  the  old- 
time  New  England  type,  they  made 
their  laws,  elected  a  council,  and  voted 
upon  policies  affecting  their  common- 
wealth. Taxes  levied  to  cover  the  cost 
of  public  improvements  were  paid  for 
the  most  part  in  labor  performed.  But, 
as  a  benevolent  overlord,  Duncan  took 
care  to  decree  himself  the  Chief 
Magistrate  of  Metlakahtla  and  the 
Court  of  Last  Appeal.  And  ever  back 
of  his  kindly  but  kingly  control  was 
his  faithful  native  constabulary,  who 
promptly  quelled  any  incipient  sedi- 
tions with  all  the  majesty  of  Metlakah- 
tlan  law. 

In  order  to  secure  the  much-desired 
commodities  of  civilization,  Duncan 
encouraged  his  colonists  to  ship  their 
furs  to  Victoria,  where  they  received 
from  ten  to  twenty  times  the  niggardly 
allowance  doled  out  by  the  Hudson 
Bay  Company  at  Fon  Simpson.  Natu- 
rally, this  historic  monopoly  resented 
Duncan's  competition.  Its  vessels  left 
Metlakahtla  off  the  map  as  an  embargo 
was  declared  against  the  colony.  Un- 
daunted, this  captain  of  industrious  In- 
dians decided  to  launch  a  new  enter- 
prise which  would  cut  ever  more  into 
the  profits  of  this  predatory,  fur-trad- 
ing trust.  Raising  the  sum  of  $1,500 
in  part  from  the  collective  capital  of 
his  colonists,  he  organized  a  joint 
stock  company  and  purchased  a 
staunch  little  schooner,  which  made 
frequent  and  highly  remunerative  trips 
to  the  settlements.  This  new  departure 
caused  the  prosperity  of  Metlakahtla 
to  increase  most  substantially.  The  de- 
lighted natives  wanted  to  christen  their 
craft  "Hah,"  meaning  a  male  slave, 


The  Metlakahtla  Emporium. 


because,  as  they  reasoned,  "He  does 
all  the  work  and  we  get  all  the  profits." 
Ownership  of  stock  in  a  trading  and 
transportation  corporation  had  quite 
evidently  transformed  these  simple 
folks  into  class-conscious  capitalists. 
So  formidable  became  their  com- 
petition with  the  western  outposts  of 
the  Hudson  Bay  Company  that  its 
agents  resorted  to  drastic  measures  to 
drive  the  Metlakahtlans  out  of  busi- 
ness. Fancy  prices  for  peltries  and 
low  rates  for  imported  merchandise 
were  allowed  by  the  Hudson  Bay  fac- 
tors. Although  this  powerful  fur 
monopoly  employed  all  the  tactics  of 
a  typical  unregulated  American  trust, 
it  found  Duncan  a  foeman  it  could  not 
down.  When  his  would-be  eliminators 
underbid  the  prices  that  he  could  af- 
ford to  pay  at  his  store,  Duncan,  in- 
stead of  playing  a  losing  game  of 
freeze-out  by  following  suit  and  re- 
ducing his  rates  below  cost,  delivered 
an  ultimatum  to  the  factor  of  Fort 


Simpson,  to  whom  he  declared:  "My 
goods  are  all  paid  for,  and  it  will  not 
break  me  if  I  do  not  sell  a  pound  or  an 
ell  of  my  stuff.  The  moment  I  find 
that  you  raise  the  price  of  furs  above 
a  fair,  living  price,  or  lower  the  price 
of  goods  below  a  fair  profit,  I  will  turn 
the  key  in  the  lock  of  the  door  of  my 
store,  and  not  sell  another  article. 
When  the  Indians  come  for  goods,  or 
with  furs,  I  will  send  them  to  you,  and 
tell  them  that  they  can  make  a  good 
profit  by  coming  to  the  Fort.  The  mo- 
ment I  learn  that  you  have  come  down 
on  the  furs,  or  have  come  up  on  your 
store  goods,  I  open  the  door  of  my 
store  again,  and  tell  them  to  come  and 
trade  with  me  once  more.  Now,  hon- 
estly, what  do  you  think  about  my 
plan?" 

Duncan  well  knew  that  he  had  won 
the  love  and  confidence  of  his  clans- 
men and  that  he  could  depend  upon 
their  loyalty.  In  the  parlance  of  poker, 
this  missionary,  playing  a  lone  hand, 


332 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


called  the  bluff  of  the  great  company. 
Business,  thenceforth,  was  conducted 
along  the  lines  of  reasonable  compe- 
tition. 

As  soon  as  Duncan  had  established 
one  industry  upon  a  profitable  basis^ 
he  undertook  new  ventures.  Smoked 
salmon,  and  later  the  canned  product, 
became  a  principal  source  of  revenue 
from  shipments  to  Pacific  Coast  ports. 
From  the  fat  of  the  oolakan,  or  candle- 
fish,  the  natives  manufactured  a  mer- 
chantable quality  of  soap.  In  1870, 
Duncan  journeyed  throughout  England 
and  America,  learning  all  he  could  of 
new  developments  in  various  occupa- 
tions, to  which  his  people  could  adapt 
themselves.  At  Manchester  he  studied 
weaving;  at  Yarmouth,  the  manufac- 
ture of  rope  and  twine.  And  when  he 
returned,  he  brought  the  machinery  of 
a  modern  saw  mill  and  the  implements 
of  many  useful  trades.  On  being  pre- 
sented with  thirty  band  instruments, 
he  learned  in  eleven  lessons  how  to 
perform  on  each  instrument  well 
enough  to  become  the  leader  of  the 
later  celebrated  Metlakahtla  Indian 
band. 

Ecclesiastical  Persecution. 

Strenuous  as  were  Duncan's  labors 
during  the  week,  in  advancing  the  ma-, 
terial  interests  of  his  converts,  on  the 
Sabbath  day  he  worked  a  double  shift, 
conducting  a  succession  of  religious 
services.  Inflexibly  orthodox  in  his 
faith,  he  nevertheless  had  his  own 
opinion  of  ritualism  and  ecclesiasti- 
cism.  He  held  that  the  appearance  of 
a  priest  in  his  vestments  would  excite 
the  suspicions  of  the  shrewder  and 
more  critical  natives,  and  recall  to 
their  minds  the  somewhat  similar 
make-ups  of  their  own  shamans,  whose 
sham  and  hypocrisy  had  been  exposed. 
Duncan  preferred  the  unpretentious 
garb  of  a  layman.  He  also  radically 
refused  to  perform  the  sacrament  on 
the  grounds  that  it  would  be  incon- 
sistent for  a  missionary  to  offer  wine 
to  communicants  who  had  taken  vows 
of  total  abstinence.  Besides,  the  the- 
ory of  transubstantiation  was  in  his 


belief  a  difficult,  and,  indeed,  a  ques- 
tionable doctrine  for  these  tribesmen 
to  assimilate,  since  many  of  that  gen- 
eration had  actually  tasted  the  horrors 
of  cannibalism.  Heretical  as  his  ac- 
tions appeared  to  his  enemies,  the  con- 
ditions'of  aboriginal  life  at  that  period 
upon  the  North  Pacific  Coast  amply 
justified  his  course.  What  Duncan 
most  feared  was  a  reversion  to  the 
vices  which  the  symbolism  of  flesh 
and  blood  suggested.  The  wily  sha- 
mans were  quick  to  claim  that  mis- 
sionaries were  themselves  practicing 
the  very  rites  of  a  living  sacrifice,  and 
that  they  forced  their  converts  to  de- 
vour human  flesh  and  drink  human 
blood,  mixed  with  the  liquor  they  had 
pretended  to  proscribe. 

Duncan's  success  engendered  jeal- 
ousies which  culminated  in  the  efforts 
of  a  bigoted  ecclesiastical  hierarchy 
to  drive  him  from  the  scene  of  his  he- 
roic labors  of  a  quarter  of  a  century. 
In  1879  "the  Serpent  entered  into 
Eden,"  as  his  admittedly  biased  bio- 
grapher, Mr.  Arctander,  wrote  in  nar- 
rating the  advent  of  William  Ridley, 
Bishop  of  New  Caledonia.  An  ex- 
ceedingly narrow  and  dogmatic  secre- 
tary, he  insisted  that  Duncan  should 
conform  to  High  Church  ceremonials, 
however  unsuitable  they  were  for  these 
simple  neophytes.  The  Bishop  de- 
creed that  all  in  his  diocese  should  ad- 
dress him  as  "My  Lord."  Failing  in 
his  attempts  to  win  Duncan's  flock 
from  their  pastor,  Ridley  adopted  an 
infamous  rule  or  ruin  policy  of  reli- 
gious persecution.  Duncan,  although 
deposed  from  his  post,  remained  in 
Metlakahtla  in  response  to  the  prayers 
of  his  disciples.  He  still  did  business 
at  his  own  little  store,  preaching  as  an 
independent  layman  to  his  usual  con- 
gregation, while  the  Bishop  could 
barely  muster  a  corporal's  guard.  De- 
termined to  crush  Duncan  at  all  costs, 
the  Bishop  invoked  the  vast  economic 
power  of  the  influential  Church  Mis- 
sionary Society.  Its  income  amounted 
to  a  million  dollars  a  year,  and,  like 
the  great  fur  company,  its  management 
preferred  monopolistic  methods  in  its 
relations  with  the  Indians.  Once  more 


DUNCAN    OF   METLAKAHTLA,   DESERTED. 


333 


Hudson  Bay  tactics  were  resorted  to 
for  the  purpose  of  bankrupting  Dun- 
can. His  cut-throat  competitor  was 
his  supplanter,  Bishop  Ridley.  He 
established  an  opposition  store  at  Met- 
lakahtla,  where  goods  were  sold  far 
below  cost,  and  every  attempt  was 
made  to  coerce  Duncan's  converts  to 
desert  him.  But  these  wonderful  In- 
dians, with  the  solidarity  of  a  most 
exemplary  labor  union,  boycotted  the 
Bishop,  refusing  point-blank  to  patron- 
ize his  "unfair  house."  According  to 
Arctander,  "My  Lord"  Bishop  Ridley 
even  engaged  in  discomfiting  fist-fights 
with  his  parishioners.  On  the  flimsiest 
pretexts,  he  summoned  British  war- 
ships to  overawe  the  leally  law-abiding 
Metlakahtlans. 

Finally,  in  1886,  the  Church  and 
State  combined  against  this  John 
Knox  of  New  Caledonia.  The  Ottawa 
government,  at  the  behest  of  the 
Bishop,  sent  commissioners  to  Metla- 
kahtla  to  dispossess  the  colonists  of 
the  lands  of  their  fathers  and  to  con- 
fiscate all  the  products  of  their  toil. 
Ridley  was  given  full  control  of  the 
colony,  with  all  the  improvements  of 
a  quarter  of  a  century.  Duncan  ap- 
peared before  the  Dominion  Parlia- 
ment and  protested  all  in  vain  against 
this  outrage,  itself  a  repetition  of  the 
tale  of  the  expatriation  of  the  Aca- 
dians.  Upon  his  fruitless  return  to  the 
coast,  he  warned  the  provincial  au- 
thorities that  his  long  peaceful  and 
trusting  Indians  were  being  goaded  to 
savage  reprisals.  "If  war  comes,"  he 
declared,  "may  God  have  mercy 
upon  the  white  people  of  this  Pro- 
vince. You  will  need  to  send  five 
thousand  men  up  there.  And  they 
go  there  only  to  be  killed,  too.  The 
Indians  will  withdraw  up  the  Skeena 
River,  and  all  the  military  you  can 
send  up  there  will  be  simply  slaug- 
tered  in  the  canons,  while  the  Indians 
will  go  comparatively  free." 

The  voices  of  the  "young  braves 
were  strong  for  war  in  defense  of 
their  homes  and  their  rightful  herit- 
.age,  but  a  modus  vivendi  urged  by 
the  elders  swung  the  pendulum 
towards  peace.  "Let  us  go  instead 


to  Alaska,"  they  reasoned;  "where, 
as  Mr.  Duncan  tells  us,  every  one  can 
have  his  own  religion  without  any 
government." 

Pilgrims  of  the  Pacific 

The  wiser  counsel  of  Duncan  pre- 
vailed, and  the  outbreak  of  hostilities 
was  deferred  in  the  hope  that  he 
would  send  them  word  from  Washing- 
ton that  their  immigration  would  be 
welcome.  Arriving  upon  the  Atlan- 
tic Coast  late  in  1886  he  presented 
the  claims  of  the  Metlakahtlans  to 
the  American  people  with  the  potent- 
ial support  of  Henry  Ward  Beecher 
and  Phillips  Brooks.  President 
Cleveland  cordially  granted  the,  use 
of  Annette  Island,  ninety  miles  north- 
ward from  Old  Metlakahtla.  In  1891, 
Congress  set  this  beautiful  island 
apart  as  their  reservation,  subject  to 
the  regulation  of  the  Secretary  of  the 
Interior. 

Although  Bishop  Ridley  had 
stripped  these  native  conformist  of 
all  their  possessions  except  the  few 
personal  effects  which  they  stowed 
away  in  their  canoes,  they  resolutely 
renounced  all  they  had  gained  for  the 
sake  of  their  simple  faith.  With 
eager  strokes,  these  Pilgrims  of  the 
Pacific  paddled  across  the  buffeting 
billows  of  Dixon  Entrance.  The 
shadowy  shores  of  the  Tsimpshean 
peninsula  sunk  to  the  southward;  be- 
fore them  gleamed  the  bright  white 
peaks  of  Alaska  guarding  their  goal. 
Rounding  an  island  of  romantic 
beauty,  they  entered  a  sheltered  haven 
and  hoisted  the  starry  banner  of  free- 
dom over  the  site  of  New  Metlakah- 
tla on  the  seventh  of  August,  1887. 
Gratefully,  they  vowed  their  alle- 
giance to  the  friendly  government 
whose  protection  they  had  begun  to 
enjoy. 

The  very  next  day,  the  equipment 
of  a  saw-mill  arrived,  and  skilled  and 
willing  hands  set  to  work  building 
their  new  homes.  Over  a  hundred 
substantial  dwellings  were  constructed 
in  a  brief  period,  most  of  them  being 
two-story  structures,  ornate  with  em- 
bellishments and  surrounded  with 


334 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


carefully  cultivated  flowers.  A  sub- 
stantial town  hall  was  erected  and  a 
boarding  school  for  girls  was  opened. 
In  1896,  they  completed  a  magnificent 
cathedral,  well  named  "Duncan's 
Westminister  Abbey."  The  public 
library  soon  became  stocked  with 
several  thousand  volumes.  During 
the  past  few  years,  the  most  highly 
appreciated  additions  to  its  shelves 
have  been  the  works  of  Theodore 
Roosevelt,  in  which  are  inscribed  his 
autograph  and  best  wishes  for  the 
Metlakahtlans. 

For  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury Duncan  has  ruled  this  community 
as  its  mayor,  judge,  treasurer,  auditor, 
attorney  and  business  manager,  in  ad- 
dition to  administering  to  its  people  as 
their  physician,  teacher  and  pastor. 
One  secret  of  his  success  was  his  tact- 
ful enforcement  of  discipline.  Jeal- 
ousies were  promptly  smoothed  over 
by  his  mediation,  wranglers  recon- 
ciled, while  malcontents  were  promptly 
banished  by  popular  vote.  Harmony 
was  long  the  key-note  of  New  Met- 
lakahtla. 

Metlakahtla's  Progress  and  Economic 
Conditions. 

The  most  pressing  problem  which 
Duncan  has  ever  endeavored  to  solve 
has  been  the  planning  to  find  suffi- 
cient work  to  supply  their  needs.  He 
encouraged  the  clearing  of  ground  and 
the  cultivation  of  berries,  vegetables, 
the  cutting  and  curing  of  hay,  and 
dairying.  At  a  cost  of  $9,000,  he  con- 
structed a  dam  high  in  a  mountain 
gorge,  and  brought  the  water  of  "The 
Lake  in  the  Clouds"  down  to  supply 
the  municipality.  The  pipe  line  af- 
forded water  power  to  run  the  saw- 
mill, which  furnished  regular  employ- 
ment for  many  colonists.  Consider- 
able lumber  and  packing  cases  for  the 
salmon  canneries  were  exported.  A 
fair  quality  of  furniture  was  manufac- 
tured from  the  fragrant  and  beauti- 
fully grained  yellow  cedar.  So  marked 
was  the  success  of  a  cannery  operated 
by  the  natives  that  its  scope  was  en- 
larged in  1895,  through  the  organiza- 


tion of  the  Metlakahtla  Industrial 
Company,  capitalized  at  $25,000.  This 
co-operative  enterprise  merged  the 
saw-mill,  store  and  cannery  under  one 
management.  During  the  following 
decade,  the  entire  capital  invested  had 
been  returned  to  its  subscribers  with 
interest  amounting  to  15  per  cent  per 
annum  paid  to  the  natives  and  7%  per 
cent  dividends  disbursed  to  outside 
patrons.  A  small  fleet  of  steam  and 
sailing  vessels,  together  with  docks  and 
warehouses,  were  acquired.  But,  in 
1905,  the  Metlakahtla  Industrial  Com- 
pany was,  by  common  consent,  taken 
over  by  Mr.  Duncan,  who  has  since 
conducted  these  enterprises  personally 
on  a  wage-paying  basis.  The  most 
profitable  industry  of  the  Metla- 
kahtlans has  been  the  catching  and 
canning  of  salmon.  Halibut,  herring, 
cod  and  candle-fish  also  afford  con- 
siderable revenue.  But  from  early 
preparations  to  clean-up  time,  the  fish- 
ing industry  only  keeps  them  occupied 
for  about  three  months.  Agricultural 
work  is  only  possible  for  an  equal 
period. 

Keen  competition  between  great 
companies,  which  have  engaged  in 
these  basic  industries  during  the  last 
few  years  upon  a  prodigious  scale,  has 
cut  into  Duncan's  trade.  Not  only 
can  these  now  coalescing  corporations 
pack  and  market  their  products  more 
economically,  but  in  many  instances 
their  practices  have  been  shown  to  be 
the  opposite  of  the  conscientious  Met- 
lakahtlans. The  latter  have  long  been 
noted  for  the  scrupulous  care  they 
take  in  preparing  fish  for  human  con- 
sumption. Care  and  cleanliness  means 
increased  cost;  also,  their  strict  ob- 
servance of  the  Sabbath  cut  into  their 
margin  of  profits,  with  the  natural  re- 
sult of  lower  returns  for  their  toil. 
Duncan  would  not  conform  to  the  get- 
rich-quick  methods  of  commercialism, 
nor  could  he  afford  to  pay  as  high 
wages  as  those  offered  by  rival  com- 
panies. His  Indians,  natural  fishermen 
as  they  are,  were  in  great  demand  dur- 
ing the  mid-summer  run  of  salmon. 
Their  women  and  children  were  able 
to  earn  good  wages  at  work  in  the  can- 


NOT  FOR  TO-DAY. 


335 


neries.  While  Duncan  could  only  af- 
ford to  allow  from  $2  to  $2.50  a  day, 
the  great  canning  companies  offered 
often  as  much  as  a  dollar  a  day  more. 
Necessity  compelled  his  younger  col- 
onists to  emigrate  once  more — this 
time  not  for  religious  freedom,  but  for 
the  temporary  economic  betterment  of 
themselves  and  all  who  are  dependent 
on  them. 

Recent  developments  on  the  Alas- 
kan coast  near  Ketchikan,  a  hustling 
little  city  of  2,000  people,  offered 
varied  opportunities  for  steady  work 
at  good  wages,  drawing  more  of  the 
younger  generation  away  from  Dun- 
can. To  the  southward,  another  strong 
attraction  was  the  construction  of  the 
transcontinental  Grand  Trunk  railway 
down  the  valley  of  the  Skeena  to 
Prince  Rupert,  near  the  old  home  of 
the  Metlakahtlans. 

Deserted  in  his  old  age  by  nearly 
all  his  energetic  young  men,  Duncan 
was  unable  to  successfully  operate  his 
cannery  last  season.  With  this  princi- 
pal source  of  revenue  tied  up,  it  will 
be  seen  that  a  most  serious  situation 
prevails  at  Metlakahtla.  Duncan,  at 
first,  sent  out  notices  to  those  whom 
he  deemed  deserters  to  return  to  their 


homes  under  penalty  of  expulsion 
from  the  colony.  But,  however  kindly 
these  wanderers  from  the  fold  of 
Father  Duncan  feel  towards  their 
good  shepherd,  their  economic  condi- 
tions must  improve  first. 

Now  Duncan  has  come  to  realize 
that  the  only  way  his  good  work  can 
be  kept  up  is  by  the  government.  He 
has  appealed  to  the  people  of  the 
United  States,  through  the  Secretary 
of  the  Interior,  to  take  over  his  colony. 
Congress  is  to  be  urged  to  maintain 
Metlakahtla  as  a  model  Indian  reser- 
vation under  the  control  of  the  Bureau 
of  Education.  It  will  cost  our  gov- 
ernment no  more  to  conduct  a  modern 
training  school  and  industrial  colony 
on  Annette  Island,  where  all  the  neces- 
sary equipment  is  readily  available, 
than  it  now  expends  in  sums  scattered 
at  isolated  points  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Metlakahtala.  There,  Uncle  Sam, 
Successor  to  Duncan  &  Co.,  may 
gather  these  worthy  people  together 
once  more  as  a  united  family,  whose 
living  should  be  assured  by  the  regu- 
lation of  their  industries  so  as  to  make 
the  Metlakahtlans  self-sustaining,  as 
they  long  were  under  the  rule  of  one 
man.  working  alone. 


NOT  FOR  TO-DAY 


Not  for  to-day,  dear  love,  when  shines  the  sun 

In  azure  skies,  so  cloudless  and  so  clear; 
But  for  the  day  when  storm  clouds,  one  by  one, 

Obscure  the  light,  and  make  the  heavens  drear! 

Not  for  to-day,  sweetheart,  when  blossoms  rife 
Bestrew  your  path  and  carpet  all  the  way; 

But  for  a  time  when,  wearied  with  the  strife, 
You  turn  your  bleeding  footsteps  from  the  fray! 

Not  for  to-day,  beloved,  nor  for  to-morrow, 
When  laugh  for  laugh  and  jest  for  jest  is  paid; 

But  when,  alone,  your  head  is  bowed  in  sorrow, 
My  love  will  come  to  strengthen  and  to  aid ! 

ALICE  HATHAWAY  CUNNINGHAM, 


REMARKABLE 
GROTESQUE 

INDIAN  AVASKS 

FROM 

VANCOUVER 
ISLAND 

By    Lillian    E.   Zen 


The  great  mask  representing  the 
Raven,  used  in  the  Ha-mat-sa  initia- 
tion ceremony.  The  crouching  figure 
of  the  -wearer  is  entirely  concealed  in 
the  dangling  strips  of  cedar  bark. 


SOME  remarkable,  grotesque  and 
highly  interesting  Indian  masks 
have  recently  been  obtained  from 
explorations  of  the  North  Pacific 
Coast  of  America.  The  object  of  this 
ethnological  expedition  was  to  study 
the  origin  of  the  native  races  of  the 
Northwest  Coast  and  their  relation  to 
those  of  the  Old  World.  The  type  of 
the  Indian  inhabitants  of  the  North 
Pacific  Coast  of  America,  especially 
those  of  British  Columbia  and  Van- 
couver Island,  show  a  great  similarity 
to  North  Asiatic  people,  and  the  ques- 
tion arises  whether  this  resemblance  is 
due  to  mixture,  migration  or  to  grad- 
ual differentiation.  The  culture  of  this 
area  shows  many  traits  that  suggest  a 
common  origin,  while  others  point  to 
a  different  development. 


Toward  solving  this  difficult  ques- 
tion, systematic  researches  have  been 
carried  on  among  the  various  Indian 
tribes  of  the  North  Pacific  Coast,  and 
many  specimens  have  been  obtained 
which  throw  new  light  upon  their  pres- 
ent and  past  customs.  Probably  the 
most  interesting  tribe,  as  far  as  their 
mysterious  and  spectacular  ceremon- 
ials are  concerned,  are  the  Kwakiutls, 
who  occupy  the  northern  part  of  Van- 
couver Island.  Their  mythology  is 
based  upon  adventures  of  a  number  of 
their  mythical  and  supernatural  ances- 
tors, who  dropped  down  from  the  sky, 
arose  from  the  underworld  or  emerged 
from  the  ocean.  All  of  the  people  are 
supposed  to  be  the  descendants  of 
these  fabulous  personages.  This  has 
afforded  a  wide  range  for  their  super- 


Huge  ceremonial  mask  representing  the  killer  whale. 


stitious  imaginations  to  weave  in- 
numerable tales  and  legends,  and  in- 
duce them  to  construct  enormous  gro- 
tesque masks,  which  they  wear  during 
their  ceremonial  dances  and  on  festive 
occasions. 

By  the  wearing  of  these  great 
carved  representations  of  their  ances- 
tral spirits,  who  are  still  supposed  to 
be  present,  it  is  thought  they  will  be- 
stow a  supernatural  help  upon  the  per- 
son or  clan  who  has  acquired  the  right 
to  use  them.  The  magical  gifts, 
dances  and  crests  of  these  spirits  are 
all  hereditary,  but  can  also  be  ob- 
tained by  marriage  and  the  initiation 
into  one  of  their  secret  societies.  The 
Kwakiutls  have  a  great  number  of 
these,  one  of  the  most  important  and 
highly  prized  is  the  Ha-mat-sa.  So 
highly  prized  from  an  ethnological 


standpoint  are  the  fantastic  masks  and 
other  ceremonial  objects  of  this  tribe 
that  scientific  institutions  in  Europe, 
as  well  as  those  in  this  country,  have 
vied  with  one  another  in  obtaining  all 
the  material  possible  illustrating  their 
customs.  The  masks  here  shown  were 
secured  by  a  Kwakiutl  ex-chief,  who 
posed  especially  for  the  accompany- 
ing photographs  in  order  to  show  just 
how  they  were  worn  and  manipulated 
during  one  of  their  strange  winter  cere- 
monials, particularly  the  Ha-mat-sa. 
The  candidate  for  initiation  into  this 
fraternity,  which  formerly  embodied 
a  frenzied  habit  of  biting  human  flesh, 
has  to  stay  three  or  four  months  in  the 
woods,  at  the  supposed  abiding  place 
of  the  great  supernatural  spirit  and 
protector  of  the  society.  At  the  end 
of  his  period  of  isolation, -the  elaborate 


338 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


Ha-mat-sa  initiation  cere- 
mony is  given,  which  lasts 
several  days  and  nights. 
Masked  dancing  by  the 
older  members  of  this 
society  is  one  of  the  es- 
pecial features  of  the  cere- 
mony. On  one  of  the  ap- 
pearances during  his  ini- 
tiation the  candidate  wears 
a  huge  mask  of  the  fabu- 
lous double-headed  serpent, 
which  has  one  head  at  each 
end,  a  human  head  in  the 
middle,  one  horn  on  each 
terminal  head,  and  two  on 
the  central  human  head. 
This  is  supposed  to  give 
the  wearer  supernatural 
power.  The  mask  is  made 
to  fold  and  close,  and  by 
means  of  a  cord  pulled  by 
the  dancer,  the  long  tongues 
of  the  serpent  are  caused  to 
protrude  out.  The  Bear  fra- 
ternity are  dressed  in  the 
skins  of  grizzly  bears,  and 
do  a  sort  of  detective  duty, 
observing  and  punishing 
any  mistakes  made  in  the 
performance.  The  person 
making  the  error  is 
scratched  with  their  claws, 
which  inflict  painful  in- 
juries. Their  dances  con- 
sist in  violent  motions  of 
the  body,  imitating  the  ac- 
tions of  a  bear  who  sits  on 
his  haunches,  and  now  and 
then  growling  and  scratch- 
ing the  ground  with  their 
paws.  At  a  certain  time 
during  the  ceremony  the 
candidate  appears  clad  in  a 
bear  skin,  walks  on  hands 
and  feet,  and  paws  the 
ground,  imitating  the  mo- 
tions of  an  angry  bear.  An- 
other of  the  strange  and 
enormous  masks  worn  dur- 
ing the  ceremonial  is  the 
Killer  Whale;  the  gigantic  mouth 
is  made  to  open  and  close  by  means  of 
a  concealed  cord  operated  from  the 
inside.  The  last  night  of  the  ceremony 


Gigantic  mask  representing  a  grizzly  bear,  worn 
in  Kwakintl  ceremonial  dance. 


ends  in  a  general  festival,  at  which  all 
the  men,  women  and  children  of  the 
tribe  are  invited.  The  candidate  now 
appears  dressed  for  the  first  time  in  a 


Interior  of  the    ceremonial    dance-house  of  the  Kwakintls. 


button  blanket  and  a  brand  new  head- 
dress and  neck-ring  of  cedar  bark.  He 
then  pays  the  men  for  the  bites  he 
has  inflicted  during  initiation,  the 
price  being  a  canoe  ±or  each  bite.  The 
women  dancers  who  assisted  at  times 


are  given  bracelets,  and  the  men  who 
sang  button  blankets.  The  new- 
fledged  Ha-mat-sa  is  henceforth  con- 
sidered a  person  of  rank  and  power 
in  the  tribe  in  which  he  has  just  been 
initiated. 


AAN 

Dropped  into  dream  from  silent  nothingness, 

Thoughtless  oblivion,  plunged  into  the  way 

Of  roaring  suns ;  and  bound  up  for  a  day, 
By  some  strange  alchemy,  into  the  dress 

Of  sentient  clay — 

And — like  a  dream — to  fade  back  into  night? 
Great  God !    Give  not  to  unoffending  clay 
This  taste  of  earth,  nor  let  it  feel  the  play 
Of  thought — if  only  to  blot  out  the  light 
Of  this  sweet  day! 

MYRON  H.  MORELAND. 


With  the  Theosophists  at  Point  Loma 

The  Interesting  Headquarters  of  the  Sect 
In   the  Southwest    End    of  the   Republic 

By  Felix  J.  Koch 


WHATEVER  your  faith  or  be- 
liefs may    be,    you    cannot 
help     enjoying      a      canter 
among  the  hills,  beyond  San 
Diego,  to  the  headquarters  of  the  The- 
osophist  brotherhood,  at  Point  Loma. 
Headquarters  of  sects  of  every    sort 
are  always  interesting.    Even  the  most 
ardent  athiest  finds  interest  in  a  visit 
to  the    Pope;    the    greatest   Christian 
divine  would  not  omit  reception  by  the 
Sheik-ul-Islam  in  the  Orient.    And  so 
it  is  at  Point  Loma. 

Your  first  impression  of  the  place 
is  as  of  a  great  farm,  lined  with  the 
cypress  trees,  which  run  back,  low- 
cut,  in  rows.  One  meadow  alone  is 
enfenced,  and  the  fencing  garbed  in 
ivy;  beyond  it  a  tented  village  peers, 
each  tent  with  door  screened  in,  and, 
around  this  entry,  an  arching  arbour. 
Flowers  are  everywhere,  even  in  these 
approaches  to  Pt.  Loma.  Continue 
on,  and  you  greet  a  small  cupola-like 
building,  from  which  one  may  over- 
look the  main  drive,  leading  straight 
to  the  main  building  of  the  establish- 
ment, a  structure  with  three  huge 
domes  of  dark  glass,  and  a  smaller 
side  dome,  in  red. 

You  halt,  first,  at  this  tented  city. 
It  is  a  sort  of  campgrounds,  as  it  were, 
where  there  is  an  average  of  three 
dozen  tents  at  a  time.  A  charge  of 
$2.50  to  $3.00  is  made  for  the  tents  per 
diem,  this  then  including  meals  in  the 
"city"  dining  room.  A  new  dining 
room  for  seventy  has  been  built  in  late 


years.  The  tent-city  concern,  be  it 
noted,  is  a  private  affair,  where  meals 
are  sold  to  tourists — who  come  on  an 
average  of  a  hundred  a  day.  Many 
of  the  tenters  imitate  the  Theosophists 
and  don  khaki  while  here. 

The  drive  continues  on  toward  a 
large  white  gate,  in  Hindu  style,  ad- 
mitting to  the  main  grounds.  An  ad- 
mission fee  of  a  dime  is  charged,  this 
going  to  the  benefit  of  the  schools. 
The  kodak,  too,  must  be  given  up,  not 
so  much  as  protection  for  the  one  con- 
cern monopolizing  the  sale  of  views, 
but  to  prevent  indiscriminate  taking. 
Furthermore,  you  quit  your  carriage 
here,  and,  prince  or  pauper,  proceed 
to  walk  up  the  broad,  oiled  roads.  Al- 
ready here  the  artistic  beauty  of  the 
place  attracts  you — the  drive  is 
flanked  by  a  strip  of  the  pink  vine- 
geranium,  and  back  of  these  rise 
splendid  large  date-palms,  in  rows. 
Then  beyond  these,  on  right  and  left, 
lie  almond  orchards,  and  there  grows 
the  barley  or  the  oats  on  the  hill- 
slope.  Ahead,  ever,  the  while,  a  thing 
of  beauty  like  the  Taj,  arises,  ever, 
that  strange,  odd,  monastic — or  should 
one  say  romantic — building,  three 
stories  tall,  which  is  known  as  Head- 
quarters. The  glass  dome  appears 
green  now,  on  close  approach,  and  you 
find  it  surmounted  by  a  smaller  globe 
of  glass.  In  front  the  two  domes  is 
another  lavender  dome,  and  at  the 
building's  two  corners  there  are  tur- 
rets, as  to  some  convent  of  old.  You 


WITH  THE  THEOSOPHISTS  AT  POINT  LOMA. 


341 


stop  to  get  full  force  of  its  beauty  and 
to  listen  to  the  charming  singing  of  the 
birds. 

Here  at  the  head  of  the  lane  a  guide 
meets  you,  he  like  all  the  other  men 
•of  the  place  attired  in  brown  khaki 
suit,  as  of  some  Rough  Rider.  You, 
who  would  see  things  other  than  su- 
perficially, present  credentials  here, 
and  on  strength  of  these  are  turned 
over  to  Mr.  White,  a  power  in  the 
place.  White  show's  one  much  indeed, 
but  he  is  preceded,  first  of  all,  by  a 
courier,  with  the  message  that  the  The- 
osophists  never  pay  to  advertise  the 
place,  and  if  one  come  with  this  intent 
there  is  no  need  to  bother  further. 

As  you  walk,  he  tells  how  this  is 
the  international  headquarters  of  the 
society.  They  own  four  and  a  half 
miles  along  the  coast,  next  the  beau- 
tiful, open  sea.  Mrs.  Tingley,  present 
Tiead  of  the  society,  moved  here  in 
1900,  but  the  organization  was  founded 
in  1876.  No  one  here  receives  any 
pay  for  their  services, — they  are  at- 
tracted simply  by  their  interest  in  the 
work, — and  those  who  are  in  position, 
financially,  so  to  do,  support  them- 
selves beside.  This,  possibly,  ac- 
counts for  the  criticism  of  opponents 
to  the  place,  that  the  farmers  of  the 
great  estate,  who  work  for  clothing 
and  food  alone,  are  little  more  than 
peons. 

"Chief  Executive  over  all,  is  now 
Mrs.  Tingley."  - 

There  are  so  many  phases  to  the 
work,  one  must,  of  course,  step  from 
one  'to  another  without  seeming  logi- 
cal sequence,  in  order  to  cover  them 
all,  and  so  conversation  turns  to  the 
young  folks. 

"Children,"  White  tells  us,  "are 
brought  here  from  all  over  the  world — 
some  from  different  local  lodges,  some 
from  far  distant.  The  schools  are  un- 
der the  so-called  Raja  Yogu  system, 
organized  by  Mrs.  Tingley  and  serving 
to  develop  the  child  mentally,  morally 
and  physically,  in  equal  amounts  and 
equally  fully  on  all  lines.  School 
hours,  per  se,  are  but  two  and  a  half 
hours  a  day." 

We  have  now  come    to    the    main 


domed  building,  the  Homestead  he 
terms  it. 

"As  soon  as  Mrs.  Tingley  decided 
to  come  here  from  New  York,"  he  is 
telling,  "the  thing  was  carried  out; 
for  it  was  but  fulfilling  the  plans  of 
Mme.  Blavatsky,  that  there  should  be 
an  educational  center  in  the  West. 

"Hence,  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Tingley 
was  established  here,  she  began  her 
work  with  the  little  children.  She 
started  actually  with  five  children,  all 
very  small,  and  so  for  some  time  her 
work  was  merely  elementary  in  edu- 
cation, but  the  purpose  of  this  was  to 
establish  eventually  a  full  University 
course.  This  large  building  was  orig- 
inally the  living  quarters  for  the  older 
students  of  the  academy,  and  is  still 
so  used,  whereas  now  they  have  other 
buildings  for  the  younger  pupils.  The 
university  is  to  be  established  here, 
when  the  occasion  comes;  while  now, 
those  ready  for  it  get  university  in- 
struction from  tutors.  This  large  build- 
ing is  also  devoted  to  lower  class 
rooms  and  studios  on  the  lower  floor, 
and  the  upper  to  the  dormitories  for 
girls  only.  Children  are  in  about  equal 
numbers  as  to  sexes.  There  are 
roughly  250  children  on  the  place, 
while  there  are  hundreds  of  applica- 
tions to  enter  the  schools  which  must 
be  refused,  owing  to  lack  of  accom- 
modations therefor.  This  is  because 
of  the  method  employed  being  brought 
to  the  attention  of  those  interested  in 
such  things.  There  came  to  be  great 
calls  for  introducing  the  system  else- 
where, and  this  has  been  done  in  Eng- 
land and  Cuba  and  over  the  European 
continent.  Here  at  Pt.  Loma  they 
have  a  boarding  school,  and  there  is 
a  "day  school  at  San  Diego  with  about 
fifteen  pupils.  Another  school  exists 
in  this  vicinity  as  well. 

"The  teachers  of  these  places  are 
specially  prepared  for  them,  since  the 
tuition  embraces  the  moral,  as  well 
as  the  mental,  and  the  course  of  prep- 
aration must  be  very  large.  A  number 
of  the  children  in  the  schools  now  are 
intending  to  be  teachers. 

"These  children  are  divided,  accord- 
ing to  age,  into  groups  of  six,  eight  or 


342 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


ten  each,  and  each  group  is  always 
accompanied  by  a  sort  of  tutor  (and 
nurse,  in  the  case  of  the  smaller),  who 
is  with  them  all  the  time,  while  the 
older  have  the  tutor  alone  always 
with  them.  Then  the  manly  and  wom- 
anly characteristics  and  self-restraint 
are  developed." 

We  have  been  passing  down  the 
avenue  of  the  main  building,  and  on, 
along  some  artistic  bungalows.  We 
grow  more  and  more  charmed  with 
Raja  Yogu,  it  seems  a  bit  of  old  India 
here  in  the  States.  These  bungalows, 
we  learn,  are  for  the  boys'  work.  They 
live  in  the  bungalows  with  a  teacher, 
so  that  the  houses  are  under  super- 
vision. The  class  rooms  comprise 
separate  bungalows.  These  buildings 
are  all  of  a  peculiar  architecture,  ven- 
tilation and  lighting  arrangement,  de- 
vised by  Mrs.  Tingley. 

As  we  saunter,  we  pass  eleven  little 
girls,  all  in  brown  ginghams,  and  with 
round  caps,  their  hair  falling  loose 
from  these.  They  pass  us,  two  by  two. 

Then  the  bungalow  serving  as  den- 
tist's office,  and,  below  it,  the  bath 
room  for  the  boys  appear.  Originally 
the  water  supply  here  came  from  San 
Diego;  now  they  have  a  source  of 
their  own.  Each  house  has  its  bath- 
room. 

"There  are  no  servants,  all  do  their 
own  work,"  White  continues.  "Rich 
and  poor  contribute  in  doing  the  work ; 
there  is  no  coercion  in  the  place.  There 
is  one  dining  room  for  all,  but  adults 
and  children  dine  in  separate  shifts, 
the  adults  at  12 :30,  the  others  a  little 
earlier." 

Another  group,  this  time  little  boys, 
very  small,  pass  us,  with  their  teacher. 

"System,"  white  says,  "is  para- 
mount in  the  organization  of  the  place. 
For  example,  the  kitchen  and  dining- 
room  are  under  the  Department  of 
Domestic  Economy,  the  head  of  which 
is  educated  for  her  position.  This  di- 
vision is  composed  of  volunteer  work- 
ers, the  men  doing  the  heavy  work, 
the  women,  the  cooking.  In  every 
other  branch  of  the  institution  they 
carry  out  this  idea,  for  they  do  all 
their  own  work,  remember,  here — car- 


pentering and  plumbing  and  the  like. 
They  even  have  their  own  photo- 
studio,  their  engraving  plant  for  pub- 
lications, a  chemical  works  and  a  dye- 
plant,  and  so  on.  There  are  between 
two  hundred  and  two  hundred  and 
fifty  adults  here,  and  large  numbers  of 
the  organization  elsewhere  wish  to 
come  here.  So  much  is  involved  in 
maintaining  those  who  do  come  that 
they  only  allow  such  whose  presence 
it  is  felt  is  absolutely  necessary,  or 
those  wanting  to  come  on  account  of 
the  education  of  their  children.  One 
man  here  is  the  son  of  a  millionaire. 
He  is  not  connected  with  the  organiza- 
tion, but  has  placed  his  four  small 
children  here. 

"Nor  is  the  place  communistic.  If 
you  are  rich,  you  keep  what  you  have ; 
if  you  can  afford  to  pay  for  the  tuition 
of  your  children  in  the  schools,  you  do 
so;  if  not,  you  don't.  So,  too,  if  you 
can  afford  to  pay  their  board  you  do; 
otherwise  not.  All,  however,  give 
their  services,  their  work,  to  this  place, 
since  for  those  whose  object  it  is  not 
to  improve  the  place,  there  is  no  rea- 
son for  remaining  here,  as,  then,  they 
can  earn  more  money  on  the  outside. 

"Mrs.  Tingley,"  White  tells  us,  "is 
greatly  interested  in  the  drama,  espe- 
cially in  the  revival  of  the  Greek 
dramas,  and  believes  that  through  the 
instrumentality  of  the  great  plays,  the 
great  truths  will  be  assimilated  by  the 
people." 

We  are  sauntering  up  the  heights 
now,  past  pretty  bungalows  and  among 
cypresses,  to  a  great  natural  amphi- 
theatre, one  in  which  they  are  about 
to  replace  the  wooden  seats  with  stone. 
The  theatre  faces  near  the  sea  and 
there  are  hills  off  to  the  beach,  adding 
to  its  beauty,  since  the  sea  thus  forms 
a  background  to  the  stage.  Accoustics 
are  very  fine,  as  there  is  always  a  cur- 
rent of  air  up  the  canon  from  the  sea. 
The  dressing  rooms  are  constructed  in 
the  cliff,  out  of  sight  of  the  audience, 
and  hence  are  unique.  The  path  to 
the  stage  is  through  natural  cliffs.  Be- 
yond, on  the  brow  of  the  hill  one  sees 
the  tent  camp  of  the  young  men  of  the 
literary  department,  who  like  to  be 


WITH  THE  THEOSOPHISTS  AT  POINT  LOMA. 


343 


alone.  This  is  on  a  bluff  washed  by 
the  sea. 

All  the  society's  publications,  we 
are  learning,  meanwhile,  are  edited 
here,  and  printed  at  San  Diego. 

"Mrs.  Tingley,"  White  relates  fur- 
ther, "is  fifty  or  fifty-five  years  of  age 
and  a  veritable  human  dynamo.  She 
will  work  all  night,  when  there  is  need 
of  it.  Were  she  superintendent  of  the 
educational  department  only  it  would 
need  to  be  a  great  head,  as  there  are 
schools,  both  here  and  the  country 
over, — away  down  in  Santiago  and 
over  in  London,  and  at  other  centers. 
Each  country,  the  world  over,  has  a 
central  lodge,  which  reports  here,  and 
everything  comes  up  to  her  attention. 
So,  too,  they  have  a  Humanitarian  De- 
partment and  a  department  for  reliev- 
ing distress  (the  International  Brother- 
hood Society),  and  the  Theosophical 
Department  (or  literary,  propaganda 
and  library  founding  section),  and  the 
Isis  League,  devoted  to  music,  of 
which  they  have  great  amounts.  At 
the  head  of  each  department  is  a  com- 
petent person,  whom  Mrs.  Tingley  in- 
structs how  to  proceed." 

On  the  brow  of  the  hill  we  encounter 
the  corner  stone  for  a  permanent  build- 
ing. When  Mrs.  Tingley  came  here, 
she  put  up  temporary  buildings  for  ten 
years,  but  now  these  are  outgrown. 
She  has  her  own  apartments  in  the 
main  Academy  Building  and  has  an 
office  in  the  Headquarters  Building. 
There  she  has  three  secretaries  and 
stenographers  for  her  mail. 

We  halt  to  see  the  boys'  play- 
ground. Old  and  young  recognize 
Sunday,  we  are  told,  here,  but  they 
"live  Sunday  every  day."  On  Sunday 
they  have  meetings,  but  all  through 
the  week  there  are  such.  One  is  not 
to  call  them  a  religious  body, — they 
have  no  set  creed,  but  are  merely  in- 
terested in  the  things  that  make  for 
the  betterment  of  human  life,  mainly 
the  humanitarian  and  philosophical. 

We  see  a  group  of  houses  occupied 
by  young  ladies.  Theirs'  are  the  regu- 
lar daily  duties  of  any  one.  Music  is 
important  with  the  society  and  so 
there  is  musical  instruction  in  every 


house.  Children  begin  music  at  an 
early  age.  The  school  hours  are  so 
shortened  that  there  is  no  idea  of 
drudgery,  the  day  being  filled  with 
duties  of  short  duration,  such  that  none 
becomes  irksome. 

In  one  of  the  bungalows  of  the  boys 
they  show  us  a  sun-parlor-corner,  for 
study  room,  whence  one  looks  on  the 
lovely  sea,  and  to  another  camp  on 
the  brow  of  the  hill.  The  young  folks 
here  are  partial  to  tents;  these  have 
wooden  floors  and  wooden  side  walls, 
yet  afford  much  open-air  ventilation. 
The  older  boys,  we  remark,  wear  blue 
sweaters.  As  we  stroll  we  hear  music 
always — even  while  we  overlook  the 
gardens. 

"Mrs.  Tingley,"  White  continues, 
enthusiastic,  "has  advisers  known  as 
the  Cabinet,  and  she's  always  refused 
to  let  the  funds  pass  through  her 
hands.  Instead,  they  go  through  the 
disbursing  offices,  at  the  direction  of 
this  Cabinet.  This  is  very  fortunate 
for  her,  when  she  is  assailed  by 
calumny,  although  in  starting  the  work 
she  used  her  own  private  funds.  Her 
husband  is  still  living  .  .  .  he  is 
in  business  in  New  York,  and  he  comes 
and  goes  here,  and  is  thoroughly  in 
sympathy  with  her,  but  he  has  never 
become  identified  with  the  work 
proper." 

"We  enter  a  building  with  what 
seem  matting  walls,  this  the  studio  of 
a  Miss  White,  no  relative,  however,  of 
our  guide.  Her  specialty  is  flowers. 
Round  about,  the  studio  walls  are  cov- 
ered with  a  matting  which  is  treated 
in  decorative  work.  The  ceiling  con- 
sists of  old  rafters  (for  the  place  was 
once  a  barn),  painted  over,  and  the 
floor  is  of  a  dark  grained  linoleum. 
The  walls  are  hung  everywhere  with 
rather  heavy  floral  pictures — it  was  to 
get  the  desired  light  from  the  north 
that  the  artist  converted  this  barn  into 
such  a  unique  studio.  The  door  to  the 
studio  is  the  work  of  the  children,  and 
its  object  is  to  teach  them  to  have 
beautiful  surroundings,  even  if  poor. 
It  is  in  a  sort  of  bark-like  matting,  with 
panels  of  raffia,  done  in  colors,  all  of 
it  strikingly  unique.  Over  it  there 


344 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


hangs  a  lambrequin  of  eucalyptus 
seeds,  while  the  wails  proper  are  hung 
with  fish  nets.  The  place  has  its  own 
chemical  works  and  does  its  own  dye- 
ing, so  that  the  children  get  the  raffia 
dyed  to  taste  and  they  achieve  some 
astonishing  results  in  duplicating  silk 
strands  in  raffia.  A  pillow  embroid- 
ered in  raffia  is  shown — this,  at  but  a 
few  feet  distant,  looking  as  if  em- 
brcidered  in  silk. 

Of  course  one  admires  some  of  the 
White  paintings — a  study  in  grapes,  in 
flowers,  and  the  like.  There  is  a  bas- 
ket of  all  the  California  wild  flowers, 
which  is  especially  pretty;  it  was 
painted  at  request  of  Madame  Ting- 
ley.  The  brightness  of  the  colors  is 
more  marvelous  as  one  finds  them  ab- 
solutely correct.  Many  frames  of  the 
raffia  take  the  eye  in  this  charming 
study.  Music,  even  here,  comes  float- 
ing in,  and  from  the  windows  one 
hears  the  sea.  The  artist,  it  seems,  is 
sufficiently  well-to-do  to  retire,  but 
labors  for  love  now,  and  still  takes  her 
part  in  the  work  of  the  dining-room 
the  while. 

Out  again,  it  is  stated  how  there  is 
a  different  doctor  for  the  boys  and  for 
the  girls — who  come  daily;  and  every 
week  there  is  physical  examination  of 
all,  when  measurements  are  made  for 
record,  thus  often  detecting  and  pre- 
venting disease. 

Up  the  hill,  over  the  sea.  we  climb. 
The  main  building,  it  is  indicated,  fol- 
lows no  plan,  but  was  built  and  added 


to  as  needed.  The  red-domed  annex 
is  a  memorial  to  Madame  Blavatsky 
and  Mr.  Judge,  her  successor  who  pre- 
ceded Mrs.  Tingley. 

They  have  three  orchestras  here, 
the  one  of  children  actually  conducted 
by  children,  White  interjects  now,  as 
we  parallel  the  handsome  edifice,  of 
the  red  glass  ball  on  the  dome,  and 
the  walls  of  heavy  stone  blocks.  Out 
from  this  runs  a  broad  pillared  portico, 
behind  which  one  sees  the  large,  deep 
red  windows,  which  mark  individual 
studios.  Admitting  to  the  building  are 
doubled  doors,  of  oak,  carved  with  a 
man  and  a  woman  each,  in  mythologi- 
cal Teuton  style,  this  work  the  labor 
of  the  students.  • 

Not  far  from  this-,  the  private  home 
of  A.  G.  Spalding  is  passed,  a  one- 
story,  white-painted  bungalow,  with 
small  glass  dome,  and  a  spiral  stair 
on  the  outside.  Buildings  are  erected 
and  leased  to  families  on  request. 

Far  opposite,  over  the  meadows,  are 
the  barns  and  stables. 

"It  is  untrue,"  White  assures  us, 
"that  they  separate  man  and  wife  and 
that  they  take  children  from  parents 
here." 

He  himself  is  a  young  married  man. 

Half-past  twelve  we  leave  him  and 
return  to  the  carnage. 

We  continue  on  out  the  road  longst 
their  place  and  off  to  the  sea  and  the 
Lighthouse.  That,  though,  is  another 
story, — one  quite  apart  from  this  bit 
of  transplanted  India. 


Sufferings  of  the  Overland  Emigrants 
to  California  in  '49 

From  October  6,  1849  to  November  3,  1850 
By  Vinton  A.  Pratelles 


TO  the  Editor  of  the  Herald  and 
Tribune,  New  York,  N.  Y.— 
Dear  Editor — Perhaps     you 
may  deem  the  following  extract 
irom  my  son's  letter  worthy  of  a  place 
in  the  Herald  and  Tribune" :  .  .  . 

"City  of  the  Great  Salt  Lake,  Rocky 
Mountains,  Oct.  6,  1849. 

"My  dear  Father:  I  scarcely  know 
how  to  commence  the  chequered  his- 
tory of  rny  journey  from  New  York, 
but  will  endeavor  to  give  you  a  very 
abbreviated  account,  reserving  my 
journal  until  we  again  meet,  which 
happiness  will,  I  trust,  yet  be  per- 
mitted to  us.  We  started,  24  in 
number,  on  the  10th  of  March,  armed 
and  equipped  for  a  long  and  toilsome 
journey. 

"During  the  first  part,  having  the 
advantage  of  hotels,  we  were  very 
merry,  and  enjoyed  ourselves  amaz- 
ingly, but  this  was  not  to  last  long, 
as  we  had  yet  to  experience  the  toils 
of  a  camp  life.  We  traveled  some 
thousand  miles  upon  the  Mississippi 
and  Ohio  rivers.  I  was  in  a  fever  of 
apprehension  the  whole  time,  the  ac- 
cidents on  the  rivers  being  innumer- 
able. They  arise  from  'snags,'  pieces 
of  timber  sticking  up  in  the  muddy 
waters,  from  fire,  collision  and  burst- 
ing of  thin  boilers,  which  are  placed 
under  the  saloon. 

"In  the  early  part  of  May  we  pur- 
chased our  mules  and  started  on  our 


journey  across  the  vast  prairie.  Our 
party  had  six  wagons,  each  drawn  by 
eight  mules,  and,  in  addition,  we  rode 
upon  these  combinations  of  all  that 
is  stupid,  spiteful  and  obstinate.  For 
some  little  time  I  enjoyed  the  change 
— the  novelty  of  this  predatory  mode 
of  life.  At  day-break  we  left  our 
tents  and  were  soon  busy  around  the 
camp  fire,  preparing  breakfast.  Our 
stores  did  not  admit  of  much  variety; 
coffee,  bacon  and  hard-tack  biscuit, 
forming  the  staple  of  our  provisions. 
The  weather  soon  became  oppressive- 
ly hot,  the  thermometer  rising  to  100 
and  115  degrees.  This  was  rendered 
much  more  trying  by  the  entire  ab- 
sence of  shade  upon  this  ocean  of  land ; 
indeed  these  vast  plains  closely  re- 
semble in  atmospheric  phenomena 
and  in  the  appearance  of  the  ground, 
the  dry  bed  of  some  mighty  sea.  .  .  . 
The  heat,  with  the  quality  of  our  food, 
soon  produced  bilious  fever,  and  be- 
fore our  journey  thus  far  was  accom- 
plished, half  our  number  had  suffered 
from  this  complaint.  We  were  much 
mistaken  in  believing  the  route  a 
healthy  one,  the  road  being  marked 
with  the  graves  of  victims  to  the  Cali- 
fornia gold  fever.  Turning  over  the 
leaves  of  my  journal,  I  find  the  follow- 
ing account  of  a  night  in  the  prairie, 
and  only  one  of  the  many  similar: — 
June  9th;  'We  had  not  been  an  hour 
in  our  tents  before  one  of  the  most 
dreadful  storms  swept  over  us:  the 
horizon  was  of  the  deepest  purple, 
2 


346 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


illumined  occasionally  by  flashes  of 
forked  lightning,  the  accompanying 
rain  resembling,  at  the  distance  at 
which  we  stood,  a  rugged  cloud  de- 
scending to  the  earth.  I  cannot  de- 
scribe the  startling  effect  of  the 
thunder — each  clap  resembling  some 
immense  cannon  shaking  the  very 
earth.  I  have  a  full  perception  of  the 
sublimity  and  grandeur  of  these  storms 
but  cannot  attempt  an  adequate  de- 
scription/ 

"When  the  storm  reached  the  tent  it 
was  blown  over,  and  we  were  left  to 
seek  shelter  in  the  best  way  we  could. 
I  dragged  my  coverings  under  a 
wagon,  but  soon  found  I  was  lying  in 
a  pool  of  water,  with  saturated 
blankets.  I  then  crawled  into  a  wagon, 
and  in  a  cramped  position,  bitten 
horribly  by  mosquitoes,  I  passed  an 
emphatically  miserable  night 

"The  next  day,  an  hour  before  sun- 
rise, we  espied,  off  to  the  Northwest, 
a  large  herd  of  buffalo.  They  seemed 
to  be  traveling  toward  us ;  their  shaggy 
heads  down,  bellowing  and  throwing 
up  clouds  of  dust,  they  seemed  to 
blacken  the  ground  for  two  miles  in 
each  direction.  We  waited  nearly 
two  hours  for  them  to  cross  our  path. 
One  of  our  party  shot  a  large  bull, 
which  supplied  us  with  choice  steaks 
and  jerked,  dried  buffalo  meat  for  the 
next  thirty  days. 

"Two  days  journey  on  the  other  side 
of  Fort  Laramie,  while  we  were  baiting 
our  animals  at  noon,  on  the  banks  of 
the  Platte  river,  we  saw  a  large  body 
of  Indians,  who  came  sweeping  down  a 
gentle,  sloping  hill  east  of  us.  When 
they  first  appeared,  they  were  about 
three  quarters  of  a  mile  from  us,  and 
as  they  were  mounted  upon  excellent 
chargers,  they  came  with  the  rapidity 
of  an  arrow.  It  gave  us  little  time 
enough  to  gather  our  mules  and 
prepare  ourselves  to  meet  our  belliger- 
ent visitors. 

"Captain  Sam  Roundy  ordered  us  to 
quickly  gather  the  mules,  and  fasten 
them  securely  to  the  wagons.  We 
then  formed  into  line,  our  men  show- 
ing great  intrepidity,  every  man  stand- 
ing at  his  post  undaunted.  The  ef- 


forts of  the  Indias  were  to  either 
break  our  line  or  turn  our  flank;  but 
being  repulsed  at  all  points,  they  were 
brought  to  a  dead  halt  about  a  rod  and 
a  half  in  front  of  us.  During  all  this, 
and  for  some  time  after,  they  were 
shaking  out  the  priming  from  their 
guns,  and  priming  them  anew.  They 
would  then  throw  their  guns  to 
their  shoulders,  aim  toward  us,  then 
slowly  lower  them.  Many  placed 
their  arrows  to  their  bow-strings,  their 
lances  in  rest — and  were  wetting  the 
ends  of  their  arrows  with  their  mouths, 
that  they  might  not  slip  too  quick  from 
the  finger  and  thumb. 

"Their  chiefs,  whom  we  supposed 
kept  intentionally  behind,  came  lup 
after  awhile  and  showed  signs  of 
peace;  but  as  they  understood  neither 
French  nor  English,  nor  we  their  lan- 
guage, and  neither  party  having  inter- 
preters, we  could  only  convey  our  ideas 
by  signs.  One  of  the  chiefs  presented 
a  paper,  which  had  been  given  him  by 
Major  Sanderson,  commanding  at  Fort 
Laramie,  certifying  that  'this  tribe  was 
friendly  to  the  whites;'  upon  which 
we  told  him  to  withdraw  his  men  a 
little,  which  was  done  immediately. 
We  presented  them  some  crackers, 
dried  meat,  tobacco,  etc.,  of  which 
they  partook,  sat  down  and  had  a 
smoke,  and  thus  everything  concluded 
amicably.  We  then  harnessed  up  our 
mules  and  pursued  our  journey.  They 
very  courteously  filed  to  the  right  and 
left,  and  escorted  us  on  our  road  until 
we  came  opposite  their  village.  They 
were  about  two  hundred  in  number, 
were  of  the  tribe  of  'Shyanns,'  as 
they  pronounced  it. 

"They  presented  the  most  respect- 
able appearance  of  any  Indians  we 
have  met  with.  Many  of  them  were 
dressed  in  American  style,  with  clothes 
of  the  best  broadcloth,  beaver  hats, 
caps,  etc.  And  those  who  were 
dressed  in  Indian  costume,  displayed 
the  greatest  elegance  of  taste  in  their 
attire.  They  were  adorned  with  head- 
dresses of  feathers  of  the  richest  hues; 
and  their  various  insignia  of  office,  dis- 
played a  taste  which  is  at  once  wild, 
romantic  and  beautiful.  They  were 


SUFFERINGS  OF  THE  OVERLAND  EMIGRANTS  IN  '49. 


347 


mounted  on  excellent  horses,  richly 
caparisoned  in  many  instances,  and 
painted  off  in  the  most  fantastic  style ; 
they  pawed  the  ground  and  champed 
their  bits,  and  seemed  as  impatient  of 
restraint  as  their  riders.  We  could 
not  but  admire  the  magnificent  display 
which  the  lords  of  the  prairie  presented 
as  they  dashed  with  lightning  speed 
upon  us. 

"The  same  evening  the  Crow  In- 
dians made  an  attack  upon  two  out- 
posts of  a  company  of  emigrants 
camped  a  few  miles  ahead  of  us,  and 
stole  twelve  horses  from  one  and  nine 
from  the  other.  Nothing  saved  us 
from  a  like  fate  but  the  strictness  and 
faithfulness  of  our  guard.  These 
Crows  stole  a  number  of  horses  from 
a  trader  in  our  neighborhood  the  same 
night.  Sam  Roundy,  our  captain,  kept 
up  a  guard  of  four  men  at  a  time,  with 
scarcely  an  exception,  all  the  way 
through. 

"On  our  arrival  at  Fort  Laramie,  we 
obtained  supplies  for  ourselves  and 
animals.  Those  of  our  number  who 
had  passed  this  fort  previously  were 
astonished  at  the  great  improvement 
made  here  in  a  few  months'  time. 
Major  Sanderson  made  us  feel  as  if 
we  had  found  an  oasis  in  the 
desert.  This  same  feeling  of  kind- 
ness and  gentlemanly  deportment 
seemed  to  pervade  all  ranks  at  the 
fort. 

"We  reached  the  'city'  near  the 
Great  Salt  Lake  the  latter  part  of 
June.  You  will  perhaps  imagine  that, 
being  so  styled,  it  resembles  an  'Eng- 
lish' city,  but  it  is  only  in  prospect; 
there  being  but  three  or  four  houses, 
built  of  logs,  or  mud  bricks,  called 
'dobies,'  and  are  not  larger  than  one 
or  two  rooms;  but  time  will  accomplish 
much  for  this  energetic  and  faithful 
people. 

"Each  house  stands  in  l1/^  acre  of 
garden  ground,  eight  lots  in  a  block, 
forming  squares.  The  streets,  which 
are  wide,  are  to  be  lined  with  trees, 
with  a  canal,  for  the  purpose  of  irri- 
gation, running  through  the  center.  As 
our  wagons  entered  this  beautiful  val- 
ley, with  the  long,  absent  comforts 


of  a  home  in  prospect,  we  experienced 
a  considerable  degree  of  real  joy;  and 
when,  to  my  surprise  and  gratitude,  I 
met  a  pious,  kind  and  intelligent  ar- 
tist, and  a  countryman  also,  who  took 
me,  emaciated,  sick  and  dirty,  to  his 
humble  log  home,  my  happiness 
seemed  completed.  .  .  . 

"The  land  here  is  most  fruitful.  I 
am  told  it  produces  eighty  bushels  of 
wheat  to  the  acre;  fruit  and  vege- 
tables grow  in  profusion.  A  city  lot 
— that  is,  1%  acre — may  be  purchased 
at  one  dollar  and  fifty  'cents;  and 
would  produce  food  sufficient  for  my 
needs  the  whole  year.  No  man,  with 
ordinary  intelligence,  can  be  poor  in 
such  a  place,  and  then,  blessed  privi- 
lege, he  can  be  free  from  the  harass- 
ments  and  perplexities  which  continu- 
ally destroy  the  peace  of  those  who 
live  in  an  artificial  state  of  society, 
such  as  is  found  in  London  and  New 
York. 

"We  will  thoroughly  recruit  up  here 
in  order  to  accomplish  the  remaining 
600  miles,  the  distance  that  still  in- 
tervenes between  this  city  and  Cali- 
fornia, and  which  will  be  the  most 
difficult  part  of  our  journey. 

"Immense  loss  of  life  and  property, 
starvation,  cholera,  Indian  depreda- 
tions, 30,000  persons  yet  east  of  the 
mountains  and  desert. 

"From  the  Salt  Lake  City,  there  are 
two  routes  to  the  mines,  the  Northern 
via  Weberville,  St.  Mary's  River,  Car- 
son River  and  Desert,  Humboldt  River 
and  Lake,  Truckee  River,  and  then  the 
Sierra  Nevada  Mountains,  whose  alti- 
tude is  so  great  that  snow  is  often  sev- 
eral feet  in  depth  on  them  as  early 
in  the  year  as  September.  It  is  not 
safe  to  leave  Great  Salt  Lake  Valley 
to  go  on  this  route  later  than  the  15th 
of  August.  It  is  on  this  route  that  the 
terrible  scenes  of  suffering,  related  in 
the  following  account  occurred : 

"Alta,  Cal.,  Sept.  6,  1850. 

"No  man  would  believe  that  the 
number  of  people  pouring  into  Cali- 
fornia was  as  great  as  it  actually  is, 
unless  he  traveled  the  Emigrant  road. 
Our  calculation  was  on  the  first  four 
days  after  we  left  Weberville,  that 


348 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


we  passed  from  100  to  300  wagons  per 
day.  On  the  fifth  day  I  counted  the 
wagons,  and  the  number  we  passed 
was  165.  Nearly  all  were  drawn  by 
oxen.  One  hundred  and  fifty  wagons 
per  day  for  two  months  would  make 
nine  thousand  wagons  on  this  route. 
Yesterday,  I  counted  the  number  of 
women,  and  it  was  forty-two.  We 
passed  fully  that  number  every  day 
since  we  left  Weberville.  Counting 
twenty-five  women  per  day  for  two 
months,  the  number  would  be  1,500. 
We  passed,  at  the  lowest  calculation, 
five  hundred  men  per  day.  Four  hun- 
dred per  day  for  two  months  would 
make  24,000.  Add  to  these  the  num- 
ber who  travel  by  other  routes. 

"Nearly  all  of  those  we  passed  were 
sturdy-looking  Western  workingmen. 
Most  of  them  were  afoot,  having  lost 
their  animals  on  the  desert,  and  scat- 
tered along,  with  care-worn  and  de- 
jected countenances,  dusty,  and  in 
many  cases  tattered  habiliments,  with 
pots,  pans,  bags,  blankets  and  rifles 
strapped  over  their  shoulders,  they 
looked  more  like  straggling  volunteers, 
on  a  forced  march  than  independent 
citizens  bound  for  the  land  of  gold. 
The  women  were  generally  young, 
good-looking  and  well  dressed. 

"Many  of  them  were  plump,  fresh- 
looking  farmers'  daughters,  and  sev- 
eral of  the  handsomest  I  welcomed 
with  bouquets  of  beautiful  California 
flowers,  gathered  in  the  valleys  on  the 
other  side  of  the  snowy  mountains. 
Some  of  the  women  handled  the  whip 
and  reins,  some  v/ere  well  mounted  on 
horseback,  some  rode  in  the  wagons, 
and  others  strolled  on  foot.  Many  of 
the  men  were  in  distress,  and  a  few 
asked  us  for  bread. 

"Their  misfortunes  were  chiefly  ow- 
ing to  the  loss  of  animals  on  the  des- 
ert for  want  of  food  and  water.  I  am 
told  that  the  road  through  the  desert  is 
literally  strewed  with  dead  horses  and 
oxen,  and  that  1,000  wagons  were  left 
on  the  desert.  The  road  from  Weber- 
ville to  this  place  is  strewed  with 
broken  wagons,  wheels,  harness, 
trunks,  beds  and  bedding,  dead  oxen, 
etc.  The  loss  of  property  on  the  route 


has  been  immense.  Everything,  ex- 
cept provisions,  was  thrown  away  and 
left  on  the  road. 

"At  every  camping  ground  the  ques- 
tion is :  'Don't  you  want  to  buy  this  ?' 
'a  splendid  rifle,'  'a  superfine  coat,' 
'a  fine  pair  of  boots,'  'a  new  pair  of 
pants,'  'a  good  feather  bed.'  Any  of 
these  articles  can  be  bought  in  the  val- 
ley for  five  dollars.  Flour  and  other 
articles  of  provisions  have  been  sold 
at  one  dollar  and  fifty  cents  to  two  dol- 
lars per  pound. 

"I  have  met  several  acquaintances 
here  from  the  southern  mines.  They 
found  gold,  but  not  in  sufficient  quan- 
tities to  induce  them  to  remain.  Rich 
discoveries  will  be  made  on  this  side 
of  the  mountains,  but  whether  we  will 
be  the  lucky  ones  remains  to  be  seen. 
To-morrow  we  start  for  the  Truckee 
River. 

"I  will  write  you  again  if  anything 
worthy  of  note  occurs. 

"Yours  truly 

"R.  W." 

"Sacramento  City,  Cal.,  Tuesday,  Sep- 
tember 10,  1850. 

"After  enduring  what  no  man  should 
for  gold  alone  (not  one  in  a  thousand 
would  do  it  the  second  time)  I  am  in 
California. 

"The  Overland  emigration  must  in- 
deed reap  a  golden  harvest  to  repay 
it  for  its  necessary  sacrifices  of  human 
life,  loss  of  property  and  the  hardships 
and  privations  experienced.  Permit 
me  to  give  you  a  single  scene:  We 
passed  directly  over  the  camping 
ground  where  forty  or  fifty  California 
emigrants  had  perished,  and  been 
eaten  up  by  their  fellow-sufferers  only 
a  few  days  before  we  passed.  Skulls, 
bones  and  carcases  lay  strewed  in 
every  direction.  We  also  met  one  of 
the  hindmost  of  the  unfortunate  emi- 
grants making  his  way  in  to  the  set- 
tlements. He  was  a  German,  and  had 
lived  upon  human  flesh  for  several 
weeks.  The  entire  route  presents  a 
similar  aspect,  though  not  quite  so 
frightful  in  its  features. 

"Many  believe  there  are  dead  ani- 


SUFFERINGS  OF  THE  OVERLAND  EMIGRANTS  IN  '49.        349 


mals  enough  on  the  desert  (45  miles) 
between  Humboldt  Lake  and  Carson 
River  to  pave  a  road  the  whole  dis- 
tance. We  will  make  a  moderate  esti- 
mate, and  say  there  is  a  dead  animal 
to  every  five  feet  left  on  the  desert 
this  season,  which  would  make  about 
45,000  head.  This  number,  at  the  low 
average  of  $50  for  horses,  mules  and 
cattle,  would  produce  over  $2,000,000. 
I  counted  153  wagons  within  one  and 
a  half  miles.  Before  all  is  over,  there 
will  be  as  many  as  100  wagons  to  the 
mile,  which  at  100  dollars  each,  makes 
$450,000.  Then  the  desert  is  strewn 
with  all  other  kinds  of  property — tools, 
clothes,  crockery,  harness,  beds,  bed- 
ding, etc.,  and  there  cannot  be  left  on 
this  desert  this  season  less  than 
$3,000,000  of  property. 

"California  of  1849  is  not  California 
of  1850.  A  great  change  has  taken 
place,  and  this  year's  emigration  is 
most  egregiously  disappointed.  Sur- 
face mining  yields  nothing  near  the 
amount  it  did  last  year.  Labor  rates 
from  two  dollars  to  three  dollars  per 
day,  and  hundreds  are  working  for 
their  board,  but  the  latter  are  usually 
the  necessitous,  possessing  neither 
money,  tools,  nor  provisions  to  go  to 
work  with,  and  consequently  com- 
pelled to  accept  any  offer. 

"The  wild  and  savage  tribes  of  In- 
dians that  roam  over  these  terrific  re- 
gions take  every  advantage  to  steal, 
murder  and  plunder  the  already  un- 
fortunate emigrants.  We  passed  one 
camping  ground  to-day  which  was 
strewn  with  the  bodies  of  victims  to 
their  murderous  attack.  The  Indians 
had  shot  some  and  tommyhawked 
others!;  scalping  them  and  stealing 
everything  in  camp.  Thus  many  are 
left  more  than  six  hundred  miles  be- 
yond the  settlements.  Fighting  be- 
tween the  Indians  and  emigrants  oc- 
curs almost  daily.  Thirty  thousand 
persons  are  yet  beyond  the  mountains 
and  desert,  of  which  number  fifteen 
to  twenty  thousand  persons  are  now 
destitute  of  all  kinds  of  provisions, 


yet  the  period  of  their  greatest  suffer- 
ing is  yet  to  come.  It  will  be  impos- 
sible for  ten  or  twelve  thousand  of 
this  number  to  reach  the  mountains 
before  the  commencement  of  v/inter. 

"We  are  indebted  to  Hawley  &  Co.'s 
express  for  the  Sacramento  Transcript 
of  yesterday,  containing  two  letters 
from  Captain  Waldo,  giving  this  in- 
formation, both  letters  dated  Septem- 
ber 15th,  one  at  Great  Meadow,  Hum- 
boldt River,  the  other  dated  Truckee 
River.  He  states  that  the  relief  com- 
mittee has  not  a  single  pound  of  flour 
east  of  the  mountains;  that  he  entered 
the  desert  on  the  7th  inst.,  met  two 
men  who  had  given  up  to  die  from 
starvation;  same  day  two  men  died  of 
starvation  on  Carson  Desert;  that 
those  with  wagons  have  no  food  but 
their  poor,  exhausted  animals;  that 
footmen  subsist  on  the  putrified  flesh 
of  the  dead  animals  along  the  road, 
and  disease  and  death  are  conse- 
quently sweeping  them  down.  The 
cholera  made  its  appearance  on  the 
8th,  and  eight  persons  out  of  a  small 
train  died  of  it  in  three  hours. 

"Captain  Waldo  was  about  starting 
to  try  to  persuade  such  as  are  from 
four  to  six  hundred  miles  back,  to  re- 
turn to  Salt  Lake.  He  calls  for  ten 
thousand  pounds  of  flour  for  the  sta- 
tion at  Truckee,  and  the  same  amount 
for  the  summit. 

"We  regret  our  inability  to  give  as 
much  communications  as  we  could 
wish.  He  asks  for  contributions,  and 
offers  to  the  city  council  his  claim  to 
ten  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  prop- 
erty if  they  will  forward  that  amount 
in  flour  and  articles  for  the  needy  sick, 
to  that  place.  His  report  is  fearful. 

"A  black  man,  from  Boston,  rode  a 
pony  express  night  and  day,  400 
miles,  with  the  information:  'Cannot 
something  be  done  here  to  save  the 
lives  of  these,  our  countrymen  and 
friends?  Many  of  them  are  women 
and  children,  widows  and  orphans, 
their  husbands  and  fathers  having  died 
with  the  cholera  or  starvation.'  " 


THE  FIESTA 


By  Ray  Aclntyre  King 


TO-DAY  is  the  Monday,  and  the 
Friday  is  the  great,  the  gran' 
Fiesta,  and  I  have  the  nothing 
to  wear!" 

As  she  finished  her  morning  tasks 
in  the  ranch  house,  Mrs.  Quatros,  wife 
of  the  Portuguese  dairyman,  bewailed 
her  hard  fate  aloud  to  her  little  Mary. 
That  little  one,  being  only  four,  and 
therefore  not  as  yet  arrived  at  years 
of  feminine  understanding,  danced  like 
an  untroubled,  unsympathetic  and 
bright-eyed  sprite  about  her  mother. 

"And  I  can  ride  the  merry-go- 
round."  She  clapped  her  little  hands 
joyously. 

"Ach!  Ach!  Baby,  there  must  be 
no  merry-go-round,  no  Fiesta!  We 
must  stay  the  home." 

"I  will  ride,  I  will!"  shrilled  the  lit- 
tle one,  defiantly.  "Papa,  he  say  I 
should  ride." 

The  little  dark-eyed,  dark-skinned 
woman  went  to  her  room,  opened  her 
big  trunk  and  knelt  beside  it.  Un- 
noticed and  unreproved,  little  Mary 
explored  a  far  corner  of  the  trunk, 
which  to  her  seemed  a  rich  and  won- 
derful treasure  box.  Her  mother  was 
absorbed  in  carefully  and  deprecat- 
ingly  sorting  out  her  "bes'  clothes." 
The  closer  she  inspected  her  wardrobe, 
the  deeper  became  her  despair.  She 
unwound  a  priceless  home-made  linen 
towel — the  work  of  her  own  girlhood 
in  her  far  "old  country"  of  Portugal — 
and  held  up  her  best  hat.  It  had  cost 
only  $3.98  to  begin  with,  and  the  fierce 
suns  of  two  brilliant  California  sum- 
mers had  hopelessly  dimmed  and 
dulled  its  cheap  glories. 

"If  we  were  reech,"  she  murmured, 
bitterly,  "and  rode  in  an  auto,  I  could 
wear  the  towel,  the  rag,  anything, 


over  my  head,  but  the  wife  of  the  poor 
Shon  Quatros,  she  should  to  have  the 
fine  hat!  The  fine  hat  I  have  not,  ach, 
ach!" 

At  that  moment,  little  Mary,  in  her 
explorations,  unearthed  her  own  par- 
ticular garment  of  state,  a  little  scar- 
let frock  with  gilt  buttons  carefully 
wrapped  in  bits  of  tissue  paper. 

"The  bad,  bad  baby!"  cried,  the 
mother,  giving  the  curious,  prying  lit- 
tle fingers  a  sharp  rap.  Thereat,  the 
surprised,  spoiled  little  one  voiced  her 
indignation  in  loud,  tearless  wails  out 
of  all  proportion  to  the  punishment. 
The  mother-heart  of  Mrs.  Quatros 
melted  in  shame  and  remorse.  One 
should  not  be  mean  to  one's  baby  even 
if  one  had  no  clothes  to  wear  to  the 
great,  the  grand  Fiesta. 

When  peace  was  restored,  it  was  the 
mother  whose  face  was  tear-begrimed, 
and  it  was  little  Mary  who,  gurglingly 
happy,  was  delving  in  the  treasure 
depths  of  the  big  trunk.  Presently  she 
found  her  mother's  best  white  shirt- 
waist and  her  mother's  best  gray 
panama  skirt,  and  wadded  them  ex- 
citedly into  her  mother's  lap.  How 
could  the  child  know  that  the  skirt 
had  unaccountably  acquired  a  brown- 
ish spot  on  the  front  gore  that  no 
amount  of  cleaning  would  remove! 
And  the  shirt  waist  was  old  fashioned 
and  sadly  needed  laundrying. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Quatros,  firmly,  "I 
shall  no  wash  it,  and  then  at  the  verra 
last  minute  I  can  say  to  Shon,  'My 
shirt-waist  is  no  clean  to  go  to  the 
Fiesta.' 

"No,"  she  told  herself,  bitterly,  "I 
no  go  to  the  Fiesta.  It  would  be  more 
better  I  stay  at  home.  My  verra 
reech  sister-in-law  will  be  there.  I 


THE  FIESTA. 


351 


no  shame  her  with  my  verra  old,  tacky 
clothes." 

Only  yesterday  she  had  been  to  see 
Mrs.  Silva,  her  "verra  reech  sister-in- 
law."  That  fat,  comely  Portuguese 
lady  had  donned  for  her  poor  rela- 
tion's envious  admiration  her  resplen- 
dent garments  bought  especially  for 
wearing  to  the  coming  festival.  She 
showed  an  expensive  silken  tissue  robe 
worn  over  a  lavendar  silk  slip.  She 
had  a  new,  widely  spreading  black  and 
lavender  hat,  and  lavender  silk  gloves 
that  reached  but  did  not  quite  hide 
the  huge  dimples  in  her  fat  elbows. 
Altogether,  Mrs.  Silva's  elaborate  and 
expensive  toilette  would  be  worthy 
Rose  Valley's  fifteenth  annual  and 
most  resplendent  and  widely  adver- 
tised Fiesta. 

The  Fiesta  was  Rose  Valley's  one 
social  and  business  event  of  the  year. 
Almost  every  town  of  superior  Cali- 
fornia boasts  a  distinctive  festival. 
Chico  might  advertise  her  Fourth; 
Oroville  her  Water  Carnival;  Gridley 
her  Cannery  Picnic;  Colusa  her  River 
Carnival;  Sacramento  her  Fiesta  of 
the  Dawn  of  Gold ;  but  it  remained  for 
little  Rose  Valley  to  celebrate  each 
June  with  increasing  annual  fame  her 
Fiesta  of  the  Roses. 

It  would  shame  one's  fellow-citizens 
not  to  appear  in  fine  holiday  attire  on 
such  an  occasion  when  all  the  world 
came  to  one's  town.  In  particular,  it 
would  shame  one  dairyman's  little 
wife  to  parade  her  shabby  clothes 
alongside  the  grandeur  and  elegance 
of  the  "verra  reech  sister-in-law." 

"No,"  she  told  herself  for  the  hun- 
dredth time,  "I  shall  no  go  to  the  gran' 
Fiesta." 

At  that  moment,  a  distant  door 
slammed,  and  Mrs.  Quatros  heard  lit- 
tle John,  her  ten  year  old  son,  stamp- 
ing and  shouting  through  the  ranch 
house.  He  was  megaphoning  through 
his  hands,  imitating  the  long-drawn 
nasal  twang  and  shrill,  strident  call  of 
a  popular  side-show  spieler  of  the  pre- 
vious year's  Fiesta: 

"Jungle  ta-a-own !    Jungle  ta-a-own ! 
Huge  pythons,  alligators,  crocodiles, 


O-rang-o-tangs,  monkeys. 

Jungle  ta-a-own!     Jungle  ta-a-own! 

Right  from  Afrikee!" 

"Little  Shon,  little  Shon,"  screamed 
his  mother,  distractedly,  from  her 
room,  "many  time  I  tell  you  no  say 
that:  it  give  me  the  bad  dream!" 

"Say,  maw,"  answered  the  boy  when 
he  had  located  his  mother.  "At  the 
Fiesta,  kin  I  ride  on  the  Ferris  wheel  ? 
And " 

"The  boy,  the  boy!"  she  wailed  to 
the  lithographed  Madonna  hanging 
over  her  bed,  "it  will  break  the  heart 
to  no  go  to  the  Fiesta,  but  I  shall  no 
go!" 

All  her  thoughts  of  the  coming  fes- 
tival were  enshrouded  in  clouds  and 
fogs  of  lavender  and  black,  and  those 
were  anything  but  cheerful  combina- 
tions in  Mrs.  Quatros'  visions.  Not 
that  she  wanted  any  similar  perfervid 
raiment  for  herself.  She  was  much 
too  modest  and  simple  in  tastes  to 
choose,  even  if  she  could  have  af- 
forded it,  such  expensive  and  notice- 
able dress;  but  she  wanted  what  such 
things  bespoke,  financial  ease  and 
competence.  And  just  at  that  time  the 
Quatros  felt  poorer  and  harder  driven 
financially  than  they  had  ever  felt  in 
all  their  married  life. 

Some  twelve  years  before  she  had 
come,  a  young  girl  fresh  from  the  high- 
lands of  Portugal,  and  to  pay  her  pas- 
sage she  had  gone  to  work  in  the  rich 
Mrs.  Silva's  kitchen.  In  the  great 
Silva  dairy,  young  John  Quatros, 
brother  of  the  wealthy  dairyman's 
wife,  was  working  as  a  milker.  It  had 
been  a  very  pretty  romance  between 
the  two  young  people.  After  their 
marriage,  they  had  continued  working 
for  the  Silvas.  After  patient  years 
of  serving,  John  Quatros  finally  as- 
serted himself  and  embarked  in  his 
own  small,  but  independent,  dairy 
business.  All  his  savings  went  as 
first  payment  on  his  cows.  The  cream- 
ery paid  twice  a  month,  and  every 
other  cream  check  must  go  to  the  pay- 
ment of  the  remainder  which  he  owed 
for  his  cows.  He  was  renting  alfalfa 
land  at  ten  dollars  per  acre,  and  it  re- 


352 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


quired  careful  management  to  pay  his 
land  rental,  his  family  living  expenses 
and  the  incidental  dairy  expenses  out 
of  the  other,  his  half,  of  the  income. 
By  the  severest  economy  and  frugal- 
ity, the  Ouatros  were  slowly  but  surely 
paying  off  the  debt  for  their  cows. 
They  began  to  see  the  end  of  their 
long  financial  stringency,  when  an  un- 
expected profit  and  loss  account,  for 
which  they  had  left  no  margin  in  their 
calculations,  had  to  be  reckoned  with. 

John  had  begun  somewhat  incau- 
tiously to  increase  his  dairy,  and  in 
his  first  purchase  of  cows  the  dairy 
inspector  found  and  condemned  as 
tubercular  a  number  of  valuable  ani- 
mals. That  was  a  heavy  loss.  Then 
the  seepage  waters  from  a  canal  killed 
out  a  large  tract  of  alfalfa,  and  he 
found  that  his  lease  had  no  provision 
for  his  protection  in  such  an  event, 
and  a  lawsuit  against  the  canal  com- 
pany promised  only  remote  and  inade- 
quate damages. 

"Meester  Wright,  I  owe  so  much," 
John  explained  to  his  wife  a  few  days 
before  the  Fiesta,  "and  him  I  haf  to 
pay  next  week.  I  haf  not  the  mon', 
only  so  leetle  of  it,  and  when  I  tell 
him,  what  Meester  Wright  say  and 
what  bad  things  Meester  Wright  do  to 
us,  I  no  say." 

John  Quatros  was  used  to  meeting 
his  obligations  promptly,  and  it  trou- 
bled him  sorely  that  his  debts  should 
go  unpaid,  even  in  part.  In  a  flood  of 
Portuguese,  John  explained  to  his 
wife  that  if  this  creditor,  Mr.  Wright, 
should  be  harsh  and  attach  their  dairy, 
that  it  would  go  hard  with  them.  Ever 
so  little  pressure  at  that  time  might 
mean  ruin  for  the  Quatros  fortunes. 

"If  Meester  Wright  be  hard  on  me, 
maybe  so  I  get  a  shob  with  my  verra 
reech  sister  once  again,"  groaned 
John. 

"We  haf  the  bad  luck  now,"  said 
Mrs.  Quatros,  hopefully,  although  her 
soul  was  sick  with  this  new  worry. 
"But  maybe  not  for  long." 

The  black  and  lavender  fogs  lifted 
instantly  from  her  spirit.  What  were 
such  trivial  things  as  gala  clothes  if 
the  dairy,  everything,  was  threatened 


with  ruin?  What  mattered  the  age 
of  a  hat  or  a  waist  if  they  should  have 
to  go  back  to  the  old  hired-man  ser- 
vitude with  the  Silvas? 

Sorrowfully,  she  watched  her  hus- 
band as  he  went  away  to  his  work  in 
the  separator  house.  After  a  decade 
and  more,  she  still  thought  him  the 
handsomest  of  men,  with  his  great 
breadth  of  shoulders,  the  well  set  head 
with  the  heavy  black  hair,  the  bright 
color  in  his  dark  cheeks,  the  kind 
"  mouth  gleaming  with  its  full  comple- 
ment of  shapely,  white  teeth.  His 
best  feature  was  his  eyes,  those  great, 
dark,  melting  eyes  of  the  South  Euro- 
pean races. 

"The  good  man  he  is  to  me,"  she 
said,  tenderly.  "I  should  not  to  worry 
him  about  Fiesta  clothes.  I  should  no 
stay  at  home.  I  should  to  make  him 
go  to  the  Fiesta.  It  would  give  him 
the  glad  heart.  If  we  have  not  the 
mon'  and  not  the  fine  clothes,  we 
should  to  keep  the  heart  glad  anyway. 
Maybe  so  I  go  to  the  Fiesta  for  Shon 
and  little  Shon  and  little  Mary — to 
keep  their  hearts  glad." 

So  with  much  secret  worry  and 
many  unhappy  forebodings,  Mrs.  Qua- 
tros, on  the  very  last  day  before  the 
Fiesta,  made  hasty  preparations.  The 
shirt  waist  was  hurriedly  laundried 
that  soil  and  crumples  should  not  be 
added  to  its  offensive  old  fashioned- 
ness.  Her  best  culinary  efforts  were 
expended  on  the  picnic  lunch.  Her 
family  should  have  one  good  dinner — 
it  might  be  their  last  for  many  a  day — 
she  thought  grimly.  If  harder  times 
were  in  store  for  them,  she  resolved 
that  her  little  ones  should  not  be  made 
to  suffer  double,  once  in  anticipation 
and  once  in  realization. 

With  full  lunch  basket  and  smiling 
holiday  mein,  the  Quatros  family  went 
forth  with  the  crowds  to  the  great 
Fiesta.  Once  in  the  laughing,  jostling 
crowd,  Mrs.  Quatros  soon  forgot  her 
clothes  and  all  financial  worries.  There 
was  so  much  of  vivid  interest  in  the 
thousands  of  strange  faces,  the  long 
parade  of  hundreds  of  rose-decked  au- 
tomobiles, the  gymnasts  and  acrobats, 
the  dozens  of  side  shows  with  enticing 


THE  FIESTA. 


353 


banners  and  loud-voiced  spielers,  the 
Ferris  Wheel,  with  its  dipping,  dang- 
ling, ever-ascending  seats  always 
crowded;  the  merry-go-round  with  its 
loud,  inspiring  steam  organ,  and  its 
laughing  loads  of  children  whirling 
ecstatically,  and  the  bands  and  orches- 
tras blaring  from  new-lumber  plat- 
forms rising  above  the  ever-moving 
crowds. 

One  might  have  been  in  a  strange 
city  for  all  one  saw  of  familiar  faces. 
Only  once  did  Mrs.  Quatros  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  distant  lavender  and 
black  toilette  that  might  or  might  not 
have  gowned  her  sister-in-law. 

Leading  their  children  tightly  by 
the  hands,  the  Quatros  walked  about 
the  wide,  oak-shaded  Fiesta  park. 
From  attraction  to  attraction,  they 
pushed  their  way,  happily  engrossed 
with  the  wonder  and  newness  and  fas- 
cination of  all  this  noisy  activity. 

While  John  took  the  children  riding 
on  the  merry-go-round,  Mrs.  Quatros 
found  a  seat  on  a  park  bench.  Her 
family  was  having  "the  good  time," 
and  her  mother  heart  swelled  with 
sweet  emotions.  She  thought  how 
little  ones  could  not  always  be  little, 
and  that  the  best  of  living  comes  from 
making  the  little  ones  happy. 

Beside  her  sat  a  plain,  unfashion- 
able woman,  who  looked  lonely  and 
pensive.  Out  of  her  full  heart,  Mrs. 
Quatros  spoke  to  her. 

"This  day  is  more  better  for  the 
children,"  she  said,  with  a  bright  nod 
toward  the  crowded  merry-go-round. 

"Mine  are  grown  up  and  gone,  and 
I  haven't  even  a  grandchild  here  to 
help  me  enjoy  it,"  said  the  stranger. 
So  it  was  that  the  two  fell  into  friendly 
and  absorbing  talk  about  that  uni- 
versal theme  of  all  good  mothers,  their 
children.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
unknown  woman  sat  a  gentleman  who 
listened  smilingly,  but  silently,  to  the 
sprightly  conversation  between  the 
two  women. 

"It  is  the  dinner  time,"  cried  Mrs. 
Quatros,  when  she  saw  seeking  her 
from  afar  her  husband  and  children, 
all  evidently  somewhat  dazed  and 
giddy  with  long-continued  whirling. 


"Yes,"  said  the  woman  with  a  wry 
smile.  "Presently  my  husband  is  go- 
ing to  take  me  over  to  the  pavilion  to 
get  dinner." 

"The  bought  dinner  is  no  good," 
cried  Mrs.  Quatros,  excitedly.  "My 
sister-in-law,  she  say  last  year  she  eat 
the  bought  dinner  and  then  she  verra 
sorry,  for  it  give  her  the  bad  thoughts 
— worry,  worry,  worry,  for  fear  maybe 
she  die  next  day,  next  week,  with, 
what  you  say? — ptomaine  poison.  It 
verra  bad  for  the  stomach  to  eat  the 
fear  with  the  bought  dinner !  She  like 
much  better  to  eat  my  dinner,  but  I 
no  see  her.  I  like  you  and  your  man 
to  help  eat  my  dinner.  I  have  the  fry 
cheeken  and  the  berry  pie,  and  the 
cakes,  all  so  good.  I  make  myself, 
like  my  verra  reech  sister-in-law,  she 
show  me  when  I  learn  to  cook  Ameri- 
can." 

At  this  moment,  the  gentleman  sit- 
ting beside  the  strange  woman  touched 
her  arm. 

"It  would  be  imposing  on  this  lady 
to  accept  her  invitation,  dear,"  he  said. 
"But  her  dinner  sounds  mighty  good 
compared  to  the  pavilion  fare." 

"So,  so,  your  husband?  And  you 
no  say?"  beamed  Mrs.  Quatros.  "Oh, 
I  like  so  verra,  verra  much  you  please 
to  eat  dinner  with  us.  Here  comes  my 
man.  Shon,  I  have  ask  these  two  if 
so  please  they  eat  dinner  with  us." 

Either  intentionally,  or  thought- 
lessly, the  strange  woman  had  not  dur- 
ing their  conversation  mentioned  her 
name,  and  she  did  not  introduce  her 
husband.  At  his  wife's  announcement 
John  Quatros  smiled  most  friendly  at 
the  woman,  but  when  his  glance  rested 
on  the  man  beside  her,  the  color 
washed  his  dark  face  with  surprise  and 
embarrassment.  Recovering  himself 
quickly,  however,  he  offered  his  hand 
to  the  strange  gentleman  with  eager 
friendliness. 

"Maybe  so  my  wife  not  know  you/' 
he  explained.  "This,"  to  his  wife, 
"this  is  Meester  Wright." 

Mr.  Wright!  Their  hard  creditor, 
the  one  to  whom  payment  was  due 
next  week,  the  man  who  had  it  in  his 
power  to  press  and  ruin  them !  Would 


354 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


he  think  her  forward  and  presump- 
tious?  Poor  little  Mrs.  Quatros  gulped 
in  astonishment  and  confusion. 

"Maybe  so  the  dinner  taste  more 
better,"  she  hastened  to  urge.  "Now 
we  know  Meester  and  Meesis  Wright. 
Please  so  to  eat  with  us,"  she  begged. 

"With  pleasure,"  accepted  Mr. 
Wright.  "Provided,  after  dinner,  you 
lend  me  this  little  chap" — pinching 
little  John's  hard  red  cheek — "I've 
some  nickels  burning  my  pocket  to 
get  spent  on  a  real  live  boy.  Eh,  Mrs. 
Quatros?" 

The  Quatros  and  their  guests  went 
off  to  the  wagonette  left  standing  un- 
der a  great  live  oak.  Soon  the  two 
women  were  chattering  merrily,  while 
they  spread  the  cloth  and  set  out  the 
abundant,  tempting  viands.  Mrs.  Qua- 
tros established  herself  at  Mr. 
Wright's  elbow,  and  never  slave  waited 
more  devotedly  on  a  master  than  did 
she  on  their  creditor.  Platters  of  fried 
chicken  and  sliced  ham,  bowls  of 
home-made  pickles  and  cold  slaw, 
plates  of  pie,  and  cake,  and  ice  cream, 
dewy  glasses  of  lemonade  with  sug- 
gestive icy  tinglings  in  their  refresh- 
ing depths,  all,  she  pressed  upon  him, 
and  he  did  eat  with  all  the  enthusiasm 
and  appreciation  of  the  healthy,  hun- 
gry man  who  eats  his  fill  and  trusts 
God  for  the  rest. 

In  the  glow  of  good-fellowship  that 
followed  the  dinner,  Mr.  Wright  spoke 
to  John. 

"By  the  way,  John,"  he  said  quite  in 
the  familiar  way  of  fast  friends, 


"about  that  payment  next  week,  don't 
trouble  yourself  about  it  just  now.  I 
hear  you  have  had  some  bad  luck 
lately,  and  I  am  glad  to  give  you  a 
considerable  extension  of  time  if  you 
need  it.  I  feel  like  helping  a  steady, 
hard-working  man,  especially  when  he 
has  a  good  wife  like  yours." 

"You  are  the  good,  kind  man,"  said 
John,  his  voice  trembling  with  grati- 
tude. "Yes,  I  haf  the  good  wife. 
Maybe  so  my  luck  no  so  bad,  for  I 
have  the  good  wife,  and  now  I  haf 
Meester  Wright  for  my  friend." 

"You  will  make  it  all  right,"  said 
Mr.  Wright  confidently. 

It  was  a  tired,  happy  Quatros  fam- 
ily that  rode  homeward  from  the 
Fiesta.  Little  Mary's  scarlet  frock 
was  streaked  with  candy  and  ice 
cream.  She  snuggled  beside  her 
mother,  her  little  sticky  hand  clasping 
a  precious  little  wad,  a  little  collapsed 
red  rubber  balloon.  Little  John 
hunched  in  the  front  seat  beside  his 
father,  muttered  drowsily,  and  unre- 
proved : 

"Jungle   ta-a-own!     Crockodiles — " 

As  their  horse  turned  into  the  olive 
avenue  leading  to  the  ranch  house, 
Mrs.  Quatros  leaned  forward  from  the 
wagonette's  back  seat  till  her  bright, 
eager  face  was  close  to  her  husband's 
ear. 

"Ah,  Shon,"  she  said,  "it  was  the 
great,  the  gran'  Fiesta!" 

"It  was  the  good  wife,"  flung  back 
her  husband,  happily,  "what  make  it 
the  gran'  Fiesta!" 


THE  BLIND  SEARCH 

We  are  too  learned,  we  who  search  for  God 

In  halls  of  science  and  in  obscure  writ; 

We  are  too  pinned  to  rusted  theories 

To  see  Him  whom  we  vainly  strive  to  please — 

And  in  the  striving  fail.    Too  high  we  look, 

Believing,  as  have  centuries  of  men, 

That  a  dread  supernatural  presence  broods 

Above  the  plane  of  mortal  fretfulness. 

With  wrinkled  brows  and  heads  among  the  clouds 

We  look  in  vain.    The  child  of  simple  heart 

Stoops  down  and  plucks  a  wildflower,  and,  behold! 

He  has  found  God;  while  we  in  research  wise, 

Have  drawn  apart  and  lost  Him  as  we  sought.     C.  L.  SAXBY. 


WHEN    SILENCE    IS    GOLDEN 


By  Elizabeth  Vore 


THE  UPSTAIRS  lady  came  trail- 
ing softly  down  the  stairs.  She 
wore  a  pale  green  gown  of  some 
filmy  texture,  which  fell  about 
her  with  a  soft  swish-swash,  as  Sang- 
freid  described  it.  Bertreim  could 
have  sworn  that  she  had  on  the  green 
gown,  although  his  back  was  toward 
the  door,  and  the  door  was  shut  be- 
tween them.  Bertreim  always  knew 
what  the  upstairs  lady  wore — he  did 
not  need  to  see  her.  Whether  he  at- 
tained this  knowledge  by  the  prover- 
bial sixth  sense,  or  by  some  other  psy- 
chological process,  I  am  unable  to  say. 
It  necessitated  very  acute  ears  to 
know  when  the  upstairs  lady  conde- 
scended to  come  down  to  the  plane  oc- 
cupied by  common  mortals.  Her  feet 
made  about  as  much  noise  as  did  the 
rose  petals  when  the  wind  drifted  them 
down  on  the  window  casement,  as  it 
was  doing  at  this  moment.  The  up- 
stairs lady  and  the  rose  petals  were 
drifting  down  at  the  same  time.  This 
thought  was  in  Bertreim's  mind.  It 
was  such  comparisons  from  Bertreim, 
who  boasted  from  the  housetops  and 
the  market-places  that  he  was  not  a 
poet,  which  kept  his  friends  and  ene- 
mies alike  in  convulsions.  True,  Ber- 
treim did  not  write  poetry— but  he 
painted  it — poetry  personified  charac- 
terized every  canvass  which  had  made 
his  fame,  for,  although  it  is  a  good 
deal  to  say  of  a  man  in  this  day,  he 
was  famous. 

Bertreim's  hearing,  it  may  be  re- 
marked, had  grown  very  acute  of  late. 
There  was  but  one  pair  of  ears  keener, 
and  they  belonged  exclusively  to  Sang- 
freid. 

At  that  moment  the  door  was  thrown 
open,  and  Sangfried  himself  appeared 


on  the  threshold.  The  wind  had  blown 
his  curls  in  bright  confusion  about  his 
face,  and  his  eyes  were  shining  like 
stars. 

"I  met  the  upstairs  lady  just  now, 
father,  as  I  came  in,  and  she  stopped 
for  a  moment  and  spoke  to  me!"  he 
cried,  excitedly.  "She  asked  my 
name — s-h!  she  is  passing  now!"  He 
pointed  a  slender  finger  to  the  open 
window. 

Bertreim,  his  brush  suspended  in 
mid-air,  looked  in  that  direction,  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  green  dress, 
held  up  by  a  pretty  white  hand  as  she 
passed. 

"What  a  pretty  hand  she  has!"  said 
Sangfreid,  his  little  artist's  face  aglow 
with  worshipful  admiration. 

"She  is  not  wearing  gloves  to-day," 
remarked  Bertreim,  as  one  imparting 
an  important  piece  of  wisdom. 

"Why,  as  for  that,  father,  she  sel- 
dom does!"  cried  Siegfreid,  in  sur- 
prise. "How  could  you  have  forgot- 
ten?" 

Bertreim  colored  slightly,  and 
painted  with  rapid  strokes  which 
threatened  disaster. 

"True,  she  does  not.  I  had  not  for- 
gotten, Sangfreid.  It  was  a  stupid 
remark,"  he  said  quietly.  It  was  a 
part  of  Bertreim's  bringing  up  of  his 
son  to  be  strictly  honest  with  him, 
even  as  to  his  thoughts.  It  was  a 
matter  of  honor  between  them  that 
there  could  never  be  any  toleration  of 
anything  resembling  falsehood. 

Sangfreid  came  across  and  sat  down 
near  his  father.  He  rested  his  chin  in 
his  slender  young  hand,  a  dreamy,  far- 
away look  in  his  eyes. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  judicially,  after 
several  moments  of  silence,  "that  she 


356 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


went  to  the  matinee/' 

"I  had  thought  of  a  kettle-drum,  or 
— er — that  sort  of  thing  that  ladies 
attend  in  the  afternoon.  She  is  Eng- 
lish, and  it  is  almost  sure  to  be  a  ket- 
tle-drum/' said  Bertreim  with  the  grav- 
ity that  such  a  weighty  subject  de- 
manded. 

It  was  a  favorite  pastime  of  theirs 
to  guess  where  the  upstairs  lady  went, 
and  one  which  Sangfreid  never  wear- 
ied. If  his  father  wearied,  he  gave 
no  evidence  of  it.  The  game,  begun 
to  interest  Sangfreid,  had,  to  all  ap- 
pearances, become  equally  fascinating 
to  Sangfreid's  father. 

In  this  instance  they  were  both 
wrong.  The  upstairs  lady  had  gone 
neither  to  the  matinee  nor  an  after- 
noon social  function,  for  she  returned 
in  a  half  hour  or  so.  There  was  an 
odor  of  violets  wafted  to  them  as  she 
again  passed  the  window.  Her  arms 
seemed  full  of  them. 

Sangfreid  laughed  outright  at  their 
stupidity. 

"She  had  only  gone  to  the  florist's!" 
he  exclaimed.  He  tilted  his  delicate, 
straight  little  nose  upward,  sniffling 
unconsciously. 

"Makes  me  remember  that  I  love 
violets  better  than  any  other  flowers!" 
he  said  with  a  sigh  of  delight. 

Bertreim  regarded  him  meditatively. 

"Sangfreid,  you  will  never  again  be 
so  young  as  you  are  now,"  he  re- 
marked. 

"Why,  no,  father,  of  course  not!" 
cried  Sangfreid.  "I  am  nine  years  old 
— in  another  year  I  shall  be  ten !  Every 
week,  I  am  seven  days  older  than  I 
was  the  week  before." 

"The  last  is  true  of  all  of  us,  Sang- 
freid, but  few  of  us  can  afford  it  as 
well  as  you  can,"  said  Bertreim,  with 
a  slight  sigh. 

"I  keep  wondering,"  said  Sangfreid, 
"who  gave  her  the  rose." 

"The  rose !"  cried  Bertreim  in  aston- 
ishment. 

"Yes ;  I  quite  forgot  to  tell  you  about 
the  rose.  She  wore  it  pinned  on  to  her 
gown  when  she  went  out.  It  was  not 
like  our  roses  by  the  window,  but  a 
great  American  Beauty  rose.  That 


was  one  reason  why  I  liked  the  vio- 
lets so  well.  The  rose  did  not  quite 
please  me.  I  had  rather  you  or  I  had 
given  it  to  her,  father.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful rose,  though.  I  do  not  think  it 
can  be  bought  at  the  florist's.  Have 
you  ever  seen  any  at  the  florist's?" 

No,  Bertram  had  not.  They  were 
only  raised  in  hot  houses  and  conser- 
vatories. His  hand  shook  slightly, 
and  he  put  a  big  dash  of  vermilion  on 
the  nose  of  the  fawn  he  was  painting 
in  his  "Idyl  of  Evening." 

Sangfreid,  who  had  witnessed  this 
catastrophe,  came  over  and  stood  be- 
side him.  His  delicate  face  had  paled. 

"You've  done  it  now,"  he  said, 
soberly. 

"I  think  I  can  save  it,"  replied  Ber- 
treim, quietly,  scraping  industriously 
with  his  palette  knife. 

Sangfreid,  who  had  learned  when 
silence  was  golden,  said  no  more,  but 
held  his  breath.  While  his  father,  with 
skillful  strokes,  worked  away  with 
tightly  set  lips,  his  Rembrandt  type 
of  face  was  sharply  outlined  in  the 
brilliant  afternoon  sunshine.  Sang- 
freid's eyes,  leaving  the  picture,  rested 
upon  it  in  loving  sympathy,  under- 
standing well  the  anxiety  in  every  line 
of  the  artist's  face,  and  the  gravity 
of  the  fine  eyes.- 

After  what  seemed  a  lifetime  of 
waiting,  he  ventured  timidly: 

"I  hope  I  was  not  to  blame,  father?" 

Bertreim  flashed  him  a  loving  glance 
of  reassurance. 

"Ach!  Nein,  mein  kind!"  he  said, 
relapsing  into  the  mother  tongue,  as 
he  was  apt  to  do  when  he  felt  deeply. 
He  hesitated,  and  then  added  in  mat- 
ter-of-fact English :  "You  might  take  a 
run  to  the  attic  for  a  while,  Sangfreid 
— you  know  Mrs.  Maitland  never  ob- 
jects— while  I  straighten  out  this  in- 
fern That  is — er — Sangfreid." 

Sangfreid  replied  only  with  a  little, 
comprehensive  wave  of  his  hand  to 
imply  that  he  understood,  and  needed 
no  explanations,  and  turning,  went  out 
of  the  room. 

Upon  the  second  landing,  he  tip- 
toed softly  past  the  door  of  the  up- 
stairs lady's  apartments.  He  would 


WHEN  SILENCE  IS  GOLDEN. 


357 


have  liked  greatly  to  have  gone  in, 
but  he  thought  she  might  be  tired  af- 
ter -her  walk — besides,  perhaps  it  was 
too  soon. 

Seigfreid  had  a  nice  discrimination 
of  what  was  good  taste.  For  although 
he  v/as  undersized  for  his  years,  he 
was  also  very  old  for  a  boy  of  nine,  as 
a  result  of  never  having  had  any  child- 
ren to  play  with. 

It  is  an  old  saying  that  no  one  knows 
what  waits  for  him  just  round  the  cor- 
ner. Sangfreid  was  to  visit  the  up- 
stairs lady  sooner  than  he  expected. 

The  shadows  of  evening  were  be- 
ginning to  fall  when  Bertreim  laid 
aside  his  brush  and  viewed  his  work 
with  an  exclamation  of  relief.  He  be- 
lieved the  picture  was  as  good  as 
when  his  careless  hand  had  wrought 
such  ruin.  It  would  be  one  of  the 
best  in  the  fall  exhibition  he  did  not 
doubt. 

At  that  moment,  a  gay  lilt  of  song, 
sung  in  a  man's  rich  baritone,  was 
heard  in  the  hall  outside.  Bertreim's 
tired  face  brightened. 

He  laid  aside  his  brush  and  looked 
up  with  a  smile,  as  the  door  opened  in 
response  to  his  cheery: 

"Don't  stop  to  knock,  Barry!"  and 
a  tall,  broad  shouldered  young  giant 
entered,  the  song  scarcely  hushed  upon 
his  lips.  He  was  an  exceedingly 
wholesome  specimen  of  American 
manhood — just  plain,  ordinary  Jerry 
Jackson,  as  to  name — "Barry"  being 
only  a  nick-name,  because  of  his  very 
extraordinary  baritone  voice,  which 
was  the  most  remarkable  in  New 
York.  He  was  more  than  a  singer. 
His  compositions  were  being  sung  on 
two  continents  with  marked  success, 
v/hich  is  quite  enough  fame  for  one 
young  man. 

Bertreim  loved  him.  This  remark 
would  have  been  superfluous  to  any 
one  who  had  witnessed  the  smile  with 
which  he  had  greeted  him.  He  threw 
himself  down  on  the  couch  and 
stretched  his  long  limbs  with  a  sigh 
of  content. 

"Sing  it,  Barry,"  he  said  briefly. 

Jackson,  who  was  only  waiting  for 
an  invitation,  seated  himself  at  an 


open  piano,  and  a  moment  later  the 
room  was  flooded  with  melody.  It 
was  a  glorious  voice,  and  it  had  never 
been  more  glorious  than  in  this  new 
composition,  which  was  still  fresh 
enough  to  have  the  touch  of  inspira- 
tional fire,  which  causes  the  composer 
to  render  his  song  in  the  beginning 
as  he  never  can  afterward. 

Bertreim  closed  his  eyes  and  drifted 
off  into  an  exquisite  harmony,  through 
which  a  slender  figure  in  a  green  gown 
floated  through  a  maze  of  rosy  clouds, 
an  Elysium  of  birds'  songs,  and  the 
scent  of  violets,  lighted  by  the  radi- 
ance of  a  pair  of  tender  blue  eyes. 

At  that  moment,  some  one  tapped 
on  the  door.  With  an  impatient  ex- 
clamation, Bertreim  came  out  of  the 
world  of  radiance  and  song,  and,  get- 
ting up,  went  to  the  door  and  opened 
it.  He  started  back  in  amazement 
when  he  saw  whom  was  his  visitor. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  music 
stopped  with  a  crash,  and  an  instant 
later  Jackson  stood  beside  him. 

"Miss  Elwood!"  he  exclaimed  in 
amazement.  Undeniable  pleasure 
mingled  with  the  astonishment  in  his 
voice. 

The  upstairs  lady  held  out  a  deli- 
cate, slender  hand  to  meet  the  one  ex- 
tended, but  her  eyes  were  very  grave 
— all  the  exquisite  color  had  left  her 
face. 

Bertreim's  face  was  scarcely  less 
white.  That  his  friend  and  the  up- 
stairs lady  were  acquaintances  was 
evidently  a  shock  to  him.  But  her 
first  words  banished  all  thoughts  of 
amazement  from  his  mind. 

"It  is  in  regard  to  the  little  lad — 
Seigfreid,  I  think  is  his  name,"  she 
said,  gravely,  turning  to  Bertreim. 
Something  in  her  face  warned  him  of 
trouble. 

"Sangfreid?  I  trust  he  has  not  in- 
truded!" he  began  courteously. 

"You  do  not  understand.  He  fell 
from  the  attic  stairs  just  now.  I  can- 
not think  he  is  hurt  seriously."  She 
finished  hurriedly,  her  eyes  full  of 
pity  at  the  sudden  whiteness  of  his 
face. 

"He  is  in  my  apartments,  and  I  sent 


358 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


Mrs.  Maitland  to  him  as  I  came  down 
stairs." 

"Permit  me  to  go  to  him,"  said 
Bertreim,  huskily.  All  that  was  whit- 
est and  sweetest  and  most  sacred  in 
himself  was  personified  in  his  son. 

She  led  the  way  silently. 

The  room  of  the  upstairs  lady  was 
flooded  with  sunshine.  Its  walls  were 
tinted  in  cream  color,  and  the  after- 
noon sunshine  gave  it  a  warm,  mellow 
radiance.  There  was  the  odor  of  vio- 
lets in  the  air.  To  the  day  of  his 
death,  Bertreim  would  remember  the 
minutest  detail  of  that  room — whether 
it  was  his  terror  which  stamped  it 
upon  his  memory  with  electrifying 
force,  or  by  that  sub-consciousness 
that  is  often  peculiarly  alert  under 
moments  of  intense  mental  anxiety. 

By  the  west  window,  where  one  had 
a  view  of  the  distant  ocean,  lay  Sang- 
freid.  His  eyes  were  closed,  and  his 
face  as  white  as  the  pillow  on  which 
his  head  rested.  Bertreim's  face  was 
scarcely  less  white  as  he  knelt  down 
and  placed  his  arm  under  the  bright 
head,  lifting  him  up  tenderly. 

"Sangfreid,  my  boy!"  he  cried  anx- 
iously. His  hand  shook  perceptibly. 
He  chafed  the  boy's  hands,  so  like 
his  own,  and  pushed  back  the  curls 
from  his  face,  but  Sangfreid  did  not 
stir  nor  open  his  eyes. 

"Ach  mein  Gott  in  Himmel!"  cried 
Bertreim  huskily. 

There  was  a  flutter  of  linen  and 
lace  in  white  hands.  The  upstairs 
lady  had  suddenly  put  her  handker- 
chief to  her  eyes,  her  woman's  heart 
unable  to  bear  the  pain  in  the  big,  an- 
guished voice. 

"Come!  Come!  I  can't  think  the 
boy  is  seriously  hurt,  Bertreim.  Bring 
the  little  fellow  downstairs  and  send 
for  Dr.  Menton.  He  will  fix  him  up 
all  right.  Don't  give  way,  Miss  El- 
wood — it's  certain  to  turn  out  better 
than  it  seems,"  said  Jackson. 

"Pardon  me,  fraulein,"  said  Ber- 
treim, huskily.  "It  is  not  my  wish  to 
impose  upon  your  goodness."  He 
lifted  the  boy  in  his  arms  as  he  spoke. 
Sangfreid,  unconscious  that  he  had 
made  his  first  visit  to  the  upstairs 


lady,  limp  and  white  was  held  against 
his  father's  heart  and  carried  down- 
stairs to  their  own  rooms,  where  Ber- 
treim laid  him  on  the  couch,  while 
Jackson  telephoned  for  the  doctor. 

Bertreim  became  vaguely  conscious 
that  some  one  was  beside  him,  holding 
a  bowl  of  water  in  her  slender  hands. 
She  set  it  down  and  bathed  the  boy's 
white  face. 

"It  is  infinitely  good  of  you,"  said 
Bertreim,  stumblingly.  "A  man  is  so 
helpless."  He  seemed  to  be  feeling 
his  way  through  a  great  darkness  in 
which  there  was  no  longer  any  hope 
of  light. 

She  was  rewarded  presently  by  see- 
ing the  color  creep  back  into  Sang- 
freid's  face.  In  a  few  moments  he 
opened  his  eyes. 

"Sangfreid!"  It  was  his  father's 
voice;  the  exquisite  tenderness  of  it 
sent  a  thrill  through  the  heart  of  the 
woman  kneeling  beside  him.  He 
lifted  first  one  of  the  boy's  hands,  and 
then  the  other,  to  his  lips.  His  eyes 
were  full  of  tears. 

At  that  moment  the  doctor  came. 

"Thank  Heaven!"  muttered  Jack- 
son. He  wrung  the  doctor's  hand. 
"Bad  work  here,  I'm  afraid,"  he  said 
in  an  undertone. 

Sangfreid  was  entirely  conscious 
when  the  doctor  sat  down  beside  him. 
His  face  was  contorted  with  agony. 

"Why,  Sangfreid,  what  does  this 
mean?"  asked  the  doctor. 

Sangfreid  tried  to  smile. 

"The  upstairs  lady — I  want  her!''"  he 
murmured. 

She  had  only  withdrawn  outside  the 
door  at  the  doctor's  arrival,  and  she 
came  at  once  as  Jackson  beckoned  to 
her. 

"Don't  leave  me!"  whispered  Sang- 
freid. 

"No,  dear,"  she  said,  gently.  "I 
shall  be  right  here." 

The  doctor  made  a  careful  exami- 
nation. 

"H — m!  A  bad  twist  to  the  wrong 
leg — always  is  the  wrong  leg,"  he  said 
cheerfully.  "Nothing  worse — no  bones 
broken.  Why,  Sangfreid,  you'll  come 
out  of  this  in  good  shape.  Yes !  Yes ! 


WHEN  SILENCE  IS  GOLDEN. 


359 


All  right  here.  Now,  we'll  hurt  you  a 
little — won't  amount  to  anything.  You 
will  bear  it  like  a  soldier.  Here,  smell 
this  and  doze  off  for  a  minute.  It 
would  be  a  great  deal  worse  if  it  were 
broken  bones.  Might  be  a  mere  splin- 
ter— nothing  worse." 

When  Sangfreid  again  regained 
consciousness,  his  father  and  the  up- 
stairs lady  sat  beside  him.  Jackson 
had  been  compelled  to  go  to  rehearsal, 
and  the  doctor  had  just  gone.  Sang- 
freid's  hand  was  in  the  hand  of  the 
upstairs  lady.  His  father,  pale  and 
silent,  was  watching  him  with  tender 
solicitude.  To  Sangfreid's  surprise, 
a  white-capped  nurse  stood  at  the  foot 
of  the  couch,  her  hands  full  of  ban- 
dages. He  wondered  dimly  why  she 
was  there,  but  he  was  too  tired  to  try 
and  think  about  it.  He  heard  the 
street  door  close — it  was  the  doctor 
leaving.  Then  he  dozed  off  again, 
and  did  not  know  when  the  upstairs 
lady  laid  his  little,  limp  hand  down 
and  turned  to  his  father. 

"I  will  go  now.    The  doctor  said  he 
would  sleep.     The  nurse  can  let  me 
know  if  he  wants  me.     If  you  need 
me,  I  beg  you  will  not  hesitate  to  send 
for  me,"  she  said,  earnestly. 
Bertreim  held  out  his  hand. 
"There  are  some  instances,"  he  said 
huskily,  "where  gratitude  cannot    be 
spoken." 

"It  was  nothing,"  she  protested, 
gently.  "Any  one  would  have  done  it." 
Bertreim,  gazing  after  her  as  she 
left  the  room,  had  that  in  his  eyes 
which  caused  the  demure  nurse  to  turn 
her  face  away  and  suddenly  busy  her- 
self in  counting  over  the  bandages  in 
a  most  matter  of  fact  manner. 

The  story  of  Sangfreid's  illness  and 
convalescence  would  make  a  book,  in 
which  the  element  of  romance  would 
be  stronger  than  the  historical  inter- 
est. Consequently  it  must  be  passed 
over  without  a  detailed  account.  Dur- 
ing this  time  there  was  one  heart, 
aside  from  Sangfreid's,  which  was  lost 
entirely.  It  belonged  to  Sangfreid's 
father — had  belonged  to  him,  I  offer 
as  an  amendment — it  was  now  the  sole 
property  of  the  upstairs  lady,  and  in 


her  keeping,  but,  unhappily,  she  was 
not  aware  of  this  fact. 

Sangfreid  was  out  for  his  first  walk 
after  his  illness.  He  was  on  his  way 
to  the  park.  It  was  late  in  the  after- 
noon, and  the  heat  of  the  day  was  over. 
When  he  entered  the  cool,  shaded 
walk  which  he  always  liked  best,  he 
was  beginning  to  feel  very  tired.  A 
bench  under  the  trees  in  a  secluded 
corner  looked  very  inviting  to  the  little 
convalescent.  He  was  about  to  sink 
down  on  it  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction, 
when  he  saw  something  which  caused 
him  to  stop  short. 

On  another  bench,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  trees,  two  people  were  sitting, 
secure  in  the  belief  that  they  were 
unobserved.  The  man  had  his  arm 
about  the  young  lady's  waist,  and  her 
head  rested  on  his  shoulder.  Sang- 
freid needed  but  one  glance — that  was 
enough. 

It  was  Jackson  and  the  upstairs 
lady!  On  the  truth  of  this,  Sangfreid 
would  have  been  willing  to  have  staked 
his  honor  as  a  gentleman.  He  turned 
and  went  away  silently,  his  thin  little 
face  white  and  drawn,  and  holding 
more  misery  than  any  child's  face 
ought  to  hold. 

It  seemed  an  endless  journey  home. 
When  he  entered,  his  face  smote  Ber- 
treim with  deepest  alarm. 

"What  is  it,  my  boy?  What  has 
gone  wrong?"  he  asked  in  an  axious 
voice.  Sangfreid  threw  himself 
down  sobbing  upon  the  couch.  His 
father  arose  abruptly,  and  went  and 
sat  down  beside  him. 

"Ach!  leib  kindlein,  es  ist  der  Voter 
— spracken  zie  nicht?"  he  murmured 
tenderly. 

It  all  came  out  then,  between  Sang- 
freid's weary  sobs.  Bertreim  did  not 
speak  again.  His  hand  held  tightly 
the  hand  of  his  son.  The  gathering 
shadows  hid  the  whiteness  of  his  face. 
Thus  they  sat  in  the  dusk  and  silence 
that  was  broken  only  by  Sangfreid's 
sobbing,  Bertreim's  free  hand  stroking 
the  curly  head  mechanically. 

Some  one  closed  the  street  door. 
Bertreim  started.  The  consciousness 
of  love  is  keen.  Instinctively  he  knew 


360 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


who  it  was.  Bending  over,  he  touched 
his  lips  to  the  boy's  hot  forehead,  and 
arose  and  went  out  of  the  room.  She 
was  half  of  the  way  up  the  stairs  when 
he  spoke  her  name. 

Something  in  his  voice  caused  her 
to  turn  quickly  and  come  down  to  him. 
Again  she  wore  a  great  American 
Beauty  rose. 

"What  is  it?  Is  Sangfreid  worse?" 
she  asked,  anxiously. 

His  reply  was  irrelevant. 

"May  I  ask  who  gave  you  that 
rose?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  surprised. 

"The  rose  ?  It  grew  in  my  mother's 
conservatory.  I  find  that  I  must  tell 
you  something,  Mr.  Bertreim.  At  least 
I  would  like  to  do  so.  I  took  apart- 
ments here  because  my  family  and 
friends  were  opposed  to  my  profes- 
sional life.  I,  too,  am  an  artist!  It 
is  a  secret  I  have  kept  well.  'Marcella 
Montague'  is  the  name  signed  to  all 
my  work  in  the  Academy." 

He  told  her,  then,  simply  and 
directly  what  Sangfreid  had  seen. 

"I  must  know  the  truth,  Miss  El- 
wood,  now — to-night.  Are  you  en- 
engaged  to  my  friend,  Mr.  Jackson?" 
he  asked. 

A  swift  light  of  intelligence  had 
dawned  in  her  face. 

"What  a  mistake,  and  yet  such  a 
natural  one!"  she  exclaimed.  "Mr. 
Jackson  is  engaged  to  my  sister.  We 
are  so  alike  that  even  our  best  friends 
cannot  tell  us  apart,  unless  they  see 
our  faces.  Allie's  eyes  are  brown  and 
mine  are  blue.  I  would  not  permit  my 
family  to  tell  even  Mr.  Jackson  where 
I  was.  You  can  imagine  his  surprise 
when  he  discovered  me.  I  am  paint- 
ing what  I  hope  is  a  great  picture,  for 
the  fall  exhibition,  and  cannot  be  dis- 
turbed by  my  friends.  I — I  am  not  en- 
gaged to  any  one,  Mr.  Bertreim." 

During  the  weeks  of  Sangfreid's 
convalescence,  Bertreim  had  held  him- 
self well  in  hand,  knowing  that  silence 
was  the  best  wisdom.  There  is  per- 
haps no  greater  test  of  character  than 


to  preserve  absolute  silence  when 
every  desire  of  Nature  prompts  or.a  to 
speak.  It  is  the  cloud  with  the  golden 
lining,  about  which  one  hears  so  little, 
but  which  means  so  much.  Suddenly, 
Bertreim  realized  that  he  had  passed 
through  its  shadow. 

It  all  came  about  naturally — -there 
was  no  melodrama  in  it.  As  I  have 
recorded  once  before,  Bertreim's  heart 
had  for  a  long  time  been  in  the  keep- 
ing of  the  upstairs  lady,  and  happily 
she  now  knew  it. 

He  spoke  but  a  few  words.  I  doubt 
if  either  of  them  could  have  told  after- 
ward what  they  were.  He  simply  took 
her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  with  a 
sort  of  solemnity.  Presently,  when  he 
found  his  voice  again,  it  was  to  mur- 
mur some  caressing  words  in  the 
mother  tongue,  which  she  could  not 
have  translated,  but  the  meaning  of 
which  she  understood  perfectly  well, 
since  it  is  the  same  in  all  languages 
under  the  sun. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  said,  with 
a  hint  of  mischief  in  his  voice : 

"Take  back  those  words,  if  you 
please,  which  you  spoke  a  moment  ago 
— when  you  said  you  were  not  en- 
gaged to  any  one." 

"Consider  them  unspoken,"  she  mur- 
mured, blushing  adorably. 

Through  the  open  door  came  the 
sound  of  muffled  sobs. 

"Sangfreid!  He  has  seen  us!"  cried 
his  father,  with  swift  remorse. 

They  v/ent  to  him  at  once.  The  up- 
stairs lady  knelt  down  beside  him,  and 
laid  her  face  against  his  tear-wet 
cheek. 

"What  are  you  crying  for,  Sang- 
freid? It  is  all  right  now,  dear,"  she 
said,  gently. 

"But  who  was  it  with  Mr.  Jackson?" 
he  asked,  chokingly. 

"That/'  she  said,  tenderly,  her  voice 
breaking  into  soft  laughter,  "was  an- 
other lady.  What  are  you  crying  for, 
little  Sangfreid?" 

"I  am  crying,"  said  Sangfreid,  "be- 
cause I  am  so  happy!" 


THE    SPITE    VEST 


By  Aildred  Ludiurn 


UNDJiR  the  high  silence  of  the 
spangly,  ballet-skirted  night, 
a  long  figure  was  looping 
and  tmlooping  itself  with  iter- 
ant regularity.  In  the  fitful  light  one 
could  just  make  out  the  spare  body, 
spade  in  hand,  digging  and  planting. 
Something  in  the  muffled  fall  of  the 
dirt,  withholding  the  honest  thud  of  it, 
was  suggestively  secretive.  Through 
the  patient  non-resisting  hours  he 
worked,  lashed  on  by  a  wire  sprung 
hate  that  was  tireless  as  machinery. 
He  resented  stopping  to  wipe  the  sweat 
from  his  brow,  but  as  he  did  so,  his 
eyes  whipped  keenly  through  the 
smutted  night  caverns  about  him. 

"Not  many  more." 
A  soft  nose  pressed  into  his  body 
on  one  of  the  down-bendings. 

"Git  along  back,"  the  man  pro- 
pelled the  slight  sound  into  the  furry 
ear.  "  Twon't  take  much  longer. 
Gittin'  lonesome?" 

An  ecstatic  wriggle  and  the  padded 
faithfulness  went  back  to  its  post  as 
watcher. 

The  man  gathered  the  armful  of 
young  trees,  taking  them  where  in  the 
gloom,  horses  were  hitched  to  a  light 
wagon. 

"The  last  one." 

He  turned  to  whistle  to  the  dog,  but 
by  some  subtle  unerring  instinct  the 
wet  smudgy  nose  brushed  his  leg. 

"All  right,  old  man,  come  along." 

And  under  his  breath  he  kept  mut- 
tering, "I'll  get  'em  evened  up  yet. 
Go  and  wear  your  fancy  vest.  Reckon 
the  laugh'll  be  on  my  side  yet,"  in 
never  wearying  repetition. 

Gray  caravans  of  cloud  began  to 
march  in  confused  and  huddled  ranks 
across  the  night  glory. 


"It's  goin'  to  rain."  The  old  man 
thumped  his  thigh  and  writhed'  in 
silent  laughter,  the  dog  jumping  and 
bounding  high  about  his  master,  his 
unquestioning  receptivity  of  mood 
making  him  a  veritable  four-footed 
Alice  Ben  Bolt. 

"The  rain'll  wipe  out  every  blame 
trace.  That  sure  does  top  it  all." 

The  deluge  did  not  wait  for  them  to 
get  home.  It  crashed  upon  them  as 
they  plodded  up  the  mountain.  The 
riding  on  of  sodden  hosts  of  gloom- 
black  mirk,  cut  through  with  ragged 
rip  of  light,  the  dourness  and  the  strain 
of  it  seemed  only  to  intensify  the  glee 
of  the  chuckling  man  and  dog  as  the 
storm  blew  and  lashed  and  whipped 
them  before  its  blasts. 

Day  was  breaking  as  they  reached 
the  rickety  cabin,  clutching  on  to  the 
edge  of  the  Forest  Reserve  on  one  of 
the  spurs  of  the  Chiricahuas.  The 
light  of  the  match  he  struck  touched 
fitfully  on  newspapered  walls  and  into 
the  cavern  of  the  fireplace,  on  gun- 
rack  and  rawhide  chair. 

Bundles  of  young  trees  he  piled  into 
the  great  fireplace.  They  were  green 
and  sputtered,  but  he  poured  on  coal 
oil  until  the  blaze  was  roaring  lustily. 

Here  his  mirth  found  outlet.  He 
laughed  and  capered.  Bose  joining 
r"  the  shrill  bark  of  joyous  excitement. 
Here  in  their  stronghold  they  could  ut- 
terly give  way. 

"I'll  get  evened  up  till  they  squeal. 
Go  on  and  wear  your  fancy  vest.  I'm 
a-keepin'  down  my  end." 

The  storm  that  had  started  in  the 
night  had  kept  up,  and  for  two  weeks 
it  had  been  raining.  All  the  afternoon 
the  heavens  had  been  experimenting. 
Sometimes  splashing  through  a  great 


362 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


big  collander,  then  through  the  fine 
seive  that  makes  the  heart  of  the  cat- 
tleman glad. 

Mrs.  Bennet's  great  toasty,  f ryey,  all 
warm,  smelly  kitchen,  v/as  a  glowing 
heart  of  cheer.  The  lamps  were 
lighted,  making  more  gold  the  golden 
splotched  room.  Glory's  bright  head 
was  bobbing  round  soberly  as  she 
helped  her  mother  get  dinner. 

"Mother,  it's  so  lovely  and  floody, 
can  I  play  Ark?"  The  inimitably 
sweet  child  voice  was  lifted  in  the  con- 
fidence of  understanding. 

"The  ark  is  so  cluttery,  dear.  Last 
time  you  brought  in  everything." 

"I  won't  this  time.  I'll  only  bring  in 
the  baby  ones.  See,  mother,  their 
noses  are  all  poking  against  the 
screen." 

The  four-legged  outside  family  were 
pleading  as  hard  as  Glory. 

"They  love  it  so,  mother." 

"Let  mother  think  of  something 
else." 

Many  were  the  devices  the  busy 
woman  found  time  for,  to  keep  the 
child  from  knowing  lonesomeness.  A 
mountain  cow-farm  whose  only  neigh- 
bor is  old  Hack  Johnson,  nicknamed 
Timberline,  castle  rustler  and  bad  egg 
generally,  does  not  provide  generously 
in  the  form  of  amusement  for  a  little 
girl.  John  Bennet  had  married  the 
schoolteacher  many  years  before  and 
she  had  brought  him  five  sturdy  sons, 
then  waited  ten  years;  then  this  one 
miracle  of  a  baby  girl. 

"There's  no  time  to  play  anything, 
now,  mumsy,  the  boys  are  coming." 

An  inrush  of  all  outdoors,  coolness, 
wetness,  and  the  jangle  of  spurs  and 
the  big  kitchen  suddenly  boomed  full 
of  men,  a  stranger  cow-boy  from  Los 
Animos  way  being  the  only  outsider. 

"Dinner  ready?" 

"All  ready,  John." 

It  made  a  busy  moment,  the  shuf- 
fling into  place  of  those  boys  in  vari- 
ous stages  of  adolesence,  the  youngest 
in  chaps  so  large  that  his  whole  per- 
sonality was  completely  swamped  and 
overcast. 

It  took  only  one  glance  into  her  hus- 
band's face  for  Mrs.  Bennet  to  know 


that  something  was  wrong.  She 
knew  so  well.  His  laugh  was  too  loud 
and  hearty  and  his  deep  blue  eye  had 
gleams  and  flashes  not  brought  out  by 
the  simple  order  of  pleasant  hospital- 
ity. 

"Rainin'  over  your  way?"  Mr. 
Bennet  asked  the  all  important  ques- 
tion in  the  cow-country. 

"No,  stopped.  Water  holes  all  dry- 
in'  up." 

"That's  Arizona  way." 

"Father,  you're  not  drinking  your 
tea." 

"You  didn't  sweeten  it,  puss." 

"Yes,  I  did.    Don't  you  remember?" 

A  great  bond  existed  between  the 
strong  man  and  the  fairyest  girl.  It 
was  as  though  all  paternity  were 
wrapped  up  in  that  one  bundle  of  blue 
and  gold. 

Bennet  cleared  his  throat  with  a 
rasp. 

"Ive  been  down  to  the  orchard 
place."  Something  ran  through  his 
voice  that  made  every  eye  turn  upon 
him,  something  instinct  with  hidden 
meaning.  His  glance  fell  on  Glory 
watching  him  in  sweet  eyed  serious- 
ness. 

The  unshaded  glare  of  the  big  lamp 
in  the  center  of  the  table  brought  out 
into  strong  relief  each  face,  lit  up  old 
seam  and  young  seam,  for  in  the  dry 
brilliance  of  the  sun  country  seams 
come  early. 

The  warning  torches  flared  in  Mrs. 
Bennet's  eyes.  Mr.  Bennet  obeyed 
the  flash. 

"Time  for  puss  to  go  to  bed." 

"So  soon,  father?" 

"Yes,  little  girl." 

The  storm  was  raging  by  the  time 
Mrs.  Bennet  came  back  into  the  room 
and  slipped  into  Glory's  place  near 
her  husband. 

"The  trees  was  put  out  a  couple  of 
months  gone,  and  they  was  doing 
prime.  The  rains  come  as  you  know 
and  I  have't  been  down.  But  I  went 
to-day.  Not  a  tree  left."  He 
paused  for  his  words  to  drip  in.  "I 
was  mouchin'  round,  and  what  stuck 
tacks  into  me  was  the  little  sign  that 
the  dealer  decorates  'em  with,  a  'dam- 


THE  SPITE  VEST. 


363 


son  plum'  the  sign  read,  and  it's  arms 
was  huggin'  an  early  pippin.  I  hopped 
on  to  the  next,  thinking  the  dealer  that 
shipped  'em  was  locoed,  but  that  was 
written  as  plain  as  polka  dots,  'sickle 
pear,'  and  that  was  round  a  seedling 
apple.  I  stampeded  up  and  down 
them  sproutin'  emblems  doing  some 
fancy  side-stepping.  I  laid  hold  of 
one  vigorous,  and  it  came  up  so  easy 
in  my  hand  that  I  sat  down  sudden. 
The  blame  tree  wasn't  a  tree  at  all.  It 
was  only  a  branch  cut  off  from  our  old 
apple  orchard  and  stuck  down  into  the 
ground.  Not  one  tree  left,  for  I  never 
left  off  my  giddy  tip-toeing  till  I'd 
Bunker  Hilled  'em  all." 

"What  do  you  mean,  paw?" 

"I  mean  that  that  old  varment  had 
been  up  to  his  devilment  again." 

"John,  how  can  you  say  that?"  Mrs. 
Bennet's  voice  fell  in  between  the  pas- 
sionate tones  as  soft  as  the  drip  of  cool 
mountain  water. 

"I'  mean  I'll  grub  him  out,  root  and 
branch,  tromp  him  out,  till  there  won't 
be  nothing  left  for  his  dog  to  worry 
over." 

Under  the  stifling  stress  of  an  emo- 
tion too  strong  for  any  veneer,  Bennet 
sluffed  off  any  refinements  of  speech 
that  he  may  have  acquired  by  living 
with  and  loving  his  wife.  No  velvets 
for  him,  plain  cotton  English  when  it 
came  to  real  issues. 

"Look  out,  father,  you'll  get  under 
peace  bonds  again." 

The  bolt  drew  blood. 

"What  else  can  you  do  with  varmint, 
except  wipe  'em  out?" 

"Why  don't  you  git  the  law  on 
him?"  the  stranger  put  in  suggestively. 

"Law?  I  have  no  respect  for  the 
man  who  ain't  his  own  law.  Mixin' 
and  dodgin'  with  them  slippery  lawyer 
people  is  like  walkin'  a  greased  log. 
over  a  river,  you'll  drop  off  some- 
where's.  I'll  law  him." 

"How  come  you  to  git  in  such  a 
pucker  with  the  old  man?"  The 
stranger  from  Los  Animos  was  inter- 
ested in  beginnings. 

"It  was  nothing  but  a  drift  fence. 
He  fenced  off  our  cattle  from  water 
and  we  got  the  forest  supervisor  to 


take  it  down.  We're  on  the  Reserve 
here  in  the  Chiricahuas.  We  all  had 
a  right  to  the  water,  but  he's  been  sore 
and  them  two,  for  the  dog's  as  bad  as 
he  is,  sets  up  there  in  the  mountain 
hatching  devilment.  His  quarter  sec- 
tion hooks  onto  ours." 

"I'll  jerk  up  every  blame  tree  on  his 
place,"  came  from  the  youngest  boy 
his  frown  as  portentous  and  overgrown 
as  his  chaps. 

"Ben,  dear."  Mrs.  Bennet's  voice 
had  all  the  mother  inflections.  The 
big  boys  were  hers  as  well  as  the 
littlest  girl. 

"What's  the  use?  I  jumped  her 
out  for  his  place  but  there  wasn't  a 
sign.  He  had  put  out  four  or  five 
young  trees,  but  I  had  two  hundred," 
that  gravelly  rasp  still  scraped  through 
his  voice.  "This  isn't  the  first  thing 
he  done.  T  wasn't  two  months  since 
he  rustled  a  four  month's  calf." 

"But  you  called  the  turn  on  him  that 
time,  father." 

"That  was  easy  money,  son."  The 
man's  real  geniality  warmed  through 
the  outer  layers  of  him. 

"Gee!  I  always  v/anted  to  see  his 
face  when  pa  burst  in  upon  him." 

Mr.  Bennet  was  side-tracked.  He 
squared  his  elbows  so  vigorously  that 
the  crockery  trembled. 

"It  was  just  before  spring  round-up. 
Timberline  had  lost  a  four  months' 
calf,  so  he  selected  my  Two-spot's  calf 
as  being  the  most  likely,  just  the  same 
age,  so  in  that  friendly  way  of  his  he 
just  helped  himself.  When  Two-spot 
was  off  for  water,  or  some  other  aus- 
picious moment,  he  roped  the  calf  and 
dragged  her  home.  But  when  he  got 
there  his  blamed  cow  would  have  none 
of  the  pretty  foundling.  She  was  ob- 
stinate and  wouldn't  unloosen.  Noth- 
ing doing.  Soda  fountains  gone  dry. 
So  Timberline  got  busy.  Blamed  if  he 
didn't  snake  the  hide  off  his  dead  calf 
and  fix  the  new  fur  overcoat  over  my 
calf.  Blessed  be  the  fertile  mind — 
it  worked.  The  smell  of  her  own,  or 
just  because  she  was  good  and  ready, 
did  it.  But  just  here  what  he  ain't 
reckoned  on  happened;  just  here  I 
come  moseying  along  leading  old  Two- 


364 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


spot.  Bose  and  Timberline  were  dan- 
cing round  hugging  themselves  and 
each  other.  That  calf  of  mine  didn't 
need  no  convincing,  and  Two-spot 
knowed  her  own  in  spite  of  the  fancy 
boa  and  overcoat.  I  never  said  a  word 
— but  marched  off  as  stately  as  I  come, 
and  never  returned  him  the  extra 
trimmings.  I  had  a  vest  made  out  of 
the  hide,  all  spotted  pretty  red  and 
white,  and  wore  it  round-up." 

"Timberline  went  as  swamper  with 
the  wagon,  so's  he  had  every  chance 
to  take  notice." 

"I  s'pose  you  never  got  so  hot  that 
you  took  off  that  vest?" 

"Not  at  meal  times,  anyway."  His 
chuckle  died  out  suddenly.  "I  got 
square  good  and  plenty  that  time,  but 
this  don't  look  so  easy." 

"We'll  get  square  all  right,  father, 
don't  you  lose  no  sleep." 

"Ben,  dear,"  Mrs.  Bennet's  eye 
swept  her  falcon  brood.  Not  one  eye 
that  softened.  "He's  such  an  old  man." 

"Old  enough  to  know  better.  I 
reckon  he'll  know  more  after  we  get 
through  with  him  this  trip." 

"Let's  kill  his  dog." 

"Boys,  dear,  that's  all  the  old  man 
has  to  love,  or  that  loves  him." 

"Mother'd  have  us  loving  every- 
body." 

"You  never  can  win  anything  by 
hating." 

"We'll  learn  him  it  ain't  safe  to  go 
on  monkeying  with  us.  Leave  it  to 
me,  father."  Ben's  fierceness  was  as 
dramatic  as  his  accoutrements. 

"John,  don't  you  let  him  do  any- 
thing without  consulting  you."  She 
measured  bravely  with  her  husband, 
eye  to  eye. 

Peace  seemed  to  worry  the  mind 
those  days.  Timberline's  fences  were 
cut  somehow,  and  his  milk  cows  got 
out.  Timberline's  hogs,  he  had  three, 
but  three  is  a  busy  number,  got  into 
the  Bennets'  vegetable  patch.  The 
skunks  kept  getting  Timberline's 
chickens. 

Things  were  in  this  delicately  poised 
neighborly  state  when  Mrs.  Bennet 
gave  a  party  to  all  the  womenfolks  she 
could  muster.  She  and  Glory  had 


been  talking  of  nothing  else  for  weeks. 
Everything  was  there,  jellies  and  glis- 
tening pyramids  of  cake,  pies  with 
flakiest  fluff  in  the  way  of  crust.  Glory 
and  her  mother  fixed  the  table  all 
ready  in  the  morning.  It  was  fully 
one  o'clock  when  Mrs.  Bennet  ushered 
her  guests  in  to  the  feast.  She  rubbed 
her  eyes.  The  back  door,  left  open, 
hospitable  Arizona  fashion,  some  one 
had  come  in  and  literally  cleaned  up 
everything,  leaving  absolutely  nothing 
but  trickles  of  redness  where  the  jel- 
lies had  been,  little  hummocks  of 
crumbs  that  once  were  pies.  The  wo- 
men ran  everywhere  like  spilled  shot, 
but  the  rimming  horizons  were  empty 
of  even  a  clue. 

"We're  glad  to  have  somebody  have 
is,  aren't  we,  mother's  rose,  that 
needed  the  party  more  than  we  did?" 

"But,  mother,"  a  trifle  dubiously, 
"it  was  our  party;  it  wasn't  theirs." 

"Dear,  a  party's  just  something  to 
give  away:  it  makes  no  difference 
who  has  it — it's  still  a  party." 

It  had  been  looking  pretty  black  all 
day  in  the  high  world  where  things 
counted,  such  piled  masses  of  thun- 
der cloud  sogging  and  weighting  the 
loftiest  Chiricahuas,  usually  mean 
that  it  is  raining  at  the  summit. 

Timberline,  ambling  along  on  his 
old  range  pony  kept  a  watchful  eye 
on  the  signs  for  his  little  holding  was 
well  up  toward  the  spot  where  things 
began. 

It  was  about  two  in  the  afternoon 
that  the  canyon  came  down,  a  wall  of 
water  four  feet  high,  bringing  boulders 
and  crashing  debris  of  all  sorts  on  its 
way. 

Half  a  mile  below  Bennet's  place, 
Timberline  saw  a  flutter  of  palest  blue 
on  a  crazy  island  made  of  a  few  logs 
that  had  jammed  somehow  in  the 
freshet.  It  was  Glory  Bennet,  but  she 
was  holding  on  bravely,  the  good  fight- 
ing instinct  of  her  race  working  auto- 
matically. 

Timberline,  from  where  he  stood, 
saw  that  the  frail  island  was  fast  dis- 
integrating. 

"That'll  sure  hit  'em  where  they 
live!  And  I  didn't  do  it;  it  done  itself. 


THE  SPITE  VEST. 


365 


That'll  draw  the  salt  out  of  them  to 
lose  that  girl." 

Suddenly  from  across  the  raging  toss 
of  waters,  Glory  smiled  at  the  old 
man,  a  smile  so  radiant  of  faith  in  him 
that  he  swung  himself  out  of  his  sad- 
dle, and  began  fumbling  at  his  rope 
without  being  conscious  of  what  he 
was  doing. 

"Coming!'!'  His  voice  rang  across 
the  waters  with  a  confidence  he  could 
not  have  analyzed. 

Glory  nodded  her  head,  her  brave 
smile  stiffening  a  bit  on  her  lips. 

His  old  hands  were  stiff  with  rheu- 
matism, but  surely,  though  fumblingly, 
he  spliced  the  ropes,  luckily  he  had 
two,  made  one  end  fast  to  a  fallen  oak 
and  tied  the  other  round  his  waist.  He 
slipped  off  his  cartridge  belt,  after 
firing  twice  in  the  air  to  see  if  he  could 
attract  attention  from  the  farm-house. 

He  measured  the  distance  with 
practiced  eye.  His  ropes  could  make 
it.  The  main  log  of  the  make-believe 
island  was  oscillating  slowly,  getting 
ready  to  rotate  down  the  turbulent 
froth  and  fume. 

"Go  to  the  house  and  git  somebody. 
Git  somebody." 

Bose  whined  and  tugged  at  his 
master,  worrying  his  towers  in  his 
eagerness. 

"Off  to  the  house  with  you.  Git 
somebody." 

Bose  in  his  excitement  was  tripping 
his  master. 

The  man  kicked  at  him  savagely. 

"Can't  you-all  understand?  Git 
somebody." 

Bose's  long  body,  with  his  shaggy 
ears  drooping,  was  shivering  in  his 
eagerness  to  understand. 

The  old  man  pointed  his  long  arm, 
"Git  somebody." 

At  last  the  dog  knew  what  was 
wanted  of  him,  and  every  muscle  quiv- 
ering, his  nose  close  to  the  ground,  he 
ran  along  the  trail. 

The  old  man,  his  long  beard  braided 
and  tucked  in  his  shirt  front,  had  never 
taken  his  eyes  from  the  child. 

"Crawl  up  on  the  other  log."  His 
voice  beat  against  the  roar  of  the 
waters  reed-thin. 


Glory  managed  it  somehow,  and  not 
a  moment  too  soon.  The  one  she  clam- 
bered to  was  caught  in  a  twisted  root 
thrown  high  in  air. 

In  he  plunged.  Fallen  limbs  clutched 
at  him;  rocks  turned  under  his  feet. 
Once  he  lost  his  footing  completely, 
and  was  washed  down  stream  to  his 
rope's  end,  and  had  it  all  to  do  over 
again. 

But  somehow,  somewise,  God  will- 
ing, he  got  there. 

Glory  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck 
with  a  strength  undreamed  of  in  their 
dimpled  roundness. 

He  reached  for  the  log,  but  added 
weight  loosened  it,  and  he  had  only 
time  to  clutch  the  child. 

"Hold  on  tight,  Glory.  I'll  git  you 
out." 

"Oh,  I  knew  I  was  all  right  soon's 
I  saw  you  coming  along." 

His  old  habits  were  nearly  the  un- 
doing of  Bose ;  any  futile  flag  of  truce 
would  be  repudiated,  he  knew,  but  his 
exigency  suggested  strategy  to  him. 
Instead  of  making  his  regular  entrance 
by  the  back  way  and  having  the  whole 
yelping  pack  of  Bennet  dogs  to  con- 
tend with,  he  made  his  way  to  the  high 
rabbit  wire  fence  that  led  into  the 
front  garden.  There  he  howled  and 
scratched  and  whined.  His  old  ene- 
mies strained  from  afar  to  get  at  him, 
certain  that  they  could  demolish  him 
by  this  time.  That  hope  had  flickered 
so  often  in  their  breasts  only  to  be 
again  frustrated. 

Mrs.  Bennet  looking  about  in  her 
garden  to  see  what  damage  the  heavy 
shower  had  done,  finally  had  her  at- 
ten  attracted. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  the  dog?" 

Bose,  when  he  saw  that  she  noticed 
him,  tied  himself  up  in  the  most  in- 
gratiating bow-knots  he  could,  and 
whined  more  pitifully  than  ever. 

"What's  that  rascal  dog  begging  for 
now?  He's  surely  as  much  of  a  nui- 
sance as  the  old  man."  And  she  went 
on  with  her  gardening. 

Bose,  if  dog  tears  could  be  shed, 
was  shedding  them  now.  He  contin- 
ued his  whining  and  moaning.  The 
straining  pack  of  his  enemies  could 


366 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


not  get  at  him,  but  they  could  chorus 
their  animosity  in  shrilling  yelps  and 
barks.  Mrs.  Bennet  picked  up  a  rock 
and  banged  it  at  the  dog's  nose  pressed 
so  excitedly  into  the  wire  gate.  The 
dog  never  whimpered  for  himself,  but 
went  on  with  his  pleading.  That 
touched  Mrs.  Bennet. 

"He's  trying  to  tell  me  something. 
Maybe  something  has  happened  to  the 
old  man.  I  won't  be  mean.  The  dog 
loves  him,  even  if  my  boys  don't.  They 
only  have  each  other." 

Bose,  as  soon  as  he  saw  he  had  won 
his  point,  ran  ahead  at  a  pace  that 
Mrs.  Bennet  was  sore  put  to  it  to  keep 
him  even  in  sight.  He  took  short  cuts 
with  an  instinct  of  the  hunt. 

Bose  headed  for  the  new  formed 
river,  and  began  charging  madly  up 
and  down  the  bank  and  whining  more 
pitifully  than  ever.  Suddenly  he 
scrambled  toward  something  on  the 
river's  edge,  his  bark  ringing  clear. 

Mrs.  Bermet  hurried  toward  the  spot, 
but  that  smudge  of  blue  lying  with  the 
other  bundle  in  the  wash  at  the  brink 
sent  a  clutch  at  her  throat  that  was 
vice-like  in  its  intensity.  She  couldn't 
pick  her  way,  now.  Twice  she  tripped 
over  some  obstacle,  but  she  didn't  even 
know  it. 

The  rope  had  held ;  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  that,  the  old  man  and  his  precious 
burden  would  have  been  washed  down. 
Timberline  had  knotted  the  ends  of 
his  long  silk  neckerchief,  and  had 
slipped  the  sling  over  the  child's  slim 
body,  putting  his  own  arm  through. 

Both  were  seemingly  unconscious 
when  she  reached  them.  Bose  began 
frantically  licking  the  face  of  his  mas- 
ter, his  world  of  love. 

Mrs.  Bennet,  her  hands  trembling  so 
that  she  could  barely  undo  the  knot 
that  bound  the  child  to  her  rescuer, 
slipped  her  hand  over  the  precious 
heart.  It  was  beating.  Then  she 
broke,  mumbling  the  sweet  hands.  It 
was  only  a  moment  until  the  heaven 
blue  eyes  opened.  The  child  was  only 
stunned. 

"Mother,  don't  cry,  don't  cry, 
mother."  She  shook  her  mother  with 
baby  fury. 


Mrs.  Bennet  controlled  herself  with 
difficulty. 

"Where  were  you,  darling?" 

"Over  yonder,  mother;  it's  all  gone." 

"What's  all  gone?" 

"Where  I  was." 

"I  was  fighting  larkspur.  You  hook 
their  heads  together,  and  then  pull. 
The  goodies  were  winning,  mother." 

"Yes,  darling.  Yes,  darling."  Mrs. 
Bennet  tried  volubly  to  down  that  lump 
in  her  throat. 

The  old  man  with  his  garments  all 
water  soaked  was  a  heavy  load  for 
even  a  strong  woman,  but  she  got  him 
out  someway.  She  straightened  her 
back  after  the  heroic  effort,  but  the 
magnitude  of  her  task  appalled  her. 
And  no  man  about  the  place  to  be 
called  on. 

With  all  her  many  men  out  riding 
the  range,  it  was  certainly  a  problem 
to  get  him  to  the  house  unaided.  She 
ran  to  the  corral,  luckily  the  bunch  of 
horses  were  up  to  drink,  so  she  hitched 
two  work  horses  to  the  big  wagon  with 
unsteady  fingers,  seeing  always  that 
drenched  old  figure  lying  at  the 
water's  edge. 

"Run  and  get  mother  some  blankets, 
dear;  two  big  ones  if  you  can  carry 
them.  Then,  big  girl,  go  in  and 
change  your  clothes." 

She  put  two  long  planks  into  the 
bottom  of  the  wagon,  an  inclined  plane 
on  which  she  managed  somehow  to 
lift  and  drag  the  limp  body.  She  was 
a  strong  woman,  but  that  old  body  was 
heavy. 

Timberline  was  resting  quietly  when 
the  men  came  home  for  dinner. 

"Take  off  that  vest,  John." 

"I  thought  I  might  run  into  the  old 
cuss." 

"You  won't  have  to  run  far.  He's 
here.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  same 
old  cuss,  there  wouldn't  have  been  any 
Glory  Bennet  here  to-night." 

The  man's  face  whitened  under  the 
tan.  The  one  word  came  hard. 

"How?" 

"The.  river." 

Glory  came  running  in,  all  pink 
with  the  excitement  of  being  head 
nurse. 


DAWN. 


367 


"Mother,  he's  eaten  up  all  his  bowl 
of  soup,  and  so  has  Bose." 

The  man  gripped  the  child  close 
without  a  word. 

It  is  wonderful  how  soon  a  trail  can 
be  made,  a  good  trail,  but  those  were 
busy  feet,  Glory's  going  up  and  an  old 
man's  coming  down. 

"Don't  you  think  Bose  gets  prettier 
every  day?"  Glory's  arms  were  round 
the  shaggy  neck  and  his  love-dis- 
traught eyes  were  turned  beatifically 
upon  her. 

"Yes,  dear,  love  is  as  becoming  to 
Bose  as  it  is  to  everybody  else." 

That  very  evening,  as  Mrs.  Bennet 
came  in,  her  nose  was  annoyed  by  that 


pungent,  disagreeable  odor  of  burnt 
hide. 

"What's  that  nasty,  burning  smell, 
like  round-up?" 

Mr.  Bennet  was  looking  more  than 
shame-faced,  but  he  managed  to  dig 
up  a  smile. 

"We  seem  to  be  always  on  the  jump 
in  this  canyon.  Now  it's  a  race  for 
halos.  Timberline's  wearin'  his  real 
jaunty,  so's  I  thought  I'd  best  get 
into  line." 

"Your  vest,  John?" 

"And  all  that  goes  with  it.  I  can't 
let  Timberline  beat  me  at  this  game 
any  more  than  he  could  at  the  other," 
said  John  with  a  smile. 


DAWN 

The  dawn  broke  red,  then  forced  with  eager  hands 

Its  way  into  my  dark  and  silent  room, 

And  on  her  ever-restless,  busy  loom 
Fate  wove  another  day  in  shining  strands. 

The  white  mist  fled  afar  before  the  sun, 

The  fountain  waking  shimmered  opalescent, 
(Last  night  it  held  the  moon,  a  silver  crescent), 

The  dew-splashed  flowers  opened  one  by  one. 

I  drew  the  lattice  close — my  soul  groped  dark 

'Midst  paths  of  woe  and  bitter  memory, 

A  spirit  struggling  vainly  to  be  free, 
It  shunned  the  day,  and  then — I  heard  the  lark !  - 

A  flood  of  golden  notes  that  seemed  to  bear 

To  bonded  souls  release  and  joyous  cheer. 

I  threw  my  window  wide,  then  knelt  to  hear 
This  muezzin  of  the  morn,  who  calls  to  prayer. 

ALICE  HATHAWAY  CUNNINGHAM, 


THE    TRANSFORMATION    OF 

MANA 

By  Aary  Gibbons  Cooper 


AS  MRS.  BRAYTON  watched 
Hana  flitting  about,  demure  and 
graceful  in  her  pretty  kimono 
— for  Mrs.  Brayton  had  in- 
sisted on  her  retaining  the  Japanese 
fashion  in  her  dress — she  gave  a  little 
satisfied  sigh.  Hana  was  so  good  to 
Dickie,  too,  which  was  the  best  of  all. 
Mrs.  Brayton  was  wondering  whether 
the  girl  could  be  induced  to  go  with 
her  to  Boston  later  on — she  enjoyed 
dwelling  on  the  thought  of  the  sensa- 
tion she  would  create  walking  abroad 
v/ith  Miss  Almond  Eyes  in  Oriental 
garb  beside  her. 

Mrs.  Brayton,  a  year  after  the  death 
of  her  husband,  had  come  to  San  Fran- 
cisco for  a  change  of  climate,  leaving 
behind  her  eldest  son  Paul,  who  was 
in  his  senior  year  at  Harvard,  and 
bringing  with  her  the  other  boy,  five- 
year-old  Dickie.  She  had  buried  the 
three  children  between  these  two. 

Dickie  was  a  caution.  Mrs.  Brayton 
felt  quite  unequal  to  the  task  of  cater- 
ing to  his  whims  and  keeping  him  out 
of  mischief.  For  this  reason  she 
caught  eagerly  at  the  suggestion  of  a 
friend  that  she  secure  a  Japanese 
nurse  girl  for  him,  and  she  congratu- 
lated herself  afresh  every  day  on  the 
acquisition  of  Hana — "blossom,"  the 
girl  had  said,  was  the  meaning  of  her 
name.  Mrs.  Brayton  thought  it  won- 
derfully appropriate. 

"Hana  is  a  perfect  treasure,"  she 
wrote  to  Paul.  "I  don't  know  how  I 
would  get  along  without  her.  Dickie 
simply  adores  her;  she  tells  him  cun- 
ning Japanese  ghost  stories  and  shows 
him  how  to  play  Japanese  games.  To 


see  them  together,  you  would  think 
she  was  as  much  of  a  child  as  Dickie. 

"You  should  have  seen  her  the  other 
afternoon  when  I  had  some  company, 
and  she  served  the  tea.  She  made  the 
most  charming  picture  in  her  silk 
kimono,  white  with  pink  cherry  blos- 
soms scattered  over  it,  and  she  wore 
a  pale  green  obi  or  sash  with  it.  Her 
hair  was  really  too  wonderful  to  de- 
scribe, thrust  through  here  and  there 
with  jeweled  pins.  I  don't  see  how 
she  can  have  such  lovely  things,  and 
yet  be  working  like  this,  but  it  may  be 
they  are  mostly  heirlooms.  She  says 
her  father  was  of  Samurai  ancestry — 
a  gentleman  that  means  in  Japan — 
and  that  she  is  here  to  be  educated, 
going  into  families  partly  to  learn  the 
language.  I  wish  you  could  hear  her 
talk — her  accent  is  perfectly  fasci- 
nating. Then,  too,  she  is  always  smil- 
ing— that  is  a  part  of  their  religion, 
you  know.  Nothing  seems  to  worry  or 
disturb  her,  not  even  the  caprices  of 
Dickie.  She  is  as  placid  as  a  Buddha 
through  it  all." 

While  Mrs.  Brayton  was  inditing 
this  epistle  to  her  son,  she  had  his 
picture  propped  up  before  her,  un- 
aware of  the  fact  that  Hana  was  sit- 
ting tailor-fashion  on  the  floor  a  little 
back  of  her,  quietly  feasting  her  eyes 
on  the  attractive,  boyish  face  in  the 
photograph.  She  was  quite  startled, 
therefore,  when  the  girl's  mellow  voice 
broke  the  silence. 

"Mos'  dear  lady,  is  thad  honorable 
son  you  look  ad?" 

Mrs.  Brayton  turned  in  astonish- 
ment. 


THE  TRANSFORMATION  OF  HANA. 


369 


"Why,  where  is  Dickie?"  she  said, 
forgetting  to  answer  the  question. 

"Oh,  that  li'l  chile,  I  think  he  tired 
— all  same  he  sleep.  I  think  honorable 
son  look  like  li'l  brudder — very  fine 
looks,  thad  man." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Brayton,  smiling 
proudly,  "Paul  is  a  handsome  boy, 
and  that  picture  doesn't  half  do  him 
justice,  either."  Then  she  turned  back 
to  her  letter,  and  the  incident  passed 
from  her  mind.  She  had  heretofore 
kept  the  photograph  in  her  desk,  but 
now  elected  to  leave  it  out,  and  when 
she  was  through  writing,  placed  it  on 
the  mantel  with  some  others. 

From  this  time  on,  Hana  made  fre- 
quent surreptitious  pilgrimages  to  the 
room  where  the  picture  of  her  hero 
was  enshrined,  and  she  would  stand 
before  it,  taking  in  little  sibilant 
breaths  of  admiration,  though  never 
when  Mrs.  Brayton  happened  to  be 
there.  She  instinctively  kept  silence 
on  the  subject  after  the  one  outburst, 
but  she  knew  that  Paul  was  expected 
home  soon,  and,  while  she  said  noth- 
ing, she  thought  much,  and  looked  for 
his  coming  almost  as  eagerly  as  did 
his  doting  mother. 

The  young  man  was  having  dreams 
of  his  own  about  this  time,  for  as  the 
day  drew  near  for  him  to  take  his  de- 
parture for  the  West,  his  heart  sank 
a  little  at  the  thought  of  leaving  a  cer- 
tain fair  divinity  at  whose  shrine  he 
worshipped,  though  his  devotion  was 
as  yet  unspoken,  and  he  had  deter- 
mined that  it  should  remain  so  for  the 
present.  There  were  reasons :  one  was 
that  he  wanted  to  be  very  sure  of  him- 
self, and  he  felt  that  separation  would 
be  a  good  test. 

He  found  it  hard,  nevertheless,  to 
keep  his  prudent  resolutions  when  the 
moment  of  leave-taking  came,  and  the 
suspicion  of  a  tremor  in  the  soft  voice 
that  bade  him  goodbye  made  him  feel 
like  a  brute.  But  he  steeled  himself 
against  the  counter  influence,  and  man- 
aged to  get  away  without  having  com- 
mitted himself. 

It  was  a  week  later,  on  the  day  that 
Mrs.  Brayton,  with  joyous  anticipa- 
tion was  expecting  Paul's  arrival,  that 


a  telegram  from  him  came  instead, 
telling  of  an  accident  to  the  Overland 
near  Sacramento,  giving  the  idea  that 
he  was  only  slightly  injured,  and  bid- 
ding her  come  to  him  there.  But  care- 
fully though  the  message  was  worded, 
her  mother-instinct  mistrusted  its  opti- 
mistic tone,  and  imagined  the  worst. 

Hana,  with  Dickie,  accompanied 
Mrs.  Brayton  to  the  ferry.  The  girl's 
sweet  placidity  was  calming  to  the 
other,  and  her  timidly  offered  sympa- 
thy touched  as  well  as  consoled. 

"Dear  lady,  I  hope  you  find  honor- 
able son  so  much  bedder  as  you  think 
— he  all  ride  soon.  I  take  good  care 
li'l  Dickie.  Goodbye." 

Mrs.  Brayton  felt  vaguely  com- 
forted. "What  a  dear  she  is!  I  don't 
know  how  I  ever  got  along  without 
her,"  she  was  saying  to  herself  as  she 
went  on  board  the  boat. 

Hana's  words  proved  prophetic,  for 
Mrs.  Brayton  found  Paul  only  tem- 
porarily disabled,  with  some  painful 
cuts  and  bruises  and  a  badly  twisted 
ankle,  but  he  was  able  to  be  brought 
home  the  next  day. 

The  first  sight  that  Paul  had  of 
Hana  was  on  the  second  day  after  his 
arrival,  as  she  came  into  the  sick 
chamber  with  his  mother,  bearing  a 
cup  of  tea  on  a  tray.  He  was  capti- 
vated by  the  artistic  picture  she  made 
in  her  pretty  Oriental  costume,  as  she 
half  pattered,  half  glided  across  the 
room  to  his  side. 

"This  is  Hana — the  little  maid  of 
whom  I  wrote  you,  Paul,"  Mrs.  Bray- 
ton explained,  "and  when  I'm  not  here, 
and  you  need  anything,  just  ring  the 
bell  and  she  will  come  and  wait  on 
you." 

At  this,  Hana's  foolish  little  heart 
jumped  with  delicious  anticipation, 
and  she  made  a  quaint  little  curtsey, 
dropping  her  long  eyes  until  the  thick 
black  lashes  swept  down  across  the 
tinted  olive  of  her  face;  then  they 
lifted  just  an  instant  to  dart  a  shy 
glance  at  "honorable  son,"  who  was 
gazing  at  her  with  amused  and  open 
delight. 

"Yes,  Hana,  my  mother  has  told  me 
about  you  in  her  letters — about  what 


370 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


a  help  you  have  been  to  her.  I'm  sure 
to  be  in  good  hands  when  I'm  lefHn 
yours,"  he  replied  to  his  mother's  in- 
troduction. 

Hana  blushed  and  bowed  again, 
and  smiled  that  cryptic  Oriental  smile 
that  says  so  little  and  hides  so  much. 

"By  Jove!"  Paul  muttered  to  himself 
when  he  was  alone,  "I  never  dreamed 
she  was  like  that!  No  wonder  mother 
is  crazy  over  her.  She's  sure  to  make 
a  sensation  in  mother's  set  if  she  takes 
her  back  to  Boston  with  her.  Don't 
know  but  I  envy  Dickie  right  now." 
Then  he  set  his  mind  to  work  to  invent 
cogent  reasons  for  summoning  Hana 
frequently  to  his  side,  for  he  believed 
that  she  would  greatly  relieve  the 
monotony  of  his  enforced  quietude. 

With  this  idea  in  view,  it  was  not 
long  before  he  reached  his  hand  to- 
ward the  bell  on  the  little  stand  near 
him;  then  half-ashamed,  withdrew  it; 
but  the  next  moment,  yielding  to  the 
temptation,  he  gave  the  bell  a  tap  and 
waited  expectantly  for  the  soft  patter 
of  Hana's  little  feet. 

In  a  moment  the  door  opened,  and 
Mrs.  Brayton  looked  in,  dressed  for 
the  street. 

"Do  you  want  anything,  Paul?  I 
was  going  out  on  an  errand,  and  I 
thought  I  heard  you  ring." 

"Why— er— that  is,  I  hit  the  bell 
when  I  threw  my  arm  out,"  stammered 
Paul,  "but  I'm  feeling  all  right— don't 
want  anything  just  now.  You  go  on, 
and  if  I  do,  I'll  call  Hana." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  her  to  stay  near, 
where  she  can  hear  you  if  you  ring — 
she's  amusing  Dickie  now,"  said  the 
unsuspicious  lady,  as  she  went  out, 
leaving  the  door  ajar,  so  that  Hana 
could  easily  hear  the  bell. 

Paul  waited  a  little  while,  then  rang 
the  bell  again.  And  presently  there 
came  the  sound  of  a  boy's  clattering 
feet  as  Dickie,  like  a  whirlwind,  burst 
into  the  room,  followed  by  Hana,  who 
was  chiding  him  in -her  soft,  infantile 
voice  for  noisily  disturbing  "honor- 
able brother." 

But  "honorable  brother"  was  in  no 
way  disturbed.  "Hello,  Dickie!"  he 
called.  "Will  you  loan  me  your  nurse 


for  just  a  minute?  You  can  have  her 
all  day,  you  know." 

"She  ain't  my  nurse,"  cried  Dickie, 
indignantly.  "I  ain't  a  baby;  she's 
jus'  my  'panion — 'at's  what  she  is." 

"Oh,  pardon  me:  your  companion, 
of  course,"  Paul  hastened  to  correct 
himself.  "May  I  ask  her  for  a  drink 
of  water?"  He  was  looking  into  the 
long,  velvety  eyes  of  Hana  as  she 
stood  meekly  waiting  behind  Dickie. 

At  Paul's  indirect  request,  the  girl 
hastened — if  one  may  be  said  to  de- 
liberately hasten — to  fill  a  glass,  and 
then,  in  Japanese  fashion,  touched  it 
to  her  forehead  as  she  handed  it  to 
him. 

"Why  did  you  do  that  just  now?" 
he  asked,  repeating  her  motion  after 
he  had  thanked  her. 

"Thad?  Oh,  thad  means  polide  in 
Japanese  custom,"  she  replied,  show- 
ing her  pearls  of  teeth  in  an  entrancing 
smile. 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Paul 
had  heard  her  speak,  and  her  voice 
and  accent  went  to  his  head  like  wine. 

She  was  arranging  the  things  on  the 
little  stand.  "I  think  I  leave  the  water 
ride  here  so  you  easy  can  reach,"  she 
said. 

But  this  did  not  fit  in  at  all  with  the 
young  man's  plans.  "Oh,  no,"  he  de- 
murred, "I — er — I  am  afraid  I  might 
knock  it  over,  or  something — better 
put  it  over  there  on  the  table." 

"All  ride,"  she  acquiesced,  de- 
murely. 

When  she  had  done  as  he  suggested, 
she  came  and  stood  a  moment  irreso- 
lutely by  the  bed  as  though  she  would 
say  something. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  encourag- 
ingly, as  he  sensed  her  wish. 

"I — don'  you  think  I  bedder  fix  thad 
pillow  li'l  bid?"  she  suggested  timidly. 

"Why,  yes — yes,  by  all  means,"  he 
responded  eagerly.  "It's  awfully 
wrinkled  and  mussy,"  and  he  watched 
the  deft  movements  of  her  tiny  hands 
creeping  like  mice  from  the  volumin- 
nous  sleeves,  which  sometimes  fell 
back  and  showed  the  pretty,  naked 
arms,  plump,  and  hued  like  old  ivory. 
He  noted  with  delight  the  serious  way 


THE  TRANSFORMATION  OF  HANA. 


371 


in  which  she  pursed  her  little  red  bud 
of  a  mouth,  and  how  the  color  came 
and  went  in  the  olive  of  her  face,  as 
she  shook  and  patted  the  pillows  until 
she  was  satisfied  with  the  result. 

"There!"  she  said  at  last.  "Now  I 
think  feel  much  bedder,"  and  she 
waited  until  he  had  settled  himself 
comfortably  in  their  fluffy  depths  and 
pronounced  it  "bully,"  but  when  he 
began  to  thank  her,  she  would  have 
none  of  it. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  deprecated,  "my  mos' 
pleasure  to  serve  so  honorable  man," 
and  then  her  eyes  flashed  a  smile  into 
his  and  veiled  themselves  in  their 
thick  jet  lashes. 

"The  darling  little  heathen!"  he 
thought  to  himself,  as  she  turned  to 
coax  Dickie  out  of  the  room;  "I  won- 
der how  much  she  really  does  know, 
and  what  kind  of  thinking  goes  on  un- 
der that  gorgeous  head-dress  of  hers. 
I  wonder  whether  any  inkling  of  my 
idea  in  having  the  water  put  out  of 
my  reach  penetrated  her  understand- 
ing. I  think  I'll  dig  up  some  other 
reason,  besides  thirst,  for  calling  her 
next  time."  But  Hana  had  arranged 
the  pillows  so  invitingly  that  the  in- 
valid was  beginning  to  feel  comfort- 
able and  drowsy,  and  he  soon  fell  into 
slumber  that  lasted  until  he  was 
roused  by  the  entrance  of  his  mother 
into  the  room  an  hour  later. 

"Well,  dear,"  she  cooed,  mother- 
like,  "did  you  miss  me?  Did  Hana 
wait  on  you  attentively?" 

"Oh,  yes — well  enough,"  he  an- 
swered with  a  yawn,  instinctively  hid- 
ing his  real  feelings  on  the  subject. 
"She  seems  to  be  a  faithful  little  soul." 

"Indeed  she  is.  She's  a  perfect  trea- 
sure. And  don't  you  think  she's  really 
pretty  in  a  way — that  is,  for  a  Japan- 
ese girl?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  I  don't  know  but  what  you 
might  call  her  pretty,  considering,"  he 
answered  judicially,  as  though  the 
idea  had  just  occurred  to  him. 

At  that  moment,  the  subject  of  their 
remarks  was  standing  in  a  worshipful 
attitude,  with  clasped  hands  and  rapt 
eyes  before  Paul  Brayton's  picture, 
while  strange  as  it  may  seem,  and  I 


do  not  pretend  to  explain  the  coinci- 
dence at  all — another  girl,  three  thou- 
sand miles  away,  the  antithesis  of  this 
one,  fair  and  delicate  of  feature,  like 
some  dainty  human  flower,  was  like- 
wise standing  before  a  picture  of  the 
same  face.  Another  inexplicable 
thing  is  that  in  the  bosom  of  each  there 
was  a  vague,  uneasy  prescience  of  the 
existence  of  the  other,  strong  enough 
to  dim  the  light  in  the  eyes  of  both. 

The  convalescence  of  Paul  Brayton 
was  so  slow  as  to  be  the  cause  of 
anxiety  on  the  part  of  his  fond  mother 
and  of  surreptitious  delight  to  the  in- 
valid himself — for  he  alone  knew  how 
unnecessary  was  this  lagging,  and  if 
it  had  not  been  for  the  fact  of  Mrs. 
Brayton's  uneasiness,  her  graceless  son 
would  have  felt  no  compunctions  of 
conscience  whatever.  But  it  was  so 
pleasant  to  lie  there  and  be  waited  on 
by  Hana — it  almost  frightened  him  to 
think  how  he  would  miss  her  gentle, 
sweet  ministrations  ard  her  soft,  sweet 
voice. 

One  day  he  found  out  quite  by  ac- 
cident that  Hana  was  somewhat  of  an 
English  scholar,  and  he  begged  her 
to  read  to  him.  At  first  she  objected, 
pleading  the  care  of  Dickie,  for  Mrs. 
Brayton  was  out;  but  Paul  persisted, 
promising  to  bribe  Dickie  handsomely 
to  stay  quietly  in  the  room  for  that 
long,  and  he  had  her  bring  Tennyson, 
from  which  he  selected  a  few  of  his 
favorite  passages. 

Barring  her  accent,  she  read  sur- 
prisingly well,  and  the  tones  of  her 
voice  thrilled  him  to  intoxication  as  he 
listened  and  watched  her  mobile  face. 
Again  a  little  pang  of  fear  seized  him 
at  the  knowledge  that  her  personality 
should  have  obtained  such  a  hold  on 
him — for  he  thought  of  his  mother  and 
of  his  race;  but  the  spell  was  too 
sweet:  he  could  not  summon  will 
power  enough  to  throw  it  off,  though 
he  almost  cursed  himself  for  not  see- 
ing before  this  whither  he  was  drifting. 

The  next  day  after  this,  as  Hana 
was  handing  him  a  letter  that  the  post- 
man had  just  left,  he  caught  her  hand 
and  held  it  imprisoned  in  his,  where 
he  felt  it  tremble,  while  he  asked  her 


372 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


the  history  of  a  ring  that  she  wore  on 
one  of  its  fingers. 

"Bud  no — I  will  only  tell  if  you  le' 
go  my  han',"  she  said,  and  tried  to 
withdraw  it  from  his  grasp. 

Her  resistance  and  the  touch  of  her 
soft  flesh  only  increased  his  ardor, 
and  he  held  her  hand  the  more  firmly 
until  she  ceased  to  struggle  and  let  it 
lie  passively  in  his,  while  her  eyes 
fell  under  the  intensity  of  his  gaze,  for 
he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  ring. 

Just  then  footsteps  were  heard  ap- 
proaching, and  Paul  released  Hana 
only  an  instant  before  Mrs.  Brayton 
came  in. 

The  girl  hurriedly  glided  past  her 
out  of  the  room,  and  something  in 
her  manner  as  well  as  in  Paul's  face 
aroused  his  mother's  suspicions.  She 
said  nothing,  but  now  that  the  idea 
had  found  lodgment  in  her  mind,  she 
recalled  one  or  two  other  things  that 
she  had  noted  subconsciously  at  the 
time,  but  to  which  no  significance  had 
been  attached.  It  was  plain  that  she 
had  been  strangely  blind  to  the  dan- 
ger that,  to  her  horror,  she  felt  was 
threatening. 

Some  women  in  a  crisis  like  this 
would  have  precipitated  a  catastrophe, 
But  Mrs.  Brayton  was  very  wise  in 
the  matter — she  knew  her  son  so  well, 
and  realized  that  the  less  she  seemed 
to  notice,  the  better.  Yet  something 
must  be  done  at  once.  Sending  Hana 
away  might  only  be  tempting  them  to 
meet  clandestinely.  She  resolved  to 
try  an  experiment. 

The  next  morning,  calling  Hana  to 
her  room,  she  proposed  that  they  go 
shopping. 

"I  have  changed  my  mind  about 
your  clothes,"  she  explained.  "I 
think  I  would  much  prefer  now  that 
you  should  dress  in  American  cos- 
tume. You  wouldn't  mind,  would 
you?"  she  asked  the  girl  in  an  anxious 
manner. 

"Oh,  no ;  I  think  I  like  it  much  bed- 
der,"  Hana  answered,  delighted.  She 
had  an  idea  that  she  would  be  more 
acceptable  in  the  eyes  of  her  hero  if 
she  dressed  like  the  ladies  he  was 
accustomed  to  see.  So  she  set  out  in 


high  spirits  with  her  mistress,  to  that 
lady's  infinite  relief. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Brayton 
went  early  to  her  son's  room,  and  after 
a  little  chat,  made  occasion  to  ring  for 
Hana.  She  placed  herself  where  she 
could  note  Paul's  face  when  the  girl 
should  appear  in  her  changed  garb. 

The  door  opened  gently  and  Mrs. 
Brayton  read,  with  a  little  constriction 
at  her  heart,  Paul's  secret  in  his  eyes, 
as  he  turned  at  the  sound.  Then  she 
saw  what  made  her  feel  like  shouting 
for  joy — the  sudden  dropping  of  his 
jaw,  and  the  puzzled,  disappointed, 
almost  disgusted  look  that  came  over 
his  face  when  Hana  entered,  clad  in 
the  inartistic  garments,  with  her  hair 
done  after  the  exaggerated  fashion  of 
the  shop  girl,  and  her  little,  pigeon- 
toed  walk  that  went  so  illy  with  this 
alien  costume. 

"Why — wh — what — er — who  is  this 
young  lady?"  he  stammered,  in  his 
surprise,  and  an  afterthought  to  seem 
jocular. 

Mrs.  Brayton  hastened  to  relieve  the 
strained  situation  by  explaining  that 
she  had  thought  it  best  for  Hana  to 
make  this  change,  and  she  asked — 
just  a  little  maliciously,  she  really 
couldn't  resist  the  temptation — if  Paul 
didn't  think  American  clothes  were 
becoming  to  Hana. 

Paul  choked  and  tried  to  answer  in 
a  manner  not  to  give  offense  or  dis- 
appoint the  girl,  who  was  looking  at 
him  anxiously  and  expectantly,  though 
his  revulsion  of  feeling  was  so  great 
at  the  difference  in  her  appearance 
that  he  already  marveled  how  he  could 
ever  have  thought  her  pretty  or  fas- 
cinating. 

"I — I — why,  certainly,  she  looks 
very  much  like  an  American  lady,"  he 
at  length  managed  to  stammer,  while 
Hana,  dimly  sensed  his  disappoint- 
ment in  the  tone  of  his  voice,  and  when 
she  left  the  room  her  heart  was  heavy. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  her,  Mrs. 
Brayton  said  quietly:  "It  makes  a  lot 
of  difference  in  her,  doesn't  it — dress- 
ing that  way?" 

Her  son  grunted  an  assent.  He  was 
feeling  rather  sulky.  It  seemed  such 


THANKSGIVING.  373 

a   shame   to   spoil   the   pretty  picture  ill-fitting  dress,  and  the  first  letter  he 

Hana  had  made  in  her  own  costume;  was  able  to  sit  up  and  write  was  a 

besides,  he  had  a  faint  suspicion  that  long  and  ardent  one  to  a  certain  young 

this  was   not   simply  a  whim  of  his  woman  in  Boston,  whom  he  had  almost 

mother's,  that  the  astute  lady  had  been  forgotten. 

actuated  by  a  deep  motive — one  that  "I  surely  need  a  guardian  angel,  and 
he  could  easily  guess.  I  don't  believe  this  one  will  refuse  the 
Paul's  recovery  from  this  time  on  job,  bless  her  sweet  heart!"  he  said 
was  startlingly  rapid,  and  he  devel-  to  himself  with  the  unconscious  ego- 
oped  remarkable  ability  to  wait  on  tism  of  youth,  as  he  sealed  and 
himself.  He  had  come  almost  to  stamped  the  fateful  missive  for  the 
loathe  the  sight  of  Hana  in  her  ugly,  post. 


THANKSGIVING 


Lord  of  the  Universe! 
Thanksgiving  be  to  Thee, 
For  the  harvest  crop  is  full, 
And  yield  of  the  briny  sea. 

For  peace  in  our  hearts  and  homes, 
The  joy  of  a  hearthstone  bright; 
The  golden  glow  of  day's  sun, 
And  the  star-bespangled  night. 

For  rain,  and  the  silvery  mist; 
The  pains  that  beset  our  way ; — 
For  dawn  of  the  crimson  morn, 
That  follows  the  shadov/s  gray. 

For  the  past,  with  failures  keen, 
And  the  present  hour  of  grace ; — 
The  future  with  its  glass  of  hope; 
The  smile  of  a  dear  one's  face. 

The  good  deeds  that  men  have  wrought; 
The  blessings  of  home,  and  state; — 
The  love  instilled  in  the  soul  of  man, 
To  banish  discord  and  hate. 

Oh,  Lord  of  the  Universe, 
Thanksgiving  deep  to  Thee! 
Who  spills  rich  gifts  with  lavish  hand, 
O'er  boundless  land  and  sea. 


AGNES  LOCKHART  HUGHES. 


A    BAD    BARGAIN 


By  Rufus  L.  Snell 


SOME  TIMES  one  has  a  chance  to 
grow  out  of  a  tad  deal,  the  un- 
expected turns  up  reversing  the 
run  of  circumstances.     Then,  at 
other  times,  there  is  small  chance;  or, 
if  there  be  any,  one  fails  to  grasp  it. 
Some  things  look  better  or  worse  at 
different  times,  according  to  the  mood 
and  point  of  view.     The  deal  that  I 
made  in  the  new  country  looked  good 
at  first;  then  it  seemed  bad;  in  fact,  I 
considered  it  rotten  after  a  time.  There 
is  no  doubt  that  I  was  a  "sucker,"  one 
among  many. 

Those  men  "stuck"  me  good  and 
plenty,  though  I  wouldn't  have  ac- 
knowledged it  at  that  time — not  for 
the  world.  You  know  how  it  is,  a  man 
hates  to  own  that  he  has  been  "stung." 
But  now,  since  it  has  all  turned  out 
like  it  has,  I  don't  mind  telling  the 
whole  thing. 

A  land  company — Carr  and  Grain 
were  the  main  ones — sure  did  "load" 
me.  It  was  all  new  to  me — I  had  just 
come  to  the  new  country,  you  see,  and 
at  that  time  there  was  a  whole  lot  of 
talk  about  the  government  going  to  ir- 
rigate most  all  the  plains  within 
twenty  miles  of  the  Cimeron  River, 
and,  of  course,  when  a  little  thing  gets 
started  among  a  bunch  of  "nesters"  it 
just  naturally  grows  every  time  it 
changes  hands. 

I  had  been  in  the  country  about  a 
week,  poking  my  nose  round  for  a 
snap,  listening  to  all  the  "rot"  about 
irrigation,  and  what  a  great  country  it 
was  going  to  be ;  and  it  got  me  awfully 
worked  up  and  anxious  to  get  a  piece 
of  the  land.  About  this  time,  I  got 
acquainted  with  Carr  and  Grain,  and 
they  showed  me  a  good  piece  of  land, 
ten  miles  from  the  river,  and  offered 


to  sell  it  to  me  for  four  thousand  dol- 
lars— what  they  claimed  was  half 
price.  They  said  that  they  wouldn't 
sell  but  a  hundred  and  sixty  acres,  at 
that  price,  to  one  man.  They  said  they 
were  doing  it  only  to  get  the  country 
started,  and  then  it  would  be  worth 
double  that  price.  Later,  when  the 
water  was  on  it,  it  would  sell  for  more 
than  a  hundred  dollars  an  acre. 

It  is  a  fact,  it  all  looked  reasonable 
to  me  at  that  time;  and,  needing  but 
little  persuasion,  I  signed  the  contract, 
paying  half  down.  The  other  two  thou- 
sand was  to  be  made  m  h^o  equal  pay- 
ments, one  thousand  after  five  years, 
and  the  other  thousand  at  the  end  of 
ten  years.  The  notes  drew  ten  per 
cent  interest. 

About  two  years  after  I  had  made 
the  deal,  Carr  and  Grain  tried  to  sell 
me  another  piece  of  land,  a  block 
joining  mine. 

"We  will  sell  you  that  block,"  they 
proposed,  "at  half  the  price  you  paid 
for  the  other.  The  irrigation  is  slower 
about  coming  than  at  first  thought,  and 
land  is  not  selling  so  well  as  it  did." 

They  needn't  have  told  me  that,  for 
I  knew  it.  Hadn't  I  been  trying  to  sell 
mine,  offering  it  at  what  I  gave  for  it. 
There  wasn't  any  use  in  talking,  the 
boom  was  dying,  and  all  the  "suckers" 
were  caught — at  least  most  of  them. 

"No,  sir,"  I  told  them,  "I  don't  want 
any  more  land.  In  fact,  I'd  like  to  sell 
out  and  go  back  home.  And  my  folks 
are  not  satisfied  either." 

I  tried  to  sell  my  place  back  to  them, 
but  they  wouldn't  talk  about  it.  Finally 
I  offered  them  five  hundred  to  take  it 
back  at  the  same  price  that  I  paid 
them  for  it. 

"No,  we  don't  want  to  buy.     We 


A  BAD  BARGAIN. 


375 


have  more  land  than  we  want,  and 
want  to  sell  it.  Things  are  not  just 
as  promising  as  they  were  two  years 
ago.  We  have  land  scattered  all  over 
this  country,  and  sold  as  much  as  we 
have  now,  when  the  boom  was  on,  at 
the  same  price  we  sold  to  you." 

They  told  the  truth,  too,  but  that 
didn't  help  me  out — the  other  men 
getting  "stung."  Though  it  makes  a 
fellow  feel  a  little  better  to  know  that 
he  isn't  the  only  fool  in  the  country. 
Were  you  ever  "burnt"  this  way,  and 
felt  "sore"  over  it?  If  you  were,  you 
know  how  to  sympathize  with  a  man. 

Those  land-grafters  might,  after  all, 
have  thought,  sure  enough,  that  the 
country  would  be  irrigated,  and  then, 
perhaps,  they  knew  better.  But,  any- 
way, they  made  a  fortune  off  us 
"nesters." 

It  was  a  hard  go  to  make  my  place 
pay  expenses — a  living  for  a  family, 
taxes  and  all.  Didn't  rain  much,  you 
know,  and  sometimes  one  wouldn't 
make  enough  stuff  to  take  his  stock 
through  the  winter. 

The  interest  on  the  two  thousand 
dollars  got  to  bothering  me.  I  paid  the 
first  all  right,  and  had  a  little  money 
left  over  the  first  year,  and  didn't  miss 
the  interest  money  much,  but  when  the 
second  year's  came  due,  I  didn't  have 
it.  That  worried  me.  My  wife  actu- 
ally looked  like  some  one  who  had 
been  to  a  funeral.  I  went  to  Carr  and 
Grain,  and  asked  them  to  let  the  in- 
terest run  over  till  next  year. 

Grain,  the  manager,  hummed  and 
hawed  about  it.  "We  are  needing  the 
money;  in  fact,  we  are  almost  com- 
pelled to  collect  this  year's  interest." 

That  made  me  "sore."  These  men 
had  barrels  of  money,  and  didn't  care, 
not  the  least  bit,  how  hard  they 
squeezed  a  man.  You've  seen  that 
sort  of  people,  haven't  you — the 
harder  shape  they  get  you  into,  the 
harder  they  will  press.  I  didn't  want 
to  beg  more  time — begging  is  no  good, 
no  way — so  I  said : 

"Mr.  Grain,  if  you  men  are  short  of 
cash,  and  just  got  to  have  it,  why,  of 
course,  it  will  be  due  in  a  few  days, 
and  I'll  get  the  money  for  you.  But 


I  thought  you  fellows  would  like  to 
have  the  compound  interest,  and " 

I  was  going  to  say,  "do  me  a  favor," 
but  Mr.  Grain  cut  me  off. 

"No,  no;  we  prefer  the  payment. 
Do  you  think  you  will  be  able  to  meet 
that  first  note?  It  is  a  thousand  dol- 
lars, you  know — runs  five  years — 
nearly  half  of  the  time  gone  now,  you 
know." 

He  was  full  of  business.  I  noticed 
that  right  at  the  start.  In  fact,  he 
couldn't  see  anything  but  business.  I 
told  him  that  probably  the  notes  would 
be  taken  care  of  when  they  came  due. 
But  I  couldn't  see,  to  save  my  life,  at 
that  time,  how  I  could  pay  off  a  thou- 
sand, and  then  interest  and  another 
thousand  in  five  more  years,  when  my 
place  wasn't  making  above  expenses. 

When  I  got  back  home  and  told  my 
wife  how  things  were,  it  added  the  last 
straw  to  the  camel's  back.  Actually, 
I  was  more  sorry  for  her  than  I  was 
about  our  financial  affairs.  When  she 
quit  blubbering  so  that  I  could  reason 
the  matter  out  with  her,  I  told  her  that 
we  would  keep  the  interest  paid  up 
and  sell  out  before  the  first  note  came 
due.  I  brightened  up  things  a  bit — 
told  her  that  we  could  sell  a  cow  or 
two  for  the  interest  money.  But  sell- 
ing the  place,  that  I  knew  wasn't  an 
easy  job.  There  were  a  thousand 
places,  just  like  mine,  to  sell,  and  no 
buyers.  But,  after  all,  I  needn't  have 
been  so  gloomy  if  I  could  have  seen 
into  the  future,  though  that  wouldn't 
be  good  for  a  fellow,  would  it? 

My  wife  knew  as  well  as  I  that  the 
country  wasn't  swarming  with  buyers 
for  little  farms  of  a  hundred  and  sixty 
acres,  at  the  price  we  paid  for  ours, 
and  she  said: 

"But,  William,  to  whom  in  this 
world  will  we  sell  the  place?  You 
know  there  isn't  any  people  in  this 
country  that  wants  any  more  land  at 
such  high  prices;  and  besides,  there 
isn't  any  buyers  coming  in  now,  like 
there  was  when  the  'boom'  was  on. 
And  when  one  does  come,  there  is  al- 
ways some  one  ready  to  sell  his  place 
at  half  price.  They  are  all  sick  of  it, 
just  like  we  are." 


376 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


That  was  a  fact,  too,  and  I  knew  it. 
Some  of  them  were  foundered  on  their 
bargains ;  in  fact,  there  were  some  that 
were  so  "sore  footed"  that  they  would 
sell  for  enough  to  get  back  to  "where 
they  came  from. 

"I  know,  Mandy,"  I  replied,  sooth- 
ingly, "but  all  of  the  'cheap  Johns' 
will  finally  sell  out,  and  then  the  rich 
northern  fellows  who  are  getting  their 
land  will  hold  it  for  a  big  price.  And 
then,  too,  Mandy,  I  believe  there's 
something  to  this  country,  after  all. 
Something  none  of  us  know  anything 
about.  I  know  it  isn't  farming  coun- 
try, Mandy — I  know  that  as  well  as 
anybody.  But  I  don't  believe  there  is 
any  country  but  what's  good  for  some- 
thing. Don't  believe  it  would  have 
been  put  here  if  it  wasn't  for  some 
purpose.  All  that's  the  matter  we've 
not  found  out,  just  yet,  what  this  coun- 
try is  for,  but  we  surely  will  before 
very  long." 

Things  "rocked"  on  that  way  for 
awhile,  I  always  holding  the  country 
up  as  best  I  could;  and  actually,  I 
was  honest  when  I  said  that  I  believed 
that  the  country  was  good  for  some- 
thing, but  at  times  it  looked  like  it 
was  never  going  to  be  found.  Many 
times  did  I  jam  my  hands  down  in  my 
pockets,  and  whistle  to  beat  the  band, 
just  to  keep  up  courage  and  appear- 
ances before  my  wife. 

It's  a  fact,  it  looked  like  things  went 
from  bad  to  worse  all  the  time — 
seemed  like  everything  went  wrong, 
you  know,  just  at  the  wrong  time. 
Maybe  I  would  get  a  few  dollars  saved 
up  for  interest,  and  then  something 
would  turn  up,  and  I  would  have  to 
spend  it,  But  I'd  always  manage  to 
sell  something  at  the  last  minute  to 
satisfy  the  "land  sharks." 

In  the  summer,  about  eighteen 
months  before  the  first  note  came  due, 
one  of  my  little  girls  took  sick  with 
the  typhoid  fever — looked  like  she 
would  "peg  out"  in  spite  of  all  we 
could  do.  We  had  the  doctor  with  her 
nearly  every  day,  and  of  course  that 
cost  like  forty.  I  knew  that  the  only 
way  I  could  pay  him  was  to  sell  the 
last  four  milk-cows  I  had  left.  I'd 


been  counting  on  them  to  pay  the 
fourth  year's  interest. 

"Doctor,"  I  said  to  him  about  the 
twentieth  day,  "I  haven't  got  the 
money  to  pay  you,  but  you  stick  right 
to  it  and  try  to  pull  the  little  thing 
through  her  fever.  Do  your  very  best, 
and  I'll  sell  my  last  cow,  if  it  takes  it, 
to  pay  you." 

Wife  and  I  had  almost  gone  our 
limit.  We  had  been  up  every  night, 
not  getting  any  sleep  to  speak  of,  and 
the  other  two  little  ones  were  too  small 
to  help.  The  doctor  knew  that  we 
couldn't  keep  watch,  as  we  should, 
any  more,  so  he  said  to  me: 

"We  ought  to  have  a  trained  nurse 
here.  Now  is  the  critical  stage  of  the 
fever,  and  the  child  needs  the  most 
careful  attention,  and  you  and  your 
wife  are  worn  out." 

A  trained  nurse  cost  five  dollars  a 
day,  but  that  wasn't  anything,  so  long 
as  it  would  do  any  good.  What  both- 
ered me  was  how  we  could  pay  her. 
I  lost  sight  of  all  the  debts — a  fellow 
will  when  one  of  the  little  ones  is  at 
stake — in  fact,  I  had  nearly  given  up 
the  notion  of  ever  being  able  to  meet 
that  first  note,  and  didn't  much  care. 
Did  you  ever  get  that  way — down- 
hearted and  didn't  care  a  "rip" 
whether  things  came  right  or  not  ?  All 
I  figured  on,  at  that  time,  was  to  get 
that  little  girl  well. 

"Doctor,"  said  I,  "you  bring  out  the 
nurse,  and  we'll  pay  her — we'll  pay 
her  some  way.  I'll  mortgage  my  team. 

Did  you  ever  notice  that  when  a 
fellow  gets  down  to  the  very  lowest 
notch  of  hope — is  just  almost  ready  to 
throw  up  both  hands  and  quit — that 
something  will  come  creeping  round, 
and  gradually  change  things?  That's 
the  way  wife  and  I  were.  We  got  the 
little  one  up,  and  wasn't  uneasy  about 
her  any  more;  and  then  we  got  to 
thinking  about  those  other  troubles — 
mortgages  on  most  everything,  and  no 
chance  to  pay  them  off.  I  can  see  the 
whole  thing  now — how  down-hearted 
my  wife  was — didn't  have  life  enough 
in  her  to  laugh  at  the  funniest  thing. 

But  that  day  when  I  carried  those 
pieces  of  rock  and  showed  them  to  her 


A  BAD  BARGAIN. 


377 


she  "chirked"  up.  She  knew  that  I 
understood  what  I  was  talking  about 
when  I  said  it  looked  like  there  might 
be  some  chance  for  us,  after  all.  I'd 
worked  in  mines,  and  she  knew  the 
stuff,  you  know. 

I  put  a  second  mortgage  on  the  place 
for  two  hundred  dollars,  and  paid  the 
"money-grabbers"  the  fourth  year's 
interest.  They  had  gotten  the  news 
about  my  find,  and  began  to  "dicker" 
with  me  for  a  trade. 

"Say,"  Grain  said  to  me,  in  a  good- 
natured  way,  "we've  got  a  man  for 
that  block  of  land  joining  yours,  and 
he  wants  another  place,  too.  Now,  we 
have  decided  to  take  your  place  at  the 
figures  you  have  been  offering  it  at — 
the  same  you  gave  for  it — and  let  this 
fellow  have  both  places." 

I  am  a  little  thick-headed,  but  I 
saw  his  game.  I  didn't  say  anything 
right  straight  off,  only:  "Must  be  an- 
other sucker." 

"Come  in,"  Grain  said,  thinking  I 
was  ripe  for  a  trade,  "and  we'll  fix  the 
papers  now." 

Cunningness  might  be  all  right,  but 
when  a  man  can't  hide  it,  it's  disgust- 
ing. Don't  you  see  what  was  floating 
in  Grain's  mind? 

"No,"  I  answered  him,  "I  must  have 
a  little  profit.  I've  had  a  deuce  of  a 
hard  time  on  the  place,  and  have  im- 
proved it  a  whole  lot — houses,  fencing, 
and  putting  in  the  farm,  and " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  understand,"  replied 
Grain.  "About  what  are  the  improve- 
ments worth?  We  don't  want  you  to 
lose  that,  you  know." 

"Well,"  I  said,  looking  him  right 
straight  in  the  eye,  "I  don't  just  ex- 
actly know,  but  I  figure  that  the  im- 
provements are  worth  a  bit  more  than 
I  paid  for  the  land." 

That  somewhat  "stumped"  him.  He 
looked  like  he  thought  I  didn't  have 
much  sense — got  mad,  you  know. 

"Now,  you  know,  those  improve- 
ments aren't  worth,  at  the  outside, 
more  than  six  hundred." 

"Well,  they  are  worth  more  than 
that  to  me  now."  I  bore  down  heavily 
on  the  "now." 

You  know  how  fast  news  of  a  good 


thing  spreads,  once  it  gets  started.  It 
seemed  no  time  till  everybody  in  the 
country  knew  that  I  had  found  gold  on 
my  place.  And  not  only  those  who 
lived  there,  but  some  from  far  away — 
big  fellows,  with  money.  Three  of 
them  came  and  looked  over  the  pros- 
pects. They  were  expert  miners,  and 
knew  a  good  thing  when  they  saw  it. 
But,  of  course,  the  best  sometimes 
make  mistakes. 

It  wasn't  any  time  till  they  made  me 
an  offer,  and  it  resulted  just  as  I 
thought  it  would — just  as  I  wanted  it 
to.  It  brought  old  Grain  out  in  a 
hurry,  just  as  quick  as  he  heard  about 
it,  and  that  I  had  not  sold.  He  came 
to  raise  that  offer.  He  had  sent  two 
experts  to  examine  the  find  before 
the  others  had  gotten  to  it. 

"We'll  raise  the  Skidmore  Com- 
pany's bid  ten  thousand,"  Grain  ban- 
tered," "making  it  eighty-five." 

I  knew  that  Grain  would  get  busy, 
for  his  men  had  reported  a  big  thing;- 
they  had  given  him  the  right  figures, 
and  they  were  scarey,  too. 

"No,  Mr.  Grain,"  I  told  him,  "that's 
way  under  the  value.  I  know  what 
I've  got.  I've  had  it  tested,  and  know 
just  what  it  will  run.  I've  done  a  lot 
of  mining,  but  this  is  the  best  I  ever 
saw.  It  will  pay  the  biggest,  and  be 
the  easiest  worked. 

"Now,  a  hundred  thousand  will  jar 
me  loose — no  less."  I  knew  what 
would  come — I'd  learned  him. 

"I  won't  do  it,  I  won't  do  it,"  the  old 
fellow  stormed.  "You  are  unreason- 
able. No  one  else  would  give  you  as 
much  as  I  am  offering." 

'[All  right,  Mr.  Grain,"  I  said,  "the 
Skidmore  men  want  another  chance. 
I  gave  them  thirty  days." 

I  said  it  just  as  unconcerned  as  I 
would  about  a  chicken  trade.  All  I 
had  to  do,  and  I  knew  it,  was  to  sit 
back  and  let  the  two  companies  "buck" 
one  another.  Crane  went  off  swearing. 

I  wasn't  in  any  hurry.  It  isn't  worth 
while,  in  some  cases,  particularly,  to 
rush  things.  Haven't  you  found  it  that 
way?  I  was  waiting  on  the  Skidmore 
company,  and  wasn't  surprised  when 
I  got  an  answer  to  the  message  I  had 
3 


378 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


sent  them,  raising  old  Grain's  bid. 
Well,  of  course,  I  didn't  lose  much 
time  in  seeing  Grain  again. 

"Now,  Mr.  Grain,"  I  began,  "I  want 
to  give  you  one  more  chance.  I'd  rather  . 
you'd  have  this  proposition  than  some 
outsider.  The  Skidmore  company  has 
come  to  ninety-five.  Now,  the  first 
man  with  the  hundred  gets  it."  I 
showed  him  the  telegram. 

It  did  me  good  to  see  him  "sweat" 
— it's  a  fact.  He  hated  to  come  to  my 
proposition,  but  he  knew  he  had  to  if 
he  was  to  get  the  coveted  gold  mine. 


I  didn't  hesitate  this  time  when  he 
asked  me  to  come  in  and  sign  the 
papers.  I  was  getting  what  I  wanted, 
and  I'm  not  a  man  to  squeeze  a  fellow 
to  the  last  notch,  for  I  had  been  "bit," 
and  knew  how  it  was. 

Actually,  I  felt  sorry  for  old  Grain 
after  it  was  all  over.  They  went  to  a 
great  expense,  putting  machinery  there 
to  work  that  stuff;  and  they  hadn't 
more  than  got  everything  to  going  good 
till  the  mine  played  out — went  com- 
pletely dry.  Came  to  the  end,  you 
know,  just  like  jumping  off  a  bluff.  • 


AUTUMN'S     ORCHESTRA 


The  wind,  a  wandering  minstrel, 

Whistles  shrill  amidst  the  trees, 
And  from  the  stubble  grasses  float, 

The  cricket's  lusty  glees. 
A  late  bee  tunes  a  viol  deep, 

And  hums  a  droning  song, 
While  from  a  belfry,  sapphire-roofed, 

The  bluebell  tolls  a  gong. 
The  rain  plays  on  a  tambourine, 

Made  from  a  leaf  of  gold, 
And  lyric-like  a  dewdrop  sings 

Unto  a  sunflower  bold. 
A  violin,  the  spider  strings 

With  threads  of  silvery  sheen — 
Then  come  a  chorus  from  the  frogs, 

Behind  a  tall  rush  screen. 
The  goldenrod  a  baton  swings, 

The  ocean's  organ  peals, — 
And  from  the  pine  tree's  emerald  depths 

A  wondrous  hymn  tune  steals. 
It  mingles  with  the  minstrel  wind, 

Then  ends  in  one  long  sigh — 
As  autumn  clad  in  royal  robes, 

Bids  nodding  blooms  "Good-bye." 


AGNES  LOCKHART  HUGHES. 


ACROSS 
COUNTRY 

IN 
ARIZONA 

By 

Frederick  Hewitt 


An  Arizona  "Nightingale." 


THE  FIRST  sight  that  strikes  the 
Easterner  on  coming  to  Arizona 
is  the  constant  use  that  is  made 
of  the  faithful  burro,  com- 
monly called  the  Arizona  "nightin- 
gale." Notwithstanding  the  awful, 
nerve-racking  noise  that  he  makes 
when  he  brays,  the  burro  has  some  of 
the  finest  qualities  of  any  animal  in 
the  world.  His  surefootedness;  will- 
ingness to  get  along  on  scant  diet,  and 
docile  look  is  unsurpassed.  And  above 
all,  he  is  the  poor  man's  friend  and 
helpmeet.  You  can  sometimes  go  out 
on  the  desert,  and  catch  a  burro  and 
take  him  home,  without  paying  any 
price  for  him.  Commonly  you  can 
buy  one  in  town  for  fifty  cents,  al- 


though a  first  class  burro  will  cost  you 
from  five  to  ten  dollars. 

Those  who  have  the  most  regard 
for  burros  are  the  children,  prospec- 
tors and  sheepmen.  Every  day  in  the 
street  you  will  see  children  galloping 
about  on  them.  Often  the  poor  burro 
will  have  from  two  to  four  children  on 
his  back  at  once. 

The  prospector,  when  he  goes  out  on 
his  lone  journey  amidst  the  canyons 
and  mountains,  generally  takes  three 
burros  with  him.  On  them  he  packs 
his  mining  tools,  "grub  stake,"  and 
blankets.  Though  they  do  not  travel 
fast,  seldom  making  over  twenty  miles 
a  day  when  packed,  he  values  them 
because  of  their  surefootedness  on  al- 


380 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


most  unsurmountable  trails,  and  be- 
cause, as  the  saying  is,  "they  can  keep 
fat  on  tin  cans."  A  burro  will  eke  out 
a  meal  upon  which  a  jack-rabbit  even 
would  nearly  starve. 

The  sheep-herders,  like  the  prospec- 
tors, also  use  the  burros  when  they 
are  taking  their  sheep  down  from  the 
northern  mountains  of  Arizona  to  the 
valleys  over  two  hundred  miles  south. 
With  every  flock  of  two  thousand 
sheep  there  are  two  Mexican  herders, 
one  who  follows  the  sheep,  while  the 
other,  with  a  pack  outfit  of  burros, 
goes  ahead,  and  finds  a  suitable  camp- 
ing place  for  the  night. 


a  pack  train;  if  you  use  just  one  or 
two  horses,  you  generally  merely 
speak  of  your  journey  as  going  by  a 
pack  outfit. 

Three  of  us,  in  going  a  journey  of 
two  hundred  and  twenty-five  miles 
across  Arizona,  put  all  our  bedding 
and  grub  on  a  pony  and  a  horse.  You 
put  your  canned  goods  into  leather 
bags  called  kyacks.  Each  bag  is  laden 
to  balance  carefully  with  the  other. 
These  are  hung  on  a  special  saddle 
across  the  horse's  back.  Over  all  is 
put  a  strip  of  canvas  tied  down  by  a 
rope.  Generally,  you  so  tie  your  hitch 
that  it  makes  a  perfect  rope  diamond 


Crossing  the  White  River,  Arizona. 


After  you  have  become  acquainted 
with  the  burro  you  turn  to  the  horse. 
Nearly  everybody  rides  in  the  West. 
Boys  have  their  saddle  horses,  which 
they  ride  to  school;  cow-punchers 
keep  sometimes  six  apiece  when  they 
are  rounding  up  cattle,  and  trappers, 
hunters  and  many  other  travelers  use 
nothing  but  horses  or  ponies  when 
they  make  long  journeys  across  the 
desert  or  amidst  the  mountains.  If 
you  use  a  great  many  horses  for  your 
outfit  in  carrying  your  food  and  neces- 
sary impediamenta,  it  is  spoken  of  as 


on  top  of  the  pack;  then  you  are  said 
to  be  throwing  the  diamond  hitch.  A 
simpler  hitch,  and  one  which  works 
better  when  you  tie  your  sleeping  bags 
on  the  back  of  your  pack  pony  without 
the  use  of  a  saddle,  is  one  that  is 
known  as  the  lone  squaw  hitch. 

Besides  the  use  of  the  burros  and 
horses  for  packing  across  country,  of 
course  there  is  the  regular  freighter's 
outfit.  He  generally  uses,  on  account 
of  the  bad  roads,  four  to  six  teams  of 
horses  or  mules,  particularly  if  he  is 
traveling  a  long  distance.  But  since 


Delighted  Navajo  Indians  watching  a  chicken  pull  in  Arizona. 


Arizona  has  recently  become  a  State, 
there  is  a  great  agitation  underfoot  to 
hurry  up  building  good  roads.  Already 
the  country  has  been  surveyed  for  two 
roads,  each  of  five  hundred  miles  in 
length.  One  will  run  east  and  west, 
the  other  north  and  south.  The  work 
on  the  roads  is  progressing  rapidly. 


At  the  present  time,  on  account  of 
the  bad  roads  in  many  regions,  any- 
body who  travels  for  a  long  distance 
by  automobile  is  liable  to  get  into 
serious  difficulty.  Not  long  ago  an  au- 
tomobile broke  down  in  the  vicinity  of 
the  Painted  Desert  that  was  being 
used  to  go  from  Falstaff  to  Lee's  Ferry 


A   freighting  outfit  at  Roosevelt  reservoir,  Arizona. 


I 


Petrified  trees. 


on  the -Little  Colorado.  The  automo- 
mile  broke  down  away  out  on  the  des- 
ert, and  had  to  be  hauled  to  town  by 
several  yoke  of  oxen. 

Another  chauffeur  went  out  to  the 
Snake  Dance  at  Hopiland  in  northern 
Arizona  last  summer,  but  had  many 
mishaps  going  and  coming.  Several 
times  Indians  had  to  be  employed  to 
get  the  automobile  out  of  Desert 
Washes  and  from  the  quicksand  of 
the  Little  Colorad9  near  Winslow. 

The  white  canvass-topped  "prairie 
schooner"  is  quickly  becoming  a  thing 


of  the  past  since  the  advent  of  rail- 
roads, but  occasionally  one  meets  one 
traveling  across  Arizona.  But  not- 
withstanding the  new  roads  that  are 
being  built,  the  country  is  so  vast  and 
much  of  it  is  so  rough  that  the  day  of 
the  burro  and  the  pack  outfit  with 
horses  and  ponies  will  never  be  over. 
For  aeqns  to  come,  the  Arizona  "night- 
ingale" will  be  able  to  set  up  his  in- 
fernal braying  when  the  huge,  mis- 
shapen Arizona  moon  rises  in  the  sky. 
He  and  the  coyotes  will  still  blend  in 
choru?. 


, 


Eastern  boys  of  the  Evans'  school  at  Mesa,  Arizona,  touring  through  the  desert. 


Pearl  (abalone)  divers  at  work,  San  Miguel  Island,  California. 


Steaks  and  Pearls  from  the  Abalone 


By  C  L.  Edholm 


A  DELICACY  from  the  sea, 
which  Americans  on  the  Paci- 
fic Coast  are  just  beginning  to 
appreciate  is  the  abalone,  a 
mollusk  which  grows  to  the  size  of  ten 
inches  or  more  in  diameter,  within  a 
beautiful  iridescent  shell.  It  is  by 
this  shell  that  the  abalone,  or  Halio- 
tis,  is  known  to  tourists  in  California, 
as  thousands  of  the  pretty  souvenirs 
are  bought  either  in  their  natural  state 
or  highly  polished,  while  tons  of  them 
are  made  into  jewelry  and  nick-nacks 
every  year  and  shipped  all  over  the 
world.  But  the  Chinese  and  Japanese 
have  always  regarded  the  mollusk  it- 
self as  a  great  delicacy,  and  in  those 
countries  the  price  of  90  cents  a  pound 
is  paid  for  the  dried  meat. 


As  this  is  a  very  tempting  price, 
there  has  been  considerable  activity 
among  the  Oriental  fishermen  along 
the  California  coast,  who  secure  many 
tons  of  them  annually,  and  prepare 
them  for  market  by  a  long  and  compli- 
cated process.  They  are  removed  from 
the  shells,  salted  for  several  days, 
thoroughly  cooked  in  boiling  water 
and  dried  in  the  sun.  After  they  have 
been  well  dried  they  are  again  cooked, 
smoked  for  twenty-four  hours,  given 
a  third  boiling  and  once  more  set  out 
on  trays  to  dry,  this  time  for  a  period 
of  six  weeks.  They  are  then  given  a 
final  bath  to  remove  any  dirt  that  may 
have  accumulated,  and  are  ready  to 
ship  to  the  Orient  or  to  retail  in  the 
queer  little  stores  of  the  Chinese  quar- 


Tons  of  abalones  are  sun-dried  and  cured  for  market  here. 


ters  of  our  own  cities.  They  can  be 
seen  there,  exhibited  in  little  glass 
jars,  brown  and  uncanny  looking  ar- 
ticles, which  are  apparently  as  tough 
as  sole  leather,  but  they  are  very 
highly  prized  as  a  toothsome  morsel. 

A  few  restaurants  on  the  Pacific 
Coast  have  undertaken  to  serve  this 
shell  fish  to  American  patrons,  but  the 
method  of  preparing  it  is  far  less  com- 
plicated, and  the  results  are  so  much 
more  appetizing  that  the  public  may 
become  educated  up  to  placing  the 
abalone  on  the  menu  within  a  few 
years.  An  excellent  way  of  serving  it 
is  to  make  it  into  a  chowder,  just  as 
clams  are  prepared,  while  another 
method  is  to  slice  it  very  thin,  pound 
until  tender,  and  fry  like  a  steak.  It 
is  understood  that  the  fresh  abalone 
is  used  for  this  purpose,  and  not  the 
dried  product.  Served  in  either  style, 
it  is  a  most  delicious  addition  to  our 
bill  of  fare,  besides  being  as  whole- 
some as  any  other  shell  fish. 

When  the  American  public  demands 


this  new  food,  it  will  greatly  increase 
the  industry  on  the  coast,  and  take  it  to 
a  great  extent  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
Japanese  and  Chinese. 

The  latter  have  been  in  the  habit 
of  gathering  the  mollusks  from  the 
rocks  to  which  they  cling,  venturing 
out  as  far  as  possible  at  low  tide,  and 
prying  the  shells  from  the  rock  with 
a  chisel.  It  sometimes  happens  that 
a  Chinese  fisherman  is  not  as  cautious 
as  usual,  and  a  number  of  cases  have 
been  reported  of  the  careless  abalone 
gatherer  inserting  his  fingers  between 
the  edge  of  the  shell  and  the  rock.  Im- 
mediately the  mollusk  would  close 
down  hard  upon  his  hand  and  hold 
him  with  such  a  tremendous  grip  that 
no  escape  was  possible,  and  he  was 
caught  and  drowned  by  the  incoming 
tide.  There  is  nothing  impossible  in 
this  story,  as  a  ten-inch  abalone  has  a 
tremendous  muscle  which  attaches  to 
the  rock  by  suction,  and  a  man  who  is 
caught  thus  could  not  release  himself 
without  tools. 


Japanese  abalone  fishing  camp  at  White's  Point,  California. 


The  Japanese  are  more  enterprising 
and  go  out  in  launches,  carrying  divers 
equipped  with  diving  suits.  In  these 
they  descend  to  the  rocky  bottom  of 
the  sea,  where  it  has  a  depth  of  from 
forty  to  sixty  feet.  Here  the  aba- 
lones  may  be  found  in  such  quantities 
that  they  cover  the  recks  in  layers  five 
or  six  deep,  the  upper  one  clinging  to 
the  shell  of  the  one  below.  It  is  only 
a  few  moments'  work  for  a  diver  to 
secure  a  net  full  of  about  fifty  abalones 
— and  the  launches  return  well  laden 
to  the  camp,  where  the  mollusks  are 
prepared  for  market. 

Outfits'  which  do  not  include  the  div- 
ing suit  work  in  about  twenty  feet  of 
water,  and  skillful  swimmers  are  em- 
ployed. Their  eyes  are  protected  with 
glasses  and  their  ears  are  stuffed  with 
cotton,  and,  provided  with  nothing  but 
a  chisel  to  loosen  the  shell,  they  will 
stay  under  water  for  a  couple  of  min- 
utes and  bring  up  as  many  abalones 
as  they  can  carry. 


This  work  is  not  unattended  by  dan- 
ger, for  although  they  are  perfectly  at 
home  in  the  water,  the  divers  are 
likely  to  be  attacked  by  monsters  of 
the  sea.  In  fact,  in  January  this  year, 
a  giant  octopus  wrapped  its  tentacles 
about  an  abalone  diver  near  Monterey. 
Fortunately,  this  Japanese  was  work- 
ing in  a  diving  suit,  otherwise  he  would 
not  have  had  a  chance  for  his  life,  and, 
even  as  it  was,  it  required  half  an  hour 
of  desperate  fighting  to  get  him  back 
into  the  boat  and  cut  away  the  arms 
with  their  myriad  suckers.  The  "devil 
fish"  was  one  of  the  largest  ever 
caught  on  the  coast,  having  a  weight 
of  more  than  two  hundred  pounds. 

Besides  the  value  of  its  shell  and 
meat,  the  abalone  is  sought  for  its 
pearls  and  protuberances  on  the  inner 
surfaces  of  the  shell,  known  as  blister 
pearls.  These  are  as  beautiful  as  the 
pearls  themselves,  and  command  a 
good  price  in  the  market.  It  is  stated 
by  scientists  that  the  blister  is  pro- 


386 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


duced  by  the  mollusk  as  a  protection 
against  the  Pholas,  an  enemy  of  the 
abalone  which  fastens  upon  the  outer 
surface  of  the  shell  and  proceeds  to 
bore  into  it.  In  order  to  keep  the  Pho- 
las from  penetrating  its  shell,  the  aba- 
lone  secretes  layer  after  layer  of 
pearly  matter  which  forms  •  quite  a 
large  button. 

Attempts  are  now  being  made  to 
produce  these  blister  pearls  artificially 
at  the  biological  station,  which  forms 
a  department  of  the  University  of 
Southern  California.  The  large  aqua- 
rium and  breakwater  at  Venice,  Cali- 
fornia, are  used  *by  the  university  for 
this  purpose,  and  a  thirty-five  foot 
launch,  with  a  16  h.  p.  engine,  has  been 
built  and  equipped  for  marine  biologi- 
cal study,  being  utilized  to  transport 
the  abaiones  from  San  Clemente  Island 
to  the  breakwater.  Here  they  are 
planted  on  the  rocks  and  carefully 
studied  so  as  to  learn  their  habits  and 
mode  of  breeding.  A  large  box  made 
of  concrete  and  covered  with  wire  net- 
ting has  been  set  in  the  sea  along  the 
breakwater,  and  this  can  be  raised 
with  block  and  tackle  whenever  it  is 
desirable  to  inspect  some  of  the  speci- 
mens which  have  been  placed  in  it. 
The  commercial  possibilities  will  be 
carefully  investigated  so  that  the  study 
may  result  in  placing  the  abalone  in- 
dustry on  a  scientific  basis. 

Dr.  C.  L.  Edwards,  of  the  Univer- 
sity of  Southern  California  is  in  charge 
of  this  station,  and  his  theory  of  pro- 
ducing the  artificial  blister  pearls  is 
that  if  the  work  of  the  Pholas  is  done 


by  man,  the  abalone  will  respond  in 
the  same  way  by  thickening  its  shell 
with  the  layers  that  produce  the 
blister. 

It  has  been  observed  that  the  Pho- 
las secretes  sulphuric  acid,  converting 
the  carbonate  of  lime  in  the  shell  into 
a  sulphate  and  softening  it.  The 
Pholas  then  proceeds  to  bore  its  way 
into  the  affected  part  of  the  shell.  Pro- 
fessor Edwards  intends  to  perform  the 
same  operation  by  means  of  instru- 
ments of  his  own  invention,  but  when 
work  is  done  artificially,  the  results 
will  be  more  uniform  and  accurate, 
and  the  production  of  "Pholas  pearls" 
can  be  more  regularly  estimated. 

A  private  company  has  been  en- 
gaged in  producing  abalone  pearls  by 
inserting  foreign  matter  under  the 
shells,  about  which  the  mollusk  builds 
the  jewel  in  iridescent  layers.  This 
company  alone  has  exported  sixty 
tons  of  shells  per  annum  to  be  made 
into  jewelry  and  souvenirs. 

One  of  the  most  valuable  features  of 
the  studies  which  Dr.  Edwards  is  mak- 
ing of  the  mollusk  is  that  the  rate  and 
time  of  reproduction  will  be  deter- 
mined, thus  making  it  possible  to  pass 
adequate  laws  for  their  protection. 
Within  the  last  few  months  rather 
stringent  regulations  have  been  made 
limiting  the  catch,  as  it  was  feared 
that  the  Japanese  fishermen  would  ex- 
terminate the  abalone.  Those  who  are 
engaged  in  the  business  claim  that 
there  is  no  such  danger,  and  it  is  be- 
lieved that  scientific  observation  will 
determine  the  necessity -for  such  laws. 


A    Self-Supporting    Children's    Home 


By  Monroe  Woolley 


THE     LITTLE     town     of     Des 
Moines,   Washington,    situated 
on  an  ideal  spot  near  Tacoma, 
on   Puget  Sound,     is     distin- 
guished for  a  peculiar  thing.    Perhaps 
no  other  community,  large  or  small,  in 
the  country  can  boast  of  a     similar 
form  of  notoriety.    Des  Moines  has  no 
shouting  suffragettes,  no  political  in- 
surgents, no     dynamiters.     But     Des 
Moines  has  something     really     com- 
mendable in  a  self-supporting  child- 
ren's home. 

Whoever  heard  of  an  institution  just 
like  this,  or  at  most  a  domicile  self 
supporting  in  the  particular  manner 
this  one  is?  Moreover,  who  ever 
heard  of  tots  from  four  to  fifteen  toil- 
ing to  support  themselves?  No,  not 
toiling,  for  that  gives  an  erroneous  im- 
pression, but  playing  to  live — for  these 
youngsters  find  fun,  scads  of  it,  while 
fighting  for  an  existence. 

"Self-raised  children"  is  the  motto 
at  the  Des  Moines  abode.  And  the 
person  that  hints  that  the  place  is  an 
"orphanage"  ,is  much  liable  to  meet 
with  a  controversy  developed  by  a 
horde  of  hostile  juveniles  that  would 
scare  an  ardent  conservationist  into  an 
opposite  strain  of  thought,  or  into 
penitent  silence. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  H.  M.  Draper,  the  ori- 
ginators and  supporters  of  the  institu- 
tion, as  well  as  the  "kiddies"  under 
their  kindly  care,  hotly  resent  the  ap- 
plication of  the  word  "orphan"  in  con- 
nection with  their  undertaking.  They 
are  justified  in  this  attitude.  There 
isri't  a  full-fledged  orphan  child  in  the 
entire  flock  of  twenty-seven  boys  and 
girls.  The  fact  is,  that  much  the  con- 
trary condition  obtains  in  several  in- 
stances. 


One  little  fellow  has  the  unusual 
distinction  of  having  four  parents,  two 
mothers  and  two  fathers.  This  may 
seem  strange  on  the  face  of  the  as- 
sertion, but  your  knowledge  of  our  lax 
divorce  and  re-marriage  laws  will 
quickly  aid  you  in  solving  the  problem. 
No  doubt  the  answer  will  present  it- 
self simultaneously  with  the  reading. 

Still  another  child,  a  girl  having  re- 
markable vocal  ability,  underwent  the 
shocking  tragedy  of  seeing  her  mother 
murdered  by  a  burly  negro  in  their 
hovel  of  a  home,  while  she  herself, 
then  scarcely  more  than  ten,  fought 
heroically  to  save  herself  and  a 
younger  sister.  Both  are  now  in  the 
Home,  learning  daily  how  best  to  bat- 
tle with  a  stern  world. 

Of  course,  both  these  are  extreme 
cases,  perhaps  the  most  revolting  of 
all  the  life  stories  of  the  little  inmates. 
They  stand  in  sharp  contrast  to  the 
three  or  four  children  who  have  been 
placed  in  the  institution  by  parents 
who  are  willing  to  pay  to  keep  their 
offspring  there  to  receive  training. 
That  within  itself  is  a  pretty  compli- 
ment to  the  integrity  of  Father  and 
Mother  Draper,  as  well  as  proof  of 
the  merits  of  their  system  of  child- 
rearing. 

Those  of  us  who  read  our  dailies 
faithfully  are  constantly  reminded  of 
the  terrible  cruelty  practiced  by  grown- 
ups upon  little  children.  Yesterday, 
a  mother  yielding  to  base  desires, 
abandoned  her  brood,  leaving  behind 
her  whimpering  babes  and  a  sobbing 
husband.  To-day,  a  drunken  father, 
loosing  the  demons  brewed  from 
stimulants,  permits  them  to  slay  the 
mother  of  his  offspring.  To-morrow  a 
divorce  suit — or  a  young  girl  flushing 


388 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


in  the  torture  of  an  indiscreet  attach- 
ment, heartlessly  abandons  her  unwel- 
come flesh  and  blood  on  the  street. 
Thus  there  is  no  end  to  the  circum- 
stances ending  in  the  casting  of  tiny, 
helpless  derelicts  upon  life's  stormy 
seas.  No  doubt  but  what  many  of  us 
have  grown  callous  in  reading  of  these 
instances,  as  they  appear  singly  or  in 
groups  from  day  to  day.  Then,  again, 
many  a  sad  story  of  a  kindred  nature 
fails  to  get  into  print,  an  omission 
which  cannot  be  charged  to  the  inac- 
tivity of  a  scandal-crazed  press.  At 
best  a  pang  of  regret  at  our  own  help- 
lessness in  aiding  to  correct  the  evils 
of  uncongenial  unions  between  men 
and  women  may  be  the  extent  of  our 
sympathy.  But  when  one  goes  to  Des 
Moines  and  is  confronted  face  to  face, 
so  to  speak,  with  the  stirring  life-his- 
tory of  a  score  or  more  innocent  little 
waifs,  all  told  in  "one  pitiable  vol- 
ume," the  frightful  cruelty  of  the 
human  race,  in  an  allegedly  civilized 
era,  is  brought  mighty  forcefully 
home  to  us.  It  may  make  one  flush  to 
realize  that  this  is  a  disgraceful  con- 
dition not  met  with  among  the  most 
savage  tribes  of  the  earth. 

It  is  one  thing  to  establish  a  child- 
ren's home,  and  quite  another  thing  to 
maintain  it.  This  is  an  easy  conclu- 
sion, but  one  not  so  easily  surmounted. 
In  the  usual  orphan's  home,  support  is 
generally  had  from  the  State  or  the 
county,  and  not  infrequently  from  pri- 
vate donations.  In  this  way,  much  of 
the  surplus  wealth  of  one-half  the 
world  is  turned  back  onto  the  barren 
soil  of  the  other  half.  Perhaps  the 
time  when  the  State  and  organized 
charity  will  be  able  to  care  for  all  un- 
fortunate children  is  a  long  way  off. 
In  any  event,  it  will  be  a  much  longer 
time  before  such  public  institutions  at- 
tain the  good  results  the  little  Home 
at  Des  Moines  is  credited  with. 

Too  many  parents,  in  fact  the  ma- 
jority, wholly  unfit  their  children,  in 
their  system  of  rearing  them,  for  the 
demands  an  exacting  world  is  bound 
to  make  in  after  life.  Herein  in  many 
ways  our  elaborate  educational  system 
is  at  fault.  But  this  is  the  very  thing 


that  is  avoided  at  Des  Moines,  the 
reason  that  the  word  "charity"  is  re- 
garded as  an  unclean  term.  Father  and 
Mother  Draper  would  not  for  a  world 
of  wealth  have  their  little  charges  be- 
lieve they  are  dependent  upon  charity, 
or  any  one  else  for  that  matter,  for 
food  and  clothing,  and  the  other  good 
things  of  life. 

This  estimable  couple  has  discov- 
ered a  way  to  make  children  work, 
and  to  make  them  think  it  is  purely 
play  in  the  doing  of  it.  Foundlings, 
victims  of  awful  circumstance,  little 
pilgrims  in  a  stern  world  that  made 
little,  if  any,  provision  for  their  com- 
ing, these  little  hopefuls  are  proud, 
even  jealous,  of  the  knowledge  that 
they  are  working  their  own  passage 
on  life's  rocky  highway. 

In  the  little  field  surrounding  the 
commodious  Home,  the  infantile  band 
toils  in  the  gardens  to  raise  food  when 
it  is  not  getting  an  education  in  travel 
in  touring  the  State,  much  after  the 
fashion  of  the  old-time  road  show,  giv- 
ing jolly  entertainments  for  a  share 
of  the  currency  of  the  realm.  The 
time  for  study,  for  work,  and  for  play 
is  about  equally  divided,  and  the  little 
tots  are  adepts  in  all  these  things,  more 
particularly  at  play.  Play  is  a  thing 
most  older  heads  give  up  with  advan- 
cing years.  If  grown-ups  could  find 
time  to  alternate  between  work  and 
play,  as  these  little  folks  do,  they 
might  have  less  desire  to  resort  to 
revels  in  vice  and  crime. 

Mr.  Draper,  being  a  printer  by  trade, 
ha?  found  the  little  printing  plant  in 
the  Home  to  be  of  inestimable  value 
as  a  dollar-maker  and  as  a  means  of 
teaching  his  proteges.  Both  man  and 
wife,  happily  united  in  their  noble 
work,  are  finished  musicians  in  brass 
and  string  instruments.  They  have, 
in  addition,  a  good  knowledge  of  voice 
culture,  elocution  and  dancing,  so  that 
each  child  plays  in  the  band,  a  veri- 
table Brownie  band  at  that,  and  can 
do  a  creditable  turn  on  the  stage. 

Mr.  Draper  has  four  boys,  ranging 
from  eight  to  ten  years,  playing  slide 
trombones,  a  remarkable  achievement 
when  the  difficult  nature  of  playing 


A   SELF-SUPPORTING   CHILDREN'S   HOME. 


389 


these  instruments  is  considered.  In 
the  street  parades,  this  juvenile  bat- 
tery of  slides  reminds  one  of  a  noisy 
minstrel  band  swaggering  to  the  step 
of  a  quick  march  up  the  thoroughfare. 
And  noise  isn't  all  the  boys  make.  On 
the  concert  stage  they  do  work  on  a 
par  with  many  older  players.  Some- 
day one  or  more  of  them  may  follow 
in  the  footsteps  of  the  famous  Arthur 
Pryor. 

One  of  the  little  girls — it's  not  fair  to 
mention  names — whose  mother  for- 
sook her  at  a  tender  age,  is  receiving 
praise  everywhere  she  appears  as  a 
solo  cornetist.  Her  preceptor  is  of  the 
opinion  that  she  will  some  day  become 
an  accomplished  virtuoso.  In  this  lit- 
tle waif's  older  sister  the  Home  has  a 
"general  utility  artist,"  one  that  plays 
in  the  band,  dances,  sings  and  recites. 
When  occasion  demands,  she  is  always 
ready,  willing  and  able  to  take  the 
part  of  any  of  her  colleagues.  Besides 
her  school  studies  and  her  regular 
work  in  the  Home  and  on  the  road,  this 
little  girl,  blessed  with  a  doll's  face,  is 
taking  up  the  piano  and  the  mando- 
lin. Perhaps  the  professional  stage 
nowhere  holds  a  more  promising  re- 
cruit. 

"Every  one  of  our  little  ones  is 
useful,"  proudly  asserts  Mother  Dra- 
per, herself  the  mother  of  a  talented 
daughter  in  the  Home.  "Every  blessed 
one  is  a  producer.  All  the  children 
take  what  is  necessary  for  their  wel- 
fare with  the  self-assurance  of  those 
who  have  earned  their  share  of  life's 
best  rewards." 

The  story  of  the  establishment  of 
this  little  Home  is  interesting.  But 
it  is  not  nearly  so  gratifying,  espec- 
ially to  the  founders,  as  the  success 
which  is  crowning  the  efforts  of  the 
venerable  promoters.  The  experi- 
ment should  serve  as  a  fine  example 
for  other  localities  and  to  persons  in- 
clined to  this  line  of  work.  It  is  best 
told  in  Mr.  Draper's  own  words: 

"I  was  the  superintendent  of  the 
Michigan  Home  Finding  Association 
for  several  years,  and  during  my  in- 
cumbency," he  enthusiastically  says, 
"I  arrived  at  certain  conclusions  which 


I  could  not  put  into  effect  under  the 
rules  of  the  institution.  I  made  up 
my  mind  to  come  west  to  start  a  little 
co-operative  commonwealth  on  the 
Sound,  where  small  Washington  way- 
farers might  find  not  only  a  home,  but 
also  a  way  to  make  themselves  valu- 
able to  themselves  and  to  society.  I 
brought  six  youngsters  along  with  me, 
including  my  own  children.  We  gave 
entertainments  along  the  way.  Thus, 
all  of  us  have  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  each  worked  iiis  or  her 
own  way  to  the  promised  land.  Des 
Moines,  located  away  from  the  lures 
and  traps  of  the  city,  and  still  within 
reach  of  several  metropoli,  seemed  at 
once  an  ideal  location.  Band  instru- 
ments were  bought,  rehearsals  begun, 
and  lessons  in  singing,  dancing  and 
public  reading*  were  started.  These 
were  to  be  the  channels  for  diverting 
some  of  the  wealth  of  the  outside 
world  into  the  community.  Within 
our  Home  everybody  helps  every  one 
else.  Housework,  simple  gardening, 
and  the  cultivation  of  a  social  instinct 
which  sees  the  needs  of  others  and 
offers  cheery  aid,  are  the  domestic 
studies  ceaselessly  pursued.  Whole- 
some food,  warm  clothing,  comfortable 
beds  and  clean  quarters,  plenty  of 
sleep  and  air  and  play,  with  a  good 
season  of  work,  combine  to  make  every 
member  a  self-respecting,  responsible, 
level-headed,  and — best  of  all — level- 
eyed,  as  shown  by  the  independent 
look  of  equality  with  which  our  child- 
ren approach  the  world  when  they  give 
to  it  the  very  best  of  what  they  have 
in  return  for  what  they  actually  need." 
That  these  youngsters  like  fun  as 
well  as  other  juveniles  is  indicative 
of  their  actions  while  on  tour  in  the 
summer  season  and  during  the  holi- 
days. They  are  ever  anxious  to  romp 
and  play  with  the  children  they  meet 
in  the  towns  and  cities,  and  the  dollies 
and  trinkets  must  go  with  them  on 
their  "little  journeys."  At  most,  every 
performance  Mr.  Draper  takes  a  part 
with  two  or  three  of  the  older  boys  in 
a  rollicking,  rough-and-tumble  farce- 
comedy.  It  is  then  that  the  tiniest 
tots,  tickled  at  the  sight  of  their  older 


390 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


confreres  behind  coats  of  ludicrously 
applied  grease  paint  to  help  them  in 
their  laughable  clowning,  are  glad  to 
hustle  out  in  front  of  the  stage  to  clap 
their  chubby  hands  and  snicker  with 
glee  at  the  comical  antics  of  the  ac- 
tors, along  with  the  audience.  But 
when  the  troupe  hears  Mother  Dra- 
per's whistle,  they  come  hurtling  to 
cover  in  hasty  obedience  to  the  call 
of  the  mother,  much  as  young  chicks 
dash  for  protection  from  the  weather 
beneath  the  wing  of  the  clucking  hen. 
That  warning  whistle,  which  has  a 
wonderfully  effective  way  of  rounding 
up  the  scattered  children,  has  kept 
them  from  missing  many  a  train  and 
steamer  while  traveling. 

Out  of  Australia  comes  each  year 
the  greatest  juvenile  artists  the  world 
has  ever  known.  Pollard's  Lillipu- 
tians number  at  times  nearly  one  hun- 
dred children,  boys  and  girls.  They  go 
to  Manila,  to  Hongkong,  to  Calcutta 
and  to  the  military  garrisons  in  the 
interior  of  India  and  along  the  Suez, 
thence  to  London,  New  York,  Chicago, 
San  Francisco  and  home  again.  They 
are  annual  globe  trotters.  This  talented 
company,  appearing  in  week  stands  at 
times  with  a  change  of  program  night- 
ly in  such  difficult  pieces  as  The  Belle 
of  New  York,  The  Runaway  Girl,  The 


Mikado,  and  similar  plays,  with  tots 
from  eight  to  ten'  only  in  the  leading 
roles,  appears  in  the  finest  theatres  at 
top-notch  prices. 

But  the  Lilliputians  are  selected 
from  all  over  Australia,  many  of  them 
from  the  best  of  families,  for  this  par- 
ticular business,  and  nearly  all  their 
training  is,  of  course,  along  histrionic 
or  operatic  lines. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Draper  dislike  to  have 
their  small  band  referred  to  in  con- 
nection with  the  Pollard  company. 

"In  the  first  place  we  have  scarcely 
a  fourth  the  number  of  children,  nor 
are  our  children  picked.  We  go  to  the 
gutter  almost  for  much  of  our  material. 
We  take  them  as  providence  sends 
them,  and  make  of  them  what  we  can. 
Furthermore,  we  have  no  capital  back 
of  us  in  our  work  It  is  not  our  desire 
or  aim  to  make  great  artists  of  the 
children,  nor  to  urge  them  to  follow 
the  stage  in  after  life.  'The  entertain- 
ments are  a  means  to  an  end.  That 
end  is  to  make  real  men  and  real  wo- 
men of  our  charges.  Some  of  the 
children  may  fall  short  of  the  mark. 
But  there  is  no  indication  of  failure 
in  a  single  individual  now.  Anyway, 
if  failure  should  come  in  later  life  it 
will  not  be  because  of  a  start  in  the 
wrong  direction." 


"  INDIAN-GIVER  " 


'Twas  thus  I  taunted  Summer,  and  'twas  thus 

She  answered:  "I  but  take  mine  own. 

Riot  of  color,  music  that  mocks  the  tone 

Of  man's  endeavor.    All-harmonious 

Fruition  and  fulfillment.     Day's  divine 

Largesse,  and  th'e  palpitant  night, 

Steeped  in  eternal  mystery,  and  bright 

With  nomad  meteors.    Look  you,  these  were  mine! 

And  mine  that  dearer  presence,  summer-souled, 

And  summer-hearted.    I  would  not  have  her  stay 

For  autumn's  vagaries,  and  the  niggard  day 

Of  that  hard  usurer,  winter.    She  doth  hold 

June's  roses  in  her  hands.    Your  heart  is  lone  ? 

Hers  has  forgotten,  and  I  keep  mine  own. 


ELEANOR  DUNCAN  WOOD. 


AFTER  FOUR  YEARS 


By  /Aabel  Vilas 


IT  WAS  with  a  sense  of  anxious  an- 
ticipation that  I  left  the  train,  and 
climbed  into  the  lumbering  old 
stage.  I  had  been  away  four  long 
years,  and  many  things  had  happened. 

First  of  all,  Jim  had  begged  me  to 
be  his  wife,  and  I  had  refused  him, 
telling  him,  in  my  self  sufficiency  that 
I  was  going  to  become  a  great  artist, 
and  that  my  work  must  come  before 
everything. 

Then  I  had  gone  to  faraway  Paris, 
where  for  nearly  a  year  I  had  worked 
at  my  drawing,  undisturbed  and  ab- 
sorbed. Then,  like  a  paralytic  stroke, 
came  the  horrible  news  of  the  earth- 
quake and  fire  in  my  beloved  home 
city.  As  I  sat  in  my  little  room,  help- 
lessly clutching  the  newspapers  with 
its  pitifully  few  details,  how  I  longed 
to  be  back  in  San  Francisco,  in  the 
fire  and  tumult  and  ruins,  to  help  my 
people — and  Jim.  I  felt  suddenly 
very  lonely,  my  work  seemed  paltry 
and  small,  and  I  wanted  Jim — oh,  how 
I  wanted  him.  In  that  one  flashing 
moment  I  knew  that  I  loved  him. 

When,  after  nearly  a  week  of 
agonized  waiting,  I  knew  that  he  was 
safe,  my  foolish  pride  made  me  re- 
solve he  should  never  know  my  feel- 
ing toward  him  had  changed.  So  I 
went  on  doggedly  working,  living, 
then,  not  for  art,  but  for  his  rare  studi- 
ously friendly  letters. 

Thus  the  years  had  dragged  by,  and 
I  had  come  back,  a  fairly  successful 
artist,  to  the  fire-washed  city,  now 
rising  surely,  steadily,  and  beautifully 
from  its  ruins. 

After  having  been  home  several 
weeks,  I  had  an  overpowing  longing 
to  soothe  my  tired  nerves  with  the  lull 
of  the  sea,  so  I  decided  to  go  for  a 


fortnight  to  this  old  retreat  of  mine 
near  Bolinas,  which  appealed  to  me 
particularly  now,  for  I  knew  Jim  too 
had  loved  it. 

It  was  the  last  of  April,  the  very 
prime  of  the  year,  and  the  stage  ride 
led  through  a  maze  of  beauty.  The 
air  was  sweet  with  the  scent  of  buck- 
eye and  laurel  blossoms,  and  as  we 
climbed  higher,  over  the  crest  of  the 
oak-covered  hills,  the  dark  blue  peak 
of  the  mountain  appeared,  like  a  sen- 
tinel of  all  the  county. 

Up  and  up  we  climbed,  through  the 
dense  shade  of  spicy  firs  and  sequoias, 
and  past  banks  of  exquisite  ferns  and 
wild  flowers.  We  reached  the  summit, 
and  there  burst  into  view  in  the  clear 
sunlight  the  glorious  panorama  of  the 
sloping  green  ridge,  filmed  with  the 
lavender  and  white  of  lilac  and  morn- 
ing glory,  and  the  sweep  of  the  intense 
blue  sea,  in  which  the  Farralones  hung 
like  magic  dream  rocks,  seeming  to 
belong  neither  to  water  nor  sky. 

In  another  hour  we  had  reached  the 
quaint  little  town.  The  stage  came 
to  a  stop  in  front  of  the  post-office, 
and  a  pink-faced  youth  came  out  lei- 
surely to  receive  the  mail  bag.  On 
seeing  me,  his  face  broadened  in  a 
slow  smile.  "Well !  Howdy  do,  Miss 
Gray.  Haven't  seen  you  over  here  for 
a  long  time,"  he  drawled  in  a  pleasant 
voice. 

"How  do  you  do,  Francis,"  I  replied. 
"Indeed  it  is.  a  long  time,  and  I'm  so 
glad  to  be  back." 

"You'll  find  things  'bout  the  same, 
I  guess,"  he  said,  as  the  stage  started. 
I  nodded. 

"Where  you     goin'?"     the     driver 
asked  me. 
-"To  Mrs.  Jennings." 


392 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY 


We  turned  into  the  avenue  leading 
to  the  beach,  and  I  gazed  with  delight 
on  the  neat  cottages,  with  their  sweet, 
old-fashioned  gardens. 

We  drew  up  at  the  boarding  house 
I  knew  so  well.  It  was  immaculate  in 
a  fresh  coat  of  white  paint  and  green 
trimmings.  My  first  greeting  was  the 
intoxicating  breath  of  the  rose  hedge, 
my  second  was  from  Mrs.  Jennings 
herself,  who  came  to  the  gate  to  meet 
me.  Her  motherly  face  beamed,  and 
we  shook  hands  cordially. 

"Well,  Miss  Gray!!  Tis  good  to 
see  you  again.  Come  right  in,"  she 
said,  and  led  me  up  the  flower-bor- 
dered path  into  the  house,  and  directly 
upstairs. 

The  room  she  showed  me  into  would 
have  been  rather  depressing  save  for 
the  air  of  clean  freshness  about  it  all, 
and  the  sunshine  pouring  in  through 
the  cheap  lace  curtains.  The  furniture 
was  heavy,  old-fashioned  black  wal- 
nut; there  were  ornately  embroidered 
tidies  on  all  the  chairs,  and  the  stiffly 
starched  pillow  shame  with  "Good- 
night" worked  on  them  in  vivid  blue 
did  not  exactly  invite  repose.  The 
walls  were  adorned  with  pictures  of 
colored  flower-wreaths  and  family 
crayon  portraits,  all  gazing  outward 
disconcertingly,  with  starry  eyes  and 
fixed  smiles.  But  what  did  it  matter 
— T  would  only  use  it  to  sleep  in,  after 
all. 

I  pulled  my  bathing  suit  out  of  my 
bag,  and  hurried  down  to  the  beach  to 
wash  away  dust  and  weariness  by  a 
swim  in  the  salty  exhilaration  of  the 
foaming  breakers. 

The  tide  was  low,  and  the  song  of 
the  sea  was  soft  and  distant.  Conse- 
quently I  lingered  long  on  the  sand, 
after  my  swim,  and  the  sun  was  sink- 
ing when  I  started  back  to  the  board- 
ing house.  I  found  Mrs.  Jennings  in 
the  garden  pulling  radishes.  She  stood 
up  as  I  came  in.  "Oh,  Miss  Gray," 
she  said,  "I  forgot  to  tell  you.  I've 
got  another  boarder — a  gentleman. 
And  as  you  said  you  hoped  I  wouldn't 
have  nobody,  'cause  you  wanted  to  be 
kind  of  quiet,  I  thought  I'd  give  you 
your  supper  first — at  sharp  six.  He 


always  comes  in  late,  anyway.  And 
then  I  thought  it  mightn't  be  quite 
proper  for  you  two  to  sit  alone,  either. 
He  has  an  early  breakfast,  and  I  put 
him  up  a  lunch,  and  off  he  goes,  I 
don't  know  where — out  on  the  bay  or 
up  on  the  mesa,  and  never  comes  in 
till  seven  o'clock.  So  I  don't  think 
he'll  bother  you  a  bit,  Miss  Gray." 

"Oh,  no;  I'm  sure  it  will  be  all 
right,"  I  replied  absently.  I  was  look- 
ing at  the  bunch  of  radishes  she  held 
in  her  hand;  they  were  so  long  and 
thin  that  I  could  not  help  exclaiming: 
"What  funny  radishes!  I've  never 
seen  any  but  short,  fat  ones  before." 

"Yes?"  she  replied.  "Well,  you 
see,  these  don't  take  up  so  much  room 
in  the  ground,  so  I  can  have  more  of 
'em." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  feeling  much  enlight- 
ened. 

"Did  you  know  we  had  city  plumb- 
ing now  ?"  she  asked  me. 

"Why,  yes;  I  heard  this  had  been 
made  a  sanitary  district.  I  suppose  I 
can  have  a  hot  bath  once  in  a  while 
then.  What  a  luxury." 

"Well,  I  tell  you,  Miss  Gray,  I  keep 
my  bathroom  locked  most  of  the  time, 
when  I  have  folks  here,  but  seein' 
you've  been  comin'  here  for  so  long, 
I'll  let  you  use  it  sometimes." 

I  gazed  at  her  in  blank  astonishment. 
"But,  Mrs.  Jennings,  why  not?  Think 
what  a  comfort  to  people,  after  the 
dusty  stage " 

"Miss  Gray,  you  don't  know.  They 
would  use  up  all  my  hot  water,  and  I 
wouldn't  have  a  bit  to  wash  the  dishes 
in.  Besides,  most  likely  people  takes 
a  good  hot  bath  before  they  come,  and 
they've  got  the  ocean  when  they  get 
here." 

It  was  not  worth  while  arguing  with 
her,  so  I  replied  that  I  would  be  most 
grateful  when  she  allowed  me  the 
privilege  of  her  bath  tub,  and  that  I 
would  endeavor  not  to  use  a  drop  more 
hot  water  than  was  necessary. 

Then  I  went  in  to  supper.  The  din- 
ing room  was  scrupulously  neat,  the 
food  delicious.  I  felt  I  could  have 
eaten  more  than  the  mathematically 
served  portions  she  gave  me,  but  I  re- 


AFTER  FOUR  YEARS. 


393 


fleeted  that  as  people  always  ate  more 
than  they  needed,  it  was,  perhaps,  just 
as  well. 

When  I  had  finished,  I  went  upstairs 
to  prepare  for  bed,  for  I  was  deli- 
ciously,  sleepily  tired. 

As  I  was  about  to  put  out  my  light, 
I  heard  footsteps,  then  a  knock,  and 
Mrs.  Jennings'  voice. 

"Come  in!"  I  called. 

"I  just  thought  I'd  come  and  see  if 
you'd  got  everything  you  wanted,"  she 
said,  as  she  entered. 

"Oh,  yes,  thank  you,  everything.  I 
was  so  tired  I  decided  to  go  straight  to 
bed." 

"Yes,  that's  good  for  you.  You've 
been  traveling,  ain't  you,  the  last  few 
years?" 

"I've  been  studying  in  Paris."  I 
didn't  feel  like  talking  about  myself, 
so  I  abruptly  changed  the  subject. 
"Are  you  expecting  many  boarders 
this  summer?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  yet.  It's  kind 
of  early,  you  see.  I  got  a  letter  last 
week  from  some  people  that  wanted 
to  come  the  middle  of  next  month,  for 
a  week.  But  I  ain't  decided  about  it. 
I  don't  know  as  I'm  ready.  I  haven't 
cleaned  house  yet,  and  there's  some 
children  in  the  party.  You  know,  I've 
been  thinkin'  that  children  eats  just 
as  much  as  grown  folks,  and  takes  up 
just  as  much  room  in  bed.  So  why 
should  I  take  'em  for  half?  Do  you 
s'pose  they'd  pay  whole  if  I  asked 
'em?" 

"Well,  you  can  only  try,"  I  replied. 

"They're  real  nice  people,"  she 
mused,  "but  my!  the  little  boy  does 
eat  a  lot!" 

"I  should  think,"  I  mildly  sug- 
gested, "it  would  be  just  as  well  to 
take  people  when  you  could  get  them, 
and  very  likely  you  could  make  satis- 
factory arrangements  with  them." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  slowly. 
"Children  do  track  in  a  lot  of  dirt, 
too." 

I  was  beginning  to  wonder  how  in 
the  world  I  could  get  rid  of  her,  when 
I  heard  a  heavy  tramp  on  the  porch 
below,  which  brought  Mrs.  Jennings 
to  her  feet.  "There's  my  other 


boarder.  I  must  get  him  some  sup- 
per. Gracious!  but  he's  late  to-night. 
I  do  wonder  what  he's  been  doin'. 
Would  you  believe  it,  one  night  when 
he  come  in  late,  I  asked  him  what  he'd 
been  doin',  and  what  d'you  think? 
Nothin'  but  settin'  out  on  that  cold, 
bare  reef,  watchin'  the  sun  go  down  in 
a  bank  of  fog.  Well,  good-night,  Miss 
Gray.  Pleasant  dreams." 

I  smiled  sadly  as  I  slipped  into  bed. 
I  was  thinking  how  Jim  would  have 
sat,  away  past  supper  time,  watching 
the  sunset  lights  on  a  fog  bank,  too. 

But  after  the  first  day — after  the 
first  enthusiasm  for  all  the  dear,  famil- 
iar places,  time  dragged,  and  a  silent 
dreariness  fell  over  everything.  The 
intangible  charm  of  it  all  seemed  to 
be  slipping  away  from  me.  Almost 
desperately  I  tried  to  hold  it,  but  there 
was  no  use.  When  I  walked  over  the 
wide,  turf-covered  mesa,  I  felt  a  shud- 
dering loneliness  in  spite  of  the  vio- 
lets and  buttercups  and  lilies  at  my 
feet,  the  glory  of  the  spring  sunshine 
overhead,  and  the  rich  blue  of  the  sea 
off  to  the  left.  When  I  tried  to  lose 
myself  in  the  former  fascination  of 
a  rock  pool  at  low  tide,  I  saw,  not  the 
great,  pale  green  sea  anemones,  but  a 
vision  of  my  own  lonely  life  stretching 
through  the  future  years. 

I  shuddered  and  jumped  to  my  feet. 
"This  is  foolishness,"  I  thought.  "I  will 
not  be  lonely — I  will  not.  I  will  go 
back  to  the  city  to  my  work — that  is 
what  I  need."  I  grit  my  teeth,  and 
stared  defiantly  out  toward  the  horizon 
where  the  sun  was  rapidly  sinking  be- 
hind a  bank  of  gray  fog.  In  spite  of 
myself  I  shuddered  again.  Then  I 
turned  and  walked  rapidly  toward  the 
boarding  house.  By  the  time  I  had 
reached  it,  I  had  decided  that  to-mor- 
row, my  week  being  up,  I  would  go 
home.  I  entered  the  front  door  just  in 
time  to  see  the  back  of  the  other  boar- 
der disappear  into  the  dining  room  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  dim  hall. 
Vaguely  I  thought  how  early  he  was 
going  in  to  supper;  then  Mrs.  Jennings 
appeared  hurriedly,  looking  worried. 

"Oh,  Miss  Gray,"  she  said,  "would 
you  mind  waiting  a  while  for  your 


394 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


supper  ?  He  wants  his  now,  so  he  can 
go  see  the  moon  set  or  the  sun  rise,  or 
somethin' — and  he's  so  nice  I  ain't  got 
the  heart  to  tell  him  no.  Would  you 
mind?" 

I  was  annoyed.  Why  should  my 
supper  have  to  be  changed  to  suit  this 
man's  convenience?  Mrs.  Jennings 
saw  by  my  expression  that  I  was  dis- 
pleased. "I  tell  you  what,  Miss  Gray," 
she  said,  appeasingly,  "I'll  bring  your 
supper  up  to  your  room." 

Then  I  smiled.  Of  course  it  wasn't 
the  other  boarder's  fault;  he  was  in 
perfect  ignorance  of  having  put  any- 
one out;  it  was  this  woman  with  her 
ridiculous  sense  of  propriety.  It 
seemed  suddenly  amusing.  "No,  you 
need  not  do  that,  Mrs.  Jennings," 
I  said.  "I'll  go  out  again  for  a  while. 
It's  really  too  lovely  to  come  in,  any- 
way." 

I  went  up  on  the  mesa  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  a  glorious  sunset,  and  found,  to 
my  disappointment,  that  the  sun  had 
disappeared  behind  a  great  black  fog 
bank,  with  no  promise  of  color.  But, 
hoping  for  an  after  glow,  I  went  on  to 
a  point  where  the  coast  turns  sharply 
northward.  Here  I  sat  down,  on  the 
edge  of  the  cliff,  and  gazed  into  the 
gray,  oily  water  at  my  feet. 

Suddenly  a  queer  sensation  passed 
over  me.  I  felt  Jim's  presence  near 
me  so  strongly  that  I  turned  sharply 
round.  But  there  was  no  one  in  sight. 
I  covered  my  face  with  my  hands.  "Oh, 
Jim,  Jim,"  I  moaned,  "why  did  I  let 
you  go !" 

I  raised  my  face  again.  The  fog- 
bank  was  beginning  to  crimson,  and 
with  the  color,  my  hopes  rose.  I  began 
to  consider  humbling  myself,  and  going 
to  him — telling  him  I  had  made  a  mis- 
take in  those  early,  foolish  years ;  that 
I  had  discovered  art  was  not  the  great- 
est thing  in  life.  Then  came  the  hor- 
rible thought  that  very  probably  he 
did  not  love  me  now.  Why  should  he  ? 
I  dug  my  fingers  into  the  turf,  and  a 
hard  lump  rose  in  my  throat.  The 
crimson  clouds  had  turned  to  a  dull, 


threatening  red,  and  the  sea  beneath 
was  black.  I  struggled  to  my  feet  and 
turned  blindly  toward  home.  Yes,  I 
would  go  back  to  the  city  to-morrow, 
and  I  would  go  to  him.  Anything — 
even  the  knowledge  that  he  no  longer 
cared,  would  be  better  than  suffering 
this  way. 

As  I  reached  the  top  of  a  bit  of  ris- 
ing ground,  I  saw  a  man's  figure  ap- 
proaching. I  bent  my  head,  and 
walked  quickly,  swerving  to  the  right 
to  avoid  him. 

Suddenly,  I  was  conscious  that  he 
was  coming  straight  up  to  me,  and 
instinctively  I  raised  my  head  to  look 
directly  into  the  steady,  sad  gray  eyes, 
and  white  face,  of  Jim. 

For  an  instant  the  world  reeled  and 
swayed  about  me;  then  turned  black. 
The  next  thing  I  knew,  a  pair  of  warm, 
strong  arms  were  about  me,  and  a  low, 
vibrant  voice  was  repeating:  "My  dar- 
ling! My  darling!" 

I  lifted  my  head  heavily,  and  looked 
into  his  eyes.  "You  do  still  love  me  ?" 
I  whispered. 

"Of  course.     And  you " 

"Oh,  I  love  you,  Jim,"  I  said,  sim- 
ply, dropping  my  head  again,  with  a 
weary  sigh  of  content. 

Suddenly  he  said:  "Look!"  and  I 
turned  to  see  that  the  dull,  threatening 
red  of  the  fogbank,  and  the  oily  black 
of  the  ocean  had  turned  to  burnished 
gold,  and  the  whole  mesa  was  bathed 
in  the  reflected  radiance.  In  this 
golden  light,  slowly  we  walked  back 
toward  the  town. 

"But  where  did  you  come  from?"  I 
suddenly  asked. 

"Why,  I  am  staying  at  Mrs.  Jen- 
nings'," he  replied. 

"You  are!  Then  you  are  the  other 
boarder!" 

"And  you  are  the  invalid  lady  who 
must  have  everything  very  quiet!" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  am."  And  we  both 
laughed.  Just  then  the  big,  full  moon 
pushed  her  round  face  over  the  ridge, 
and  laughed,  too,  as  she  flooded  the: 
world  with  her  silver  light. 


The    Revolt    of   Abner   Mowland 


By   Irene   Elliott  Benson 


ALTHOUGH  barely  fifty  years 
of  age,  Abner  Howland  ap- 
peared sixty  this  April  after- 
noon, so  worn  and  white  did 
he  look  as  he  paused  to  unlock  the 
door  of  his  flat. 

For  thirty  years  he  had  been  with 
the  firm  of  Martine  &  Sons,  wholesale 
importers  of  foreign  fruits  and  wines. 
The  Martines  of  his  boyhood  days  had 
passed  away:  younger  ones  had  taken 
their  places,  but  it  still  remained  Mar- 
tine  &  Sons. 

He  had  been  there  as  a  lad  of  fif- 
teen, receiving  five  dollars  a  week. 
Now  a  man  over  fifty,  with  a  salary  of 
twenty-six  hundred  a  year,  he  looked 
for  no  further  advance,  for  he  knew 
that  younger  blood  was  waiting  to  take 
his  place  at  any  moment.  Abner  was 
beloved  by  each  member  of  the  firm, 
for  they  recognized  not  only  his  sweet 
nature  and  integrity,  but  his  unfailing 
devotion  to  their  interests. 

Abner's  wife,  Christine  Howland, 
was  handsome  and  capable.  From  the 
first  of  their  married  life  she  had  re- 
ceived his  entire  stipend,  he  retaining 
enough  for  personal  needs  only. 

There  was  one  daughter,  Katherine : 
a  lovable,  bright  girl,  who  had  recent- 
ly graduated  from  college.  Inheriting 
her  mother's  taste  in  dress,  she  always 
appeared  stylish  and  up-to-date.  Mrs. 
Howland  took  delight  in  selecting  for 
her  the  smartest  gowns  and  hats  that, 
with  their  limited  income,  she  could 
purchase,  remarking  that  it  paid  to  get 
them  for  Katherine,  as  she  always 
showed  the  Van  Buren  blood. 

Mrs.  Howland  had  been  Crissy  Van 
Buren  of  Albany,  of  fine  stock,  and 
handsome.  She  made  a  good  showing 
with  Abner's  money.  For  nearly  thirty 


years  they  had  lived  in  the  same  apart- 
ment house,  paying  to-day  forty  dol- 
lars a  month — the  identical  rent  paid 
when  they  first  become  its  tenants. 

The  property  was  restricted,  being 
owned  by  a  large  estate,  and  stood  in 
a  most  desirable  neighborhood.  Its 
janitor  had  grown  old  with  the  house. 
Realizing  its  limitations,  but  deter- 
mining that,  so  far  as  lay  within  his 
power,  the  house  should  not  compare 
unfavorably  with  its  modern  neigh- 
bors, he  took  great  pride  in  keeping  its 
stoops  and  sidewalks  spotless,  its 
marble  vestibules  as  white  as  snow, 
while  its  highly  polished  brasses  vied 
with  the  sun  in  brilliancy.  Although 
not  up-to-date,  the  effect  of  the  whole 
apartment  suggested  solidity  and  ut- 
most respectability. 

Across  the  hall  there  lived  Dr.  How- 
ard Woodbridge,  a  physician,  and  his 
mother.  The  young  doctor  often  had 
met  Katherine  in  the  vestibule,  and 
had  unlocked  the  door  for  her  when 
they  had  chanced  to  come  in  together. 
Although  Mrs.  Howland  disapproved 
of  these  civilities,  Katherine  and  her 
father  invariably  spoke  with  him  in 
passing. 

The  Howland  flat  was  tastefully  fur- 
nished with  the  old  Van  Buren  mahog- 
any and  family  portraits;  handsome 
rugs  and  hangings  served  to  make  it 
so  very  artistic  and  attractive  th_t 
many  people  believed  Abner  to  be  a 
member  of  the  firm  of  Martine  &  Sons. 

Mrs.  Van  Buren  Howland  was  a 
"faddist,"  having  tried  in  succession 
every  well  known  cult,  including  mes- 
merism, spiritualism  and  occult  influ- 
ences. Abner's  habits  being  sedentary, 
he  became  in  due  time  a  prey  to  in- 
digestion, and  at  his  wife's  insistence, 


396 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


tried  each  of  her  fads  in  turn.  First  it 
was  Christian  Science,  then  Mental 
Science,  New  Thought,  Osteopathy, 
and  lastly  dieting. 

The  first  diet  was  buttermilk.  As  a 
child,  he  had  loved  the  rich,  delicious, 
old-fashioned  kind,  with  particles  of 
cream  floating  through  it.  But  upon 
taking  the  modern  article,  manufac- 
tured by  an  artificial  process  and  sold 
under  the  name  of  buttermilk,  he  grew 
worse,  and  gave  it  up.  Then  came  the 
vegetable  diet.  His  wile  had  heard  of 
wonderful  cures  resulting  therefrom, 
so  she  not  only  adopted  it  for  Abner, 
but  for  the  family  as  well.  Neither 
she  nor  Katherine  cared  much  for 
meat,  and  for  Abner's  sake  they  were 
willing  to  cut  it  out;  as  for  Abner,  he 
was  too  tired  and  discouraged  to  care. 
He  would  have  eaten  boiled  sawdust 
and  made  no  complaint. 

Christine  Van  Buren  Howland  was 
an  autocrat,  and  ruled  her  husband 
and  daughter  with  an  iron  will;  so, 
without  demurring,  they  trotted  along 
the  lines  of  the  least  resistance.  But 
not  so  the  servants — none  would  stay, 
so  she  and  Katherine  were  obliged  to 
do  the  housework,  though  as  the  wife 
told  her  husband,  it  was  healthy  exer- 
cise for  Katherine,  and  comparatively 
easy,  and  they  didn't  object  in  the 
least. 

Then  behold,  there  crept  into  the 
Howland  family  a  serpent  in  the  shape 
of  an  attractive  widow,  named  Mrs. 
Louis  Waring.  She  was  a  social 
grafter,  a  hanger-on  to  the  fringe  of 
the  Smart  Set.  Her  cousin  had  mar- 
ried one  of  the  inner  circle,  and  occa- 
sionally the  widow  was  invited  to  their 
"at  homes"  and  "teas,"  etc.,  paying  in 
full  by  being  useful  in  various  ways. 

Among  certain  wealthy  women  who 
read  in  the  society  news  that  she  had 
been  her  cousin's  guest,  Mrs.  War- 
ing's  social  position  became  assured, 
and  they  toadied  to  her  continuously. 
During  the  winter  these  would-be 
"swells"  with  the  bacillus  of  "society 
position"  gnawing  them,  organized 
several  bridge  clubs,  and  as  a  friend 
of  Mrs.  Waring,  Crissy  Howland  was 
invited  to  join.  She  was  a  scientific 


player  and  was  much  sought.  The 
membership  fee  was  fifteen  dollars. 
She  joined  four,  making  the  sum  total 
sixty  dollars.  For  a  member  not  hav- 
ing the  necessary  accommodations  for 
entertaining,  a  wise  provision  had  been 
made  whereby  upon  paying  five  dollars, 
extra  she  could  join  v/ith  another  mem- 
ber having  the  required  facilities. 

As  the  size  of  Crissy's  flat  pre- 
vented the  entertaining  of  more 
than  six  guests  at  a  time,  she  was  per- 
forced  obliged  to  pay  the  extra  enter- 
tainment fee  of  five  dollars  apiece  for 
each  of  the  four  clubs  to  which  she 
belonged.  During  inclement  weather, 
and  when  the  meetings  took  place 
nearby  or  on  Riverside  Drive,  Mrs. 
Waring  suggested  that  they  should 
join  in  having  a  carriage  or  taxi.  This 
they  did,  and  as  the  lady  had  a  con- 
venient way  of  forgetting  her  prom- 
ised share,  Mrs.  Howland  invariably 
paid  the  entire  bill. 

Having  exquisite  taste,  Mrs.  Waring 
accompanied  her  dear  Crissy  on  ruin- 
ous shopping  expeditions  (having  a 
private  business  understanding  with 
her  dressmaker.)  She  succeeded  in 
inveigling  her  unsuspecting  friend  into 
buying  several  expensive  costumes 
and  hats  at  her  establishment,  thereby 
causing  Crissy  to  plunge  into  debt,  a 
condition  never  hertofore  permitted  in 
the  Howland  family. 

Mrs.  Waring  relished  the  dainty  lit- 
tle teas  and  dinners  eaten  in  her  dear 
friend's  lovely  apartment,  whereat  by 
making  herself  most  agreeable  to  Ab- 
ner, she  forced  him  to  admit  that  she 
was  remarkably  clever. 

When  shopping,  she  enjoyed  the 
luncheons  taken  at  expensive  restau- 
rants on  Crissy's  invitation,  and  paid 
for  out  of  Abner's  salary.  But  for  the 
knowledge  that  she  was  misappropri- 
ating the  rent  and  house  money  for 
useless  extravagances,  Mrs.  Howland 
would  have  been  actually  happy,  for 
she,  too,  had  the  "social  bacillus," 
which  manifested  a  peculiar  virulence 
in  her  aspirations  for  Katherine,  and 
they  focussed  on  Mrs.  Waring's  cousin, 
an  undersized,  large-foreheaded  youth 
belonging  to  the  Smart  Set,  and  so  she 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ABNER  ROWLAND. 


397 


killed  her  conscience  while  she  took 
a  chance.  Soon  the  bills  began  pour- 
ing in,  and  then  she  awoke  to  the  fact 
that  not  only  was  she  heavily  in  debt, 
but  she  had  overdrawn  her  husband's 
allowance,  having  appropriated  the 
quarterly  rent  and  not  made  good. 
Night  and  day  she  worried  lest  they 
would  present  Abner  with  a  state- 
ment. Abner,  with  his  fixed  ideas  on 
"bills  being  paid  upon  presentation," 
would  never  forgive  her,  although  like 
wax  in  her  hands  when  all  else  was 
concerned,  and  he  so  ill;  but  for  the 
present  she  could  see  no  way  out.  At 
this  critical  period  she  heard  of  the 
vegetable  diet,  and  at  once  decided  to 
adopt  it. 

When  the  "bridge"  was  over  and 
Louise  Waring  had  gone  South  with 
her  fashionable  and  wealthy  cousin, 
Crissy  decided  to  visit  her  only  sis- 
ter in  Albany,  not  that  the  ties  of  con- 
sanguinity were  over-strong  between 
Miss  Anna  Van  Buren,  spinster,  and 
her  sister,  Christine,  but  for  another 
reason.  She  had  become  desperate, 
and  v/as  going  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
borrowing  money. 

She  had  paid  on  account  forty  dol- 
lars for  one  month's  rent,  but  still  owed 
for  three,  and  her  dressmaker's  bills 
were  staring  her  in  the  face. 

"I  need  a  change,"  she  said  to  Ab- 
ner. "I  feel  badly."^ 

Her  husband  smiled  grimly,  and 
viewed  his  own  emaciated  countenance 
in  the  glass.  They  had  been, on  the 
vegetable  diet  for  over  a  month  at  that 
time. 

Katherine  had  met  the  wonderful 
cousin  for  whom  her  mother  had 
staked  so  much,  and  being  an  intelli- 
gent young  woman,  she  at  once  diag- 
nosed him  as  "mentally  deficient"  and 
"bone  headed." 

When  he  actually  invited  Miss 
Katherine  to  the  theatre  with  a  supper 
following,  and  when  a  few  days  later 
he  asked  her  to  motor  with  him,  Chris- 
tine Rowland's  cup  of  happiness  over- 
flowed. She  forgot  her  debts,  forgot 
her  fear  of  Abner,  and  became  quite 
reckless.  She  even  beheld  herself 
handsomely  gowned  helping  Katherine 


receive  as  the  mother  of  a  member  of 
the  Smart  Set. 

When  leaving,  she  gave  Katherine 
enough  money  to  run  the  house  for 
three  weeks,  and  the  following  advice 
as  they  waited  for  the  train : 

"Now,  my  dear,  be  sure  and  see  that 
father  has  strictly  fresh  vegetables.  I 
am  more  than  worried  over  his  condi- 
tion. Every  one  praises  the  vegetable 
diet,  and  declares  it  a  sure  cure  for  in- 
digestion. Of  course,  I  can  trust  you 
not  to  buy  an  ounce  of  meat,  but  you 
may  give  him  one  fresh  egg  every  Sun- 
day. They  say  that  both  eggs  and 
meat  conduce  to  hardening  of  the  ar- 
teries, and  should  be  avoided  by  peo- 
ple of  your  father's  age.  Even  anti- 
vegetarians  admit  this. 

"And  now,  if  Clarence  Waring  calls 
and  you  open  the  door,  say  simply  that 
our  servants  left  unexpectedly — plural. 
Understand,  dear?" 

Katherine  laughed  and  nodded  as 
her  mother  boarded  the  train. 

This  afternoon,  as  Abner  entered  his 
flat,  he  walked  feebly.  Hanging  up  his 
hat  and  coat,  he  took  a  seat  near  the 
window,  and  by  the  waning  light  be- 
gan reading  his  evening  paper.  Kather- 
ine, with  a  little  white  apron  on,  was 
preparing  dinner. 

"Father,  dear,"  she  asked,  kissing 
him  tenderly,  "how  do  you  feel?" 

"I  feel  rather  shaky,  Kitty,"  he  re- 
plied with  a  wan  smile.  "I  don't  seem 
to  gain  on  mother's  vegetable  diet  as 
I  should." 

"Oh,  but  father,  you  will  feel 
stronger  when  the  settled  warm  wea- 
ther comes,  and  then  I  am  sure  the 
diet  will  help  you.  It  agrees  per- 
fectly with  mother  and  me.  But 
come,  now,  lay  down  your  paper,  the 
soup  is  on."  And  Kitty  led  him  into 
the  dining  room,  and  proceeded  to  help 
him  to  a  puree  of  peas,  followed  by 
scalloped  cauliflower  au  gratin.  After 
which  came  a  lettuce  and  nut  salad, 
and  all  ending  with  a  bread  pudding. 

Abner  sat  listlessly,  and  he  ate 
scarcely  anything.  Then,  with  sudden 
determination,  he  arose,  saying: 

"Kitty,  I  want  you  to  go  downtown 
early  to-morrow  morning  and  bring 


398 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


back  a  servant.  Understand?  Have 
her  here  at  dinner-time." 

The  girl  smiled,  and  thought,  "what 
servant  will  stay  on  a  vegetable  diet," 
but  she  replied  "all  right,  father," 
never  dreaming  of  arguing  with  him. 

"I  am  tired,"  continued  Abner,  "of 
seeing  you  in  the  kitchen  doing  a 
maid's  work.  And  what's  more,  I  am 
now  going  in  to  call  on  young  Dr. 
Woodbridge.  I  feel  so  weak  it  seems 
as  though  I  should  faint." 

"I  certainly  should,  dear,"  she  re- 
plied, marveling  at  his  independence, 
yet  secretly  fejoicing,  for  she  had 
longed  to  meet  the  doctor. 

Young  Woodbridge  was  handsome. 
He  had  a  clean-cut  face,  a  square,  de- 
termined jaw,  with  soft  brown  eyes 
and  fine  teeth.  He  listened  attentively 
to  the  history  of  the  various  cures  and 
diets  to  which  Mr.  Howland  had  been 
subjected. 

As  an  odor  of  broiled  steak  invaded 
the  office,  the  doctor  arose,  closed  the 
door  and  lowered  the  window,  saying : 

"My  mother  is  out,  and  our  maid 
is  not  so  particular  in  broiling  her 
meats  as  when  mother  is  with  her." 

"It  smells  mighty  good  to  me,  doc- 
tor," said  Abner.  "I  can't  tell  you  how 
good." 

"Mr.  Howland,"  laughed  the  doctor, 
"we've  been  neighbors  for  so  long, 
come  in  and  sit  with  me  while  I  dine 
— I'm  alone.  I  have  some  old  port, 
and  I  would  like  your  opinion  on  it.  I 
wouldn't  dare  say  how  old  it  is,  and 
then  I  can  ask  you  more  about  your- 
self." 

Abner  glanced  furtively  at  the  door 
leading  into  the  outer  hall  and  re- 
plied :  "Doctor,  I  will  with  pleasure." 

Then  together  they  took  their  seats 
facing  a  delicious  looking  porterhouse 
steak. 

"That  looks  like  a  steak  cooked  on 
an  old-fashioned  coal  range,"  re- 
marked Abner,  seized  with  a  raven- 
ous appetite. 

"That's  just  where  it  has  been 
cooked,"  replied  the  doctor.  "I  have 
had  a  coal  range  put  in  my  kitchen  for 
meats  alone.  You  see,  Mr.  Howland, 
I  think  they  never  taste  the  same 


cooked  over  gas.  Just  sample  this." 
And  he  passed  Abner  a  small  piece  of 
the  meat,  rare,  juicy  and  hot. 

Abner  ate  it  slowly,  as  though  wish- 
ing to  make  it  last.  "It  seems  to  me 
that  I've  never  tasted  such  a  piece  of 
steak  in  my  life,  doctor,  but  I  should 
not  do.  this.  I'm  transgressing." 

"You're  my  patient  now,  you  know," 
laughed  Dr.  Woodbridge.  "Your  first 
piece  was  the  prescription.  Now,  eat 
this,"  passing  him  a  larger  piece,  "and 
consider  that  the  prescription  has  been 
filled."  Then  he  poured  out  a  glass  of 
old  port  which  Abner  drank.  After 
this  they  returned  to  the  cozy  office 
and  smoked  until  the  bell  began  to 
ring,  for  this  was  the  doctor's  office 
hour,  from  seven  until  eight. 

"Come  in  to-morrow  at  the  same 
time,"  said  the  young  man,  "and  I'll 
change  your  medicine,"  shaking  Abner 
cordially  by  the  hand.  "I'll  guarantee 
that  I'll  cure  you,  and  I'll  charge  you 
for  evei;y  prescription,  so  don't  have 
any  delicacy  about  it." 

The  next  night,  before  he  could  use 
his  key,  a  pleasant  looking  Irish  maid 
let  Abner  into  his  flat.  Kitty  had  left 
a  note — she  was  dining  out  with 
friends,  and  a  theatre  afterwards.  Ab- 
ner ate  very  little,  and  before  going 
into  the  opposite  flat,  he  had  a  short 
conversation  with  Nora. 

"My  wife  is  a  vegetarian,  Nora,"  he 
began.  "She  believes  that  meat  is 
bad  for  a  person,  but  I'll  get  some  for 
you  every  day,  for  I  want  you  to  stay 
with  us,  understand?" 

"Shure,  and  you  nad'nt  worry,  sorr, 
for  it's  mesel'  that  does  not  be  caring 
for  mate  at  all.  Give  me  plenty  of 
tay  and  bread  and  butter,  and  I  does 
be  satisfied." 

"Why,  you  look  better  already," 
said  the  doctor  that  next  evening,  as 
he  took  Abner  by  the  hand.  "Come 
into  the  dining  room  and  meet  mother. 
Your  medicine  is  waiting." 

Abner  laughed  sheepishly,  but  was 
set  at  ease  by  Mrs.  Woodbridge's  cor- 
diality. 

"I'm  prescribing  for  Mr.  Howland, 
mother,"  said  her  son.  "His  family 
are  vegetarians,  but  he  needs  a  tonic 


THE  REVOLT  OF  ABNER  ROWLAND. 


399 


and  I'm  giving  it  to  him  once  a  day." 

At  this  instant  there  appeared  a 
platter  of  juicy  Canada  mutton  chops 
with  kidneys.  Abner  ate  two  raven- 
ously, and  drank  his  glass  of  port. 

Then  Dr.  Woodbridge  advised  his 
starting  at  59th  street  and  walking 
home  through  the  park,  every  day,  if 
possible,  he  added,  "and  leave  a  little 
earlier  in  the  morning  and  walk  down. 
It  will  do  you  more  good  than  any 
tonic." 

The  following  morning,  Kittie  ex- 
claimed, "Father,  I  really  believe  the 
diet  is  doing  you  good;  why,  your 
cheeks  are  actually  rosy." 

Abner  smiled  shame-facedly,  and 
felt  like  a  culprit,  Every  night  for  the 
following  ten  days  he  went  in  after  his 
own  dinner  and  took  his  medicine,  as 
the  doctor  called  it. 

Then  the  doctor  and  his  mother 
came  and  dined  with  the  Rowlands. 
Kittie  looked  charming  in  her  gown  of 
striped  chiffon  over  rose  colored  satin. 

Nora  had  made  her  famous  soup  of 
beef,  barley,  marrow  bones  and  vege- 
tables, which  was  followed  by  a  prime 
roast  of  beef  and  ended  with  an  old- 
fashioned  pumpkin  pie. 

Dinner  over,  they  played  dummy 
whist. 

Mrs.  Woodbridge  was  captivated  by 
the  girl,  and  after  Kittie  had  sung  for 
them,  the  old  lady  insisted  upon  kiss- 
ing her.  Before  leaving,  Abner 
brewed  them  an  old-fashioned  hot  ap- 
ple toddy. 

Then  the  young  man  invited  both 
Kitty  and  her  father  to  the  theatre, 
and  for  the  next  two  weeks  he  was  a 
constant  guest.  Every  evening  after 
Mr.  Rowland's  professional  call,  he'd 
return  with  him,  and  life  was  begin- 
ning to  teem  with  pleasure  and  com- 
fort for  Abner  as  well  as  for  his  pretty 
daughter. 

One  morning  upon  reaching  his  of- 
fice Abner  received  a  shock  in  the 
shape  of  a  bill  for  back  rent. 

"What!"  he  ejaculated.  "A  bill 
from  the  estate  agent  for  three  months' 
unpaid  rent!  It's  a  mistake.  Kittie," 
he  called  up  on  the  'phone,  "what  does 
it  mean?  Explain  it!" 


"Father,  don't  ask,"  she  replied.  "I 
fear  that  it  is  correct.  I'll  tell  you  to- 
night." 

That  evening  she  began :  "I  only 
know  that  mother  has  been  greatly 
troubled  of  late.  All  winter  has  she 
been  trying  to  make  both  ends  meet." 

"But  why?"  asker  her  father. 

"Don't  be  hard  on  her,  father,"  said 
the  girl.  "That  wretched  Mrs.  Waring 
is  the  cause." 

"Your  mother  alone  is  responsible, 
Kittie.  I've  never  had  a  bill  for  rent 
sent  me  before.  I'm  disgraced.  I've 
trusted  her  with  almost  my  entire 
salary.  It's  damnable.  She's  a 
wicked,  unscrupulous  woman.  What  in 
God's  name  has  she  done  with  it?" 

Then  Kittie  told  of  the  four  bridge 
clubs,  the  carriage  hire,  extra  for  en- 
tertaining, and  the  luncheons  given  to 
Mrs.  Waring;  of  her  mother's  new  cos- 
tumes; at  the  same  time  showing  him 
all  of  the  expensive  prizes  won  by 
Christine  at  the  meetings. 

"The  dressmakers'  bills  have  taken 
the  rent  money,"  she  continued.  "Mrs. 
Waring's  dressmakers." 

"Yes,  and  that  woman  gets  a  rake- 
off  for  taking  your  mother  to  them. 
Why,  Kittie,  she's  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  a  grafter,  a  sponge.  How 
much  money  did  your  mother  leave 
with  you?" 

"She  allowed  me  five  dollars  a  week 
for  the  table,"  Kittie  faltered. 

"Generous,"  sneered  Abner.  "No 
wonder  she's  taken  up  the  Nebuchad- 
nezzer  diet  and  has  forced  it  on  us. 
Now,  my  girl,  I  begin  to  see  what  I 
should  have  seen  before.  She's  made 
you  do  a  servant's  work  to  save  money 
for  herself.  She's  half-starved  me  to 
pocket  the  price  of  eggs  and  meat,  and 
she's  run  me  in  debt  so  that  at  my  time 
of  life  I'm  forced  to  ask  for  a  loan  on 
my  next  quarterly  salary.  Think  of 
the  humiliation  I'll  have  to  undergo." 

"Father,"  said  Kitty,  "won't  you 
take  the  two  diamond  rings  you've 
given  me  and  borrow  on  them.  I 
don't  need  to  wear  them.  Or  you  might 
sell  them?" 

"No,  my  dear,"  replied  Abner,  ten- 
derly, "I  thank  you  just  the  same. 


400 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


Keep  what  you  have.  I'll  manage 
some  way.  But  for  her  to  feed  us  on 
grass  stuff  pretending  it's  to  help  me! 
Such  deception,'  he  murmured. 

"Oh,  father,"  faltered  the  girl,  her 
eyes  filling  with  tears,  "it's  not  alone 
mother  who  has  been  deceiving  you. 
I,  too,  have  done  so,  and  it's  worried 
me  day  and  night.  Father,  I'll  confess 
all:  I've  eaten  meat,  and  I've  eaten  it 
every  time  I've  been  invited  out.  I've 
been  so  faint  and  hungry  for  it  that 
I've  actualy  sought  invitations  to  get 
away  from  dining  at  home." 

At  the  end  of  two  weeks  the  doc- 
tor's attentions  to  Katherine  had  be- 
come very  marked,  and  after  bring- 
ing her  home  from  the  theatre  one 
evening,  he  asked  Abner's  consent  to 
make  her  his  wife. 

It  was  easily  obtained,  and  by  the 
time  Christine  Van  Buren  Rowland 
had  returned  from  her  rather  unsatis- 
factory visit  there  sparkled  on  Kittie's 
finger  a  brilliant  diamond  ring. 

The  first  words  uttered  by  that  lady 
upon  entering  the  house  were  ill- 
natured.  "How  dared  you  go  contrary 
to  my  wishes  and  engage  a  servant?" 
she  asked. 

"I  only  carried  out  father's  orders 
in  the  matter,"  replied  Katherine, 
calmly.  "He  insisted  upon  having 
one." 

"Indeed.  I  must  say  it  has  come  to 
a  pretty  pass  if  my  instructions  are  to 
be  disregarded  in  this  manner.  What's 
that  I  see  in  the  kitchen — a  coal 
range  ?  Well,  of  all  things,  what  does 
that  mean?" 

"Father  ordered  it  with  the  coal." 

Mrs.  Howland  gasped.  "Your 
father  seems  to  have  taken  leave  of 
his  senses,  making  changes  in  my 
house  in  such  a  high-handed  fashion." 

"Mother,"  spoke  up  Katherine, 
"there's  been  a  great  change  in  father. 
He's  not  the  same  man  now  that  he 
was  when  you  left.  He  has  been  cured 
of  his  indigestion  by  Dr.  Woodbridge." 

"Dr.  Woodbridge,"  mimicked  her 
mother.  "And  has  father  been  run- 
ning up  doctors'  bills?" 

Katherine  looked  keenly  at  her 
mother  and  continued:  "I  presume 


father  has  a  right  to  some  of  his  own 
salary." 

At  this  juncture,  Abner's  key  was 
heard  opening  the  hall  door,  and  walk- 
ing like  a  young  man  with  an  elastic 
step,  he  entered,  a  ruddy  color  in  his 
cheeks,  and  a  bright,  healthy  glow  in 
his  eyes. 

"Ah,  Christine,"  he  said,  coldly, 
never  offering  to  kiss  her,  "did  you 
enjoy  your  visit?"  and  taking  a  seat 
at  the  table  he  proceeded  to  open  his 
evening  paper. 

Christine  Howland  gasped.  Was  this 
the  half-sick,  meek,  subservient  Ab- 
ner  with  whom  she  had  passed  thirty 
years?  It  was  incredible. 

The  dinner  consisted  of  beef  soup, 
roast  lamb,  chicken  patties,  potatoes 
and  salad.  After  which  there  ap- 
peared a  steamed  suet  pudding  with 
a  foamy  sauce.  Upon  recovering  from 
her  astonishment,  Mrs.  Howland  ex- 
claimed : 

"Pray  tell  me  the  meaning  of  this? 
If  you  have  been  providing  so  lavishly 
for  three  weeks,  Katherine,  you  have 
been  running  in  debt." 

"No,  Christine,"  replied  Abner. 
"Only  one  member  of  this  family 
seems  privileged  to  do  that." 

Christine  Howland  looked  at  Ab- 
ner. There  shone  upon  his  face  a 
masterful  expression  that  she  had 
never  seen  before.  She  was  too  quick- 
witted not  to  realize  that  their  posi- 
tions were  reversed,  that  her  sins  had 
found  her  out  and  her  reign  was  over. 

"Abner,"  she  said  falteringly,  "do 
you  consider  it  fair  to  me  to  eat  the 
things  you  have  eaten  to-night.  I've 
tried  so  hard  to  help  you?" 

Then  her  husband  threw  back  his 
head  and  laughed  immoderately. 

"Christine,"  he  replied,  "drop  it,  or 
I  shall  think  that  you  did  your  best  to 
kill  me  with  your  diets  and  your  cults 
and  the  rest  of  your  actions.  Don't 
play  the  hypocrite  any  longer." 

"But,  dear,"  she  persisted,  "you 
know  that  I  really  cannot  afford  to  set 
such  a  table  on  the  allowance  you 
make  me." 

"No,"  replied  Abner,  slowly,  "you 
will  never  be  called  upon  to  set  this 


WINTER  FOLK'S  SONG. 


401 


table  again  on  my  money.  In  future, 
this  house  will  be  run  by  me.  I  pro- 
pose to  give  to  you  and  Kittie  a  reason- 
able allowance  for  your  personal 
needs.  That  is,  I  will  do  so,  after  I 
make  good  the  sum  that  I've  had  ad- 
vanced on  my  salary  to  pay  the  last 
three  months'  rent,  the  money  which 
was  misappropriated  by  you,  and  I 
shall  repay  it  before  I  spend  another 
penny  that's  not  absolutely  necessary." 
"Forgive  me,  Abner,"  she  sobbed. 
"I'm  glad  you've  found  out  my  secret. 
I've  done  wrong.  I've  been  vain  and 
self-willed.  I've  undertaken  to  keep 
pace  with  wealthy  people,  and  I  know 
that  I've  been  a  short-sighted  fool.  I 
realize  it  too  well.  I  went  to  Albany 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  borrowing 
money  of  Anna  to  pay  the  rent,  and 
she  wouldn't  lend  me  a  dollar.  Think 
of  it,  my  only  sister!  I  don't  deserve 


your  forgiveness.  You  needn't  say 
that  you  love  me  even,  Abner,  if  you'll 
only  say  that  you  will  try  and  forgive 
me." 

"It  has  all  been  a  wretched  mistake, 
Christine.  You've  had  bad  influences 
to  contend  with.  Forget  it  now,  my 
dear,  for  here  comes  Kittie  with  great 
news.  She  has  become  engaged  to 
Howard  Woodbridge,  I  want  you  to 
congratulate  her,  mother." 

Mrs,  Rowland,  thoroughly  surprised, 
arose  and  put  her  arms  around  her 
daughter.  Then  through  her  tears, 
she  sobbed:  "My  dear  little  girl,  I 
congratulate  you  with  all  my  heart. 
If  Dr.  Woodbridge  proves  himself 
half  as  good  a  husband  to  you  as 
your  father  has  been  to  me,  you'll  be 
a  happy  and  lucky  girl,  and  I  shall 
love  him  as  a  son,"  and  she  kissed 
her  tenderly. 


WINTER     FOLK'S     SONG 


Come,  put  the  biggin  on  the  bairn, 

And  let  us  sally  forth ! 
Up,  wifie;  we  all  need  an  air'n', 

Not  huggin'  of  the  hearth. 
With  icicles  is  hung  the  cairn, 

The  wind  is  in  the  North ! 
Come,  put  the  biggin  on  the  bairn, 

And  let  us  sally  forth ! 

Come,  wifie.  let  us  sally  forth, 

Nor,  mopin',  count  the  cost! 
The  game's  a  goodly  candle's  worth : 

Indoors  one's  simply  lost! 
The  snow  lies  crisp  and  smooth,  no  wisp 

By  careless  gossips  tost: 
Up,  wifie,  let  us  sally  forth 
To  meet  our  friend  Jack  Frost!      HARRY  COWELL. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  ARAAGEDDON 


By  C.  T.  Russell,  Pastor  of  London   and   Brooklyn  Tabernacles 


And  He  gathered  them  together  into 
a  place  called  in  the  Hebrew  tongue 
A  rmageddon  .  .  .  to  the  Battle  of  that 
Great  Day  of  God  Almighty'' — Reve- 
lation 16:16,  14. 

ARMAGEDDON  is  a  Hebrew 
word  signifying  the  Hill  of 
Megiddo,  or  the  Mount  of  De- 
struction. Megiddo  occupied 
a  very  marked  position  on  the  south- 
ern edge  of  the  Plain  of  Esdraelon, 
and  commanded  an  important  pass 
into  the  hill  country.  This  locality 
was  the  great  battle-ground  of  Pales- 
tine, on  which  were  fought  many  of 
the  famous  battles  of  Old  Testament 
history.  There  Gideon  and  his  little 
band  alarmed  and  discomfited  the 
Midianites,  who  destroyed  one  an- 
other in  their  flight.  (Judges  7 :19-23.) 
There  King  Saul  was  defeated  by  the 
Philistines  (1  Sam.  31:1-6.)  There 
King  Josiah  was  slain  by  Pharaoh- 
Necho  in  one  of  the  most  disastrous 
conflicts  in  the  history  of  Israel.  (2 
Chron.  35-22-25.)  There  also  King 
Ahab  and  his  wife  Jezebel  lived,  in 
the  city  of  Jezreel,  where  Jezebel  af- 
terwards met  a  horrible  death. — 2 
Kings  9:30-37. 

Those  battles  were  in  a  sense  typi- 
cal. The  defeat  of  the  Midianites  re- 
leased the  people  of  Israel  from  bond- 
age to  Midian.  Thus  Gideon  and  his 
band  typified  our  Lord  and  the  Church, 
who  are  to  release  mankind  from  their 
bondage  to  sin  and  death.  The  death 
of  King  Saul  and  the  overthrow  of  his 
kingdom  by  the  Philistines  opened 
the  way  for  the  reign  of  David,  who 
typified  Messiah.  King  Ahab  typified 
the  civil  government,  symbolically 
called  the  "Dragon"  in  the  Revelation. 


Queen  Jezebel  symbolically  foreshad- 
owed the  great  harlot,  Babylon,  and 
as  such  she  is  mentioned  by  name. 
"Thou  sufferest  that  woman  Jezebel, 
which  calleth  herself  a  prophetess,  to 
teach  and  to  seduce  My  servants." — 
Rev.  2:20. 

In  the  Scriptures,  the  Lord  has  evi- 
dently seen  fit  to  associate  the  name 
of  this  famous  battle-field,  Armaged- 
don, with  the  great  controversy  be- 
tween Truth  and  Error,  right  and 
wrong,  God  and  Mammon,  with  which 
the  Gospel  Age  will  close  and  the 
Messianic  Age  be  ushered  in.  He  has 
purposely  used  highly  symbolic  lan- 
guage in  the  last  book  of  the  Bible, 
evidently  with  a  view  to  hiding  certain 
important  truths  until  the  due  time  for 
their  revealment.  But  even  in  the  due 
time,  "None  of  the  wicked  shall  un- 
derstand; but  the  wise  shall  under- 
stand." (Dan.  12:10.)  None  who  are 
out  of  heart  harmony  with  God  shall 
know ;  but  only  the  wise  among  His 
people — the  wise  virgin  class  of  the 
Master's  parable.— Matt.  25 :1 :13. 

When  we  consider  our  text,  there- 
fore, we  are  not  to  expect  any  gather- 
ing of  the  people  literally  to  the  Hill 
of  Megiddo.  Rather  we  are  to  look 
for  that  which  is  symbolized  by  that 
mountain.  Many  things  are  being 
called  "The  Battle  of  Armageddon;" 
this  phrase  is  being  used  in  many  ways 
and  from  many  standpoints.  But 
Christians  realize  that  this  word  Ar- 
mageddon specially  belongs  to  the 
Bible,  where  it  is  used  in  a  spiritual 
sense.  If,  therefore,  the  present  is  an 
opportune  time  in  which  to  consider 
the  Battle  of  Armageddon  from  a 
political  standpoint,  it  surely  is  the 
proper  time  to  consider  the  term  from 


THE  BATTLE  OF  ARMAGEDDON. 


403 


its  true  religious  point  of  view. 

We  all  know  that  the  book  of  Reve- 
lation is  full  of  symbols,  God  seems 
to  have  placed  this  book  last  in  the 
Bible  with  the  intent  of  covering  up 
great  and  important  truths.  That  it 
contains  valuable  truths  is  the  opinion 
of  all  Bible  students.  Yet  so  skillfully 
has  God  covered  these  truths  that  His 
people  in  times  past  have  not  been 
able  fully  and  clearly  to  discern  them. 
Bible  students  believe  that  this  has 
been  the  Divine  intention,  not  only  be- 
cause these  truths  were  not  due  to  be 
understood,  but  because  God  intends 
to  keep  certain  features  of  His  truth 
from  the  world.  Mankind  have  al- 
ways misunderstood  the  Divine  Plan; 
for  God  in  His  wisdom  wishes  to  have 
them  misunderstand.  The  truths  re- 
corded in  the  Revelation  are  not  for 
the  world,  nor  for  nominal  Christians, 
but  for  the  church — the  body  of  Christ, 
the  saintly  ones — "the  church  of  the 
first-borns  which  are  written  in 
Heaven."  To  these  the  knowledge 
will  become  "meat  in  due  season." 
"The  wise  shall  understand." 

Time  for  the  Establishment  of  Mes- 
siah's Kingdom. 

The  scriptures  abound  with  allusions 
to  Armageddon.  Our  Lord  Jesus  calls 
it  "great  tribulation,  such  as  was  not 
since  the  beginning  cf  the  world  to 
this  time,  no,  nor  ever  shall  be."  (Matt. 
24 :21.)  The  Prophet  Daniel  describes 
it  as  "a  time  of  trouble,  such  as  never 
was  since  there  was  a  nation,  even  to 
that  same  time."  (Dan.  12:1.)  Close- 
ly in  connection  with  this  statement, 
Daniel  declares  that  God's  represen- 
tative, "Michael,  shall  stand  up,  the 
great  prince  which  standeth  for  the 
children  of"  Israel.  The  word 
"Michael"  signifies  "He  who  is  like 
God"— the  God-like  one.  He  will 
stand  up  for  the  salvation  of  God's 
people,  for  the  rectification  of  error 
and  wrong,  for  the  establishment  of 
right  and  truth,  to  bring  to  the  world 
of  mankind  the  great  Kingdom  of  God, 
which  has  been  preached  from  the 
davs  of  Abraham. 


The  Revelation  of  St.  John,  being  a 
book  of  symbols,  will  not  be  under- 
stood by  the  world.  God  himself  has 
said  that  only  at  a  certain  time  may 
even  the  church  expect  to  understand. 
When  the  Prophet  Daniel  inquired 
concerning  the  meaning  of  his  vision, 
the  angel  replied :  "Go  thy  way,  Dan- 
iel; for  the  words  are  closed  up  and 
sealed  till  the  time  of  the  end" — not 
age — the  end  of  this  Dispensation. 
"The  earth  abideth  forever."— Eccl, 
1:4. 

St.  Peter  tells  us  that  this  age  is  to 
end  in  a  great  conflagration — symboli- 
cal of  the  time  of  trouble,  in  which 
present  institutions  will  be  swallowed 
up  (2  Pet.  3-8:13.)  Elsewhere  in  the 
Scriptures,  this  terrible  time  of  trou- 
ble is  symbolically  represented  as  a 
storm,  as  a  whirlwind,  as  a  fire,  to  con- 
sume everything.  After  the  present 
order  shall  have  passed  away  in  the 
great  time  of  trouble,  God  Himself  will 
establish  His  kingdom — the  one  for 
which  we  pray,  "Thy  kingdom  come; 
Thy  will  be  done  on  earth,  even  as  it 
is  done  in  Heaven." 

If,  then,  there  is  anything  to  indicate 
that  we  are  living  in  the  end  of  the 
gospel  age,  anything  to  indicate  that 
the  virgins  are  trimming  their  lamps, 
we  may  rest  assured  that  the  time  for 
the  Wise  Virgins  to  enter  into  glory  is 
close  at  hand.  What  a  blessed  mes- 
sage is  this  for  "all  who  love  His  ap- 
pearing!" 

In  the  same  prophecy  which  tells 
that  the  time  of  the  end  is  the  time 
for  the  wise  toward  God  to  understand, 
we  are  told  that  this  time  will  be  es- 
pecially marked  by  two  particular  fea- 
tures: first,  "Many  shall  run  to  and 
fro;"  second,  "Knowledge  shall  be  in- 
creased." (Dan.  12:4.)  To-day  we 
see  this  prophecy  fulfilled.  All  over 
the  world  people  are  running  to  and 
fro  as  never  before.  Railroads,  steam- 
boats, automobiles,  electric  cars — sur- 
face, subway  and  elevated,  etc. — 
carry  mankind  everywhere.  General 
increase  of  knowledge  characterizes 
our  wonderful  day.  Every  child  ten 
years  old  is  able  to  read.  All  over  the 
world  are  books,  newspapers,  Bibles 


404 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


in  every  home — opportunity  for  knowl- 
edge such  as  never  has  been  known 
since  man  was  on  earth. 

The  remarkable  fulfillment  of  this 
prophecy  marks  our  day  as  the  time 
of  the  end,  in  which  the  present  dis- 
pensation is  to  be  concluded  and  the 
new  dispensation  is  to  be  ushered  in — 
the  time  when  God's  people  will  be 
able  to  understand  the  situation  and  to 
get  ready  for  their  change. 

Principles,  Not  Individuals,  Under 
Discussion. 

All  Christian  people  credit  the  book 
of  Revelation  to  our  Lord,  as  St.  John 
does  (Rev.  1 :1.)  Therefore  we  are  not 
responsible  for  the  symbolism  used  in 
that  book.  There  are  so  many  ways 
in  which  one  might  be  misunderstood, 
even  by  good  Christian  people,  that  we 
naturally  feel  a  delicacy  about  ex- 
pressing our  views.  As  we  proceed 
to  set  forth  our  understanding  of  the 
symbols  of  the  Revelation,  we  wish  to 
state  most  emphatically  that  we  are 
saying  nothing  whatever  against  godly 
Christians  anywhere,  at  any  time, 
whether  in  any  church  or  out  of  any 
church.  We  have  nothing  to  say  re- 
specting people.  We  discuss  PRIN- 
CIPLES, DOCTRINES,  ALWAYS; 
individuals,  NEVER!  God  has  not 
commissioned  us  to  discuss  people; 
it  is  ours  to  discuss  His  Word. 

As  we  present  our  interpretation  of 
the  symbols  of  Revelation,  we  realize 
that  the  word  of  God  conveys  a  very 
terrible  arraignment  of  some  of  the 
great  systems  of  our  day — some  that 
we  have  long  reverenced  and  esteemed 
— that  we  have  thought  contained 
many  who  are  godly  in  word  and  in 
deed.  Let  us,  therefore,  clearly  dis- 
tinguish between  individuals  and  sys- 
tems. We  say  nothing  against  the 
godly  individual,  but  in  the  interpre- 
tation of  the  word  of  God  what  we 
have  to  say  is  merely  in  respect  "to 
these  system.  Indeed,  we  believe  that 
the  saintly  people  of  God  are  left  out 
of  these  symbols,  probably  because 
the  saints  of  God,  as  compared  with 
the  hundreds  of  millions  of  humanity, 


are  merely  a  small  company,  as  Jesus 
said :  "Fear  not,  Little  Flock." 

Coming  to  the  interpretation  of  the 
symbols  of  Rev.  16:13-16,  we  find  that 
there  are  three  agencies  connected 
with  the  gathering  of  the  hosts  to  this 
Battle  of  Armageddon.  We  read  that 
out  of  the  mouth  of  the  Beast,  out  of 
the  mouth  of  the  False  Prophet  and 
out  of  the  mouth  of  the  Dragon  pro- 
ceeded three  unclean  spirits  like  frogs ; 
and  that  these  three  unclean  spirits, 
frog-like,  went  forth  throughout  the 
whole  world  to  gather  the  whole  world 
into  this  Battle  of  Armageddon. 

It  is  proper,  then,  for  us  to  inquire 
what  systems  are  meant  by  these  sym- 
bolic words — the  dragon,  the  beast, 
and  the  false  prophet.  After  we  shall 
discover  what  is  meant  by  these  terms 
we  shall  ask  what  is  symbolized  by  the 
frogs  that  came  out  from  their  mouths. 

Throughout  the  Bible,  a  beast  is  the 
symbol  used  to  represent  a  govern- 
ment. In  Daniel's  prophecy  the  great 
universal  empires  of  the  earth  are  thus 
symbolized.  Babylon  was  the  lion, 
Medo-Persia  the  bear,  Greece  the  leo- 
pard, and  Rome  the  dragon.  (Dan. 
7:1-8.)  The  Roman  Empire  still  per- 
sists. Christendom  is  a  part  of  that 
great  Roman  Empire  which  began  in 
the  days  of.  Caesar  and  which,  accord- 
ing to  the  Scriptures,  still  is  in  the 
world. 

Practically  all  Bible  exegetes  agree 
that  the  dragon  of  the  Revelation  rep- 
resents the  purely  civil  power, 
wherever  it  may  be  found.  We  do  not 
understand  this  to  mean  that  all  the 
powers  of  the  world  are  evil  or  of  the 
devil,  but  that  the  dragon  is  the  sym- 
bol which  the  Lord  is  pleased  to  use  to 
represent  civil  power. 

The  beast  of  Rev.  16:13  is  the  same 
that  is  mentioned  in  Rev.  13:2,  where 
it  is  described  as  resembling  a  leopard 
— spotted.  Protestant  interpreters  of 
the  Revelation  agree  that  this  symbol 
refers  to  the  Papal  system — not  to  the 
Pope,  not  to  Catholic  congregations, 
not  to  individual  Catholics,  but  to  the 
system  as  a  whole,  which  has  existed 
for  centuries. 

In  His  word,  God  has  been  pleased 


THE  BATTLE  OF  ARMAGEDDON. 


405 


to  recognize  the  Papacy  as  a  system, 
as  a  government.  Papacy  claims  that 
the  Kingdom  of  God,  Messiah's  King- 
dom, was  established  in  799  A.  D.; 
that  it  lasted  a  thousand  years,  just 
as  the  Bible  declares  Christ's  Kingdom 
will  last;  and  that  it  expired  in  1799 
A.  D.  They  claim  also  that  since  1799 
this  Kingdom  of  Christ  (that  is,  the 
Papal  system,  represented  in  the  Reve- 
lation as  the  beast)  has  been  suffering 
violence ;  and  that  during  this  time  the 
Devil  has  been  loosed,  in  fulfillment 
of  Rev.  20 :7. 

History  records  that  the  era  closed 
with  1799,  marked  by  Napoleon's 
Egyptian  campaign,  sealed  and  de- 
fined the  limit  of  Papal  dominion  over 
the  nations.  Napoleon  even  took  the 
Pope  prisoner  to  France,  where  he 
died.  This  humiliating  experience, 
Roman  Catholics  claim,  marks  the 
time  of  the  loosing  of  Satan  in  fulfill- 
ment of  Rev.  20-7. 

We  cannot  agree  witji  our  Catholic 
brethren's  interpretation  of  prophecy. 
The  Bible  is  surely  right  when  it  de- 
clares that  "the  prince^of  this  world 
is  Satan,"  and  that  this  is  "the  present 
evil  world"  or  age.  The  reason  why 
there  is  so  much  graft,  false  doctrine, 
delusion,  ignorance,  superstition  every- 
where is  that  Satan  is  the  great  being 
who  is  deceiving  the  world."  Accord- 
ing to  the  Scriptures,  Satan  is  to  be 
bound  for  a  thousand  years,  that  he 
may  deceive  the  nations  no  more. 
(Rev.  20:3.)  After  the  thousand  years 
shall  have  been  finished  Satan  shall  be 
loosed  for  a  little  season  to  test  man- 
kind. Then  he  will  be  destroyed  in 
the  Second  Death,  together  with  all 
who  are  in  harmony  with  him. 

Bible  students  are  only  now  getting 
their  eyes  open  to  see  the  lengths, 
breadths,  heights  and  depths  of  the 
love  of  God — His  wonderful  provi- 
sion made;  first,  for  the  church,  who 
are  to  share  in  the  Kingdom's  glory; 
and  second,  for  the  world  of  mankind, 
who  will  receive  the  blessing  of  an  up- 
lift to  human  perfection  during  that 
thousand  years.  This  glorious  epoch 
is  just  approaching,  instead  of  being 
in  the  past.  So  glorious  will  be  the 


condition  of  humanity  at  the  close  of 
Messiah's  Kingdom  that  nothing  ever 
dreamed  will  compare  with  it.  But 
the  great  work  of  God  will  not  be  per- 
fected until  every  human  being  will 
have  reached  perfection,  or  will  have 
been  destroyed  in  the  Second  Death, 
because  of  refusal  to  come  into  har- 
mony with  the  laws  of  righteousness. 
Then  every  creature  in  Heaven  and  on 
earth  will  be  heard  saying,  "Blessing 
and  honor  and  glory  and  power  be  unto 
Him  that  sitteth  upon  the  throne  and 
to  the  lamb,  for  ever  and  ever." — 
Rev.  5:13. 

The  dragon,  then,  symbolizes  the 
Roman  power,  represented  by  the 
civil  power  in  the  world.  The  beast  is 
the  Papal  system  of  government.  The 
third  symbol,  the  false  prophet,  re- 
mains to  be  interpreted.  This,  we  be- 
lieve, is  another  name  for  the  system, 
elsewhere  called  "the  image  of  the 
beast."  (Rev.  13:14.)  According  to 
the  Scriptures,  this  image  is  a  very 
exact  representation  of  the  beast.  The 
false  prophet,  or  image  of  the  beast, 
we  understand  to  mean  the  Protestant 
Federation  of  Churches. 

The  Image  of  the  Beast. 

In  order  to  see  why  the  Protestant 
Federation  of  Churches  should  be  sym- 
bolized as  the  image  of  the  beast  and 
as  the  false  prophet,  we  must  examine 
other  symbolical  Scriptures.  In  Rev. 
17:5,  our  attention  is  called  to  a  great 
"mystery."  The  word  "harlot"  in 
Scriptural  symbolism  does  not  mean 
an  immoral  person.  It  refers  to  the 
church,  which  was  to  be  the  Kingdom 
of  God,  but  which  lost  her  virginity 
and  became  united  to  an  earthly  hus- 
band, instead  of  her  Heavenly  hus- 
band. To  what  earthly  husband  did 
the  church  unite  ?  To  the  Roman  Em- 
pire. In  the  minds  of  Luther  and  other 
retormers  there  was  no  doubt  that 
there  was  a  close  union  between  the 
church  and.  the  world.  The  church  for 
a  time  claimed  to  be  waiting  for 
Christ  to  set  up  His  Kingdom.  Fin- 
ally she  said:  "I  will  not  wait  until 
the  second  coming  of  Christ:  I  will 
unite  with  the  Roman  Empire." 


406 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


All  know  the  result.  The  Roman 
Catholic  church  was  exalted,  and 
reigned  as  a  queen  for  centuries.  This 
union  of  church  and  State  is  repre- 
sented in  a  famous  picture  found  in 
Italy.  On  a  throne  the  Pope  and  the 
Emperor  sit  side  by  side.  On  one  side 
are  cardinals,  bishops,  the  lower 
clergy  and  the  laity,  in  order  of  rank. 
On  the  other  side  are  generals,  lieu- 
tenants, soldiers,  etc.,  down  to  the 
common  people.  Thus  the  union  of 
church  and  State  was  recognized. 

On  the  basis  of  this  union  all  earth- 
ly governments  are  called  Christian; 
for  they  claim  unity  as  part  and  parcel 
with  the  church.  History  tells  us  that 
for  centuries  the  church  appointed  the 
earthly  kings.  Whomsoever  the  Pope 
desired  was  crowned.  In  proof  of  the 
supremacy  of  the  church  a  story  is 
told  in  regard  to  Emperor  Henry  IV 
of  Germany,  who  had  incurred  the 
Papal  displeasure  and  who  as  a  pun- 
ishment was  compelled  to  stand  for 
three  days  without  the  castle  gates 
of  Canossa,  barefooted,  and  clad  only 
in  the  haircloth  shirt  of  a  penitent,  ex- 
posed to  the  inclemency  of  mid-winter. 
Then  he  was  forced  to  crawl  on  hands 
and  knees  into  the  presence  of  the 
Pontiff,  whose  silk  stocking  was  re- 
moved in  order  that  the  emperor 
might  kiss  the  Pope's  great  toe,  in 
fulfillment  of  Psa.  2 :10,  12,  "Kiss  the 
Son,  O,  ye  kings  of  the  earth." 

To  our  understanding  this  is  a  mis- 
taken application  of  Scripture.  "The 
Son"  is  not  the  Pope.  The  "holy  hill" 
is  the  Kingdom  of  God.  His  agency 
is  symbolized  as  the  holy  Mount  Zion. 
The  great  Messiah  will  completely 
overthrow  all  the  things  the  kingdom 
of  righteousness  and  truth,  which  will 
uplift  mankind  out  of  sin  and  degrad- 
ation. 

Roman  Catholics  believe  that  the 
Pope  is  the  vicegerent  of  Christ,  reign- 
ing in  His  stead.  They  believe  that 
the  present  is  the  time  when  Satan  is 
loosed  to  deceive  the  nations;  that 
very  shortly  the  church  will  again  get 
full  power  in  the  world ;  and  that  as  a 
result  every  one  who  does  not  obey 
them  will  be  destroyed.  This  inter- 


pretation points  us  to  Revelation,  13th 
and  20th  chapters.  Protestants  do  not 
appreciate  the  situation.  Doubtless 
all  thinking  people  have  noticed  that 
overtures  for  union  come  from  Protes- 
tantism, but  never  from  Catholicism. 

The  question  now  arises,  Why 
should  the  Scriptures  picture  Protes- 
tantism as  an  image  of  the  beast? 
When  and  how  did  this  come  about? 
From  the  time  of  the  Reformation, 
Protestants  had  been  striving  individ- 
ually to  get  out  of  the  darkness  of  the 
past  and  thus  had  formulated  many 
creeds  and  had  organized  many  de- 
nominations. But  about  the  middle 
of  the  last  century  the  leaders  began 
to  see  that  if  every  one  continued  to 
study  the  Bible  individually  the  time 
would  come  when  each  one  would 
have  an  individual  creed.  To  prevent 
what  seemed  to  them  a  loss  of  power, 
they  planned  a  union  of  Protestants  in 
a  system  called  the  Evangelical  Al- 
liance. 

The  Evangelical  Alliance,  an  or- 
ganization of  the  different  Protes- 
tant denominations,  was  formed  in 
1846  for  the  very  purpose  of  doing  in 
their  own  way  the  same  thing  that 
Catholicism  would  do  in  its  own  way. 
Seeing  the  great  power  that  Roman 
Catholics  would  exercise  because  of  a 
united  system,  Protestants  said,  "We 
are  divided.  We  have  no  power.  We 
will  organize."  Then  and  there  ac- 
cording to  the  Scriptures,  they  made 
an  image  of  the  beast. 

The  Bible  says,  however,  that  be- 
fore the  image  can  do  any  particular 
harm  it  must  receive  life  from  the 
two-horned  beast.  (Rev.  13:15.) 
This  two-horned  beast  with  horns  like 
a  lamb,  but  a  voice  like  a  dragon,  we 
believe  represents  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, which  is  not  a  party  of  the 
Evangelical  Alliance.  The  Church  of 
England  makes  the  claim  which  the 
Church  of  Rome  makes — that  she  is 
the  true  Church;  that  all  others  are 
wrong;  that  she  has  the  original  apos- 
tolic succession;  and  that  no  one  is 
commissioned  to  preach  unless  he  has 
had  divine,  apostolic  hands  laid  upon 
him.  This  has  been  the  contention  of 


THE  BATTLE  OF  ARMAGEDDON. 


407 


the  Church  of  England  for  centuries, 
and  constitutes  the  difference  between 
that  Church  and  all  other  Protestant 
denominations. 

Although  the  Evangelical  Alliance 
was  organized  in  1846,  it  has  not  been 
able  to  accomplish  its  purpose,  be- 
cause it  did  not  know  how  to  operate. 
The  denominations  in  the  Alliance 
were  united  only  in  name,  and  hence 
have  worked  against  each  other.  De- 
nominations outside  of  the  Alliance 
were  declared  to  be  unauthorized;  and 
they,  in  turn,  challenged  the  Evangeli- 
cal Churches  to  show  where  they  got 
authority  to  preach.  As  a  result,  the 
image  had  no  power  to  act;  it  was  trod- 
den upon;  and  to  get  vitality — life — it 
would  need  apostolic  succession;  it 
must  have  something  as  a  basis  for 
operation. 

The  Scriptures  indicate  that  the 
Church  of  England  will  become  inti- 
mate with  the  Evangelical  Alliance, 
.and  will  give  it  apostolic  authority  to 
preach.  Because  of  this  union,  the  Al- 
liance will  be  able  to  say,  "We  have 
apostolic  authority  to  preach.  Let  no 
one  speak  unless  he  has  our  sanction." 
This  action  on  their  part  is  described 
in  Rev.  13:17.  None  will  be  allowed 
to  buy  or  sell  spiritual  things  in  the 
spiritual  market  unless  he  has  either 
the  mark  of  the  beast  or  the  mark  of 
the  image. 

In  Rev.  16 :13  we  find  mention  of  the 
false  prophets,  another  representation 
of  the  image — the  vitalized  product  of 
the  Evangelical  Alliance,  which  has 
taken  the  form  of  Church  Federation, 
and  has  to-day  a  great  deal  of  vitality. 
Whether  we  can  expect  it  to  have  more 
remains  to  be  seen.  The  Scriptures 
clearly  indicate  that  the  image  of  the 
beast  is  to  get  so  great  power  that  it 
will  do  the  same  thing  that  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  did  in  the  past;  and 
that  the  two  systems,  Catholic  and 
Protestant,  will  rule  the  civilized  world 
with  a  high  hand  through  the  civil 
power — the  dragon. 

The  Scriptures  tell  us  that  this  result 
is  to  be  brought  about  by  the  utter- 
ances of  the  combined  power  of 
Church  and  State.  "Three  unclean 


spirits  like  frogs  came  out  of  the 
mouth  of  the  beast,  and  out  of  the 
mouth  of  the  dragon  and  the  mouth  of 
the  false  prophet."  In  this  passage, 
the  spirit  is  a  doctrine — an  unclean 
doctrine — a  false  doctrine.  Each  of 
these  systems  will  utter  the  same 
things,  and  these  utterances  will  have 
the  effect  of  gathering  the  kingdoms  of 
earth  together  to  the  great  battle  of 
Armageddon. 

"Three  Unclean  Spirits  Like  Frogs" 

The  symbolism  of  Scripture,  rightly 
understood,  is  very  forceful,  and  there 
is  always  a  close  resemblance  between 
the  symbol  itself  and  the  thing  sym- 
bolized. When  the  Holy  Spirit  uses  a 
frog  to  represent  certain  doctrines  or 
teachings,  we  may  be  sure  that  the  ap- 
plication will  fit  well.  While  a  frog  is 
a  small  creature,  yet  it  puffs  itself  up 
until  it  almost  bursts  with  the  effort  to 
be  somebody.  A  frog  has  a  very  wise 
look,  even  though  it  does  not  know 
very  much.  A  frog  croaks  whenever  it 
utters  a  sound. 

The  three  most  prominent  charac- 
teristics of  a  frog,  then,  are  pomposity, 
an  air  of  superior  wisdom  and  knowl- 
edge, and  a  continual  croaking.  Ap- 
plying these  characteristics  to  the  pic- 
ture given  in  the  divine  word,  we  learn 
that  from  the  civil  power,  from  the 
Catholic  Church  and  from  the  Federa- 
tion of  Protestant  Churches  will  go 
forth  the  same  teachings.  The  spirit 
of  all  will  be  boastful ;  an  air  of  super- 
ior knowledge  and  wisdom  will  be  as- 
sumed; all  will  foretell  dire  results  to 
follow  any  failure  to  obey  their  coun- 
sels. However  conflicting  the  creeds, 
the  differences  will  be  ignored  in  the 
general  proposition  that  nothing  an- 
cient must  be  disturbed,  or  investigated 
or  repudiated. 

The  divine  authority  of  the  church, 
and  the  divine  right  of  kings,  aside 
from  the  church,  will  not  be  allowed 
to  conflict;  for  both  will  be  endorsed. 
Any  persons  or  teachings  in  conflict 
with  these  boastful,  unscriptural 
claims  will  be  branded  as  everything 
vile,  at  the  mouths  of  the  frogs,  croak- 


408 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


ing  from  pulpits  and  platforms,  and 
through  the  religious  and  secular  press. 
The  nobler  sentiments  of  some  will  be 
strangled  by  the  philosophy  of  the 
same  evil  spirit  which  spoke  through 
Caiaphas,  the  high  priest,  respecting 
our  Lord  Jesus.  As  Caiaphas  declared 
it  expedient  to  commit  a  crime  in  vio- 
lation of  justice,  both  human  and 
divine,  to  be  rid  of  Jesus  and  His 
teachings,  so  this  frog-like  spirit  will 
approve  of  any  and  every  violation  of 
principle  necessary  to  self-protection. 

Every  true  Christian  is  ashamed  to 
look  back  upon  the  pages  of  history 
and  see  what  terrible  deeds  were  done 
in  the  name  of  God  and  justice,  and  in 
the  name  of  our  Lord  Jesus.  We  are 
not  to  think  for  a  moment  that  these 
frog  spirits,  or  doctrines,  are  all  bad, 
but  rather  that  they  are  doctrines  of 
bombast  and  pomposity,  representing 
themselves  to  be  very  wise  and  great, 
and  having  the  backing  of  centuries. 
Out  of  the  mouth  of  the  dragon  comes 
the  doctrine  of  the  divine  right  of 
kings:  "Do  not  look  back  in  the  cur- 
tain of  history  to  see  where  the  king 
got  that  right.  Accept  the  doctrine; 
for  if  you  do  not,  and  if  men  look  into 
the  matter,  there  will  be  a  terrible 
revolution,  and  everything  will  go 
down." 

The  beast  and  the  false  prophet 
have  similar  croakings.  The  Catholic 
Church  says,  "Do  not  look  behind! 
Do  not  question  anything  about  the 
church!"  Protestantism  says,  also, 
"We  are  great,  we  are  wise,  we  know 
a  great  deal.  Keep  quiet!  No  one 
will  then  know  that  you  know  nothing." 
All  say  (croaking)  :  "We  tell  you  that 
if  you  say  anything  against  present 
arrangements,  terrible  things  will  come 
to  pass!" 

Political  parties  are  figuring  in  this. 
All  declare,  "If  any  change  should 
come,  it  will  mean  terrible  disaster!" 
Some  have  the  backbone  and  some 
have  the  civil  power  behind  them,  but 
unitedly  they  croak  to  the  people  that 
if  any  change  is  made,  it  will  mean 
ruin  to  the  present  order.  In  the 
language  of  our  day,  "Stand  pat!"  is 
the  order  of  the  church  and  in  State; 


but  the  people  are  being  moved  by 
fear.  It  is  this  croaking  of  the  beast, 
the  dragon  and  the  false  prophet  that 
will  arouse  the  kings  of  earth  and 
gather  them  together  to  the  Armaged- 
don battle  and  destruction. 

The  ecclesiastical  kings  and  princes, 
with  their  retinue  of  clergy  and  faith- 
ful adherents,  will  be  gathered  in  solid 
phalanx — Protestant  and  Catholic. 
The  political  kings  and  princes,  sena- 
tors, and  all  in  high  places,  with  their 
henchmen  and  retainers,  will  follow  in 
line  on  the  same  side.  The  financial 
kings  and  merchant  princes,  and  -all 
whom  they  can  influence  by  the  most 
gigantic  power  ever  yet  excercised  in 
the  world,  will  join  the  same  side,  ac- 
cording to  this  prophecy.  They  do 
not  realize,  however  that  they  are  com- 
ing to  Armageddon ;  yet  strange  to  say, 
this  is  part  of  their  cry,  "Come  to- 
gether to  Armageddon." 

Speaking  of  our  day,  our  Lord  de- 
clared, "Men's  hearts  failing  them  for 
fear  and  for  looking  after  those  things 
which  are  coming  on  the  earth ;  for  the 
powers  of  heaven  shall  be  shaken." 
(Luke  21:26.)  The  kings  of  Europe 
know  not  what  to  do.  All  sectarian- 
ism is  being  shaken.  Many  people  of 
God  are  in  perplexity. 

The  croaking  of  the  frog  spirits,  or 
doctrines,  will  gather  the  kings  and 
princes,  financial,  political,  religious 
and  industrial  into  one  great  army.  The 
spirit  of  fear,  inspired  by  the  croaking, 
will  scourge  the  passions  of  otherwise 
good  and  reasonable  men  to  fury — 
desperation.  In  their  blind  following 
of,  these  evil  spirits,  evil  doctrines 
they  will  be  ready  to  sacrifice  life  and 
everything  on.  what  they  mistakenly 
suppose  is  the  altar  of  Justice  and 
Righteousness  under  Divine  arrange- 
ment. 

Many  noble  people  in  this  great 
army  will  assume  an  attitude  quite 
contrary  to  their  preference.  For  a 
time  the  wheels  of  liberty  and  progress 
will  be  turned  backward,  and  mediae- 
val restraints  will  be  considered  neces- 
sary for  self-preservation — for  the 
maintenance  of  the  present  order  of 
things  and  for  the  prevention  of  the 


THE  BATTLE  OF  ARMAGEDDON. 


409 


new  order  which  God  has  decreed,  the 
due  time  for  which  is  at  hand.  Even 
those  who  may  be  God's  people  do  not 
stop  to  consider  whether  it  is  His  will 
that  things  should  continue  as  they 
have  been  for  the  past  six  thousand 
years.  The  Bible  says  that  such  is 
not  God's  will,  but  that  there  is  to  be 
a  great  overturning — a  new  leaf. 

For  a  brief  time,  as  we  understand 
the  Scriptures,  these  combined  forces 
of  Armageddon  will  triumph.  Free 
speech,  free  mails,  and  other  liberties 
which  have  come  to  be  the  very  breath 
of  the  masses  in  our  day,  will  be  ruth- 
lessly shut  off  on  the  plea  of  necessity, 
the  glory  of  God,  the  commands  of  the 
Church,  etc.  The  safety-valve  will  be 
sat  upon,  and  thus  will  cease  to  annoy 
earth's  kings  with  the  sound  of  escap- 
ing steam;  and  all  will  seem  to  be 
serene. — until  the  great  social  explo- 
sion described  in  the  Revelation  as  an 
earthquake  will  take  place.  In  sym- 
bolic language  an  earthquake  signifies 
social  revolution,  and  the  Scriptural 
declaration  is  that  none  like  it  ever 
before  occurred.  (Rev.  16:18,  19.) 
See  our  Lord's  reference  to  it  in  Matt. 
24-21. 

The  Lord's  Great  Army. 

At  this  juncture,  the  Scriptures  show 
divine  power  will  step  forward  and 
God  will  gather  the  marshalled  hosts 
to  Armageddon — to  the  Mount  of  De- 
struction. (Rev.  16:16.)  The  very 
thing  which  they  sought  to  avert  by 
their  union,  federation,  etc.,  will  be 
the  very  thing  that  they  will  hasten. 
Other  Scriptures  tell  us  that  God  will 
be  represented  by  Messiah,  and  that 
He  will  be  on  the  side  of  the  masses. 
"All  that  time  shall  Michael  (the  God- 
like one — Messiah)  stand  up."  (Dan. 
12:1.)  He  will  assume  authority.  He 
will  take  possession  of  His  kingdom 
in  a  manner  little  looked  for  by  many 
of  those  who  erroneously  have  been 
claiming  to  be  His  kingdom,  and  au- 
thorized by  Him  to  reign  in  His  name 
and  in  His  stead. 

Our  Lord  Jesus  declared,  "His  ser- 
vants ye  are  unto  whom  ye  render  ser- 


vice." Some  may  be  rendering  ser- 
vice to  Satan  and  to  error,  who  claim 
to  be  rendering  service  to  God  and  to 
righteousness;  and  some  may  serve 
ignorantly,  as  did  Saul  of  Tarsus,  who 
"verily  thought  that  he  did  God  ser- 
vice" in  persecuting  the  Church.  The 
same  principle  holds  true  reversely. 
As  an  earthly  king  does  not  hold  him- 
self responsible  for  the  moral  charac- 
ter of  each  soldier  who  fights  his  bat- 
tles, so  the  Lord  does  not  vouch  for  the 
moral  character  of  all  who  enlist  and 
fight  on  His  side  of  any  question.  His 
servants  they  are  to  whom  they  render 
service,  whatever  the  motive  prompt- 
ing. 

The  same  principle  will  apply  in 
the  coming  Battle  of  Armageddon. 
God's  side  of  that  battle  will  be  the 
people's  side;  and  that  very  nonde- 
script host,  the  people,  will  be  pitted 
at  the  beginning  of  the  battle.  Anar- 
chists, socialists  and  hot-headed  radi- 
cals of  every  school  of  reason  and  un- 
reason, will  be  in  the  forefront  of  that 
battle.  He  who  has  any  knowledge  of 
army  life  knows  that  a  great  army  is 
composed  of  all  classes. 

The  masses  will  be  restless  under 
their  restrains,  but  will  be  conscious 
of  their  weakness  as  compared  with 
the  kings  and  princes,  financial,  social, 
religious  and  political,  who  will  then 
hold  sway.  The  majority  of  the  poor 
and  the  middle  class  prefer  peace  at 
almost  any  price.  The  masses  have  no 
sympathy  with  anarchy.  They  realize 
truly  that  the  worst  form  of  govern- 
ment is  better  than  none.  The  masses 
will  seek  relief  through  the  ballot  and 
the  peaceful  readjustment  of  earth's 
affairs  for  the  elimination  of  evil,  for 
the  placing  of  monopolies  and  utilities 
and  the  supplies  of  nature  in  the  hands 
of  the  people  for  the  public  good.  The 
crisis  will  be  reached  when  the  hither- 
to upholders  of  the  law  shall  become 
violators  of  the  law  and  resisters  of  the 
will  of  the  majority  as  expressed  by 
the  ballot.  Fear  foi  the  future  will 
goad  the  well-meaning  masses  to  des- 
peration, and  anarchy  will  result  when 
socialism  fails. 

The  Lord's  saints  are  not  to  be  in 


410 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


this  battle  at  all.  God's  consecrated 
people,  longing  at  heart  for  Messiah's 
kingdom,  will  patiently  abide  the 
Lord's  time,  and  wait  unmurmuringly 
for  it.  Their  lamps  trimmed  and  burn- 
ing, they  will  not  be  in  darkness  re- 
specting the  momentous  events  of  the 
impending  battle;  but  they  will  be  of 
good  courage,  knowing  the  outcome 
portrayed  in  the  "more  sure  word  of 
prophecy,"  to  which  they  have  done 
well  to  "take  heed,  as  unto  a  light  that 
shineth  in  a  dark  place,  until  the  day 
dawn."— 2  Pet.  1 :19. 

The  question  now  arises,  Why  did 
not  God  send  His  kingdom  sooner?' 
Why  is  Armageddon  necessary?  We 
answer  that  God  has  His  own  times 
and  seasons,  and  that  He  has  ap- 
pointed the  Great  Seventh  Thousand- 
Year  Day  for  the  reign  of  Christ. 
Divine  wisdom  has  withheld  until  our 
day  the  great  knowledge  and  skill 
which  is  breeding  at  the  same  time 
millionaires  and  discontents.  Had  God 
lifted  the  veil  of  ignorance  a  thousand 
years  sooner,  the  world  would  have 
lined  up  for  Armageddon  a  thousand 
years  sooner.  God  did  not  bring  these 
things  before  the  present  time  because 
His  plan  has  various  parts,  all  of  which 
are  converging  at  the  same  time.  In 
kindness,  God  veiled  the  eyes  of  man- 
kind until  the  gathering  to  Armaged- 
don would  immediately  precede  Mes- 
siah's taking  to  Himself  His  great 
power  and  beginning  His  reign. — Rev. 
11:17,  18. 

The  attitude  of  the  people  of  God 
should  be  that  of  great  thankfulness 
to  the  giver  of  every  good.  They 
should  make  provision  for  the  great 
storm  that  is  coming  and  keep  very 
quiet,  not  unduly  interested  in  the  side 
of  either  rich  or  poor.  We  know  in 
advance  that  the  Lord  is  on  the  side 
of  the  people.  He  it  is  that  will  fight 
the  Armageddon  battle,  and  His 
agency  will  be  that  peculiar  army — all 
classes.  When  this  great  "earthquake" 
of  social  revolution  comes,  it  will  not 
be  a  mere  handful  of  anarchists,  but 
an  uprising  of  the  people  to  throw  off 
the  great  power  that  is  strangling 
them.  Selfishness  is  at  the  bottom  of 


the  whole  matter. 

For  forty  years  the  Armageddon 
forces  have  been  mustering  for  both 
sides  of  the  conflict.  Strikes,  lockouts 
and  riots,  great  and  small,  have  been 
merely  incidental  skirmishes  as  the 
belligerents  cross  each  other's  paths. 
Court  and  army  scandals  in  Europe, 
insurance;  trust  and  court  scandals  in 
America,  -have  shaken  public  con- 
fidence. Dynamite  plots,  charged  by 
turns  on  employees  and  employers, 
have  tended  to  make  each  distrustful 
of  the  other.  Bitter  and  angry  feel- 
ings on  both  sides  are  more  and  more 
manifested.  The  lines  of  battle  are 
daily  becoming  more  distinctly 
marked.  Nevertheless  Armageddon 
cannot  yet  be  fought. 

Gentile  times  have  still  two  years  to 
run.  The  image  of  the  beast  must  yet 
receive  life — power.  It  must  be  trans- 
formed from  a  mere  mechanism  to  a 
living  force.  Protestant  Federation 
realizes  that  its  organization  will  con- 
tinue to  be  futile  unless  it  receives 
vitalization — unless  its  clergy  directly 
or  indirectly  shall  be  recognized  as 
possessed  of  apostolic  ordination  and 
authority  to  teach.  This,  the  prophecy 
indicates,  will  come  from  the  two- 
horned  beast,  which  we  believe  sym- 
bolically represents  the  Church  of 
England.  High-handed  activities  of 
Protestantism  and  Catholicism,  operat- 
ing in  conjunction  for  the  suppression 
of  human  liberties,  await  this  vivifying 
of  the  image.  This  may  come  soon, 
but  the  Armageddon  cannot  precede  it, 
but  must  follow — perhaps  a  year  after, 
according  to  our  view  of  prophecy. 

Still  another  thing  intervenes.  Al- 
though the  Jews  are  gradually  flowing 
into  Palestine,  gradually  obtaining 
control  of  the  land  cf  Canaan,  and  al- 
though reports  say  that  already  nine- 
teen millions  are  there,  nevertheless, 
prophecy  requires  an  evidently  larger 
number  of  wealthy  Hebrews  to  be 
there  before  the  Armageddon  crisis  be 
reached.  Indeed,  we  understand  that 
"Jacob's  trouble"  in  the  Holy  Land 
will  come  at  the  very  close  of  Arma- 
geddon. Then  Messiah's  Kingdom 
will  begin  to  be  manifested.  Thence- 


IN  THE  REALM  OF  BOOKLAND. 


411 


forth  Israel  in  the  Land  of  Promise  will 
gradually  rise  from  the  ashes  of  the 
past  to  the  grandeur  of  prophecy. 
Through  its  divinely  appointed 


princes,  Messiah's  kingdom,  all-power- 
ful, but  invisible,  will  begin  to  roll 
away  the  curse  and  to  lift  up  mankind, 
and  to  give  beauty  for  ashes. 


"The  Iron  Trail,"  by  Rex  Beach,  au- 
thor of  "The  Spoilers,"  "The  Silver 
Horde,"  "The  Ne'er-Do-Well,"  etc. 
The  power  of  Rex  Beach  to  make  his 
readers  feel  the  bigness     of    natural 
forces  and  of  visualizing  the  awesome 
aspects  of  Alaskan  landscapes,  con- 
tinues as  natural  and  virile  as  ever; 
for  his   new   novel   he   has   found   a 
unique  setting  as  well  as     a     unique 
theme. 

O'Neil,  the  railroad-builder,  is  dif- 
ferent from  any  of  Beach's  earlier  he- 
roes. He  is  a  bit  older;  he  represents 
a  larger  conception  of  manhood,  and 
he  is  distinctly  more  fascinating.  Big, 
generous,  shrewd,  and  resourceful,  the 
"Irish  Prince,"  as  he  is  called,  is  the 
kind  of  unassuming  good  fellow  and 
capable  fighter  that  wins  unbounded 
loyalty.  He  has  that  mark  of  greatness, 
the  ability  to  attend  good-naturedly  to 
little  worries  in  the  midst  of  great  ones, 
and  his  heart  pumps  red  blood.  O'Neil 
is  Kipling's  "If"  realized. 

O'Neil,  who  has  gone  North  to  look 
after  his  claims  in  the  coal-fields, 
turns  his  imagination  to  the  railroad 
problem.  Convinced  of  the  feasibility 
of  a  route  up  the  Salmon  River  from 
Omar,  undaunted  by  flooding  river, 
quaking  tundra,  and  giant  glaciers,  he 
assembles  his  lieutenants  from  the  four 
corners  of  the  earth  and  begins  build- 
ing. Three  forces  oppose  O'Neil :  the 
glaciers,  the  Trust,  which  is  construct- 


ing a  line  from  Kyak,  and  Curtis  Gor- 
don, an  unscrupulous,  imaginative,  in- 
exhaustibly plausible  promoter,  who 
is  pretending  to  build  a  line  from 
Hope.  Personal  motives  intensify  the 
natural  hatred  of  the  dishonest  adven- 
turer for  his  honest  and  successful 
rival.  For  years  Gordon  has  been  liv- 
ing in  questionable  intimacy  with  a 
young  widow,  Gloria  Gerard,  whose 
daughter,  Natalie,  calls  him  "Uncle." 
As  Natalie  grows  older,  she  becomes 
aware  of  the  true  state  of  affairs,  and 
she  so  works  upon  her  mother  that  Glo- 
ria promises  to  leave  Gordon.  The  two 
women  are  received  at  Omar  by 
O'Neil,  whose  friendship  for  Natalie 
dates  from  the  time  when  the  two 
were  left  behind  on  a  sinking  ship  on 
the  occasion  of  the  girl's  first  coming  to 
Alaska.  A  further  complication  and 
an  element  of  breezy  romance  is  added 
when  Dan  Appleton's  sister,  Eliza,  ar- 
rives in  Omar  in  her  capacity  of  spe- 
cial correspondent,  expecting  to  find 
in  O'Neil  a  public  malefactor,  and  dis- 
covers in  him  the  man  she  loves.  Eliza, 
all  bluntness  and  mannishness  on  the 
outside  and  all  artless  femininity  with- 
in, brings  a  warm  and  wholesome  sen- 
timent into  the  story,  and  childlike,  un- 
disguisedly  clinging  Natalie  is  almost, 
if  not,  quite  as  winning. 

The  story  is  like  a  nightmare  for 
endless,  and,  be  it  said,  plausible  com- 
plications— like  an  epic  in  its  thrill  of 


412 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


magnificent  struggle.  The  boat-ride 
down  the  Salmon  River,  with  blocks  of 
ice  of  the  size  of  a  New  York  office 
building  splitting  from  the  faces  of 
the  glaciers;  the  rise  of  the  ice  which 
pulled  the  piles  of  the  false-work  from 
the  river  bottom,  the  storm's  destruc- 
tion of  the  Trust's  breakwater  at  Kyak 
— these  are  happenings  that  furnish 
genuine  excitement.  In  the  midst  of 
it  all,  we  never  lose  the  human  touch. 
Rex  Beach's  inventiveness  is  unflag- 
ging, and  his  vigorous,  forthright  style, 
with  its  recurrent  moments  of  surpris- 
ing picturesqueness  and  its  sudden 
spurts  of  humor,  is  as  charming  as 
ever. 

Published  by  Harper  &  Bros.,  Frank- 
lin Square,  New  York. 

"The  Romance  of  Ali,"    by    Eleanor 
Stuart. 

"Ali"  is  a  young  English  boy 
brought  up  from  birth  in  the  Kingdom 
of  Angolar,  in  the  "barbarous 
marches"  of  Africa.  He  regards  him- 
self as  the  Sultan's  son,  and  for  mother 
he  has  the  Sultan's  chief  wife,  Fa- 
tuma,  a  woman  fortunately  wise  in  her 
day  and  generation,  whose  loveable- 
ness  and  worth  the  author  makes  us 
feel,  despite  fully  recognized  racial 
differences.  In  this  part  of  the  tale 
we  catch  wonderful  glimpses  of  cool 
courts,  green  turbans,  wild  dancing, 
and  barbaric  feasting.  Then  Graf  von 
Rodenburg,  old  friend  and  rival  of 
Ali's  father,  arrives,  and  we  are  car- 
ried with  the  youth,  now  sixteen  years 
of  age,  to  Germany.  His  Oriental  as- 
tuteness and  a  gift  of  mind  reading  in- 
herited from  his  mother  involve  him 
in  the  intrigues  of  world-politics,  and, 
removed  from  the  care  of  von  Roden- 
burg, he  is  brought  to  England  by  his 
cousin,  Lord  Stapleside — an  eccentric 
and  able  politician  of  Disraeli-like 
characteristics,  who  saves  every  situa- 
tion by  a  wonderful  belated  resource- 
fulness. "Germany  is  saved  by  hu- 
man wisdom,"  thinks  Ali;  "but  Eng- 
land, by  Allah."  Using  his  remarkable 
gift  with  rare  loyalty  and  justice,  Ali 
is  the  hidden  factor  in  many  import- 


ant and  amusing  situations,  and  his 
love  affair  with  Patricia,  the  affection- 
ate, ambitious  daughter  of  the  English 
ambassador,  is  as  genuine  as  if  it  were 
not  so  strangely  piquant.  Of  two 
things  the  author  has  an  extraordi- 
narily strong  sense — character  and  af- 
fection— and  these  give  vitality  to  the 
story,  which,  despite  its  curious  fea- 
tures, almost  convinces  us  of  its  bio- 
graphical reality. 

Published  by  Harper    &    Brothers^ 
Franklin  Square,  New  York. 


"The  Romance  of  the  American  Thea- 
tre," by  Mary  Caroline  Crawford, 
author  of  "Old  Boston  Days  and 
Ways,"  "Romantic  Days  in  the 
Early  Republic,"  etc. 

In  her  research  among  the  docu- 
ments of  early  days,  Miss  Crawford 
has  come  upon  a  great  deal  that  is  of 
interest  concerning  our  first  play- 
houses, our  old-time  stars,  the  Bo- 
hemian resorts  of  the  past,  and  so  on; 
and  the  result  is  a  book  that  will  start 
trains  of  reminiscence  in  the  minds  of 
all  who  love  the  theatre  and  remember 
its  "good  old  days"  when  Forrest, 
Fechter,  Rachel,  Jefferson  and  Booth 
or  Charlotte  Cushman  were  the  idols 
of  the  hour.  Merely  to  read  over  the 
chapter  headings  is  to  get  a  hint  of 
the  book's  charm:  Players  and  Play- 
houses of  the  Eighteenth  Century; 
The  Early  Stars  and  their  Curious  Ad- 
ventures; Some  Famous  Stage  Fami- 
lies ;  The  Rise  of  New  York  as  a  Thea- 
trical Mecca;  The  French  Opera 
House  and  Other  Playhouses  of  New 
Orleans ;  Ups  and  Downs  of  the  Thea- 
tre in  the  South;  The  Golden  Age  of 
Boston's  Play-goers;  The  Story  of  the 
Stage  in  Philadelphia  and  Washing- 
ton; The  Part  Played  by  the  West  in 
Theatrical  History;  Famous  Players 
of  the  Nineteenth  Century;  The  Rise 
and  Fall  of  the  Dramatic  Critic;  The 
Passing  of  Bohemia.  Miss  Crawford's 
new  book  should  prove  to  be  one  of  the 
most  interesting  and  popular  of  the 
season's  holiday  publications. 

Published  by  Little,  Brown  &  Co., 
Boston.  With  64  half-tone  illustra- 


IN  THE  REALM  OF  BOOKLAND. 


413 


tions.  Crown  8vo.  Decorated  cloth, 
gilt  top,  in  box.  $2.50  net.  Half  mo- 
rocco, $5.00  net. 


"Fatima,"  by  Rowland  Thomas,  au- 
thor of  "The  Little  Gods,"  etc. 

In  a  little  dura-thatched  village 
which  bakes  on  a  canal  embankment 
amid  the  cotton  fields  of  Egypt,  a  vil- 
lage called  Ashmunein,  once  upon  a 
time  there  lived  a  Fool.  And  there 
lived  also  a  maid  named  Fatima,  who 
was  hardly  turned  sixteen,  and  was 
dark  of  eye  and  satiny  of  skin  and 
plumply  slender,  and  oh!  so  beautiful. 
Fatima  was  indeed  the  most  beautiful 
creature,  and  quite,  quite  the  cleverest 
creature  ever  was,  and  she  knew  it, 
and  this  story  concerns  the  marriage 
of  Ali,  the  Fool,  and  the  beautiful, 
wise  Fatima;  how  she  grew  tired  of 
her  foolish  husband  and  journeyed  to 
Mecca,  and  became  one  of  the  wives 
of  my  lord  the  Kadi,  and  fell  in  love 
with  a  young  man  named  Abdullah; 
how  she  had  strange  adventures,  and 
terrible  events  occurred.  The  like  of 
this  tale  for  fanciful  charm  and  imagi- 
native power  has  indeed  not  been  pub- 
lished in  many  a  long  day,  and  jaded 
readers  of  the  every-day  type  of  fiction 
will  delight  in  this  story  of  how  the 
beautiful  Fatima  married  a  Fool,  made 
fools  of  many  wise  men,  and  in  the  end 
learned  the  wisdom  of  being  satisfied 
with  her  own  lot  in  life. 

With  six  illustrations  in  color  and 
decorative  end-leaves  from  drawings 
by  Joseph  M.  Gleeson.  Crown  8vo. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.35  net.  Pub- 
lished by  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  Boston, 
34  Beacon  street. 

"The  Eye  of  Dread,"  by  Payne  Er- 
skine,  author  of  "The  Mountain 
Girl,"  "Joyful  Heatherby,"  etc. 

The  scene  is  chiefly  the  Middle 
West,  the  period  that  immediately  fol- 
lowing the  Civil  War.  Not  a  problem 
story  such  as  "Joyful  Heatherby,"  nor 
a  simple  love  story  like  "The  Moun- 
tain Girl,"  it  possesses  the  power  of 
the  one  and  the  charm  of  the  other,  and 
strikes  a  deeper  note  than  either  in  its 


setting  forth  of  the  tragic  situation  re- 
sulting from  a  mystery  that  is  ever- 
present  and  is  slowly  unraveled  until 
at  last  the  hero  is  arrested  for  his  own 
murder.  How  two  young  men,  bosom 
friends,  come  to  blows  over  their  love 
for  a  charming  girl ;  how  each  supposes 
he  has  killed  the  other  and  flees  in 
terror  and  remorse;  what  these  two 
men  make  of  their  apparently  ruined 
lives — this  is  told  in  a  remarkable 
novel  that  will  profoundly  move  its 
readers  while  delighting  by  its  unusual 
plot  and  brilliant  characterizations. 

With  frontispiece  by  George  Gibbs. 
12mo.  Decorated  cloth.  $1.35  net. 
Published  by  Little,  Brown  &  Co., 
Boston. 

"Old  Countries  Discovered  Anew,  A 
Motor  Book  for  Everybody,"  by 
Ernest  Talbert,  with  colored  frontis- 
piece and  seventy  illustrations.  In- 
dex, special  index,  appendix,  and 
map  of  route. 

In  the  preface,  the  author  sets  forth 
the  object  of  his  very  interesting  book 
by  stating  that  after  reviewing  his  ex- 
periences of  motoring  abroad  he  con- 
cluded "that  he  was  called  upon  to 
write  a  motor  book  for  everybody." 
The  superiorty  of  motoring  as  com- 
pared with  the  old-fashioned  railway 
and  horseback  travel,  together  with 
the  small  increase  (and  occasional  sav- 
ing) in  cost  for  actual  ground  covered, 
led  to  the  inevitable  deduction  that  the 
"only"  way  for  the  general  public  to 
see  Europe  is  in  hired  motor  cars. 
Indeed  the  obvious  advantage — often 
a  necessity — of  touring  from  centers, 
the  cost  and  annoyance  entailed  by 
taking  a  car  abroad,  and  the  recently 
increased  difficulties  thrown  in  his 
way  by  foreign  governments,  may 
well  incline  even  the  owner  of  an  auto- 
mobile to  the  practice  of  hiring  cars." 
The  author  gives  an  unusually  chatty 
and  interesting  account  of  a  trip  by 
motor  car  through  Holland,  Germany 
and  France,  three  of  the  most  interest- 
ing and  picturesque  countries  of  all 
Europe.  By  hiring  motors  in  the  coun- 
tries visited,  the  author  explains  how 


414 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


he  saw  many  remote  and  extremely  in- 
teresting sections,  'sections  seldom,  if 
ever,  visited  by  the  tourist;  sections 
in  which  the  customs,  habits  and  lives 
of  the  people  are  exact  counterparts  of 
those  existing  there  centuries  ago.  Mr. 
Talbert  has  not  only  given  in  this  book 
an  exceedingly  fascinating  account  of 
a  quaint  and  interesting  trip,  but  he 
has  furnished  a  most  complete  guide- 
book to  motoring  in  Europe.  He  gives 
us  in  detail  most  necessary  information 
regarding  motors,  the  roads  to  be  fol- 
lowed, baggage  to  be  carried,  methods 
of  securing  gasoline  and  other  sup- 
plies, the  hotels  and  inns,  etc.,  in  fact, 
all  the  information  that  the  person  de- 
sirous of  making  a  like  trip  could  pos- 
sibly need.  To  any  one  contemplating 
a  motor  trip  abroad,  this  book  will 
prove  a  mine  of  advice  in  solving  the 
many  every-day  problems  which  con- 
front the  American  motorists  on  the 
Continent,  and  at  the  same  time  it  fur- 
nishes common  sense  methods  in  ob- 
taining a  lively,  thorough  and  lasting 
appreciation  of  the  life  and  localities 
visited. 

Published  by  Dana  Estes  &  Com- 
pany, Boston.  Small  8vo,  cloth,  fully 
illustrated  with  more  than  60  photo- 
graphs taken  by  the  author.  Boxed, 
$1.50  net;  special  limp  leather,  Tour- 
ists' Edition,  $1.75  net. 


"John  Barleycorn,"  by  Jack  London, 
Author  of  "The  Call  of  the  Wild," 
"The  Abysmal  Brute,"  "Smoke 
Bellew,"  etc.  Illustrated  by  H.  T. 
Dunn. 

As  an  autobigraphical  contribution 
to  the  literature  now  being  published 
against  King  Alcohol,  Jack  London's 
recent  publication  will  rank  easily 
among  the  most  entertaining.  The 
story  is  told  in  his  usual  crisp,  intimate 
and  dramatic  way,  giving  a  vivid  im- 
pression of  his  long  and  stubbern  con- 
test with  the  liquor  "habit  of  mind." 
His  philosophy  of  this  habit  threads 
its  way  through  a  series  of  graphic  life 
incidents,  shedding  the  while  an  il- 
luminating light  on  John  Barleycorn's 
methods  in  luring  and  holding  its 


victims.  It  is  easily  the  most  appeal- 
ing from  a  personal  view  that  Jack 
London  has  contributed.  Here  is  his 
own  story  of  his  life  and  of  his  ex- 
periences with  alcohol,  as  newsboy  on 
the  San  Francisco  streets,  sailor, 
miner,  wanderer  in  foreign  lands, 
finally  prince  of  writers  with  home 
and  family  and  fame  and  fortune  his — 
under  a  system  of  life  which  he  de- 
clares, for  twenty  years,  against  his 
wish  and  will,  has  forced  liquor  upon 
him,  till  now  he  is  "possessed  with 
the  drinker's  desire." 


"The  Social  Rubaiyat  of  a  Bud,"  by 
Mrs.  Ambrose  Madison  Willis. 

In  "The  Social  Rubaiyat  of  a  Bud," 
the  writer  presents  the  study  of  a  type. 
The  "Bud"  is  the  product  of  a  special- 
ized civilization,  the  outcome  of  a  rear- 
ing and  environment  that  produce  a 
distinctly  differentiated  species.  Lux- 
ury is  "the  breath  of  her  nostrils," 
and  an  unhampered  materiality  the 
goal  of  her  aspirations.  She  cannot 
thrive,  or  even  preserve  her  individu- 
ality when  removed  from  the  environ- 
ment in  which  she  is  accustomed  to 
express  herself.  A  removal  from  that 
environment  would  mean  a  degenera- 
tion of  her  species,  therefore  when  she 
sells  herself  in  marriage  in  order  to 
maintain  that  standard,  she  follows 
the  first  law  of  nature — that  of  self 
preservation.  The  author  is  not  con- 
cerned in  the  story — with  the  desir- 
ability of  the  permanence  of  the  type, 
but  with  the  fact  that  its  evolution  is 
as  scientific  as  that  of  any  other 
species  and  that  the  maintenance  of  its 
identity  depends  upon  law  as  exact. 
The  author  disclaims  any  intention  of 
preaching  or  reforming.  With  parody, 
slang  and  satire,  she  amuses  the 
reader  with  thrusts  at  social  foibles 
that  all  will  recognize,  leading  the 
while  to  the  climax,  wherein  the 
awakened  soul  grapples  with  a  fate 
stronger  than  its  own  resisting  power. 


"Ramona,"  by  Helen  Hunt  Jackson. 

This  great  American  classic  is  now 
so  well  known  that  visitors  to  Southern 


IN  THE  REALM  OF  BOOKLAND. 


415 


California  inevitably  wish  to  visit  the 
scenes  of  the  novel  made  historic  by 
Mrs.  Jackson.  As  is  generally  under- 
stood, every  incident  of  the  story  has 
fact  for  its  foundation,  but  so  many 
different  places  are  pointed  out  as 
"Ramona's  Home,"  for  example,  that 
it  has  remained  for  A.  C.  Vroman  to 
supply  the  genesis  of  the  novel  in  the 
form  of  an  introduction  to  the  new 
Tourists'  Edition  of  "Ramona."  As  a 
result  of  most  careful  research  it  is 
possible  to  set  forth  authoritatively 
the  points  of  interest  mentioned  in  the 
book,  and  explain  some  of  the  appar- 
ent inconsistencies  as  to  location. 

Tourists'  Edition,  with  introduction 
explaining  the  genesis  of  the  story,  by 
A.  C.  Vroman,  and  24  half-tone  illus- 
trations from  original  photographs  de- 
picting actual  scenes.  Crown  8vo. 
Cloth.  $2.00.  Half-morocco,  $4.00. 

A  dictionary  does  not  merely  con- 
tain the  dry  bones  of  knowledge,  as 
any  one  who  cares  to  turn  over  its 
pages  can  easily  prove.  It  is  a  work 
full  of  the  gems  of  literature,  art  and 
science,  ranged  side  by  side  in  infin- 
ite variety.  Especially  is  this  true  of 
the  New  Standard  Dictionary,  which 
is  the  work  of  more  than  380  experts, 
embellished  by  reproductions  of  world 
famous  paintings  and  statuary.  Apt 
quotations  illustrative  of  the  use  of 
words,  and  drawn  from  classic  litera- 
ture and  modern  authors,  to  the  num- 
ber of  32,000,  form  one  of  the  many 
distinguishing  features  of  this  new 
work. 

Funk  &  Wagnalls,  New  York,  pub- 
lishers. 

"The  New  Man,"  by  Jane  Stone. 

The  story  deals  with  New  York  life, 
and  touches  on  the  social  evil,  offering 
a  woman's  solution  of  the  difficult  and 
much-discussed  White  Slave  problem. 
The  author's  previous  training  in  play- 
writing  reveals  itself  in  the  dramatic 
style  and  striking  situations  which 
are  the  strongest  characteristics  of 
this  exceptionally  clever  novelette. 

Published  by  Thomas  Y.  Crowell 
Company. 


Miss  Elsie  de  Wolfe,  probably  the 
most  successful  woman  decorator  in 
the  country,  has  put  into  a  book  the 
chronicle  of  her  experiences.  The 
book  will  be  called  "The  House  in 
Good  Taste,"  and  will  show  reproduc- 
tions of  forty-eight  interiors  decorated 
by  Miss  de  Wolfe. 

There  will  be  a  new  book  by  Ellis 
Parker  Butler,  author  of  "Pigs  is 
Pigs,"  this  fall— "The  Jack-Knife 
Man,"  the  story  of  a  shiftless,  lovable 
ne'er-do-well,  who  is  adopted  by  a 
little  lame  waif.  It  will  be  published 
by  The  Century  Company,  Union 
Square,  New  York. 


Theodore  Dreiser's  "A  Traveler  at 
Forty,"  will  be  among  The  Century 
Company's  fall  books.  Mr.  Dreiser 
made  his  first  trip  abroad  at  forty,  and 
this  is  his  record  of  his  impressions 
and  experiences — a  decidedly  uncon- 
ventional and  unusual  travel  book. 


The  Century  Company,  New  York, 
reports  new  printings  of  Bertha  Run- 
kle's  tale  of  romance  and  adventure, 
"The  Scarlet  Rider;"  of  Edmund  C. 
Bentley's  mystery  tale,  "The  Woman 
in  Black,"  which  is  proving  very  popu- 
lar also  in  England;  and  the  thirty- 
second  large  edition  of  Kipling's  un- 
failingly popular  "Jungle  Book."  A 
new  edition  of  the  "Jungle  Book"  is  to 
be  issued  this  fall,  in  a  rich  binding 
of  green  and  gold,  with  sixteen  illus- 
trations in  full  color  by  the  English 
artists,  Maurice  and  Edward  Detmold. 


Walter  J.  Thavis,  who  has  himself 
tasted  the  delights  of  championship, 
begins  his  book, '"Practical  Golf,"  with 
the  epigram:  "The  main  object  in  the 
game  of  golf  is  to  get  the  ball  into 
the  hole  with  the  fewest  possible  num- 
ber of  strokes."  The  defeat  a  few 
days  ago  of  Herreshoff  by  a  seventeen 
year  old  boy  shows  that  even  the  ex- 
pert cannot  escape  sometimes.  The 
author  of  "Practical  Golf"  did  not  suf- 
fer at  the  hands  of  a  boy,  but  he  could 
not  elude  his  own  epigram. 

Published  by  Harper  &  Bros. 


416 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


An  up-to-date  and  authoritative  pre- 
sentation of  the  Beaumont-Fletcher 
controversy  has  been  prepared  by 
Charles  Mills  Gayley,  professor  of 
the  English  Language  and  Literature, 
University  of  California.  The  Century 
Company  will  publish  Prof.  Gayley's 
book  in  October,  under  the  title  of 
"Beaumont  the  Dramatist." 


"Social  Evolution,"  by  Dr.  T.  S. 
Chapin,  of  Smith  College,  has  just 
been  issued  by  The  Century  Co.  It 
will  present  an  elementary  and  read- 
able, but  scientific,  survey  of  the  im- 
portant facts  and  principles  involved 
in  the  evolution  of  human  nature  from 
lower  forms  of  life,  and  will  have  over 
eighty  illustrations  from  diagrams, 
maps,  and  photographs. 


A  biography  of  notable  interest  this 
fall  will  be  Dr.  C.  V,  Legros'  "Fabre, 
Poet  of  Science,"  published  by  The 
Century  Company.  Henri  Fabre  is 
popularly  known  in  this  country  as  the 
author  of  "Social  Life  in  the  Insect 
World,"  while  scientists  recognize  him 
as  one  of  the  foremost  naturalists  of 
the  age. 


"The  New  Man,"  by  Jane  Stone 
deals  with  New  York  life  and  touches 
on  the  social  evil,  offering  a  woman's 
solution  of  the  difficult  and  much- 
discussed  White  Slave  problem.  The 
author's  previous  training  in  play-writ- 
ing reveals  itself  in  the  dramatic  style 
and  striking  situations  whch  are  the 
strongest  characteristics  of  this  clever 
novelette. 

Published  by  Thomas  Y.  Crowell. 


Harper  &  Brothers  announce  that 
they  are  putting  to  press  for  reprint- 
ing: "The  Iron  Trail,"  by  Rex  Beach, 
just  published;  "When  the  Sleeper 
Awakes,"  by  H.  G.  Wells;  "Vesty  of 
the  Basins,"  by  Sarah  P.  McL. 
Greene;  and  "The  Standard  of  Pro- 
nunciation in  English,"  by  Thomas  R. 
Lounsbury. 


Miss  Bertha  Runkle's  "The  Helmet 
of  Navarre"  is  remembered  as  a  first 
novel  which  made  a  very  youthful  au- 
thor famous  almost  over-night.  For 
her  new  book,  "The  Scarlet  Rider," 
which  The  Century  Co.  has  published, 
Miss  Runkle  has  chosen  another  his- 
torical setting.  This  time  the  place 
is  the  Isle  of  Wight,  the  time  toward 
the  end  of  the  American  Revolution. 


"The  Judgment  House"  on  the  Stage. 
Sir  Gilbert  Parker  has  just  com- 
pleted arrangements  for  the  dramati- 
zation of  his  new  novel,  "The  Judg- 
ment House,"  by  Charlotte  Thompson, 
who  dramatized  Margaret  Deland's 
"The  Awakening  of  Helena  Richie." 
According  to  the  official  figures  of 
The  Bookman,  "The  Judgment  House" 
still  leads  the  list  of  best-sellers. 

The  Century  Company's  May  issues 
include  new  books  by  Jack  London 
("The  Abysmal  Brute")  and  Bertha 
Runkle  ("The  Scarlet  Rider"),  May 
24th,  and  on  May  19th,  George  J. 
Kneeland's  "Commercialized  Prosti- 
tution in  New  York  City,"  published 
under  the  auspices  of  the  Bureau  of 
Social  Hygiene. 


POST  OANIA 


Because  the  skies  are  grey,  and  bitter  winds 
Have  crooned  a  dirge  of  sorrow  all  the  day, 
/Ay  courage  ebbs,  and  little  solace  finds 

heart  to  drive  these  brooding  ghosts  away. 


In  vain  I  struggle  with  the  pain  that  binds 
The  present  with  the  past;  full  well  1  know 
This  life  is  but  a  vague  and  passing  thing 
As  trancient  as  the  reign  of  April  snow. 

Ah  me  !     Dumb  music  throbs  within  my  soul 

And  long-loved  voices  from  the  dead  years  spring 

Till  harmonies  of  choral  wonder  roll 

Transcendent  on  my  yearning,  inner  ear, 

And  all  my  loss  lies  painted  on  a  scroll 

In  pigments  dull  and  washed  by  many  a  tear, 

—  BY  R.  R.  GREENWOOD 


00 


CO 


I 
o 


•fi 

a 
a. 


Blanche  Bates, 


•IP   t  i 


NOV7    1913 


OVERLAND 


Founded  1868 


MONTHLY 


BRET  HARTB 


VOL.  LXII 


San  Francisco,  November,  1913 


No.  5 


CALIFORNIANS 


IN 


NEW    YORK 


Members  of  Dramatic  Profession 


By  Elizabeth  Semple 


Gertrude  Atherton. 


CALIFORNIA    may     feel,     and 
justly,  that  she     deserves     to 
"hold  the  center  of  the  stage" 
when  it  comes  to  taking  stock 
of  those  men  and  women  whose  aim, 
individually  and  collectively,  has  ever 
been  to  further  the  best  interests  of 
the  dramatic  art.    What  son  or  daugh- 
ter of  the  Golden  State  does  not  recall 
a  Calif ornian  whose  name  was  once  a 
household  word — our     Mary     Ander- 
son ?    Or  thrill  with  an  actual  personal 
satisfaction  when  they  reflect  that  it 
was  in  this  fair  land,  out  of  all  the 
world,     Madame     Helena     Modjeska 


chose  to  have  her  home,  and  where  it 
was  that  the  bust  which  the  great  art- 
ist considered  almost  the  best  of  all 
the  countless  presentments,  in  what- 
ever medium,  made  during  her  entire 
career,  was  modeled  by  Robert  Aitken. 
The  most  casual  connection  of  the 
drama  and  California  must,  inevitably, 
bring  to  mind  the  name  of  David  Be- 
lasco — as  a  perfectly  natural  sequence. 
It  is  well  known  that  Mr.  Belasco  grad- 
uated from  Lincoln  College  in  San 
Francisco,  but  it  may  be  news  to  some 
that  his  very  first  play  was  written 
while  he  was  a  student  there;  it  was 


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called  "Jim  Black,  or  The  Regulator's 
Revenge,"  and  was  acted  by  some  of 
his  friends  under  the  personal  super- 
vision of  the  14-year-old  author.  Next 
we  hear  of  his  officiating  as  "call  boy" 
at  the  Baldwin  Theatre,  of  which  he 
was  soon  to  become  the  stage  mana- 
ger— when  he  had  barely  reached  the 
age  of  twenty. 

In  1880,  the  Mallory  Brothers  en- 
gaged him  to  take  charge  of  their 
productions  at  the  old  Madison  Square 
Theatre,  New  York  (gone,  alas,  these 


many  years),  and  "May  Blossom"  was 
his  first  metropolitan  hit;  quickly  to  be 
followed  by  "La  Belle  Russe,"  "Va- 
larie,"  "Heart  of  Oak,"  all  of  which 
had  long  and  prosperous  runs.  But 
it  was  when  he  became  associated 
with  Daniel  Frohman,  at  the  Lyceum, 
that  he  began,  as  it  were,  to  really 
"get  into  his  stride."  Here  he  and 
the  late  Henry  De  Mille  collaborated 
in  "Lord  Chumley"  (the  first  starring 
vehicle  used  by  E.  H.  Sothern) ;  "The 
Wife,"  "The  Charity  Ball,"  all  of 


Sarah  Comstock     Photo  by  Eddowes,  N.  V. 


Miss  McComas 


Photo  by  Purdy,  Boston. 


David  Warfield. 


David  Belasco. 


Oliver  Morosco 


which  had  their  premiere  at  the  old 
Lyceum;  while  "Men  and  Women," 
written  entirely  by  Mr.  Belasco  for 
Charles  Frohman,  achieved  a  notable 
success  at  Proctor's  Theatre — now  the 
well  known  vaudeville  house. 

In  scarce  one  of  all  his  productions 
was  Mr.  Belasco's  insistence  on  what 
might  be  called  "gripping  realism" 
more  marked  than  in  "The  Girl  I  Left 
Behind  Me,"  which  opened  the  Empire 
Theatre  in  New  York  in  1893.  Even 
at  this  distance  of  time,  the  writer 
vividly  recalls  that  thrilling  scene,  in- 
side the  frontier  po3t,  when  one  cf  the 
scanty  garrison  had  volunteered  to 
fetch  aid.  The  shouts  and  war-whoops 
of  the  unseen,  besieging  Indians  were 
almost  painfully  "natural,"  and  fierce ; 
and,  quite  as  clearly,  does  she  remem- 
ber her  speechless  indignation  as, 
thrilled  with  the  poignant  horror  of  the 
situation — if  the  help  shouldn't  come, 
she  clutched  the  arm  of  her  companion 
with  an  inarticulate  murmur  of  dis- 
may when,  like  a  veritable  blow  in  the 
face  came  the  would-be  reassurance: 
"Remember,  they're  only  supers  at 
fifty  cents  a  night!" 

She  wondered  (and  she's  wondering 
still)  how  David  Belasco  ever  found 
courage  to  go  on  endeavoring  to  bring 
the  drama's  highest  art  to  the  minds 


of  a  public  many  of  whom,  at  moments 
so  soul-stirring,  could  consider  "sup- 
ers" as  mere  salaried  minions.  Yet 
his  achievements  along  this  very  line 
shine  like  beacon-lights  and  form  per- 
manent items  in  American  theatrical 
history.  For  example,  in  the  produc- 
tion of  "The  Heart  of  Maryland," 
whoever  witnessed  Mrs.  Leslie  Carter 
clinging  to  the  huge  bell-tongue  will 
never  forget  it;  and  it  was  in  this  play 
that  the  celebrated  collaboration  of 
dramatist-manager  and  star  was  inau- 
gurated, that  gave  to  all  true  lovers  of 
the  drama  so  many  happy  hours  and 
whose  termination  caused,  likewise, 
such  keen  regret. 

Mr.  Belasco  has  also  managed  many 
other  successful  artists,  among  them 
Miss  Blanche  Bates,  Miss  Henrietta 
Crosman,  who  made  one  of  her  most 
striking  and  lasting  successes  in  his 
dramatic  version  of  "Sweet  Kitty  Bel- 
lairs,"  which  opened  the  Belasco 
Theatre  on  42d  street,  New  York,  and 
David  Warfield,  who,  in  "A  Grand 
Army  Man"  (another  Belasco  play) 
was  the  first  attraction  at  the  Stuyve- 
sant  Theatre. 

Volumes  could  be  written  about  the 
kindness  this  greatest  of  American 
managers  has  shown  to  less  fortunate 
members  of  the  profession  for  which 


Maxine  Elliott 


426 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


he  has  done  so  much ;  not  that  he  will 
tell  about  them — for,  in  all  matters  re- 
lating to  his  own  personality,  Mr.  Be- 
lasco  is,  to  put  it  conservatively,  now- 
expansive;  though  he  is  always  ready 
to  talk  about  "the  American  drama," 
he  is  very  apt  to  be  conveniently  deaf 
to  inquiries  as  to  his  own  tireless  per- 
sonal efforts  to  build  it  up.  Yet  very 
likely  there  is  not  on  the  stage  one  in- 
dividual who  has  been  so  valuable  to 
each  and  every  phase  of  our  dramatic 
art  as  David  Belasco. 

Maude  Adams — "America's 
loved  actress,"  as  she  is  called — 
a  first  appearance  that  might,  very 
justly,  be  called  an  inadvertence.  Her 
mother,  Mrs.  Annie  Adams,  was  living 
in  Salt  Lake  City,  and  she  was  at 
this  time,  a  member  of  a  stock  com- 
pany at  the  leading  theatre  there.  The 
exigencies  of  the  play  (it  was  called 
"The  Lost  Child")  required  an  infant 
to  be  brought  in  at  the  critical  moment, 
but  the  youthful  person  who  had, 
heretofore,  officiated  in;.this  rqje,  was 
seized  with  a  severe  attack  of  stage- 
fright — or  was  it  just  plain  colic?  At 
all  events,  she  filled  the  regions  "back 
stage"  with  wails  of  distress,  refusing 
to  be  pacified;  whereupon  the  dis- 
traught stage  manager,  grabbed  Miss 
Maude,  who,  despite  her  tender,  not 
years 'but  months,  was  paying  a  visit 
to  her  mother's  dressing  room,  and 
literally  cast  her  into  the  breach,  bod- 
ily, crowing  with  delight  at  the  ap- 
plause with  which  this  part  of  the  play 
was  invariably  greeted. 

Miss  Adams  was  very  young  when 
the  .family  moved  to  San  Francisco, 
where  her  girlhood  was  spent.  She  at- 
tended school  till  she  was  fifteen,  then 
joined  the  stock  company  of  the  old 
Alcazar  Theatre,  where  her  mother 
was  leading  lady.  Speaking  of  this 
experience,  she  once  said : 

"I  couldn't  have  had  a  better  school. 
The  bills  were  changed  every  week; 
all  the  standard  things  were  played, 
and  I  had  an  opportunity  to  hear  all 
of  them,  even  when  I  did  not  appear. 
I  have  realized  the  value  of  this  early 
work  throughout  all  my  later  experi- 
ence." 


During  Mr.  Sothern's  first  tour  as  a 
star  (in  "Lord  Chumley")  Miss 
Adams  joined  his  company,  thus  com- 
ing under  the  management  of  Mr. 
Charles  Frohman.  Later  she  appeared 
in  a  repertory  of  plays  till  she  sprang 
into  fame  as  the  leading  lady  of  John 
Drew's  company,  in  the  part  of  Su- 
sanne  in  "The  Masked  Ball."  Never 
was  a  more  dainty  bit  of  acting  seen 
on  the  American  stage  than  what  was 
called  "the  tipsy  scene,"  and  which 
her  art  rendered  amusing — instead  of 
vulgar.  Then  followed  a  long  chain  of 
successes  as  a  star  on  her  own  account 
— first  as  Lady  Babbie  in  "The  Little 
Minister,"  and  among  her  notable  ex- 
periences has  been  one  that  few  can 
boast  of — namely,  risking  what 
seemed  to  many  inevitable  failure — 
and  finding,  instead,  unqualified  suc- 
cess. This  was  when  she  appeared  as 
Juliet — making  it  her  own  individual 
impersonation — rather  than  one  hide- 
bound by  tradition.  Yet  because  it 
was  real — like  everything  she  does — 
it  succeeded,  and  this  fact  made  it  the 
more  notable;  even  those  who,  at 
first,  were  inclined  to  regret  the  ortho- 
dox— what  one  critic  called  "the 
Shakespearean  Juliet" — were  com- 
pelled to  admit  that  this  woman's  mag- 
netic personality  enabled  her  to  brush 
aside  obstacles  of  physique  and  tem- 
perament that  had  seemed  almost  un- 
surmountable. 

Recently  San  Francisco  has  had  the 
pleasure  of  witnessing  her  wonderful 
impersonation  of  "The  Hen  Pheasant" 
in  "Chanticleer,"  and  thus  there  is  no 
need  for  comment  on  this,  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  of  her  extraordinary 
creations. 

Since  Blanche  Bates  came  to  San 
Francisco  when  she  was  but  three 
years  old,  she  may,  with  all  propriety, 
call  herself  a  true  daughter.  Her 
school  days  were  spent  here,  at  the  old 
Hamilton  School,  as  she  happily  re- 
called, on  May  1st  of  this  present  year 
when,  chancing  to  be  back  in  what  she 
says  "seems  my  own  home  city,"  she 
took  part  in  the  festivities  of  that  oc- 
casion and  eagerly  urged  the  children 
of  this  generation  to  do  their  part  for 


Mrs.  Tully 


a  San  Francisco  Beautiful. 

Miss  Bates  made  her  first  appear- 
ance at  the  old  Columbia  Theatre,  in 
a  playlet  of  Brander  Mathews,  "This 
Picture  and  That,"  and  shortly  after- 
wards she  joined  a  stock  company 
playing  throughout  the  large  cities  in 
the  West.  New  Yorkers  first  recall 
her  as  a  member  of  the  famous  Daly 
Company,  and  it  is  still  an  unsolved 
problem  why  she  resigned  after  two 
performances  of  "The  Great  Red 
Ruby,"  in  which,  as  Comtesse  Mirtza, 
she  had  been  the  most  conspicuous 
feature. 

It  was,  however,  under  the  manage- 
ment of  David  Belasco  that  she  was 
destined  to  climb  to  dramatic  heights, 
and  when  she  filled  the  title  role  in 
"Madame  Butterfly"  she  literally  took 
Manhattan  by  storm.  This  hit  was 
soon  duplicated  if  not  surpassed  by  her 
Cigarette  in  "Under  Two  Flags,"  "The 
Darling  of  the  Gods"  (which  per- 
formed the  unprecedented  feat  of  run- 
ning two  metropolitan  seasons)  and 
"The  Girl  of  the  Golden  West."  It 
was  but  a  short  time  ago  that  San 


Francisco  theatre-goers  turned  out  in 
force  to  witness  her  charming  creation 
of  Roxie  in  "Nobody's  Widow."  Not 
only  is  Miss  Bates  one  of  the  most 
capable  of  American  actresses,  but 
she  is,  personally,  one  of  the  most 
charming  of  personalities  on  the  stage 
as  well  as  off  it. 

Holbrook  Blinn  is  a  California  man 
who  first  found  his  metier  in  his  native 
city,  San  Francisco.  Mr.  Blinn  was 
the  very  first  American  actor  to  have 
the  privilege  of  being  personally  pre- 
sented to  the  late  King  Edward  VII,  at 
Sandringham,  where  His  Majesty  (no 
mean  judge  of  dramatic  ability)  was 
so  pleased  by  his  rendering  of  Jac- 
ques in  "As  You  Like  It,"  then  being 
presented  in  London  by  an  American 
company,  that  he  "commanded"  the 
actor's  presence  at  his  favorite,  and, 
as  it  were,  his  informal  home. 

William  A.  Brady  once  told  a 
friend  that  he  "stepped  right  off  a 
train  into  the  dramatic  profession," 
which  was  quite  true,  for  he  was  of- 
ficiating as  "train-boy"  when  he  was 
seized  with  a  violent  attack  of  dra- 


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OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


matic  fever.  He  was  in  San  Francisco 
(the  end  of  his  "run"),  and  he  lost  no 
time  in  applying  for  a  job  as  "super" 
in  Bartley  Campbell's  "White  Slave" 
company,  then  making  a  tour  of  the 
coast.  Unfortunately  the  manager, 
Max  Freeman  recognized  this  new  ap- 
plicant for  histrionic  honors,  which 
caused  his  discharge  "as  an  actor — 
but  within  an  hour  I  had  been  re-en- 
gaged— this  time  as  a  call-boy,"  Mr. 
Brady  says. 

However,  he  didn't  keep  that  job 
long,  either — somehow  one  feels  sure 
he  wouldn't;  soon  he  was  back  among 
the  actors,  and  in  1888  entered  upon 
his  managerial  career  with  "She," 
which  he  confesses  to  have  "not  only 
pirated,  but  dramatized."  This  was 
the  very  first  of  his  long  line  of  suc- 
cessful productions,  extending  right 
down  to  the  present.  In  addition  to 
his  theatrical  interests,  Mr.  Brady  has, 
several  times,  been  associated  in  the 
management  of  pugilists,  with  whom 
he  was  known  as  "the  mascot  man- 
ager." 

Speaking  of  pugilists,  probably  peo- 
don't  forget  that  it  was  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, at  the  old  Olympic  Athletic 
Club,  that  James  J.  Corbett  first  came 
into  the  limelight  as  -i  champion  boxer. 

Both  of  Jefferson  De  Angelis'  par- 
ents were  professionals,  so  it  is  not  to 
be  wondered  at  that  he  lost  no  time  in 
following  their  examples.  Mr.  De  An- 
gelis is  one  of  the  most  popular  comic 
opera  comedians  in  the  world,  not  only 
on  the  stage,  but  off  it  as  well;  and 
his  beautiful  home  on  Sunnyside 
drive,  Ludlow,  not  far  from  Yonkers, 
N.  Y.,  is  famous  for  its  bounteous  and 
delightful  hospitality. 

Few  people  are  aware  that  the  first 
stage  appearance  of  Miss  Nance 
O'Neill  was  made  with  Weber  & 
Fields  at  their  old  theatre  on  Broad- 
way near  29th  street,  New  York  City. 
Tt  seems  rather  a  far  cry  from  bur- 
lesque to  starring  in  "Hedda  Gabler," 
but  this  talented  young  woman  has 
contrived  to  accomplish  it;  at  present 
she  is  one  of  the  stars  under  Mr.  Be- 
lasco's  management. 

Guy  Bates  Post  will  admit  he  was 


"born  in  Seattle"  if  you  actually  tax 
him  with  it,  but  as  he  came  to  Cali- 
fornia when  he  was  very  young,  that 
fact  shouldn't  count  against  him.  This 
sterling  actor  has  a  long  list  of  success- 
ful roles  to  his  credit,  but  not  one  has 
been  more  marked  than  that  he 
achieved  this  very  year  as  Dean  the 
Beachcomber  in  Richard  Watson 
Tully's  drama,  "The  Bird  of  Paradise." 
Mr.  Post  has  such  an  intense  dislike 
to  elevators  that  he  has  come  to  be 
known  all  over  this  country  as  "the 
man  who  never  rides  in  one."  He  is 
a  trained  athlete,  and  the  best  amateur 
pianist  in  his  profession. 

Some  one  described  Oliver  Morosco 
as  "a  silent  noise,"  but  New  York  does 
not  think  he  is  so  awfully  silent;  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  he  has  been  a  pretty 
audible  noise  there,  during  the  season 
just  past,  and  he  intends  to  keep  up — 
if  not  break  his  own  record  next  year. 

Miss  Katherine  Gray  (descended 
from  one  of  the  original  '49-ers)  is  a 
California  girl  whose  dramatic  career 
began  under  that  managerial  martinet, 
Augustin  Daly.  In  course  of  time,  she 
stepped  into  the  front  ranks  of  "lead- 
ing women,"  acting  with  stars  of  such 
luminosity  as  the  late  Richard  Mans- 
field, James  K.  Hackett,  Crane  and 
Goodwin.  Recently  she  toured  Aus- 
tralia and  New  Zealand,  at  the  head  of 
her  own  company,  meeting,  every- 
where, with  the  most  flattering  success. 

"Yes,  I  enjoyed  it,"  she  answered, 
as  the  writer,  in  the  course  of  a  little 
talk,  during  her  last  engagement  in 
San  Francisco,  asked  for  details 
about  this  trip.  "People  were  most 
kind,  and  made  me  very  welcome 
everywhere  we  played.  But,  do  you 
know,  in  all  the  time  I  was  away  I 
never  once  heard  any  complaints  about 
'being  poor'  or  'times  being  rotten.' 
All  the  people  seemed  comfortable  and 
contented;  I  don't  mean  'rich'  in  the 
sense  we  Americans  use  the  word,  but 
satisfied  and  happy;  moreover,  the 
political  conditions  are  quite  as  nearly 
ideal  as  it  is  possible  to  make  them. 
You  cannot  imagine  what  a  shock  it 
was  to  come  back  to  my  own  country 
and  hear,  everywhere,  about  'hard 


Eleanor  Robson 


times' — from  persons  in  every  walk  of 
life,  and  rich  as  well  as  poor." 

"So  you  believe  in  suffrage?"  the 
scribe  inquired — and  then,  like  a  cer- 
tain gray  parrot,  not  unknown  to  fame, 
was  "sorry  she'd  spoke,"  for  Miss 
Gray  promptly  countered,  in  a  tone  of 
distinct  pity: 

"Don't  you?" 


"I  don't  come  from  a  suffrage  State, 
you  know,"  pleaded  the  visitor. 

The  smile  with  which  Miss  Gray 
met  this  palpable  evasion  was  even 
more  pitying.  "Never  mind,"  there 
was  a  ripple  of  kindly  merriment  in 
her  rich  voice,  "the  air  of  California 
will  put  some  backbone  into  your 
flabby  Eastern  political  views;  and 


430 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


when  I  come  back  here,  I'll  find  you 
as  good  a  voter  as  all  the  other  wo- 
men who  'don't  come  from  suffrage 
States/  "  she  added,  with  gay  enthu- 
siasm. 

This,  by  the  way,  is  one  of  the  most 
salient  characteristics  of  Miss  Gray's 
singularly  magnetic  personality — her 
enthusiasm,  whether  for  beauty,  for 
art,  for  life,  or  more  especially  for  her 
own  beloved  profession.  She  has 
ideals,  too ;  the  sort  of  ideals  she  sim- 
ply couldn't  lose — because  they're 
so  indelibly  imprinted  that  they've  be- 
come a  very  part  of  her  own  self.  And 
when  she  talks  of  the  "future  of  the 
American  drama,"  you  somehow  feel 
assured  that  she  will  individually  bear 
no  small  part  in  its  interpretation. 

Miss  Carroll  McComas  made  her 
debut  as  a  "child  whistler"  in  her  na- 
tive city,  Los  Angeles,  and  from  there 
started  on  a  tour  through  the  large 
cities  throughout  the  country,  culmi- 
nating at  length  in  New  York,  where, 
after  a  successful  engagement,  she  re- 
ceived a  flattering  offer  to  go  abroad. 
It  was  accepted,  and  she  visited  the 
European  capitals,  including  Paris, 
where  she  was  voted  f'the  world's 
greatest  whistler"  by  the  huge  crowds 
-who  nightly  flocked  to  listen  to  her. 
prom  here  she  went  to  South  Africa, 
scoring  more  triumphs;  on  her  return 
lo  America,  Miss  McComas  joined  a 
^tock  company,  and,  'ere  long,  showed 
-that  she  was  as  capable  an  actress  as 
she  was  a  whistler.  Mr.  Charles  Froh- 
man,  always  watchful  for  promising 
:material,  soon  offered  her  the  part  of 
;Daisy  in  "The  Dollar  Princess,"  and 
:she  made  a  hit  in  it  that  led  to  her  en- 
rgagement  to  join  the  company  of  Miss 
Eillie  Burke,  where,  in  "Mrs.  Dot," 
she  played  a  role  only  second  to  that 
of  the  star  herself. 

This  season  she  has  added  to  her 
laurels  by  her  delightful  rendering  of 
Maggie  Cottrell  in  John  Drew's  ve- 
hicle, "A  Single  Man,"  written  for 
him  by  Mr.  Hubert  Davies.  Miss  Mc- 
Comas is  devoted  to  her  profession, 
and  is  such  an  earnest  and  untiring 
worker  that  it  is  safe  to  predict  great 
things  for  her  in  the  future.  Any 


mention  of  this  charming  young  wo- 
man (considered  one  of  the  prettiest 
girls  on  the  stage)  would  be  incom- 
plete without  some  allusion  to  the 
v/onderful  congeniality  and  affection 
existing  between  herself  and  her 
mother,  Mrs.  Alice  Moore  McComas, 
the  writer,  who  always  travels  with 
her  daughter. 

Miss  Florence  Roberts'  first  appear- 
ance on  the  stage  was  at  the  old  Bald- 
win Theatre,  San  Francisco,  where  she 
filled  a  humble  role  of  a  "supe."  She 
didn't  "supe"  long,  though,  and  many 
people  recall  the  days  when,  as  lead- 
ing woman  of  the  Alcazar  Stock  Com- 
pany, she  produced  the  first  play  ever 
written  by  Charlotte  Thompson,  which 
was  a  success — as  her  plays  have  been 
ever  since.  Miss  Roberts,  who,  by  the 
way,  is  considered  one  of  the  best  ama- 
teur "whips"  in  this  country,  calls 
Peekskill,  N.  Y.,  "home,"  and  here  she 
has  a  delightful  house,  designed  after 
her  very  own  ideas.  Theodore  Rob- 
erts, the  well  known  leading  man,  is 
her  first  cousin. 

Like  several  managers,  whose 
names  are  as  familiar  as  letters  of  the 
alphabet,  Mr.  Al.  Heyman  began  his 
professional  career  in  California.  And 
so  did  David  Warfield,  who  often  re- 
calls the  far-back  days  when  he  offi- 
ciated as  an  usher  in  the  Bush  Street 
Theatre;  here  he  finally  got  a  chance 
to  show  what  he  could  do,  and  his 
mimicry  of  Salvini  in  "Othello"  and 
Bernhardt  in  "Camille"  was  the  big- 
gest hit  of  a  play  called  "About 
Town."  This  traveled  as  far  as  New 
York;  then  it  went  to  bits  with  what 
probably  seemed  to  Mr.  Warfield  a 
rather  sickening  crash,  for  he  was  a 
stranger  in  a  strange  city.  But  it  did 
not  down  him,  far  from  it.  He  got  a 
job,  not  a  very  high-class  one,  it  is 
true,  but  still  a  job,  in  a  music  hall  on 
Eighth  avenue,  to  do  his  "impersona- 
tions," and  one  night  a  Broadway  man- 
ager dropped  in  to  get  a  glass  of  beer 
and  saw  him  doing  them,  particularly 
the  one  of  Bernhardt.  It  wasn't  long 
before  Mr.  Warfield  transferred  his 
services  from  Eighth  avenue  to  Broad- 
way, and  John  H.  Russell's  play,  "The 


CALIFORNIANS  IN  NEW  YORK. 


431 


City  Directory."  After  a  while,  he 
transferred  again,  this  time  to  the  Ca- 
sino Company,  where  he  was  destined 
to  make  his  first  real  strike.  Yet,  curi- 
ously enough,  it  wasn't  made  on  the 
stage  at  all — but  at  a  baseball  game 
(yes,  really  and  truly!)  given  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Actors'  Fund.  Warfield 
made  himself  up  as  an  East  Side  Jew 
pedlar  and  sold  small  bits  of  cracked 
ice  as  souvenirs.  The  rival  nines  were 
composed  of  members  of  the  "Merry 
World"  and  the  "Trilby"  companies, 
all  popular  people  in  the  profession, 
but  they  weren't  in  it  with  Warfield, 
for  he  was  simply  "the  whole  show." 
This  led  to  his  being  permitted  to  in- 
troduce this  act  at  his  own  theatre, 
which  he  had  many  times  begged  to 
be  allowed  to  do — but  the  manager 
couldn't  "see  it." 

In  the  "Return  of  Peter  Grimm" 
Mr.  Warfield  has,  this  season,  found  a 
play  and  a  character  to  rival  his  dearly 
beloved  "Music  Master."  New  York 
has  acclaimed  the  triumph  of  his  im- 
personation in  which  he  displays  that 
appealing  art,  that  tenderness  of  sen- 
timent, that  deft  touch  of  human  in- 
terest which  always  makes  his  im- 
personations conspicuous  among  favor- 
ite stage  portraits.  Likewise,  this  Be- 
lasco  play,  with  its  element  of  the 
supernatural,  is  held  to  be  responsible 
for  much  of  this  interest.  Peter  Grimm 
as  Mr.  Belasco  wrote  of  him  and  as 
Mr.  Warfield  created  him,  is  a  fine, 
big-souled  man,  who  likes  to  do  good 
in  his  own  way.  He  "passes  over," 
and  after  death  returns  to  his  former 
earthly  home  and  household  to  correct 
the  mistakes  really  brought  about 
through  his  own  kindness  of  heart; 


but  he  comes  not  as  a  sepulchral, 
husky-voiced  being  from  another 
world,  but  as  a  "personality,"  still  pos- 
sessed of  human  emotions,  impulses 
and  a  true  sense  of  humor.  It  is  a  part 
simply  made  for  Mr.  Warfield,  and 
he  has  rendered  it  so  it  has  become  a 
notable  one. 

Byron  Beasley  was  the  leading  man 
in  "Kindling" — that  play  which 
achieved  the  unique  distinction  of 
having  every  individual  among  New 
York's  dramatic  critics  enrolled  as  un- 
official .press  agents — so  unanimous 
was  their  admiration  and  approval  of 
this  unusual  offering  at  the  drama's 
shrine;  and  yet,  for  all  that,  it  had  to 
go  on  the  road  from  sheer  lack  of 
profitable  metropolitan  patronage. 

Lillian  Albertson  is  a  California 
woman  who  may,  if  she  will,  take 
much  of  the  credit  for  the  success 
scored  by  another  play  of  this  New 
York  season,  "The  Talker,"  for  it  was 
in  a  large  measure  due  to  the  leading 
woman's  personality.  Off  the  stage 
she  is  Mrs.  A.  J.  Levy,  and  she  laughs 
as  she  declares  she  is  still  old-fash- 
ioned enough  to  adore  her  husband, 
and  be  very  glad  that  he  adores  her; 
while  both  parents  are  glad  to  unite 
in  adoring  a  certain  two-year-old  per- 
son named  Adolph,  Jr.  Mrs.  Levy's 
home  ("though  I'm*  most  at  home 
when  I  am  out,  really,"  she  declared, 
merrily)  is  high  up  on  the  very  pret- 
tiest part  of  the  Riverside  Drive,  over- 
looking the  Hudson  River  and  across 
to  the  towering  Palisades.  Here,  it 
is  delightful  to  find,  she  plays  the  dou- 
ble role  of  wife  and  mother  quite 
as  charmingly  as  she  does  her  diffi- 
cult stage  part. 


U.  S.  Navy  officers  looking  over  the  insurrecto  prisoners  in  search  of  de- 
serters from  Uncle  Sani's  forces. 


Insurrecto    Prisoners    Captured    by 

Uncle  Sam 


By  AVarion  Ethel  Hamilton 


THERE   is  always  "local  color" 
at  Fort  Rosecrans — the  superb 
view   of   the     Coast     Ranges 
across  the  bay,  rising  in  pur- 
ple peak  upon  peak  back  of  the  city— 
the  silent,  sage-brush  hills  behind  the 
officers'  quarters     at    the     Fort — but 
when  Tia  Juana  fell,  more  local  color 
came  to  us,  in  the  astonishing  form  of 
one  hundred  and  five  rebel  prisoners, 


who  blew  in  from  that  little  Mexican 
hamlet  which  nestles  in  the  hills  six- 
teen miles  from  San  Diego. 

The  Fort  Rosecrans  troops  had  been 
ordered  back  and  forth,  to  and  from 
Tia  Juana  for  months,  to  patrol  the 
border.  On  this  day  of  the  battle, 
the  Federals  were  seen  by  the  insur- 
recto scouts,  advancing  upon  Tia 
Juana.  Captain  Wilcox,  who  at  that 


INSURRECTO  PRISONERS  CAPTURED  BY  UNCLE  SAM.        433 


time  was  patroling  down  there  with 
a  company  of  the  Eighth  Infantry, 
telephoned  Major  McManus  in  com- 
mand of  Fort  Rosecrans  for  more 
troops  to  help  him  patrol  during  the 
battle.  Accordingly  eighty  men  of  the 
115th  Company,  under  Captain  Koch 
and  Lieutenant  Drake,  were  des- 
patched on  short  notice  to  help  the  8th 
Infantry  patrol.  With  ammunition, 
bedding,  rations,  and  more  important 
still,  their  beloved  company  dogs,  the 
soldiers  left  Fort  Rosecrans  about  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  arriving  at  Tia 
Juana  some  two  hours  later.  They 
had  no  sooner  arrived  than  we  at  the 
Fort  received  a  message  reporting  their 
arrival,  and  saying  that  the  battle  had 
just  begun.  Then,  just  at  noon,  as 
we  stood  talking  it  all  over,  army  fash- 
ion, and  gazing  across  the  water  at 
the  sun-drenched  Mexican  hills,  there 
came  from  that  direction  the  sound  of 
firing.  It  was  a  field  gun  belonging 
to  the  Federals. 

You  of  the  big  Eastern  cities,  where 
there  is  nothing  more  romantic  or  un- 
usual than  a  fire  or  a  parade — you  do 
not  know  how  truly  thrilling  it  was  to 
actually  hear  with  your  own  ears  the 
firing  of  a  little  gun  in  this  little  bat- 
tle, instead  of  merely  reading  about 
it  in  the  magazines. 

The  sunny  hours  passed  at  the  Fort, 
while  we  watched  and  waited  for  more 
news;  about  two  o'clock  another  mes- 
sage was  received  that  our  troops  and 
officers  would  return  to  the  post  in  the 
late  afternoon,  bringing  with  them  the 
entire  rebel  army,  as  prisoners!  Im- 
agine our  excitement!  We  had  been 
honored  with  "General"  Pryce  and  his 
"aide,"  as  prisoners  on  the  post  some 
little  time  before,  but  they  had  been 
released;  that  was  interesting  enough, 
but  to  have  the  whole  of  the  rebel  army 
from  Tia  Juana  was  quite  overwhelm- 
ing. Preparations  to  receive  these 
visitors  were  at  once  put  under  way. 
The  company  cooks  were  ordered  to 
prepare  supper  for  105  extra  men.  Bed 
sacks  were  filled  with  straw  and  spread 
on  the  floor  of  the  post  exchange  gym- 
nasium. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  govern- 


ment boat  Lieut.  Harris  drew  up  at  the 
Fort  Rosecrans  dock,  its  decks 
crowded  with  a  motley  looking  crew. 
On  the  upper  deck,  with  some  officers 
and  ladies  of  the  post  who  had  been 
in  town,  were  "General"  Mosby  and 
"Field  Marshall"  Laflin.  The  gen- 
eral's appearance  was  unusual,  and 
quite  that  of  the  "soldier  of  fortune," 
or  shall  I  say  of  misfortune?  He  is 
slim  and  fairly  tall,  with  a  swarthy 
skin,  dark  hair  and  a  small,  dark  mus- 
tache. He  wore  riding  boots  with 
huge  brass  spurs  that  clicked  like 
lawn-mowers;  khaki  breeches,  a  sack 
coat,  and  a  small,  gray  fedora,  around 
which  was  twisted  a  black  and  white 
horse-hair  band.  First  off  the  boat 
was  a  "rebel"  dog  who  was  carefully 
handed  to  the  dock  by  one  of  the  in- 
surgents; then  one  by  one  the  rebel 
army  followed.  Of  course,  every 
man,  woman  and  child  of  the  garrison 
was  down  on  the  dock  to  see  them 
land.  Is  not  the  average  person's  im- 
pression of  the  insurrecto  army,  a  band 
of  little,  black  men,  wearing  tall, 
Mexican  sombreros?  There  was  just 
one  such  man  in  the  outfit.  Most  of 
them  were  tall,  fair-haired,  blue-eyed 
American  boys  in  blue  overalls;  their 
expressions  half-scared,  half-amused, 
and  altogether  sheepish;  at  first  sight 
they  looked  utterly  devilish  and  worth- 
less, like  "men  who  won't  fit  in;"  but 
they  were  unshaven,  very  dirty,  very 
tired,  very  hungry  and  pitifully  gaunt; 
and  we  all  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
our  own  officers  would  look  almost  as 
suspicious  under  like  hardships.  They 
were  lined  up  in  a  row  on  the  dock. 
Among  them  were  two  niggers,  a  few 
Mexicans,  and  several  mixed  Indian 
and  Mexican.  The  millinery  display 
was  varied,  and  in  it  all  there  was  just 
one  real  Mexican  sombrero.  Five  or 
six  of  them  had  a  gay  green  and  red 
serape  thrown  over  one  shoulder,  and 
all  of  them  had  bright  silk  handker- 
chiefs in  some  conspicuous  spot — loot 
— from  the  little  tourist  shops  of  Tia 
Juana. 

As  they  lined  up,  the  sunset  gun  for 
retreat  was  fired;  instantaneously  the 
whole  line  jumped  as  a  man;  then 


Upper — Mexican  rebels  rounded  up  on  the    border    at    Fort  .Rosecrans. 
Lower — Rebels  eating  at  improvised  booths  erected  for  them  at  the  Fort. 


they  all  laughed!  For  a  second  they 
had  thought  they  were  being  shot.  I 
overheard  one  of  them  say,  "If  we 
had  had  that  gun  at  Tia  Juana,  we 
would  have  won." 

Of  the  one  hundred  and  five  brought 
as  prisoners  to  us,  four  were  wounded. 
Two  of  them  had  to  be  carried  up  the 


hill  to  the  hospital  on  stretchers,  and 
the  other  two  were  able  to  limp  up. 
None  were  dangerously  hurt.  One 
had  been  shot  straight  through  the 
groin.  The  bullet  had  passed  out, 
leaving  a  neat  little  hole.  He  was 
rolling  a  little  from  side  to  side,  but 
did  not  seem  to  be  in  agony,  at  all. 


INSURRECTO  PRISONERS  CAPTURED  BY  UNCLE  SAM.        435 


Both  men  on  the  stretchers  were 
Americans,  one  with  wavy,  reddish 
hair — some  mother's  son.  Somebody 
whispered:  "What  did  they  get  out 
of  it?"  "Adventure,"  was  the  reply. 
Most  of  them  had  had  nothing  to  eat 
since  the  day  before.  The  first  thing 
to  do  was  to  feed  them.  A  tin  cup  and 
plate  was  given  each  man,  and  they 
ate  outdoors  at  long  tables  with 
benches,  which  are  used  for  the  sol- 
diers during  maneuvers.  For  supper 
that  evening  they  had  bread,  coffee, 
corned  beef  and  boiled  potatoes.  Most 
of  them  had  a  second  helping.  As 
soon  as  supper  was  over,  and  they 
were  all  safely  quartered  in  the  post 
exchange,  and  well  guarded  by  sen- 
tries, they  began  calling  for  writing 
paper,  soap,  pencils,  stamps,  towels, 
newspapers.  Then  some  of  them  took 
advantage  of  the  two  shower  baths 
which  are  in  the  post  exchange,  while 
others  got  out  dirty  packs  of  cards, 
and  lying  on  their  stomachs,  on  their 
mats  of  straw,  were  soon  philosophi- 
cally passing  the  time  in  poker. 

Among  them  were  found  two  de- 
serters from  our  own  army.  They  were 
slapped  into  the  guard-house,  where 
they  were  quite  at  home,  having  been 
there  in  better  days. 

Early  the  next  morning  they  were 
marched  outdoors  to  the  long  tables 
again  for  breakfast,  which  consisted 
of  coffee,  bread,  beef  stew  and  boiled 
potatoes.  Plain  and  monotonous  as 
the  fare  necessarily  was,  they  seemed 
to  be  satisfied  to  at  least  know  where 
their  next  meal  was  coming  from. 

The  following  day,  navy  launches 
from  the  warships  began  coming  to 


the  post,  bringing  officers,  marines  and 
sailors,  who  could  identify  any  de- 
serters from  the  U.  S.  Navy.  They 
found  about  half  a  dozen  altogether, 
and  took  them  away.  "General" 
Mosby  was  found  to  be  a  deserter  from 
the  Marine  Corps. 

Several  mothers,  sisters  and  fathers 
came  out  to  the  post,  asking  news  of 
missing  sons  who  had  wandered  far 
from  home  and  stopped  writing,  in  the 
selfishness  of  their  boyish  longing  for 
adventure.  Among  them  was  a  dear 
old  lady  all  in  black,  in  quest  of  her 
son,  a  mere  boy,  whom  she  had  heard 
was  killed  in  the  first  battle  of  Tia 
Juana.  She  was  greatly  relieved  to 
learn  that  the  man  who  had  been 
killed  and  buried  near  the  monument 
at  the  boundary  line  was  a  man  of 
about  thirty-five,  while  her  son  was 
only  twenty.  In  such  manner  are  the 
poor  old  mothers'  hearts  torn  by  way- 
ward sons  who  drift  off  and  out  and 
grow  so  hardened  that  they  do  not 
even  write.  And  always  the  mother 
prays,  and  remembers,  believes  in,  and 
forgives,  for  such  is  the  law  of  mother- 
love. 

One  of  the  officers  at  Fort  Rosecrans 
after  looking  over  the  insurrectos,  and 
talking  with  them,  sums  up  his  im- 
pression of  them  about  like  this: 
"There  are  between  ten  and  twenty 
per  cent  of  them  who  are  deserters 
from  the  United  States  army  and  navy. 
About  five  per  cent  tramps ;  a  few  cow- 
punchers,  quite  a  number  of  'Industrial 
Workers  of  the  World,'  and  there  is 
one  former  Russian  army  officer 
among  them.  The  rest  are  American 
bovs  in  search  of  adventure." 


THE    DOG 
AARKET 


AT    BAGUIO 


By 


Homeward  bound  with  their  purchase.          Emma  Sarepta    Yule 


THE  DOG  market  is,  by  all  odds, 
the  biggest  show  place  the 
summer  capital  of  the  Philip- 
pines has  to  offer.  Other  at- 
tractions, as  the  "kiosk"  tea  house,  the 
fine  roads,  the  motor  buses,  the  imita- 
tion Japanese  garden,  with  its  little  red 
torii,  and  its  little  red  bridge  at  the 
"Teachers'  Camp,"  the  terraces  and 
vine-covered  rustic  bridge  at  "Gov- 
ernment Center,"  even  the  wonderful 
Benguet  road  over  which,  in  great 
touring  automobiles,  the  traveler  is 
transported  in  less  than  two  hours  from 
the  palms  of  the  plains  to  the  pines 
of  the  hills,  are  "sicklied  o'er  with  the 
pale  cast'  of  civilization  and  cannot 
compare  with  the  fascinating  dog 
market. 

This  dog  market  is  no  dog  show  or 
place  where  dog  lovers  may  spend 
money  for  canines  with  family  trees. 
It  is  a  market  in  the  sense  of  being  a 
place  where  something  to  eat  may  be 
bought;  the  dogs  brought  to  sell  are 
not  fancy  bred,  they  are  just  dog.  For 
Baguio,  the  summer  capital,  where 
Philippine  government  officials  and 
employees,  and  those  not  in  the  gov- 
ernment service  who  desire  to  and  have 


the  money,  may  go  for  the  months  of 
March,  April  and  May  to  escape  the 
heat  of  the  lowlands,  is  located  in  the 
mountain  province  of  Benguet,  and  the 
hills  of  Benguet  have  been  the  home  of 
the  Igorots  for  so  long  that  not  even 
a  conjectural  date  of  their  first  occu- 
pation is  given. 

One  of  the  interesting  customs  of 
the  Igorots,  the  most  civilized  of  the 
uncivilized  tribes  in  the  Philippines,  is 
their  practice  of  eating  dog  flesh. 
"Dog-eaters"  is  the  scornful  taunt  flung 
at  them  by  the  civilized  tribes  of  the 
Philippines.  They  do  not  seem  to  eat 
dog  flesh  purely  for  food,  but  rather 
as  a  ceremonial  meat  or  as  a  festal 
dish.  The  occasions  on  which  it  is 
proper  to  consume  dog  differs  in  differ- 
ent localities.  Likewise,  different  lo- 
calities hold  to  different  standards  as 
to  what  constitutes  good  dog;  that  is, 
the  correct  thing  in  dogs  from  the 
viewpoint  of  the  epicure  or  the  ruler 
of  the  feast.  In  some  places  a  very 
fat  dog  is  the  correct  thing,  whereas 
in  Baguio  regions  a  dog  is  in  prime 
condition  only  when  it  is  so  thin  that 
it  looks  like  an  X-ray  shadowgraph. 
Old  pagan  rites  and  beliefs  probably 


THE  DOG  MARKET  AT  BAGUIO. 


437 


account  for  these  differences,  or  they 
may  have  an  origin  of  a  more  practical 
nature. 

Sunday  is  the  big  dog  market  day. 
Early  in  the  morning,  over  the  hills, 
following  trails  made  soft  with  pine 
needles,  or  taking  the  new  hard  roads, 
come  the  sturdy  Igorots  walking  with 
the  erect  carriage  and  muscular  gait 
of  hillmen.  Seen  some  distance  away, 
they  make  an  attractive  primitive  pic- 
ture as  they  wind  in  and  out  among 


suggest  by  their  appearance  the  feet 
of  humans.  But  seen  nearby,  the  sub- 
jests  have  one  attraction  not  noted 
at  a  distance,  and  that  is  their  pleas- 
ant, shy,  bright  faces.  In  many,  there 
is  something  so  winning  and  agreeable 
that  one  forgets  the  other  disappoint- 
ments brought  by  close  range. 

Though  the  Igorots  live  at  an  alti- 
tude where  the  temperature  is  almost 
cold  at  times,  dress  has  only  a  zero 
value  among  them.  Some  sort  of  a 


"Dog  eaters"  is  the  scornful  taunt  flung  at  them  by  the  civilized  tribes  of 
the  Philippines.     The  crosses  indicate  the  chief  of  the  tribe  and  his  wife. 


the  pines.  The  bright  hues  of  the  wo- 
men's clothing  and  the  flash  of  the  red 
or  yellow  "gee-string"  worn  by  the 
men,  gives  a  pleasing  note  of  color. 
When  seen  at  closer  range  the  primi- 
tive qualities  of  the  subjects  of  the 
picture  lose  their  artistic  values  in  a 
measure.  The  "bronze-statue-like" 
limbs  are  marred  by  a  peculiar  black- 
ish tinge  on  the  brown  skin,  and  the 
feet,  guiltless,  since  their  race  began 
of  covering  or  protection  of  any  kind, 


cotton  jacket  or  blanket,  and  a  "gee- 
string"  (a  kind  of  loin  cloth)  is  the  at- 
tire of  the  men  and  boys.  The  girls 
and  women  wear  a  jacket  and  a  skirt 
made  of  their  peculiar  bright  cross- 
striped  hand-woven  cotton  cloth.  The 
skirt  is  not  a  shaped  skirt,  but  a 
straight  piece  of  cloth  wrapped  tight 
around  the  hips  and  fastened  in  front, 
reaching  to  the  knees  or  a  little  below. 
These  quasi-picturesque,  not  overly 
clean  mountain  people  are  the  dog- 


438 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


buyers,  or  marketers.  Though  all  who 
come  over  the  hills  to  Baguio  on  Sun- 
day mornings  are  not  after  dogs.  Many 
just  come  for  a  good  time  as  in  other 
lands  people  go  to  a  fair  or  a  holiday 
making.  While  the  Igorots  are  the 
purchasers  of  dogs,  the  sellers  are  for 
the  most  part  Filipinos,  so  the  market 
is  an  inter-tribal  affair. 

The  Filipino  dog  sellers  bringing  in 
the  dogs  to  market,  when  seen  for  the 
first  time,  give  one  the  sort  of  shock 
always  produced  by  the  usual  in  an 


there  is  a  hole  through  which  a  rope  is 
tied.  All  the  ropes  at  the  ends  of 
the  sticks  are  knotted  together  some- 
thing after  the  fashion  that  a  net  is 
made.  The  final  two  or  three  ends  of 
the  rope  are  gathered  in  the  driver's 
hands.  As  the  whole  bunch  of  dogs 
spreads  out,  each  dog  in  a  regular 
place,  and  all  thus  strung  together,  it 
suggests  an  old-fashioned  mat  or  tidy, 
a  dog,  black,  white,  yellow  or  spotted 
being  the  ornamental  fastening  instead 
of  a  tuft  of  yarn.  The  bamboo  sticks 


Over  the  hills  come,  from  the  surrounding  country  side,  the  dog  buying 
Igorots,  following  trails  made  soft  with  carpets  of  pine  needles. 


unusual  situation.  The  dogs  and  the 
drivers  are  usual,  but  the  known  ulti- 
mate fate  of  the  dogs  is  unusual,  hence 
the  queer  shock.  The  manner  in  which 
the  dog  sellers  bring  in  their  dogs  is 
interesting.  One  man  leads  or  drives 
a  bunch  of  about  a  dozen  dogs.  They 
are  tied  together  in  a  peculiar  way. 
A  rope  with  a  bamboo  stick  about  three 
feet  long  attached  to  it  is  tied  around 
the  neck  of  each  dog.  The  end  of  the 
stick  is  up  close  to  the  throat  of  the 
animal.  At  the  other  end  of  the  stick 


are  used  to  prevent  the  dogs  getting 
away.  For  they  are  so  starved  that 
they  may  become  marketably  thin,  that 
in  their  terrible  hunger  they  would 
chew  any  kind  of  rope  or  string,  but 
the  hard  bamboo  resists  their  teeth  like 
steel. 

Dozens  of  these  motley  colored 
bunches  of  dogs  may  be  seen  every 
Sunday  morning  trotting  along  the 
fine  roads  leading  into  Baguio,  evi- 
dently enjoying  the  morning  air  and 
the  brightness  and  loveliness  of  the 


(S)       ^ 

II 


Loading  up  with  fuel  on  the  way  home  to  roast  the  dogs. 


world  about  them.  Their  heads  are  up 
and  their  tails  have  the  conventional 
curl  and  wag.  Nothing  in  their  man- 
ner suggests  approach  to  the  guillo- 
tine or  any  other  form  of  execution. 
On  the  contrary,  they  seem  quite  in 
harmony  with  the  beautiful  hills,  the 
fragrant  pines,  the  Sabbath  stillness, 


and  sunshine,  and  make  a  picture  so 
unique  that  once  seen  it  is  not  for- 
gotten. 

When  the  Filipino  dealer  reaches 
the  market  he  squats  down  on  the 
ground  and  his  dogs  drop  down  in 
front  of  him  something  after  the  man- 
ner of  an  unstrung  hammock.  The 


The  vine-covered  rustic  bridge  at  Government  cente* 


Refreshment  booths 

Igorot  purchasers  squat  teetering  on 
their  toes  in  front  of  the  groups  of 
sellers  and  dogs.  When  three  or  four 
hundred  dogs  and  their  sellers  and 
buyers  thus  dispose  of  themselves  on 
the  market  ground  it  makes  a  scene 
most  fascinating  to  a  newly  arrived 
American. 


in  the  village. 

As  neither  the  Igorot  nor  the  Fili- 
pino understands  the  dialect  of  the 
other,  the  business  operations  of  the 
market  are  carried  on  mostly  by  pan- 
tomime. This  adds  to  the  onlooker's 
interest.  However,  as  English  is  be- 
coming the  medium  of  intercourse 
among  the  younger  Igorots  as  well  as 


Dog  being  led  away  from  the  market  by  a  purchaser. 


442 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


"Arthur,"  a  handsome,  bright  table 
boy  at  Teachers'  Camp.  The  long  hair 
indicates  he  is  from  Bentec,  a  province 
north  of  Benguet. 

among  the  Filipinos,  this  special  touch 
of  interest  will  soon  be  a  thing  of  the 
past.  While  the  bargaining  is  going 
on,  little  knots  of  Igorots  of  all  ages 
and  both  sexes  stand  about  deeply  in- 
terested and  often  apparently  amused, 
not  hesitating  to  chime  in  with  their 
remarks  and  comments.  Compared 
with  a  stock  exchange  or  a  bargain 
sale  in  a  New  York  department  store 
the  scene  is  slow  and  tame.  But  if 
imbued  with  a  bit  of  the  spirit  of  the 
East,  one  can  watch  for  hours  the 
dickering  and  find  it  absorbing  and 
delightfully  human.  The  perfect  air 
of  indifference,  the  unruffled  waiting  of 
the  Oriental  is  here  seen  in  its  natural 


state.  The  squatting  buyers,  it  is 
marvelous  how  they  can  keep  the  po- 
sition for  hours,  poke  and  jab  the 
canines  and  feel  them  all  over  with 
quite  the  superior  air  of  one  who 
knows,  and  who  is  judging  dogs  in- 
stead of  dog.  With  an  air  of  uncon- 
cernedness  they  talk  over  the  offered 
animals  among  themselves,  and  with 
their  friends.  The  discussions  may 
be  short,  but  not  likely,  for  why  should 
they  hurry?  There  is  always  time  "in 
the  land  where  things  can  wait."  When 
at  last  a  decision  is  arrived  at,  the 
buyer  takes  hold  of  the  rope  of  the 
dog  he  has  chosen  for  his  ceremonial 
chow,  and  from  some  invisible  com- 
partment of  his  girdle,  produces,  in 
coin,  the  price  he  offers.  The  seller, 
looking  about  as  interested  as  a  Bud- 
dha god,  but  really  as  alert  as  a  "Solo- 
mon Levi,"  after  due  time  brings  his 
gaze  to  rest  upon  the  offer.  A  "what's- 
the-use"  look  slowly  ripples  over  his 
countenance,  and  he  languidly,  almost 
pityingly,  shakes  his  head  in  refusal. 
The  bargaining  continues  through  the 
medium  of  proffered  coin  and  languid 
shakes  and  nods,  the  by-standers  tak- 
ing a  voluble  part,  until  the  deal  is 
closed,  the  sale  is  made,  and  the  dog 
is  released  from  the  canine  mat,  and 
is  led  away  by  the  purchaser,  whose 
face  begins  to  wear  a  peculiar  smile, 
whether  of  satisfaction  with  his  bar- 
gain or  in  anticipation  of  the  cere- 
mony or  religious  rite  which  the  dog 
will  grace,  or  whether  only  epicurean, 
who  can  say?  The  smile  of  the 
Philippines,  whether  civilized  or  un- 
civilized, is  elusive,  fathomless. 

The  buying  and  selling  goes  on  all 
over  the  market,  as  bargain  after  bar- 
gain is  clinched,  and  dog  after  dog 
trots  behind  its  consumer  away  over 
the  hills,  to  fulfill  its  destiny,  the 
yelping,  snarling  and  whining  of  the 
hungry  victims  lessens  in  volume,  un- 
til by  noon  comparative  silence  reigns. 
For  the  remainder  of  the  day  the  "re- 
freshment booths,"  the  cloth-sellers, 
and  the  pottery  venders,  and  other  less 
popular  parts  of  the  market,  as  well 
as  amusements  claim  the  attention  of 
those  who  did  not  come  to  buy  dogs. 


"Aovies'    Encroaching  on  the  Stage 


By  Robert   Grau 


TWO  YEARS  ago,  about  the  time 
when  moving  pictures  and  the 
phonograph  first  began  to  en- 
rich players  and  singers  of  the 
speaking  and  operatic  stage,  Thomas 
Alva  Edison  uttered  the  prophecy  that 
the  day  was  not  far  off  when  the  work- 
ingman  would  lay  down  his  dime  at 
the  box  office  of  the  modern  theatre  of 
science  and  witness  a  reproduction  of 
grand  operas,  plays  and  spectacles  for 
which  the  world's  greatest  singers  and 
players  would  be  utilized  only  for  the 
original  films  and  phonographic  rec- 
ords. At  that  time  the  Wizard  of 
Menlo  Park,  who  had  given  to  the 
world  the  two  greatest  inventions  by 
which  public  entertaining  was  com- 
pletely revolutionized,  did  not  under- 
take to  assume  that  the  successful 
synchronization  of  the  phonograph 
and  the  moving  picture  would  be 
achieved  by  himself.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  has  already  been  possible  to 
hear  the  entire  operetta,  "The  Chimes 
of  Normandy,"  acted  and  sung  through 
scientific  simulation  of  sound  and  ac- 
tion, but  the  achievement  was  by  no 
means  perfect,  though  he  would  have 
been  indeed  a  pessimist  who,  after 
witnessing  this  spectacle,  would  ex- 
press any  skepticism  as  to  the  ul- 
timate success  of  the  effort  to  preserve 
for  future  generations  not  only  the 
pantomimic  portrayals  of  the  famous 
players,  but  to  faithfully  record  their 
vocal  expression.  In  other  words, 
what  had  been  accomplished  two  years 
ago  indicated  that  Mr.  Edison's  pro- 
phecy would  be  fulfilled.  And  that 
besides  providing  entertainment  for 
masses  that  had  heretofore  been  pos- 
sible only  at  a  prohibitive  cost.  The 
amazing  spectacle  of  seeing  deceased 


players  act  and  hearing  them  speak 
their  lines  will  be  revealed  to  the  forth- 
coming generations. 

What  this  really  means,  the  reader 
will  best  comprehend  by  asking  him- 
self what  he  would  give  to  see  Booth 
as  "Hamlet,"  Charlotte  Cushman  as 
"Meg  Merrillies,"  Forrest  as  "Richard 
III,"  and  Edmund  Kean  as  "Othello," 
at  this  time. 

Fancy  one  being  able  to  enter  the 
scientific  playhouse  of  to-day  and  hear 
Jenny  Lind,  Mario,  Grisi,  Piccolimini, 
Wachtel,  Parepa  Rosa  and  the  Adelina 
Patti  of  her  prime.  Yet  we  know  al- 
ready that  the  generations  to  come  can 
see  the  divine  Sarah  as  Camille,  Adri- 
enne  Lecouvreur,  La  Tosca  and  Queen 
Elizabeth;  Rejane  and  Jane  Hading  in 
the  plays  that  gave  them  their  fame. 
Mounet-Sully  as  Oedipus  Rex,  and 
lastly  the  societaires  of  the  exclusive 
Comedie  Francaise  who  have  just  con- 
sented to  appear  before  the  camera, 
that  the  artistry  of  the  house  of  Mol- 
liere  may  be  perpetrated  on  the  screen. 

And  now  that  the  stars  of  grand 
opera  earn  quite  as  much  through 
their  phonograph  records  as  from  their 
efforts  on  the  stages  of  our  opera 
houses,  and  when  such  eminent  stellar 
figures  of  the  speaking  stage  as  Mrs. 
Fiske,  Viola  Allen  Ethel  Barrymore, 
James  K.  Hackett  and  James  O'Neill 
have  capitulated  to  the  importunities 
of  the  camera  man,  comes  the  an- 
nouncement that  not  only  has  the  dem- 
onstration of  the  Edison  device — 
called  the  Kinetophone — realized  all 
of  the  Wizard's  hopes  and  aims,  but  a 
group  of  amusement  magazines  con- 
trolling about  one  hundred  playhouses 
where  high  grade  vaudeville  is  the  at- 
traction, after  witnessing  the  trial 


444 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


demonstrations  at  the  Orange  labora- 
tory, then  and  there  entered  into  an 
agreement  by  which  these  gentlemen 
will  in  future  provide  about  one-half 
of  the  programmes  through  the  Kineto- 
phone  instead  of  continuing  to  mete 
out  the  players  and  singers  in  the 
flesh  the  salaries  which  they  claim 
destined  to  land  the  managerial- faction 
in  the  bankruptcy  courts. 

The  statement  is  made  that  from  this 
one  contract  alone  the  royalties  accru- 
ing to  the  leasing  company  controlling 
the  exhibition  rights  to  the  Kineto- 
phone  will  amount  to  $500,000  a  year, 
and  as  this  group  of  managers  is  given 
no  exclusive  privileges,  and  as  there 
are  a  dozen  such  syndicates,  some  idea 
may  be  formed  of  the  scope  and  pos- 
sibilities of  this  latest  development  in 
scientific  public  entertaining. 

Moreover,  it  will  be  recalled  that  at 
the  outset  the  phonograph  was  a  mere 
toy  compared  with  what  it  is  to-day, 
while  the  moving  picture  was  used  as  a 
"chaser"  in  the  vaudeville  theatres  of 
but  a  few  years  ago. 

To-day  Caruso  could  retire  from  the 
operatic  stage  safe  in  the  knowledge 
that  his  income  from  the  phonograph 
will  be  forthcoming  as  long  as  he  lives, 
with  every  indication  that  the  total  will 
increase  rather  than  decrease;  and 
Madame  Luisa  Tetrazzini  must  surely 
congratulate  herself  that  the  phono- 
graph company  refused  her  offer  five 
years  ago  to  sing  her  entire  repertoire 
at  their  studio  for  $1,000  cash.  Luisa 
was  as  great  an  artist  then  as  now,  but 
had  not  yet  been  hailed  by  a  metropoli- 
tan public  as  La  Diva. 

That  same  phonograph  company 
three  years  later  approached  the  diva, 
but  they  had  to  pay  a  bonus  of  $50,000 
for  her  consent,  while  her  annual  roy- 
alties are  said  to  reach  between  $50,- 
000  and  $60,000,  which  is  interesting 
here  merely  to  indicate  what  happens 
when  progress  becomes  rampant. 

It  was  quite  the  same  with  the  mov- 
ing picture.  As  recently  as  three 
years  ago,  not  a  single  prominent 
player  from  the  speaking  stage  was 
willing  to  make  the  excursion  into  the 
film  studio,  yet  a  few  weeks  ago  the 


writer  recognized  on  the  screen  in  one 
photo-play  four  ladies  and  gentlemen 
who  were  last  season  prominent  in 
Charles  Frohman's  Broadway  produc- 
tion, and  it  is  an  actual  fact  that  in  the 
Vitagraph  Company's  roster  are  to- 
day one  hundred  and  twenty  reputable 
players,  by  no  means  are  these  com- 
posed of  the  rank  and  file  of  the  pro- 
fession. Six  at  least  have  been  stars, 
and  it  is  extremely  doubtful  if  one  of 
the  number  would  care  to  make  a 
change.  Yet  this  same  Vitagraph  Com- 
pany six  years  ago  had  a  stock  com- 
pany numbering  but  six  persons,  and 
this  included  the  three  proprietors  who 
appeared  on  the  screen  regularly.  The 
company  now  is  capitalized  at  a  mil- 
lion, and  recently  distributed  $25,000 
to  its  employees  at  the  Yuletide. 

Assuming  that  progress  shall  be 
anything  like  as  great  with  the  Kineto- 
phone  as  with  its  inventor's  previous 
scientific  devices  for  entertaining  the 
people,  the  problem  that  confronts 
theatrical  managers  and  producers  who 
cater  to  the  public's  entertainment 
along  the  older  lines,  is  indeed  a  seri- 
ous one.  As  matters  stand  now,  the 
number  of  such  managers  and  pro- 
ducers is  the  smallest  it  has  been  in 
thirty  years.  Like  the  players,  the 
men  who  were  wont  to  decry  the  vogue 
of  the  camera  man  have  at  last  recog- 
nized the  modern  trend  and  are  now 
affiliating  themselves  with  the  film  in- 
dustry at  every  turn. 

Daniel  Frohman,  who  is  often  re- 
ferred to  as  the  dean  of  theatrical  man- 
agers, and  whose  career  has  been 
noted  for  lofty  ideals  characterizing 
his  business  and  artistic  procedure,  is 
now  almost  wholly  committed  to  the 
production  of  photo-plays,  and  it  was 
he  who  induced  Sarah  Bernhardt,  Mrs. 
Fiske,  Ethel  Barrymore  and  others  to 
embrace  the  silent  drama. 

John  Cort,  who  owns  or  controls 
more  than  two  hundred  playhouses 
west  of  Chicago,  and  who  is  gradually 
making  his  impress  in  the  East,  is  an- 
other convert  to  the  theatre  of  science. 
Mr.  Cort  is  the  head  of  a  corporation 
capitalized  at  two  million  dollars  which 
controls  the  exhibition  rights  for  the 


"MOVIES"  ENCROACHING  ON  THE  STAGE. 


445 


Kitsee  Talking  and  Singing  Pictures, 
and  this  invention,  like  the  Edison 
Kinetophone,  is  something  more  than 
a  mere  synchronization  of  the  moving 
picture  camera  and  the  phonograph. 

In  the  Edison  productions,  the  vocal 
expression  appears  to  emanate  from 
the  lips  of  the  performers,  and  this  il- 
lusion is  accomplished  through  elec- 
tro-magnetic means.  The  horn  of  the 
phonograph  is  invisible,  being  placed 
back  of  the  screen,  while  the  project- 
ing device  is  placed  in  a  booth  in  the 
back  of  the  auditorium. 

In  taking  the  pictures  the  sensitive 
film  and  the  phonographic  record  are 
made  simultaneously,  and  the  operator 
is  never  in  doubt  as  to  results,  because 
the  length  of  films  always  corresponds 
as  to  time  to  the  fraction  of  a  second 
with  the  phonographic  record.  An  en- 
tire evening's  entertainment  may  al- 
ready be  presented  by  both  of  these 
devices. 

The  all-important  problem  facing 
those  producers  of  plays  and  spec- 
tacles who  have  not  up  to  this  time 
changed  their  environment  is  whether 
Mr.  Edison's  prophecy  means  the  ulti- 
mate passing  of  the  player  in  the  flesh. 
Of  course,  actors  are  absolutely  requi- 
site for  the  original  films,  and  records 
but  with  over  six  hundred  players  al- 
ready firmly  intrenched  in  the  film  stu- 
dio, and  one-third  of  the  regular  play- 
houses transformed  into  temples  of 
the  silent  drama,  the  advent  of  the 
successful  talking  pictures  would  cer- 
tainly mean  that  entertaining  the  pub- 
lic through  science  and  artifice  has 
reached  the  positive  stage. 

There  are  in  New  York  City  to-day 
one  hundred  theatres  seating  from  500 
to  3,000  persons,  that  were  not  in  ex- 
istence four  years  ago.  These  estab- 
lishments are  called  "neighborhood" 
theatres.  Of  this  number,  one-fifth 
are  owned  or  controlled  by  Marcus 
Loew,  who  six  years  ago  was  maintain- 
ing a  penny  arcade  in  Harlem.  To- 
day he  is  a  multi-millionaire.  In  the 
last  two  years  he  has  erected  four 
palatial  theatres,  with  enormous  seat- 
ing capacity,  in  the  congested  districts 
of  the  greater  city.  Each  of  these  es- 


tablishments cost  about  a  million  dol- 
lars, yet  in  none  of  them  is  there  a 
seat  which  costs  its  purchaser  more 
than  twenty-five  cents. 

A  few  years  ago  there  were  five  le- 
gitimate playhouses  on  14th  street.  To- 
day there  are  none,  all  having  reverted 
to  the  camera  man  except  the  Acad- 
emy of  Music,  and  even  this  erstwhile 
home  of  grand  opera  is  leased  by  Wil- 
liam Fox,  at  an  annual  rental  of  $100,- 
000  for  no  other  reason  than  to  prevent 
any  competitor  from  utilizing  it  as  a 
moving  picture  theatre  in  opposition  to 
the  several  gold  laden  establishments 
operated  by  Mr.  Fox  on  the  same 
street. 

Mr.  Fox,  like  Mr.  Loew,  six  years 
ago  was  wholly  unknown  in  the  amuse- 
ment world,  and  he  too  began  his 
career  by  opening  a  small  five-cent 
theatre.  To-day  Mr.  Fox  conducts 
nearly  a  score  of  theatres,  nearly  all 
formerly  devoted  to  the  legitimate 
drama,  and  again  like  Mr.  Loew  he  is 
erecting  each  year  two  or  three  costly, 
spacious  auditoriums  in  the  thickly 
populated  sections  of  Greater  New 
York.  One  of  these,  recently  inaugu- 
rated, cost,  it  is  said,  nearly  two  mil- 
lion dollars. 

Verily,  millions  of  new  theatre-goers 
have  been  created  through  the  lure  of 
cheap  admission  prices.  Most  of  them 
have  never  been  inside  of  a  regular 
theatre  where  the  real  actors  hold 
sway.  Yet  this  public  is  being  edu- 
cated all  the  time,  and  there  are  those 
who  believe  that  the  salvation  of  the 
speaking  stage  will  be  advanced  when 
a  large  portion  of  these  millions  be- 
come tired  of  scientific  simulation  of 
real  plays  and  players,  and  are  en- 
ticed into  the  high  priced  playhouse, 
where,  it  is  hoped,  the  superiority  of 
the  performance  on  the  real  stage  will 
tend  to  make  them  patrons  from 
thenceforth. 

But  evidently  such  experienced  en- 
trepreneurs as  Daniel  Frohman  and 
John  Cort,  and  many  of  their  col- 
leagues are  of  the  opinion  that  Mr. 
Edison's  prophecy  as  to  the  survival 
of  the  theatre  of  science  is  based  on 
fact  and  present  achievement. 


Mow  Six  California  Teachers  Tried  to 
Solve  the  High  Cost  of  Living 


By   Linda  Paul 


DEAR  BETH:  And  so  you  are 
coming  to  California  to  teach. 
That's  fine.  Now,  I  am  no  paid 
booster;  I  have  no  land  to  sell, 
nor  oil  stock  on  the  market,  but  I  do 
say  that  California  is  all  right.  You 
and  I,  Beth,  have  been  too  thoroughly 
influenced  by  our  conservative  South- 
ern training  to  crave  woman's  suffrage, 
but  it  is  glorious  to  live  in  a  land  where 
an  unmarried  woman  is  free.  You  re- 
member, don't  you,  when  we  were 
younger,  but  fully  grown,  unless  we 
had  a  gentleman  escort,  we  were  not 
allowed  to  go  anywhere  in  the  even- 
ing without  a  married  woman  for  chap- 
eron. No  matter  how  young  and  giddy 
and  frivolous  the  married  woman  was, 
nor  how  old,  nor  how  many  the  spin- 
sters were,  just  so  one  woman  in  the 
crowd  had  the  prefix  Mrs.  on  her 
name,  public  opinion  was  satisfied. 
Out  here,  it  makes  no  difference  how 
young  the  woman,  if  what  they  do  is 
right,  they  need  not  fear  criticism, 
for  appearance's  sake.  What  would 
our  dear  old  Southland  (I  love  every 
blade  of  her  blue  grass,  and  every 
stream  that  flows)  think  of  an  unmar- 
ried woman  having  her  own  little 
home  and  living  alone?  Can't  you 
see  dear  Aunt  Betty  hold  up  her  hands 
in  holy  horror  at  such  impropriety? 
So,  my  dear,  if  you  are  fortunate 
enough  to  save  money  to  buy  you  a 
little  home  in  "sunny  California,"  you 
can  live  in  it  all  by  your  lonesome  if 
you  care  to,  and  no  one  will  say  a 
word. 

But  how  to  get  that  little  home  is 
the  question.  Well,  several  of  us 
teachers  in  the  same  town  think  we 
have  solved  the  question  of  high  cost 


of  living,  if  not  to  the  satisfaction  of 
the  great  financiers,  at  least  to  our 
own.  Suppose  I  tell  you  about  it.  It 
might  give  you  an  idea.  One  of  the 
teachers  had  a  very  nice  home,  and 
was  alone.  She  rented  her  rooms  at 
reasonable  rates,  with  one  or  two  in 
the  rooms  as  desired.  This  teacher 
and  five  others  of  us  did  community 
housekeeping.  For  this  privilege  we 
paid  two  dollars  a  month  above  our 
room  rent.  This  gave  us  the  use  of 
the  entire  house,  and  we  had  almost 
as  much  freedom  as  if  we  had  been  in 
our  own  homes. 

There  were  six  of  us  in  our  group, 
and  we  divided  the  work  as  nearly 
equal  as  possible.  Each  week,  two  of 
us  would  take  the  cooking,  do  the  or- 
dering, and,  in  fact,  attend  to  every- 
thing in  the  kitchen.  During  that 
time  the  other  four  were  "parlor 
boarders."  Working  in  groups  or  twos 
in  this  manner,  made  us  cook  only 
one  week  out  of  three.  In  the  six  of 
us  we  represented  as  many  different 
States:  one,  a  way-back  Easterner, 
two  Southerners,  and  three  Middle- 
west  girls.  So,  you  can  realize  the 
great  variety  of  menus  that  we  would 
have  and  the  different  styles  of  cook- 
ing. Was  it  not  a  good  thing,  Beth, 
that  I  had  to  cook  with  a  Southern 
girl?  You  know,  I  will  never  really 
like  string  beans  served  with  milk 
dressing  when  a  piece  of  bacon  can 
be  found,  nor  cease  to  have  a  "very 
tender  feeling"  for  hot  breads. 

Every  Monday  each  girl  would  put 
in  the  common  purse  (familiarly  and 
lovingly  called  C.  P.)  $1.25.  The  two 
girls  then  cooking  would  feed  the 
family  on  the  $7.50,  and  if  any  over- 


TRIED  TO  SOLVE  THE  HIGH  COST  OF  LIVING. 


447 


fund  was  spent,  those  two  took  it  from 
their  own  pockets.  We  spent  35  cents 
a  week  for  milk,  so  the  first  thing  on 
Monday  morning  was  to  put  aside  that 
amount  in  the  milk  fund,  so  at  the  end 
of  the  month  the  money  for  the  dairy- 
man was  always  ready.  All  of  the 
girls  did  their  own  washing,  so  our 
common  purse  paid  for  soap,  blueing 
and  starch.  I  know  you  will  wonder 
how  we  ever  made  $7.50  feed  six  peo- 
ple for  seven  days.  But,  when  one 
has  a  set  sum  and  knows  how  to  plan, 
it  is  wonderful  what  one  can  do. 

Oftentimes,  in  fact  almost  always, 
there  was  a  surplus  sometimes  much, 
sometimes  little,  but  whatever  was 
left  over  we  put  in  the  gas  fund.  At 
the  end  of  the  month  we  took  that 
amount  from  the  gas  bill  and  divided 
the  remainder  among  the  six,  so  the 
cost  of  gas  came  very  lightly  to  all. 
It  was  quite  a  source  of  rivalry  to 
have  good,  substantial  meals,  and  yet 
have  something  left  over. 

Whoever  was  cooking  would  always 
leave  enough  in  the  larder  for  Monday 
breakfast  and  Monday  luncheon,  as 
the  cooks  who  came  in  that  day  could 
hardly  get  things  planned  the  first 
day.  Now,  say,  Beth,  can  you  imag- 
ine any  better  training  for  a  bachelor 
maid  than  household  economics  on 
such  a  practical  plane? 

But,  I  know  you  are  wondering 
how  we  ever  did  it  and  taught  school. 
Well,  that  was  one  of  the  things  we 
learned — how  to  manage,  so  as  to  have 
three  hot  meals  every  day,  yet  not  in 
any  way  to  interfere  with  our  school 
work.  One  great  help  was  the  fireless 
cooker.  Not  one  of  those  expensive 
kind — we  could  not  afford  that — but 
a  very  cheap  but  entirely  satisfactory 
affair.  We  had  a  15  cents  candy 
bucket  filled  with  excelsior,  then  a  35 
cents  galvanized  iron  bucket  to  fit 
in  the  little  nest  we  scooped  out  of  the 
middle.  We  made  a  little  pillow  of 
excelsior  that  exactly  fitted  the  top, 
put  on  the  wooden  top  of  the  bucket, 
and  held  it  down  with  ordinary 
smoothing  irons.  Soup,  rice,  potatoes, 
hominy,  beets,  macaroni,  bean  chow- 
der, and  all  such,  we  prepared  in  this 


cooker,  and  had  them  piping  hot  at 
noon.  Then  we  had  numbers  of  baked 
dishes,  prepared  beforehand,  that  sim- 
ply needed  to  get  thoroughly  heated 
to  be  good.  Beth,  these  Northern  girls 
certainly  can  teach  us  many  lessons  in 
economy.  Why,  they  never  waste 
anything.  Every  little  bit  of  peas,  or 
beans,  or  potatoes,  or  tomatoes,  that 
our  dear  olB  negro  mammy  used  to 
take  home  to  the  little  pickaninnies  in 
that  ever-present  basket,  these  girls 
save,  and  some  day — not  too  far  off — 
here  comes  a  most  delicious  concoc- 
tion or  mixture,  or  conglomeration,  or 
whatever  you  wish  to  call  it,  of  left- 
overs, with  milk,  butter  and  bread 
crumbs  added.  Really,  I  grow  to  like 
these  dishes  better  than  the  original 
ones.  We  would  have  lots  of  fun  if 
anything  was  left  on  the  dish,  guessing 
in  what  form  it  would  make  its  next 
appearance. 

During  the  summer  we  had  all  put 
up  some  fruit,  and  when  we  met  in  the 
fall,  we  counted  expenses  and  divided 
the  amount  among  us.  We  had  in  all 
quite  a  bit  of  fruit,  jelly,  canned  to- 
matoes and  pickles.  These  we  found 
of  great  help  to  us. 

Our  little  plan  had  wonderful  ad- 
vantages. There  was  constant  change 
of  diet,  as  no  two  of  us  cooked  alike. 
The  two  weeks  that  we  did  not  cook 
we  knew  more  about  what  was  being 
prepared  than  if  we  were  in  a  hotel. 
We  learned  lessons  of  economy  and 
good  management.  We  learned  new 
ways  of  cooking,  nev/  recipes,  for  each 
girl  had  been  taught  by  her  own 
mother.  This  is  far  ahead  of  living 
alone,  Beth.  I  have  tried  both.  When 
alone,  in  my  hurry,  I  oftentimes  would 
not  prepare  myself  the  proper  foods. 
The  quickest  to  get  ready  was  my  one 
idea.  But  when  there  are  six  to  pre- 
pare for,  the  meals  must  be  substan- 
tial. According  to  food  experts,  our 
menus  may  not  have  been  hygienic, 
but  they  were  appetizing,  and  I  be- 
lieve wholesome.  We  certainly  had 
jolly  times,  and  thoroughly  enjoyed 
our  winter  together.  We  tried  to  be 
thoughtful,  unselfish,  prompt  and 
punctual.  We,  being  teachers,  knew 


448 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


the  others'  pressing  need  of  time. 

I  believe  I  can  safely  say  that  our 
board  and  gas  cost  us  each  $6  a  month. 
Then  add  that  to  the  room  rent,  and 
you  will  see  if  we  are  not  succeeding 
in  solving  the  question  of  the  high 
cost  of  living. 

Beth,  dear,  I  am  so  afraid  that  you 
will  think  we  starved,  ourselves.  I  am 
going  to  send  you  our  bill  of  fare  for 
one  week.  This  is  a  verbatim  report, 
as  I  was  cook  that  week  and  I  kept  an 
itemized  account.  This  was  paid  for 
with  our  $7.50,  and  at  the  end  of  the 
week  we  had  a  surplus  of  sixteen 
cents. 

Monday  breakfast — Mush,  toast, 
coffee,  jelly.  Noon — Escalloped  to- 
matoes, bread  salmon  cakes,  peach 
preserves.  Monday  dinner:  Fried 
ham  with  gravy,  hominy  flakes,  hot 
biscuits,  canned  peaches. 

Tuesday  breakfast — Toast,  eggs, 
coffee,  jelly.  Lunch — Baked  hominy 
with  cheese,  baked  Irish  potatoes, 
bread,  blackberry  jam.  Dinner — Green 
peas  with  milk  dressing,  mashed  sweet 
potatoes,  banana  and  apple  salad, 
blackberry  jam,  sweet-pickled  apri- 
cots. 

Wednesday  breakfast — Fried  mush 
with  sausage,  toast,  syrup,  coffee. 
Lunch — Fried  sweet  potato  patties, 
stewed  rhubarb,  spoon  corn  bread,  pre- 
serves. Dinner — Smothered  round 
steak,  fried  Irish  potatoes,  hot  biscuit, 
piccalilli,  bread  pudding. 

Thursday  breakfast — Graham  muf- 
fins with  raisins,  peach  preserves,  cof- 
fee. Lunch — Tomato  and  milk  soup 
with  crutons,  stewed  rice,  gravy,  bread, 
canned  peaches  with  hot  cinnamon 
rolls.  Dinner — String  beans  cooked 
with  bacon,  carrot  and  apple  salad, 
new  potatoes,  hot  biscuits,  apricot 


pickles,  blackberry  preserves. 

Friday  breakfast — Toast  with  egg,, 
coffee  and  jelly.  Lunch — Fried  fish, 
warmed  over  beans,  fig  preserves, 
bread,  satsuma  plums  with  cake.  Din- 
ner— Fried  apples,  potatoes  with  milk, 
hot  biscuit,  fig  preserves. 

Saturday  breakfast — Mush  and 
cream,  toast,  coffee,  loquat  jelly. 
Lunch — No  one  happened  to  be  at 
home.  Dinner — Creamed  onions,, 
Spanish  rice,  muffins,  fig  preserves. 

Sunday  breakfast — Bacon  and  eggs,, 
toast,  coffee,  jelly.  Dinner — Canned 
peas,  dressed  eggs,  escalloped  corn, 
tomato  salad,  hot  biscuits,  strawber- 
ries and  cake. 

No  supper  on  Sunday  night,  as  we 
had  late  dinners.  This,  as  you  see,, 
was  an  early  spring  menu,  as  we  had 
fresh  vegetables,  but  they  were  quite- 
high. 

Now,  Beth,  don't  you  think  that  a. 
fine  menu  for  the  price?  We  lived 
very  close  to  the  school  and  had  one 
hour  and  a  half  at  noon,  so  we  did  not 
find  our  "housekeeping"  worried  us 
one  bit. 

Now,  my  dear,  if  you  decide  to  try 
our  plan,  let  me  send  you  some  of  our 
recipes — eggless  cake,  chicken  salad 
minus  the  chicken,  spoon  corn  bread,, 
meal  biscuits,  Spanish  rice  and  num- 
bers of  others.  There  is  one  thing,, 
though,  cheap  living  does  not  include 
many  meats;  and  make  up  your  mind, 
to  one  big  item  of  expense — butter. 
We  used  about  five  pounds  a  week,, 
and  it  ranged  from  35  to  50  cents  a 
pound. 

Now,  hoping  I  have  given  you  some 
valuable  and  helpful  suggestions  that 
you  can  profit  by,  I  am, 

Yours  lovingly, 

LULA  J. 


A    THANKSGIVING    CONVERT 


By  Lannie  Haynes  Aartin 


THANKSGIVING  Day  would 
soon  be  over!  That  was  one 
thing  to  be  thankful  for,  any- 
way! What  a  mockery  it  all 
was!  For  weeks  the  papers  had  been 
full  of  it  from  advertisements  to 
editorials.  Thanksgiving  linen,  cut 
glass  and  turkey  sets;  gowns,  hats 
and  dining  tables,  had  been  flaunted  in 
the  face  of  the  unbuying  and  the  un- 
thankful. Pictures  of  strutting  turkeys 
and  horns  of  plenty,  adorned  the  maga- 
zines and  dailies;  neighbors  dropping 
in  for  a  few  minutes  friendly  chat 
could  not  keep  their  conversation  off 
of  the  approaching  holiday;  and  with 
provoking  assumption  the  universal 
spirit  of  thanksgiving  was  everywhere 
declared. 

Even  in  the  rebellious  and  resentful 
mind  of  Jocelyn  Everett,  herself,  there 
had  been  visions  of  Thanksgiving  day, 
but  these  were  retrospective  and  re- 
gretful. The  old  fashioned  dining- 
room,  with  its  twenty  foot  table,  in  the 
ancestral  home  in  far  away  Virginia; 
the  annual  gathering  of  the  kins-folk 
at  that  bounteous  board,  with  its  two 
chestnut  stuffed  turkeys,  its  candied 
yams,  its  baked  Virginia  ham,  home- 
made cider  and  Lady  Baltimore  cake 
— all  these  were  memories  as  vivid  as 
painful. 

"How  many  cakes  would  they  have 
had,  I  wonder,  with  eggs  fifty-five 
cents  a  dozen  and  butter  forty-five  a 
pound?"  inwardly  speculated  the 
mourner  after  fleshpots.  "And  two 
twelve  pound  turkeys  at  35  cents  a 
pound — why  that  would  have  been 
$8.40!  and  for  just  part  of  a  meal! 
Well  they  never  could  have  done  it 
here  in  California!"  And  that  was  the 
grievance.  She  could  not  do  as  the 
Virginians  did  on  John  Everett's 
twenty-five  dollars  a  week;  and  be- 
cause unto  their  perfect  health,  their 

2 


assured  income,  their  pretty  bungalow 
home  and  all  the  marvelous  opportu- 
nities of  a  progressive  new  country, 
there  was  not  added  all  the  luxuries 
and  limitations  of  the  old,  she  carried 
the  canker  of  a  thankless  heart. 

"We've  been  invited  everywhere 
twice  around  since  we've  had  anybody 
here,"  she  told  her  husband,  as  they 
sat  in  their  big,  cheery  living-room 
under  the  reading  lamp,"  and  now  to 
think  that  on  Thanksgiving,  we  can't 
even  have  a  chicken  and  just  two  or 
three  people  in  to  dinner." 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  with  discour- 
aging conclusiveness.  "You  know  I've 
got  to  make  those  payments  on  the  lot, 
and  since  we've  just  had  the  house 
piped  for  gas  heat  and  bought  the 
fireless  cooker  and  electric  iron  and 
toaster,  I'm  a  bit  pinched.  And  the 
taxes  have  to  be  paid  this  month,  and 
I  may  have  to  have  the  trees  fumi- 
gated ;  and  next  month  I've  got  to  have 
that  storm  drain  attended  to  and  the 
roof  gutter  put  on,  and  then " 

"Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake  hush,  or  I'll 
go  crazy,"  she  screamed;  "we  didn't 
have  to  spend  our  money  for  such  silly 
things  in  Virginia." 

"No,  perhaps  not,"  he  said,  "but 
your  roofs  leaked  sometimes,  your 
fences  ran  down,  the  orchards  got 
tired  and  quit  bearing,  and  the  land- 
was  sold  for  taxes.  And  how  would 
you  like  to  go  back  to  oil  lamps  and 
green  hickory  wood  instead  of  your 
tungsten  burner  up  there  and  your 
press-a-button  breakfast  plan  in  the 
morning?" 

"Oh,  our  breakfasts  are  just  lovely," 
she  exclaimed,  as  he  touched  on  that 
one  happy  subject;  "with  our  oatmeal 
done  by  fireless  over-night,  our  toast 
made  on  the  table,  our  add-hot-water- 
and-serve  coffee,  and  grape  fruit  off 
our  own  trees.  I  don't  think  they  have 


450 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


any  better  breakfasts  in  the  Waldorf- 
Astoria.  It's  not  the  breakfasts  that 
I'm  complaining  about,  but  oh,  I'd  just 
love  to  have  some  chicken  pillau  and 
hot  biscuits  for  dinner  sometime,  and 
some  Brunswick  stew  and  Sally  Lunn, 
and  sweet  potato  pie  and  corn  pudding 
and  deviled  crab  and " 

"All  at  one  time,"  he  asked. 

"Well,  we  have  had  all  that  and  a 
lot  more  some  times,"  she  laughed. 

"Yes.  and  do  you  know,"  he  said, 
"the  biggest  bill  they  have  back  there 
is  one  we  never  have  had  at  all." 

"What's  that?"  she  snapped. 

"The  tax  they  pay  the  doctor  and 
the  undertaker.  Our  high  cost  of  liv- 
ing may  mean  a  lean  pocketbook,  but 
their  high  cost  is  a  fat  graveyard.  And 
besides,  Jocie,"  he  added,  as  he  eyed 
her  slender  figure  admiringly,  "how 
would  you  like  to  look  like  your  aunt 
Lizzie  and  your  cousin  Cora?" 

"Oh,  it's  awful.  I  know  they  eat 
too  much,"  she  admitted,  as  she  re- 
membered the  hippopotamus  contour 
of  her  nearest  relatives,  "but  it  does 
look  so  skimpy  to  sit  down  to  the 
table  with  only  two  or  three  things, 
and  it  seems  real  poor-white-trashified 
to  buy  just  a  dollar's  worth  of  sugar, 
and  maybe  half  a  dozen  eggs  when  we 
all  used  to  have  sugar  by  the  barrel, 
and  never  thought  of  getting  less  than 
five  dozen  eggs  at  a  time ;  and  anyway 
it's  a  tragedy  not  to  be  able  to  ask 
people  in  to  dinner  sometimes." 

"You  could,  if  you  didn't  think  you 
had  to  give  them  a  barbecue  when  they 
come,  and  I'll  tell  you,  Jocie,  the  real 
folks  don't  do  it  any  more.  I'm  sorry 
you've  got  in  with  that  near-swell,  lob- 
ster salad  set " 

"Now,  John,  I  simply  won't  stand 
for  you  talking  about  my  friends. 
They're  just  as  nice  and  high-toned 
and  up-to-date  as  can  be,  and  they 
have  been  awfully  nice  to  me,  and  I 
never  can  pay  anything  back  like  other 
people,  and  I  think  it's  real  mean  of 
you  to  be  so  cross  and  hateful  when — 
when — I've  never — never  said  a  word 

— about — oh — oh! "  and  a  tear 

splashed  on  the  magazine  in  her  lap, 
and  a  cloud-burst  was  imminent,  but 


he  began  to  murmur  sundry  soothing 
words,  and  make  reckless,  promisory 
statements,  which  he  (even  as  you  and 
I)  never  expected  to  fall  due. 

"Don't  cry  now,  honey-bird.  I'll 
tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Jocie,  if  I  can  sell 
that  corner  lot  for  old  Bartlett  and  get 
the  $50  commission,  I'll  give  you  half 
of  it  for  a  real  Thanksgiving  blowout!" 

"Really?"  she  cried,  her  voice  half- 
wonder,  half-delight. 

"Cross  my  heart  and  Pharaoh's 
mummy,"  he  solemnly  declared.  Af- 
ter that,  he  read  his  evening  papers 
without  interruption. 

Busy  figuring  on  what  kind  of  a 
feast  she  could  give  on  twenty-five  dol- 
lars, she  forgot  the  very  precarious 
possibility  on  which  her  dinner  de- 
pended, and  began  to  think  of  it  as  an 
assured  event.  And  John  thought  he 
had  made  a  happy  hit  to  so  divert  her 
by  this  utterly  improbable  prospect. 

But  the  lot,  which  had  been  adver- 
tised and  placarded  by  every  agent  in 
the  town  all  spring  and  summer  long, 
the  weed  covered  lot,  warty  with  tin 
cans,  suddenly  found  a  purchaser,  and 
John  Everet  was  the  lucky  seller.  It 
would  have  seemed  very  good  to  him 
if  he  could  have  put  that  fifty  in  the 
bank,  or  met  some  of  his  numerous 
bills,  but  true  to  his  word,  he  turned 
over  the  twenty-five  to  his  wife  for 
her  coveted  Thanksgiving  spread. 

She  silenced  the  little,  wee  twinge 
of  conscience  that  came  by  imagining 
she  was  deeply,  overwhelmingly,  soul- 
fully  thankful,  but  prideful  would  have 
been  the  more  accurate  adjective,  and 
the  high  spiritual  ecstacy  which  she 
thought  was  hers  was  simply  a  "see 
now  what  I  mean  to  do"  vainglorious- 
ness. 

First  she  began  prevising  and  re- 
vising her  guest  list,  sorrowing  all  the 
while  because  it  could  not  include  her 
entire  calling  register.  There  were 
the  Russells,  the  Parkers,  the  Harpers, 
and  the  Hunts,  who  were  matters  of 
course.  Then  there  were  the  Burtons 
and  the  Osgoods,  whom  she  could  not 
leave  out  either.  She  ran  over  on  her 
fingers  the  number  so  far  decided  on. 
Six  couples  didn't  sound  like  many, 


A  THANKSGIVING  CONVERT. 


451 


but  when  counted  as  individuals  and  a 
host  and  hostess  added,  they  made 
fourteen  people.  "Why,  that  couldn't 
be  possible!"  And  she  counted  over 
again.  She  remembered  she  only  had 
twelve  of  everything,  and  that  her 
dining  table  would  only  seat  ten  com- 
fortably. Well,  she  would  bring  in  the 
big  library  table  and  put  two  of  the 
guests  there,  and  she  could  borrow  the 
necessary  china  and  silver  for  the  two 
extra  places  from  Mrs.  Hunt.  But  it 
wouldn't  do  to  have  just  one  couple 
alone  at  the  table,  and  besides,  it 
would  easily  seat  two  people  on  a  side 
and  one  at  each  end,  and  she  was  sure 
Mrs.  Hunt  would  just  as  soon  lend  her 
six  of  everything  as  two,  and  there 
were  the  Rogans  she  had  always 
wanted  to  have,  and  to  such  an  ele- 
gant affair  as  this  was  turning  out  (in 
her  mind)  to  be,  she  could  ask  the 
wealthy  Mrs.  Greene  and  her  three 
daughters,  and  that  would  just  com- 
plete her  dinner  party  of  sixteen.  Din- 
ner for  sixteen!  She  hadn't  thought 
of  attempting  so  much  when  she  be- 
gan, and  she  did  not  tell  John  Everett 
what  she  was  undertaking.  He  would 
have  told  her  at  once  that  she  couldn't 
do  it,  and  she  didn't  like  to  be  told 
that  she  couldn't  do  things.  It  took 
the  fine,  buoyant  enthusiasm  out  of 
her,  and  somehow,  too,  John's  pro- 
phecies had  a  way  of  fulfilling  them- 
selves. So  she  only  told  him  she  had 
a  surprise  for  him,  which  was  a  pro- 
phecy not  altogether  unfulfilled. 

She  was  glad  she  had  nearly  two 
weeks  to  prepare  for  it.  First,  there 
was  the  cake  to  bake,  the  big,  gor- 
geous cake  about  which  a  romance  has 
been  written.  With  the  preparing  of 
the  citron,  raisins,  currants  and  nuts, 
the  baking,  wine-drenching  and  icing, 
this  took  several  days  and  as  many 
dollars.  Then  the  house  was  to  be 
thoroughly  cleaned.  That  meant  a 
woman  for  two  days  at  $2.50  a  day,  but 
of  course,  she  told  herself,  that  would 
not  come  out  of  the  twenty-five — that 
was  just  household  incidentals.  Then 
all  the  napkins,  doilies,  stand  covers 
and  dresser  scarfs  had  to  be  laundered 
and  fresh  curtains  put  up,  the  bridal- 


present  cut  glass  and  silverware  all 
had  to  be  cleaned  and  shined,  and  each 
day  added  new  tasks.  The  dinner  it- 
self, she  decided,  should  be  but  a  sim- 
ple affair.  First  she  would  have  a 
celery  puree  which  she  knew  well  how 
to  make.  For  the  second  course,  as- 
paragus on  toast  would  be  so  easy  with 
her  new  toaster;  she  would  have  that. 
Then  the  turkey  and  cranberries,  and 
with  it  must  be  sweet  potatoes, 
creamed  Irish  potatoes,  stewed  onions, 
egg  plant,  beets,  celery,  cauliflower, 
maccaroni  and  ample  meringue.  The 
salad  course  could  be  apples,  nuts  and 
celery  chopped  up  and  served  on  let- 
tuce, and  then  for  desert  would  come 
the  mince  and  pumpkin  pies  and  the 
old-fashioned  Virginia  boiled  custard 
with  the  famous  Lady  Baltimore  cake ; 
and  then  with  the  coffee,  a  pineapple 
cheese,  a  big  bowl  of  fruit  and  one  of 
nuts,  and  maybe  this  would  be  enough. 
She  had  a  competent  woman  en- 
gaged to  help  her,  and  felt  perfectly 
easy  as  to  the  outcome.  But  the  day 
before  the  event,  after  she  had  made 
a  dozen  trips  or  more  to  Mrs.  Hunt's 
to  bring  over  the  borrowed  silver  and 
china,  and  put  the  finishing  touches  on 
the  house,  made  the  salad,  the  boiled 
custard  and  the  pies,  she  was  a  little 
more  fatigued  than  she  had  expected 
to  be.  In  fact,  she  didn't  sleep  much 
that  night  because  of  a  persistent,  tired 
ache  in  her  back;  and  by  morning  it 
had  overflowed  into  her  head  and  ran 
down  to  her  feet.  That  was  why  she 
went  into  hysterics  when  the  woman 
helper  'phoned  she  had  visitors  for 
the  day  and  could  not  come.  So  she 
pulled  herself  together,  however,  and 
began  on  the  turkey,  an  immense  15- 
pound  dressed  one.  Her  first  disap- 
pointment and  dilemma  came  when  it 
would  not  go  in  the  fireless  cooker ;  she 
had  counted  all  along  on  cooking  it  in 
that,  knowing  how  tender  it  would 
make  it,  and  how  little  trouble  it  would 
be;  she  had  no  roaster,  and  the  only 
thing  in  the  house  big  enough  to  hold 
it  was  the  dish  pan,  so  she  put  it  on  in 
that,  and  as  there  was  no  lid,  the  steam 
which  would  have  made  it  tender,  all 
escaped. 


452 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


It  took  her  till  noon  to  wash  and  cut 
up  the  celery,  pare  the  potatoes,  egg- 
plant and  onions,  and  then  there  was 
the  meringue  and  maccaroni  to  fix,  the 
cauliflower  to  wash,  and  the  beets  to 
skin,  if  they  ever  got  done ;  besides  the 
table  was  to  be  set  and  the  dozen  little 
odds  and  ends,  like  filling  salt  and 
pepper  boxes,  sharpening  the  carving 
knife  and  putting  flowers  in  the  vases. 
By  five  o'clock  the  house  was  lighted 
and  garnished,  and  she  was  frantically 
struggling  into  presentable  attire,  al- 
though not  the  gown  she  had  intended 
wearing  now  that  she  had  to  serve. 
This  emergency  was  explained  to  the 
guests,  who  were  principally  neighbors 
and  came  in  quite  informally,  and  she 
excused  herself  and  hurried  to  the 
kitchen  to  bring  the  dinner  to  a  cul- 
minating reality. 

The  egg  plant  frying  in  a  big  spider 
absorbed  her  attention,  as  well  as  an 
amazing  amount  of  lard,  and  while 
attending  to  that,  the  onions  boiled  dry 
and  stuck  to  the  bottom  of  the  pan, 
sending  a  horrible  odor  throughout  the 
house.  They  had  to  be  discarded  en- 
tirely, and  while  emptying  these  into 
the  garbage  can  the  potatoes  boiled 
over  into  the  dressing  for  the  aspara- 
gus, and  fresh  had  to  be  made.  While 
that  was  in  preparation,  the  celery 
soup  thickened  up,  burned  at  the  bot- 
tom and  had  to  be  emptied  into  an- 
other vessel,  but  this  did  not  eliminate 
the  offensive  scorch,  perceptible  to 
both  taste  and  smell. 

She  had  expected  to  make  the  toast 
quite  leisurely  during  the  soup  course, 
but  glancing  in  the  dining  room,  and 
seeing  that  after  the  first  spoonful  the 
soup  remained  untouched,  she  got  ex- 
cited and  burned  up  four  pieces,  and 
that  not  calming  her  any,  she  dropped 
a  plate  of  asparagus,  dressing  and  all, 
right  down  the  front  of  her  dress ;  and 
it  was  Mrs.  Hunt's  plate,  too,  and  she 
did  not  have  time  to  pick  up  the 
pieces.  After  the  second  course  had 
been  disposed  of,  the  turkey  was  car- 
ried for  John  to  carve  and  serve,  while 
she  brought  in  the  vegetables.  To  her 
dismay,  the  Irish  potatoes  were  soggy, 
having  stood  too  long;  the  candied 


sweet  potatoes  had  gotten  dry  and 
hard;  the  egg-plant  had  lost  its  crisp- 
ness.  Despite  her  careful  picking  and 
washing  of  the  cauliflower,  when  she 
went  to  serve  it,  she  found  two  big,  fat 
worms,  and  had  to  throw  it  all  away. 
The  beets,  as  she  had  expected,  were 
half  raw,  but  her  despair  over  all  this 
was  as  nothing  when  she  went  into  the 
dining  room  and  found  the  guests 
struggling  with  the  toughness  of  an 
underdone  turkey. 

While  that  course  was  in  progress, 
she  hurried  to  put  the  salad  on  the 
plates,  remembering,  gratefully,  how 
good  it  had  tasted  the  day  before.  But 
the  big  white  apples  she  had  chopped 
with  a  steel  chopper  had  turned  Ethi- 
opian over  night,  and  looked,  as  she 
told  her  husband  afterwards,  "like  a 
dead  nigger  made  into  mince  meat." 
The  very  sight  of  it  nauseated  her. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  skip  that 
course  entirely  and  rush  on  to  the  des- 
sert. The  pies  were  excellent,  the 
boiled  custard  and  fruit  cake  delicious, 
and  John  Everett  was  hoping  in  the 
good  coffee  to  come,  the  cheese  nuts, 
fruit  and  candy  to  follow,  that  the  fore 
part  of  the  dinner  would  be  forgotten, 
but  just  as  Jocelyn  was  bringing  in  the 
big  silver  coffee  urn,  the  surprise  came. 
She  fainted  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
and  the  coffee  splashed  in  all  direc- 
tions. The  guests,  who  had  fortunately 
escaped  the  deluge,  did  not  linger  long, 
and  so  did  not  hear  the  real  Thanksgiv- 
ing proclamation.  It  came  when  Joce- 
lyn had  been  tucked  into  bed,  and  John 
was  sitting  by  the  bedside,  holding 
her  hands. 

"Oh,  John,  I  am  thankful  now — I 
thought  I  was  before,  but  I  was  only 
proud  and  foolish.  To  be  thankful  is 
to  be  humble,  and  simple-hearted.  I've 
learned  such  a  lot  in  these  two  weeks 
— and  especially  the  last  two  days, 
and  what  I'm  most  really-truly  thank- 
ful for  is  the  California  Simple  Life, 
and  I'll  never  be  so  foolish  again!" 

John  Everett  did  not  make  any  re- 
ciprocal confession,  but  he  has  many 
times  told  himself  that  that  twenty-five 
dollars  was  the  best  invested  money  he 
ever  spent. 


WHEN  A  A\AN  KNOWS  HIS  OWN 


By   Rebecca  Aoore 


AS  THE  OLD  steamer  Chinook 
chugged  its  way  slowly  up  the 
narrow  bay,  Emily  Harris  stood 
in  the  opening  in  the  lower  deck 
and  waited  for  the  signal  that  was  to 
call  a  boat  from  Breckstein's  to  take 
her  ashore.  Her  suit  case  by  her  side, 
she  waited  rather  forlornly  watching 
the  darkness  creep  out  from  the  for- 
est-covered shore  and  spread  over  the 
gray  water.  Night  comes  down  early 
in  October  on  Puget  Sound. 

The  engines  ceased,  the  steamer  was 
impelled  without  a  sound  over  the  slip- 
pery, leaden  water,  and  the  only  other 
passenger,  a  man  in  dark  brown,  drew 
near  as  people  always  did  when  any- 
one got  out  into  a  row  boat.  He 
looked  big  and  somehow  helpful,  and 
Emily,  who  in  the  oncoming  dusk  felt 
small  and  helpless,  had  the  odd  idea 
that  she  wished  he  were  going  ashore. 

It  wasn't  easy  to  be  alone  in  the 
world,  to  make  trains  and  boats  de- 
pendent only  on  conductors  and  cap- 
tains. But  she  bravely  suppressed  the 
sigh,  and  smiled  on  big,  friendly  Cap- 
tain Miller  who  himself  always  came 
down  to  see  her  off  the  steamer,  and 
sternly  sheltered  her  from  the  stares 
of  men  often  gathered  on  that  deck. 
Emily  was  surprised  then  this  evening 
when  he  included  her  and  the  stranger 
in  one  look  and  spoke  genially : 

"Mr.  Gordon,  this  is  Miss  Harris. 
She  teaches  the  school  at  Breck- 
stein's." 

Emily  glanced  up  into  a  square- 
jawed  face,  and  found  the  stranger's 
eyes  waiting  for  hers.  For  an  instant, 
he  looked  straight  into  her  eyes,  and 
when  Emily  turned  away,  she  felt  that 
he  knew  her. 

There  was  a  splash  in  the  dusk,  and 


a  boat  that  seemed  perilously  small 
and  wobbly  on  the  water  came  toward 
them.  The  old  man,  rowing,  fumbled 
in  drawing  alongside  the  steamer, 
making  it  necessary  for  the  captain 
and  both  deck  hands  to  lend  him  help 
— so  that  the  stranger  stepped  for- 
ward quickly  and  gave  his  hand  to 
Emily  to  assist  her  down  into  the 
boat.  But  it  was  deep  and  wavering, 
and,  with  an  apology,  he  picked  her 
up,  lifting  her  slight  form  by  the 
shoulders  as  one  might  a  child,  and 
swung  her  into  the  boat.  Her  eyes 
were  grateful,  and  3.  little  timid  when 
she  looked  up  to  thank  him.  "Don't 
be  alarmed,"  he  smiled  into  her  face 
reassuringly,  and  the  memory  of  kind 
eyes  above  a  firm  mouth  went  with 
Emily  to  the  shore  and  stayed  with  her 
until  she  fell  asleep  in  her  little  room 
in  the  old  gray  house  on  the  bay. 

But  some  October  days  on  Puget 
Sound  are  beautifully  bright  and  clear, 
on  one  of  which  Emily  took  Breck- 
stein's boat  and  rowed  to  Cedar  Crest, 
the  small  town  at  the  head  of  the  bay. 
She  had  been  to  the  post-office,  and  re- 
turning down  the  long,  sunlit  wharf, 
came  face  to  face  with  the  man  who 
had  lifted  her  into  the  row  boat.  She 
would  have  passed  him  with  a  bow, 
but  he  stopped  full  and  claimed  ac- 
quaintance with  her. 

"Let  me  row  you  back,"  he  asked 
frankly,  when  he  knew  how  she  had 
come.  Emily  decided  his  face  was 
not  hard — her  first  impression  on  the 
boat — rather  it  had  a  dominating  look. 
Perhaps  this  quality  had  its  way  with 
her,  for  she  listened  while  he  per- 
suaded. 

"The  tide  will  be  running  in  before 
you  can  get  back.  I  can  row  you  down 


454 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


and  tow  my  own  boat  after  us." 

Emily  yielded  the  rower's  seat,  and 
took  her  place  facing  him,  a  trifle  sur- 
prised at  her  own  compliance  to  this 
masterful  man.  Strength  was  his  pre- 
dominating quality.  It  was  pleasant 
to  feel  the  boat  surge  forward  under 
his  powerful  strokes,  yet  she  knew  his 
attention  was  not  on  the  boat,  but  on 
her. 

"Emily  is  a  pretty  name,"  he  said, 
without  preface,  glancing  at  the  ad- 
dressed package  beside  her. 

Emily  smiled  faintly.  She  sat  erect 
with  her  hands  folded.  The  sun 
shone  on  her  yellow-brown  dress  and 
chestnut  hair  and  lighted  her  brown 
eyes  to  a  warm  color.  She  made  no 
reply  to  his  remark. 

"Two  miles  back  of  that  point,"  he 
indicated  the  farther  shore,  "is  my 
logging  camp." 

"That  is  where  you  have  thirty  men 
and  Italian  Joe  and  his  wife  to  cook 
for  them." 

"Yes.    How  did  you  know." 

"I  heard  them  talking  about  you  at 
Breckstein's,  where  I  board." 

"So  you  knew  who  and  what  I  was 
when  you  let  me  row  your  boat,"  he 
smiled  accusingly.  "Well,  I  would 
have  brought  you  just  the  same  with- 
out that  recommendation." 

"Would  you?"  she  laughed  at  him, 
but  she  was  not  at  all  sure  he  would 
not. 

As  the  boat  gently  surged  through 
the  water,  he  talked  to  her,  but  Emily 
did  not  hear  what  he  said.  She  was 
wholly  possessed  by  the  wonderful 
beauty  of  the  evening;  the  pale,  pure 
northern  sky  notched  at  the  horizon  by 
the  tops  of  the  dark  firs  on  the  shore, 
a  steady  soldierly  line  suddenly  broken 
by  the  maple  filled  gulch  through 
which  the  setting  sun  shone,  changing 
the  blue  waters  into  an  opalescent  sea 
across  which  the  boat  glided,  and  into 
the  tree  shadows  that  lengthened  to 
the  middle  of  the  bay  before  their 
journey  ended.  She  did  not  hear  what 
he  said,  but  she  felt  the  charm  of  his 
voice,  and  strange  enough,  during  the 
next  day  and  the  ones  that  followed, 
all  his  words  came  back  to  her,  and 


she  dwelt  on  them  with  pleasure  and 
approval. 

"Are  you  going  to  the  city  next  Sat- 
urday?" he  asked  when  he  had  helped 
her  out  on  the  beach,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  get  into  his  own 
boat.  "I  hope  to  see  you  on  the 
Chinook." 

"I  intended  to  go  Saturday,"  she 
told  him. 

"I  hoped  you  would.  I've  hoped  so 
ever  since  you  left  the  steamer  that 
night,"  he  said,  with  his  pleasing 
directness.  "This  is  only  Wednesday, 
but  I'm  thankful  I  have  a  sight  of  work 
to  do.  Good-bye." 

He  pulled  his  cap  low  over  his  fore- 
head, and  gazing  at  her  unsmilingly, 
pulled  off. 

Monday  evening,  while  Emily  Har- 
ris sat  at  her  desk  in  the  little  school- 
house  on  the  bank  above  the  bay,  writ- 
ing letters,  a  man's  step  sounded  on 
the  porch,  the  door  opened,  and  Hel- 
mer  Gordon  walked  into  the  room.  He 
came  directly  forward  and  took  a  chair 
before  her  desk. 

"Why  didn't  you  go  to  town  Satur- 
day?" he  asked  without  other  greeting. 

"I  changed  my  mind." 

"You  had  no  right  to  change  your 
mind  when  I  had  lived  on  that  hope 
for  over  sixty  hours."  He  smiled  the 
least  bit,  but  suddenly  it  did  appear 
to  Emily  that,  if  he  expected  her,  she 
should  have  gone. 

But  she  replied  in  his  manner :  "You 
had  no  right  to  live  on  that." 

"It  doesn't  seem  that  way  to  me,"  he 
answered  seriously,  "and  I  couldn't 
live  on  any  other  hope  if  I  tried." 

"You  are  the  strangest  man," 
laughed  Emily,  with  an  extra  heart 
beat. 

"I  felt  strange — and  lost,  yesterday. 
It  was  the  longest  day  I  ever  lived.  I 
prowled  around  Cedar  Crest  until  noon 
— and  all  afternoon  I  spent  on  the  bay. 
I  came  down  as  far  as  Breckstein's 
three  or  four  times,  hoping  to  get  a 
sight  of  you." 

"Really!"  she  mocked  him.  "I  won- 
der you  didn't  march  up  to  the  house 
and  demand  that  I  spend  the  afternoon 
with  you." 


WHEN  A  MAN  KNOWS  HIS  OWN. 


455 


"Why  shouldn't  I,  if  I  hadn't 
thought  it  might  embarrass  you  before 
all  those  silent  Dutchmen?  As  for 
myself,  I  know  what  I  want.  All  we 
Gordons  do,  and  we  usually  get  what 
we  want." 

Certainly  to  this  Emily  could  make 
no  answer,  so  she  drew  angles  and 
squares  on  her  note  paper  while  he 
continued : 

"My  eldest  brother  won  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  woman  who  had  sworn  her 
child  should  never  marry;  the  second 
took  his  bride  from  a  deceiving  scoun- 
drel almost  at  the  very  altar ;  the  third 
married  a  girl  who  had  determined  to 
follow  a  profession.  That  sounds  ar- 
bitrary, but  in  all  the  branches  of  our 
family  there  has  never  been  a  separa- 
tion, and  never,  so  far  as  known,  an 
unhappy  marriage." 

By  the  time  he  finished,  Emily  was 
gazing  full  into  his  face. 

"I  am  the  fourth  son,"  he  ended 
suddenly  personal,  and  smiled  with 
such  significance  into  her  open  face 
that  the  rich  color  swept  to  her  hair. 
"I've  brought  you  some  magazines," 
he  said,  abruptly,  yet  with  a  tender 
tone  that  somehow  left  Emily  with  the 
feeling  that  though  the  Gordons  had 
power,  they  used  it  lovingly. 

The  country  school  district  where 
Emily  Harris  had  chosen  to  teach  as 
a  relief  from  city  schools  did  not  offer 
such  diversions  but  that  the  company 
of  a  man  like  Gordon  might  be  very 
welcome.  Whether  he  was  welcome 
or  disturbing,  Emily  could  hardly  tell. 
She  thought  enough  about  him  in  the 
days  that  intervened  to  formulate  her 
feelings,  and  by  the  time  school  was 
over  on  Thursday  she  had  done  so. 
She  meant  to  dismiss  him  summarily. 
She  would  show  him  that  firmness  did 
not  belong  to  the  Gordons  alone — and 
then  her  heart  gave  a  leap  at  his  step 
on  the  porch,  and  she  smiled  radiantly 
at  him  when  he  opened  the  door  and 
strode  in. 

"Let  us  walk  over  to  the  cove,"  he 
suggested.  "The  maples  are  grand 
now." 

Out  on  the  narrow  leaf-strewn  road 
walled  in  and  almost  overarched  by 


towering  firs  and  cedars  they  talked 
and  laughed  as  neither  had  done  be- 
fore. Sometimes  they  both  stopped, 
and  without  a  word  gazed  at  the 
masses  of  autumn  gold  deep  in  the 
dark  pines,  while  from  over  in  the 
clearing  came  the  notes  of  a  meadow- 
lark  with  a  piercing  sweetness  that 
hurt. 

Gordon  looked  at  Emily. 
"Will   you  take  the  boat  to  town 
Saturday?" 

She  walked  on,  swinging  a  spray  of 
elm,  but  did  not  answer. 
"Will  you— Emily?" 
She   walked   a   few   steps   farther, 
then:  "It  doesn't  make     any    differ- 
ence  "  and  broke  off. 

"You  mean  it  doesn't  make  any  dif- 
ference to  me?  But  it  does." 

She  said  nothing.  He  walked  around 
in  front  of  her. 

"Why,  Emily  ?  Why  don't  you  want 
to  go  on  the  steamer  when  I  do?" 

She  still  said  nothing,  but  she  held 
out  her  left  hand,  on  the  fourth  finger 
of  which  was  a  pearl  ring. 

"That's  nothing.  I  mean  to  put  a 
diamond  there." 

"I  think  not,"  she  told  him,  so  quiet- 
ly that  he  became  grave. 
"Are  you  engaged,  Emily?" 
"Yes— and  no." 

"How   long   have   you     been     en- 
gaged?" 
"Six  years." 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  you  should 
not  tell  me  about  it?" 

No  answer.  Now,  Emily  was  not  a 
silent  girl,  on  the  contrary,  she  liked 
to  talk — and  talk  well.  Perhaps  that 
partly  accounted  for  the  fact  that  she 
usually  had  to  do  all  the  talking  with 
the  man  whose  ring  she  wore.  But  she 
felt,  sometimes,  when  she  had  to  dig, 
and  suggest,  and  question,  and  then 
answer  her  own  remarks  that  the  quiet 
man  so  well  liked  in  stories  was  not  en- 
tirely satisfying.  Besides,  too,  five 
years  of  teaching,  during  which  she 
struggled  to  draw  from  the  awkard 
boy  and  diffident  girl  some  manner  of 
self-expression,  gave  her  all  too  much 
of  taking  the  lead  in  conversation. 
Therefore,  one  of  the  great  charms  of 


456 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


this  man  was  the  way  he  filled  out  her 
half-spoken  remarks,  interpreted  her 
silence,  even  thought  for  her.  It  was  a 
new  and  altogether  delightful  experi- 
ence. 

"Emily,"  he  went  on  thoughtfully, 
"when  a  girl  says  she  is  engaged, 
even  a  yes-and-no-engagernent  that 
settles  it  with  a  man,  though  I  will  say, 
before  I  go  on,  that  you  are  the  first  I 
ever  asked — but  as  I  say  it  settles  it 
usually,  but  with  you  there  is  some- 
thing I  can't  explain.  I  can't  feel  that 
you  belong  to  anyone  else.  I  believe 
you  only  think  you  are  bound." 

"I  mean  to  marry  the  man  whose 
ring  I  am  wearing — if  he  ever  wishes," 
she  informed  him. 

Gordon  frowned  as  though  trying  to 
understand  a  distressing  condition. 

"Won't  you  tell  me,  Emily?"  he 
begged.  "I  know  I  have  no  right  to 
ask,  but  it  seems  there  is  something 
unexplained." 

As  they  walked  through  a  little  vale 
and  over  a  needle-covered  hill,  she 
told  him  that  the  man  was  a  doctor,  or 
rather  still  a  student,  though  several 
years  her  senior.  He  was  absorbed 
in  the  working  out  of  certain  medical 
theories,  the  experiments  of  which 
were  so  expensive,  that  he  was  al- 
ways drained  to  the  verge  of  want. 
The  successful  outcome  of  it  all  was  so 
doubtful,  and  far  distant,  that  it  might 
be  years,  if  ever,  before  they  could 
marry. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  concluded, 
"when  we  became  engaged.  It  pro- 
bably grew  out  of  my  being  able  to 
help  him.  He  studied  in  my  uncle's 
library  and  I — then  a  girl  of  eighteen — 
have  sat  for  hours  hunting  articles 
from  medical  books  and  journals,  and 
making  extracts  from  them.  He  likes 
the  way  I  work  so  quietly,  though  the 
odd  thing  is,  I  do  not  like  the  work  and 
I  do  like  to  be  noticed."  She  laughed 
in  depreciation  of  her  weakness,  while 
his  eyes  spoke  what  he  refused  his 
tongue. 

"But  I  do  try  not  to  be  weak.  A 
woman  should  be  a  help  to  the  man. 
Uncle  taught  me  so.  His  wife  was 
frivolous  and  very  selfish,  and  she 


hindered  his  entire  life  work.  So 
from  the  time  I  was  a  tiny  girl,  Uncle 
taught  me  to  forget  myself.  Dear 
Uncle  was  very  good  to  mother  arid  me 
— now  they  are  both  gone,  and  at  times 
I  feel  utterly  alone  in  the  world." 

"And  your — this  doctor — does  he 
not  practice  at  all  ?" 

"Very  little.  He  begrudges  the 
time  taken  from  his  study.  Two  years 
ago  he  had  a  considerable  amount  of 
money  left  him,  and  I  thought — I 
hoped — as  a  start — but  he  used  it  for 
expensive  laboratory  equipment.  He 
is  devoted  to  his  work.  It  is  his  very 
life." 

I  see.     But  how  about  your  life  ?" 

"Well  I — I  want  to  be  a  help  to  him 
and  I  can  be.  When  he  is  quite  tired 
out,  he  turns  to  me  for  encouragement. 
He  likes  to  'talk  out'  as  he  calls  it,  all 
his  annoyances  and  perplexities." 

"I  see.    And  then?" 

"And  then  he  feels  better,"  she 
finished  childishly. 

"And  then?" 

"Why,  then  he  plunges  right  back 
again  into  his  work.  And  that  is  how," 
she  concluded,  remembering  why  she 
had  told  her  story,  "that  is  my  yes-and- 
no  engagement.  I  am  free  in  every 
way  but  the  one  that  counts  most.  My 
sympathies  are  all  with  him." 

"Your  sympathies,  yes — but  how 
about  your  love  ?" 

"All  the  love  I've  known  I  have 
given  to  him — though  I'll  admit  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  know  what  love  really 
is." 

Gordon  again  walked  around  in 
front  of  her. 

"Will  you  'give  me  leave'  to  try  to 
teach  you  what  it  really  is?" 

Before  her  in  the  narrow  path  he 
stood.  He  was  so  large  he  shut  off 
sight  of  the  distant  way;  his  eyes  and 
tone  almost  shut  out  memories  and  re- 
solves. She  trembled  slightly,  and 
then  said,  faintly:  "I'll  leave  that  to 
the  man  I  marry." 

"Will  you  marry  me,  Emily  ?" 

"No,"  she  said,  and  they  walked  on. 

On  Saturday  morning  Emily  told 
herself  there  was  no  reason  why  she 
should  not  go  to  the  city.  The  pres- 


WHEN  A  MAN  KNOWS  HIS  OWN. 


457 


ence  of  Gordon  on  the  boat  was  no 
more  than  that  of  any  other  passen- 
ger. Yet  the  look  he  gave  her  when 
her  row  boat  came  alongside  the 
steamer  was  not  quite  like  that  of  any 
other  passenger.  He  was  standing  in 
the  opening  in  the  lower  deck,  and  it 
was  his  hand  helped  her  on  board ;  also 
it  was  his  company  and  conversation 
that  made  the  four  hours'  ride  on  the 
slow  old  Chinook  seem  amazingly 
short. 

Her  mind  that  night  was  in  a  whirl. 
What  a  man  he  was.  "Will  you  marry 
me?"  he  said,  and  never  once,  "I  love 
you,"  and  yet  she  could  not  think  he 
was  the  kind  to  marry  that  a  wife 
might  make  a  comfortable  or  even 
beautiful  home  for  him.  She  had 
heard  there  was  more  than  one  girl 
in  Cedar  Crest  very  willing  to  help 
out  the  wealthy  lumberman.  Was  he 
so  intent  on  winning  her,  so  confident 
of  the  righteousness  of  his  demands 
that  he  forgot  to  say  "I  love  you."  Not 
that  it  made  any  difference  at  all,  but 
— how  could  he  be  so  sure  from  the 
first  that  he  wanted  her  for  his  wife 

unless  he "Let  me  teach  you 

what  love  really  is,"  he  said.  Could  he 
do  that  unless  he  himself  loved  ?  Could 
he  teach  her  if  he  did?  But  at  that 
point  she  resolutely  stopped  her  wan- 
dering thoughts,  and  determined  not 
to  return  to  the  country  the  next  day. 
Nevertheless  at  ten  o'clock  she  was  on 
board  the  steamer. 

She  had  come  early,  and  at  the  last 
a  guilty  feeling  made  her  slip  into  the 
dining  room  below  the  cabin  where 
she  meant  to  remain  unseen.  She  must 
return  to  Breckstein's,  or  lose  a  day  of 
school,  but  she  need  not  spend  the 
time  in  Gordon's  company. 

The  boat  was  well  under  way  when 
she  returned  to  the  cabin.  Gordon, 
who,  she  knew,  preferred  to  remain 
outside,  would  not  come  in  there  after 
he  had  once  looked  for  her.  So  she 
seated  herself  on  the  carpet  covered 
bench  under  the  windows  and  got  out 
her  book.  Perhaps  he  had  not  come. 
She  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  her  need- 
less precaution — very  dismal,  too. 

A  moment  later  she  glanced  out  of 


the  window,  and  her  heart  gave  a  suf- 
focating throb.  He  was  leaning  over 
the  rail,  and  gazing  gloomily  into  the 
water.  The  side  of  his  face  was  to- 
ward her,  and  she  could  see  that  he 
looked  utterly  depressed.  Evidently 
this  disappointment  had  been  wholly 
unexpected.  How  he  does  believe  in 
himself  and  the  absolute  fairness  of 
his  demands.  And  at  that  thought  it 
rather  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  right. 

She  tried  to  read,  but  the  gloomy 
figure  over  the  rail  that  did  not  change, 
except  to  appear  more  deeply  dejected, 
kept  her  attention. 

Suddenly  she  laid  down  her  book — 
she  was  like  the  tides  to  the  moon 
when  he  called — and  her  eyes  softly 
glowing,  she  stepped  lightly  up  be- 
hind him. 

"What  do  you  see  down  there?" 
she  murmured  teasingly,  over  his 
shoulder. 

He  whirled  about,  and  the  look  that 
flashed  into  his  face  was  almost  daz- 
zling, at  least  Emily  could  not  meet  it 
long.  But  she  saw  In  it  adoration  that 
enveloped  her  from  head  to  foot. 

"You  want  to  know  what  I  saw 
there?  Your  face;  your  brown  eyes 
and  the  smile  that  comes  when  you 
won't  talk.  I  saw  your  tenderness, 
your  understanding,  and  your  sweet, 
reasonable  mind.  I  saw  you  stepping 
down  into  a  row  boat  on  a  dark,  foggy 
night  when  I  wanted  to  go  with  you  to 
care  for  you.  But,"  he  ended  more 
quietly,  "I  don't  need  the  water  to  see 
those  pictures.  They  are  before  me 
all  the  time." 

Emily  felt  strangely,  terribly  satis- 
fied. When  he  had  led  her  to  a  shel- 
tered seat  at  the  stern  of  the  boat,  she 
couldn't  laugh  and  she  didn't  talk.  He 
was  very  tender  with  her.  His  grati- 
tude for  her  action  seemed  to  subdue 
and  silence  him  for  the  remainder  of 
the  voyage. 

Apparently  neither  the  pictures  in 
the  water  nor  the  ones  in  his  mind 
satisfied  Gordon,  for  he  was  with  her 
frequently  the  next  week.  He  had 
called  on  her  at  Breckstein's,  who 
knew  and  thoroughly  liked  him,  but 
the  stuffy,  conventional  country  parlor 


458 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


was  not  to  the  liking  of  either,  and  by 
common  consent  they  met  on  the 
beach  or  walked  under  the  firs. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  school  drew 
to  a  close,  she  could  see  his  boat  away 
up  near  the  Point.  In  a  very  short 
time,  to  Emily's  protesting  mind,  it 
scraped  on  the  beach ;  then  he  grasped 
a  limb,  sprang  up  the  bank,  and  in  a 
moment  stood  before  her  glowing  and 
searching  eyes. 

"How  can  you  be  so  wasteful, 
Emily?" 

"How  am  I?"  she  asked,  fearing  yet 
wishing  to  hear  his  reproaches. 

"To  cast  your  tenderness  and  your 
capacity  for  loving  into  the  balance 
with  medical  experiments,  and  dead, 
dry  facts?  My  heavens!  is  the  man 
made  of  wood?  Does  he  expect  you 
to  go  on  teaching,  braving  alone  your 
difficulties,  while  you  remain  faithful 
to  him?" 

"He  doesn't  expect  anything.  What 
I  give  is  given  freely." 

"And  you  have  given  freely.  It  is 
only  your  exaggerated  sense  of  gener- 
osity that  has  prompted  this  and  his 
selfishness  that  accepts  it.  He  would 
not  do  it  for  you!"  flared  out  Gordon, 
and  then  was  immediately  ashamed 
that  he  had  attacked  his  rival. 

"I  love  him  for  what  he  is,  not  for 
what  he  does  for  me,"  she  punished 
him  in  reply. 

Gordon  was  white  and  miserable. 
"Is  it  for  your  happiness,  Emily?  I'm 
a  fool,  but  I'm  not  wholly  selfish." 

Instantly  Emily  was  sorry  she  had 
hurt  him. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  laughed  a  little  bit- 
terly. "One  time  I  did  not  have  a  let- 
ter for  seven  weeks.  I  was  tortured 
with  anxiety,  and  so  lonely  and  deso- 
late. Then  there  came  a  lovely,  big, 
fat  letter.  I  was  so  glad  I  hugged  it 
all  the  way  home.  It  had  in  it — the 
printed  sheets  of  a  magazine  article  on 
one  of  the  doctor's  experiments.  He 
scribbled  on  the  edge  that  he  was  so 
pleased  he  must  send  it  to  me." 

They  parted,  both  miserable,  each 
regretful  for  words  against  the  absent 
— and  each  looking  to  the  next  meet- 
ing. 


It  came  now  that  they  met  nearly 
every  day  for  a  longer  time.  Since 
that  day  on  the  boat,  when  Emily  of 
her  own  will  had  gone  out  on  the  deck 
to  comfort  him,  she  knew  she  had 
given  him  the  right  to  seek  her.  The 
woods  were  a  blaze  of  glory;  the  blue 
waters  were  dazzling.  Mother  Nature 
held  old  winter  back,  and  smiled  and 
waited  to  see  how  this  wooing  should 
end. 

"Oh,  Emily,"  he  told  her  desper- 
ately, "I  can't  in  conscience  leave  you 
to  sacrifice  yourself.  I  am  convinced 
that  when  a  man  knows  the  woman  for 
himself  and  hopes  that  she  could  love 
him,  it  is  his  duty  to  get  her,  to  take 
her  if  need  be  against  all  odds,  even 
against  herself.  The  man  is  a  miser- 
able coward  who  sees  his  own  go  on 
to  destruction  and  does  not  seize  her 
back  from  it." 

In  all  the  argument,  Emily  took  re- 
fuge usually  in  silence.  It  was  easier 
than  meeting  him  with  reply.  Only  oc- 
casionally, when  he  had  triumphantly 
concluded  an  unanswerable  bit  of  ar- 
guing she  put  in  this  short  but  telling 
blow,  "I  love  him,"  but  she  said  it  as 
though  trying  to  convince  herself.  Of 
course  she  loved  him.  Hadn't  she 
been  sought  many  times  only  to  turn 
contentedly  to  her  service  of  devotion. 
Her  reply  always  staggered  him,  too,, 
but  he  rallied  bravely,  and  when  she 
found  that  she  was  listening  to  his 
pleading  and  was  saying  less  fre- 
quently, "I  love  him,"  she  knew  there 
was  but  one  thing  to  do,  and  to-day 
she  was  doing  it. 

She  was  on  the  road  to  the  cove 
where  she  could  board  a  boat  that,  by 
a  round-about  course,  would  take  her 
to  the  city.  The  Brecksteins  would 
send  her  trunk  later.  She  regretted 
having  to  resign  the  school,  but  her 
fidelity  was  of  greater  importance  than 
the  teaching  of  this  school.  She  had 
been  wicked  and  faithless  to  listen  so 
long  to  another  man,  but  she  would 
make  up  for  it  to  Alfred.  She  sighed 
deeply.  She  had  had  to  do  so  much 
making  up.  When  Alfred  resented 
the  hardship  of  his  long  struggle  and 
the  indifference  of  the  medical  profes- 


A  SPANISH  MISSION. 


459 


sion  as  well  as  the  public,  she  had  to 
make  it  up  to  him  out  of  her  hope  and 
courage.  When  from  despondency 
or  weariness  he  was  too  languid  for 
talk,  she  had  to  make  up  talk  for  two. 
When  she  was  penitent  over  a  real  or 
fancied  neglect  of  him,  she  confessed, 
she  cried,  she  asked  him  to  forgive 
her,  she  smiled  and  said  she  knew  he 
forgave  her.  She  had  to  be  both  peni- 
tent and  confessor.  Yes,  it  was  hard 
to  live  for  two,  but  she  ought  to  delight 
in  it.  "You  are  all  the  comfort  I  have, 
Emily,"  he  said  once.  She  did  delight 
in  her  service.  The  light  around  those 
first  days  when  she  had  resolved  to 
devote  her  life  to  him  and  his  work 
would  never  fade  while  she  lived — 
again  her  heart  gave  that  suffocating 
throb  she  had  known  on  the  boat,  and 
she  was  face  to  face  with  Helmer  Gor- 
don. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Emily?  Are 
you  running  away?" 

She  was  silent.  "It's  no  use.  It's 
no  use,"  she  was  saying  to  herself. 


"Emily,"  he  spoke  solemnly,  "there 
is  a  power  overrules  your  mistaken 
ideas  of  duty.  I  didn't  know  why  I 
was  impelled  to  take  this  road  to-day, 
but  I  know  now.  My  home  is  waiting 
for  you.  Come,  Emily.  I  won't  wait 
any  longer." 

She  looked  up.  Again  his  broad 
shoulders,  his  gray  eyes,  that  firm 
mouth,  above  all,  his  voice,  shut  out 
sight,  sound  and  memory  of  every- 
thing but  the  present. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  she  asked, 
pleadingly. 

A  light  flashed  in  his  eyes.  All  he 
said  was:  "Come,  Emily,"  and  held 
out  his  arms. 

"I'd  marry  the  other  man  to-mor- 
row, if  I  could,"  she  struggled. 

"I  know  it.    Come,  Emily." 

"Will  you  be  good  to  me?"  she  fal- 
tered. 

"Come." 

She  took  one  step  and  was  in  his 
arms,  and  when  his  lips  were  on  hers, 
she  knew  no  past  and  no  future. 


THE   SPANISH   MISSIONS 


Dear  fortresses  of  faith,  where  memories  cling 

And  brood  upon  the  mystic  years  of  yore, 
Thine  altars  blossom  at  the  touch  of  Spring 
No  more,  no  more. 

Thine  ancient  walls  in  protestations  fling 

From  cell  to  cell  the  locomotive's  roar; 
Thy  bells  are  silent :  shall  the  Vesper  ring 
No  more,  no  more? 

Here  desert  tribes  no  more  their  children  bring. 

Where  once  for  holy  rites  their  dead  they  bore, 
The  incense  rises,  and  the  censers  swing 
No  more,  no  more. 

Yet  loved  are  thou  of  every  wilding  thing. 

Above  thy  crumbling  walls  the  choral  linnets  wing, 
Eut  dusky  choirs  the  Benedictus  sing 
No  more,  no  more. 

ROSE  TRUMBULL, 


AISS    AARION" 


By  A.  C.  Seely 


ON  A  BEAUTIFUL,  bright  morn- 
ing, I  happened  to  arrive  at 
Aunt  Chloe's  cabin,  just  as  she 
was  putting  the  finishing 
touches  to  the  top  of  her  rude,  stick 
chimney.  She  was  cheerfully  hum- 
ming some  quaint,  plantation  melody 
that  was  born  of  a  period  now  past 
and  forever  gone.  A  mocking  bird  was 
singing  in  a  blithe,  harmonious  rivalry 
to  her  song  from  his  throne  on  the  top 
of  the  old  well  sweep.  Thus,  peace  and 
harmony  filled  the  air,  and  these  things 
on  a  Georgia  spring  morning  create  a 
paradise  that  is  satisfying  beyond  all 
wishes  for  improvement. 

"Good-morning,  auntie,"  I  called  to 
her  gently.  She  had  been  as  a  mother 
to  me  during  my  early  days  at  the 
"Pines."  The  "Pines,"  then,  had  been 
able  to  retain  its  servants  and  its  plan- 
tations as  well,  but  time  and  mort- 
gages had  divorced  them  from  us. 

Auntie  looked  down  at  me  from 
the  shaky,  unstable  ladder  that  swayed 
ominously  with  her  weight.  Her 
kindly,  homely,  shining,  black  face 
lighted  up  with  a  broad  smile,  as  she 
returned  my  morning  salutation : 

"Good  mornin',  Mistah  Jack." 

She  had  always  called  me  Mistah 
Jack  from  the  days  of  my  toddling 
childhood,  when  I  had  come  to  the 
"Pines"  a  homeless  orphan  under  the 
care  of  an  aunt. 

"How  are  you  feeling,  this  morn- 
ing?" I  asked. 

"Jes  only  tol'bly  well,  suh." 

"What !  You  don't  mean  to  say  you 
have  been  sick  and  never  let  us 
know  ?"  I  demanded. 

"Not  jes  'zactly  sick,"  she  qualified. 
"I  jes  done  hab  some  ob  dem  rooma- 
ticks  las'  night,  uhgain,  suh,  an'  ob 


cose  I  don'  feel  so  pow'ful  smaht  dis 
mornin'.  An'  how  is  yuh  all,  up  at  de 
big  house,  Mistah  Jack?"  she  asked, 
not  with  a  polite  interest,  but  solici- 
tously. 

"Splendid,  auntie,  splendid!  It  is 
really  a  sin  at  the  the  great  quantity 
of  good  health  that  is  wasted  on  us.  It 
cheats  the  doctor  shamefully;  besides, 
we  are  such  a  dreadfully  lazy  set,  yon 
know." 

"No,  suh,  I  dunno  hit.  I  does  know, 
howsomevah,  dat  yuh  all  woik  hahdah 
dan  de  res'  ob  de  folks  roun'  heah," 
she  protested. 

"Tut,  tut,  auntie,  no  such  thing  at 
all.  It  is  just  because  you  always  hap- 
pen to  come  up  when  we  are  doing  a 
little  work.  Just  pure  luck,  I  assure 
you,  that  you  don't  catch  us  idling 
about,  as  lazy  as  lazy  can  be,"  I  ex- 
plained in  a  complaining  tone.  "I 
really  don't  see  how  it  happens." 

Her  only  answer  was  a  mellow, 
liquid  laugh. 

"Isn't  that  pretty  hard  work,  auntie, 
for  an  old  woman  with  the  rheuma- 
tism?" I  asked. 

"No,  suh,  not  so  ovuhly.  Hit's  jes 
tejus  uh  gettin'  the  mud  an'  sticks  up 
the  laddah." 

"Well,  that  is  easily  remedied:  you 
just  stay  up  there  and  I'll  pass  them  up 
to  you." 

"Yuh'd  bettah  not,  suh,"  she  said, 
shaking  her  bandana  wound  head  at 
me  warningly.  "A  gen'man  mus'n  git 
his  han's  duhty,  an'  yuh  shuah  will  wif 
dat  clay  an'  dem  muddy  sticks." 

"If  that  be  the  case,  then  I  care  not 
to  be  a  gentleman,"  I  exclaimed,  with 
an  exaggerated  flourish,  and  proceeded 
to  hand  the  things  up  to  her  as  she 
needed  them. 


"MISS  MARION." 


461 


She  replied  to  my  remark  by  saying 
that  there  were  two  kinds  of  gentle- 
men, the  real  and  the  other  kind.  Then 
with  a  laugh,  she  said : 

"Yuh  is  not  de  othar  kin',  Mistah 
Jack." 

I  thanked  her  for  the  compliment 
far  more  seriously  than  ever  I  did  a 
society  belle,  for  Aunt  Chloe,  contrary 
to  the  custom  of  her  race,  never  flat- 
tered. She  either  honestly  and 
straightly  condemned,  complimented 
or  was  silent,  according  to  her  lights. 
She  was  always  polite,  even  to  her 
enemies,  who  were  very  few.  She  had 
a  homely  way  of  saying  that  it  did  not 
cost  anything  to  be  polite,  and  it  paid 
almost  as  Well  as  a  crop  of  cotton. 

Together,  we  soon  had  the  chimney 
finished,  and  when  Aunt  Chloe  had 
descended  to  earth  again,  she  said : 

"I  is  shuah  much  'bleeged  to  yuh, 
Mistah  Jack.  I  was  jes  uh  doin'  yuh 
all's  iahnin'  when  them  chimbly  sticks 
tum'ld  down,  but  not  befoh  I  done  got 
uh  nice  pan  uh  pindahs  roas'ed.  If 
yuh  all  ain't  in  no  huhry,  yuh  jes  bet- 
tah  come  in  an'  hab  some." 

I  accepted  her  invitation  with  alac- 
rity, for  I  am  partial  to  well  roasted 
peanuts  or  "pindahs,"  as  she  called 
them,  and  I  never  knew  any  one  who 
could  roast  them  so  well  as  Aunt 
Chloe.  Besides,  she  nearly  always  had 
some  interesting  reminiscences  to  tell 
me  of  the  days  "befoh  de  wah,"  and 
with  a  little  tact  she  could  be  induced 
to  tell  them. 

These  reminiscences  meant  a  great 
deal  to  me,  for  I  was  sometimes  able 
to  convert  them  into  money  by  dress- 
ing them  into  stories,  minus  the  dialect, 
of  course.  We  certainly  needed  the 
money  at  the  "Pines" — my  great-aunt 
would  keep  up  ante  bellum  customs  on 
post  bellum  resources.  Writing  was 
the  only  thing  I  knew;  my  aunt's 
Southern  pride  had  kept  me  from  hav- 
ing a  recognized  trade  or  profession, 
so  that  my  pen  was  my  only  resource. 

"How  old  are  you,  auntie  ?"  I  asked 
by  way  of  a  beginning — she  had  just 
remarked  that  she  was  beginning  to 
feel  her  age.  I  took  a  comfortable  seat 
in  the  vine-shaded  doorway,  with  the 


pan  of  peanuts  beside  me.  I  was  in 
full  view  of  the  mocking  bird  which 
still  continued  to  fill  the  air  with  his 
richest  music,  giving  me  the  finest 
selections  from  his  varied  repertoire. 
Perhaps  he  had  his  eyes  on  the  peanuts 
even  as  I  had  on  a  story  from  Aunt 
Chloe. 

"I  don'  jes  'zactly  know,  suh,"  she 
said,  in  answer  to  my  question,  "but 
I  was  bohn  when  Mastah  Etuhnal 
Jackson  was  pres'dent." 

Running  the  list  of  presidents  over 
in  my  mind,  and  making  a  hasty  com- 
putation, I  said: 

"Then  you  were  only  about  thirty 
or  thirty-five  when  the  Civil  War  be- 
gan." 

"Yes,  suh,  I  specs  dat's  right,  or 
neahly  so.  I  'member  my  ol'  Mistis 
was  daid  an'  my  young  Mistis  was 
about  eighteen,  I  specs,  or  close  to- 
hit." 

After  a  little  pause  she  began  again :. 

"Um'uh!  Mistah  Jack,  yuh  shuah 
ought  to  uh  seen  my  young  Mistis  t 
She  shuah  was  de  mos'  bu'ful  young 
lady  in  all  ouh  country.  My  ol'  Mas- 
tah was  jes  de  proudes'  ob  huh,  I 
reckon,  ob  anything  he  had,  'nless  hit 
was  his  thor-bred  mahe.  Some  folks 
did  say  dat  he  done  thought  moh  ob 
M'liss — dat  was  de  mahe's  name,  'en 
he  did  ob  Miss  Marion — dat  was  my 
young  Mistis.  But  I  nevah  did  b'lieb 
dat,  'cause  dat  wasn'  natchel  foh  uh 
fathah  to  laike  uh  hoss  bettah'n  his 
own  daughtah,  was  hit?" 

She  looked  at  me  expectantly,  and 
I  paused  long  enough  in  my  peanut 
munching  to  agree  with  her  that  such 
a  feeling  was  far  from  being  either 
natural  or  usual.  Then  she  continued 
hesitatingly,  and  with  a  somewhat 
clouded  brow,  as  if  some  point  in  the 
proposition  was  not  clear  to  her. 

"Still,  theah  was  one  time  when  Miss 
Marion  got  uh  hahd  fall  from  M'liss  uh 
gittin*  huh  foot  in  uh  gophah  hole  while 
she  was  uh  ridin'  huh.  De  niggars 
toted  Miss  Marion  home  on  uh 
stretchah,  an'  M'liss  come  uh  limpin' 
uh  long  behind  'ein.  De  ol'  Mastah 
stayed  up  half  de  night  makin'  de 
niggahs  woik  wif  M'liss'  laig,  an'  then 


462 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


went  to  bed  wifout  eben  askin'  oncet 
'bout  Miss  Marion." 

Aunt  Chloe  finished  this  statement 
with  some  indignation.  I  could  see 
that  this  Miss  Marion  had  been  a  par- 
ticular favorite  with  her,  and  when 
she  again  looked  at  me  expecting  some 
comment,  I  was  at  a  loss  to  know  what 
she  expected  me  to  say  to  such  a 
statement. 

"Well,"  I  began  hesitatingly,  "that 
does  look  as  if  the  mare  had  a  little 
bit  the  best  of  the  girl  in  the  old  man's 
mind,  if  not  in  his  heart.  But  was 
there  ever  any  other  circumstance 
which  might  be  more  of  a  deciding 
test?"' 

"Oncet,  jes  oncet,"  she  answered, 
slowly. 

"And  what  was  that?"  I  asked,  idly. 

"Hit's  ur  kindah  long  laike  story,  an' 
I'se  skeahed  youh  all'd  get  tiahed  uh 
lis'nin',"  she  prefaced  apologetically. 

"Go  on,  by  all  means,"  I  exclaimed, 
with  sudden  enthusiasm,  and  I  drew 
my  note  book  from  my  pocket,  for  I 
scented  "material"  for  a  story.  I  con- 
fess no  material  seemed  too  sacred,  so 
I  prepared  to  seize  the  points  of  this 
one. 

"Well,  suh,  hit  was  uh  duhin'  de  wah 
dat  dis  happened.  Yuh  see,  de  ol'  Mas- 
tah  was  awful  bittar  'gainst  de  Nohf ; 
he  said  dey  was  uh  'posin'  on  de  Souf . 
He  was  too  ol'  an'  crippled  up  to  jine 
de  ahmy,  hisself,  an'  he  used  to  take 
on  laike  he  was  clean  gone  crazy, 
'cause  Miss  Marion  wasn't  nuh  man  so 
she  could  jine  de  ahmy  an'  fight  in  huh 
fathah's  place. 

i  "I  think  my  young  Mistis  was  sorry, 
too,  'cause  she  didn't  hab  vehy  much 
use  foh  de  blue-coats,  eithah.  But 
de  Great  Mastah  am  de  bigges',  an'  I 
reckons  we'se  all  hab  to  gib  into  His 
powah.  Jes  laike  de  ol'  Mastah  an'  de 
young  Mistis  did  when  dey  foun'  uh 
young  Linkum  ossifah  uh  layin'  in  de 
middle  ub  de  big  road.  He  was  all 
bloody  an'  dusty  wif  de  road  dus',  wif 
one  ahm  broke  an'  unconshus,  an'  his 
big  grey  hoss  uh  standin'  theah  by  him 
an'  uh  guahdin'  him.  I  was  wif  dem 
when  dey  foun'  him.  De  ol'  Mastah 
was  de  fus'  one  to  speak. 


"  'Dat  am  uh  pow'ful  good  hoss,'  he 
said. 

"  'An'  his  mastah  uh  layin'  theah 
daid,  puhaps,'  said  Miss  Marion,  as  she 
huhied  up  an'  knelt  down  in  de  dus' 
ob  de  road  by  de  ossifah  to  see  if  he 
was  still  uh  libin'. 

"De  ol'  Mastah  was  uh  runnin'  his 
han's  ovah  de  hoss'  back  an'  up  an' 
down  his  laigs,  an'  he  kep'  uh  sayin' 
to  hisse'f ,  laike  dis : 

"  'Great  Scootahs !  dis  am  uh  pow'ful 
good  hoss,  pow'ful  good,  neahly  as 
good  as  M'liss,  neahly!' 

"  'Fathah,'  said  Miss  Marion,  'what 
we  all  gwine  to  do  wif  dis  ossifah;  he 
am  still  uh  libin'?' 

"  'What  are  we  all  gwine  to  do  wif 
de  hoss?  Dat's  what's  uh  botherin' 
me.  He  am  too  good  to  tuhn  loose,  an' 
if  we  all  keep  him,  hit  means  keep  de 
man,  too,  an'  I  hates  laike  sin  to  take 
in  uh  Yank.  I  reckon,  though,  he  am 
uh  tol'ble  good  man  foh  de  kin',  eben 
if  hit  am  such  uh  pooh  kin',  'cause  his 
hoss  didn't  leab  him.' 

"So  dey  took  in  de  young  Linkum 
ossifah  an'  his  hoss.  My  young  Mistis 
took  caih  ob  him  an'  de  ol'  Mastah 
looked  aftah  de  hoss.  When  de  ossifah 
got  his  senses  ahgin,  he  tol'  us  dat  he'd 
been  shot  in  de  ahm,  an'  he  reckon  he 
jes  fainted  an'  fell  off'n  his  hoss.  He 
said  he  was  uh  captain  ob  some  Ohio 
sogers — I  done  fohgot  his  name,  jes 
dis  min't. 

"Ob  cose,  de  ol'  Mastah  an'  de 
young  Mistis  bofe  hated  de  Linkum 
blue-coats,  but  dey  bofe  kindah 
missed  dey  all's  calc'lations.  Miss 
Marion  hadn'  counted  on  fallin'  in  lub 
wif  de  ossifah,  an'  de  ©1'  Mastah  hadn' 
counted  on  de  Yanks  uh  habin'  sich 
good  hosses.  De  ol'  Mastah  al'ys  said 
dat  uh  bad  man  couldn'  own  a  good 
hoss  vehy  long.  An'  so  dey  didn'  nan' 
him  ovah  uh  pris'nah  to  de  Johnnie 
men  as  dey  had  'tended  to  do. 

"Well,  suh,  de  Cap'n  kep'  uh  gettin' 
bettah  an'  bettah,  an'  so  fin'ly  he  said 
he  was  sorry,  but  he  reckon  he  was 
well  nuff  to  go  back  to  his  sogers.  De 
mohnin'  he  was  gwine  to  leab  he  was 
uh  talkin'  to  my  young  Mistis,  while  de 
ol'  Mastah  was  uh  gwine  long  as  fah 


"MISS  MARION." 


463 


as  de  pos'-ossif  wif  de  young  Cap'n. 

"De  Cap'n  done  tol'  my  young  Mis- 
tis  dat  he  lubbed  hur  bettah  dan  life 
itself,  an'  he  ast  huh  if  he  could  take 
huh  heaht  wif  him,  an'  if  she  would 
let  him  come  back  for  huh  han'  aftah 
de  wah  was  ovah.  I  jes  happen  to 
go  to  de  doah  jes  as  she  was  ansahin'. 
She  was  in  his  ahms  an'  she  say : 

"  'Yuh  hab  got  my  heaht  now,  dar- 
lin',  an'  I  am  yuhs  whenever  yuh  come 
back  foh  me.  But,  oh,  dahlin',  I'se 
'fraid  yuh  will  nevah  come  back  to 
me.' 

"  'Why,  deahes'  dahlin','  he  say,  uh 
kissin  huh  mouf  an'  eyes  an'  cheeks, 
'ob  cose  I'se  comin'  back.  What 
yuh  think  I  is — uh  scoun'el?' 

"  'Oh,  no,  dahlin,'  she  say,  uh  cryin' 
laike  huh  heaht  would  break;  'but  yuh 
kaint  come  back  if — if  yuh  git  killed.' 
"Ob  cose,  hit  wasn't  mannahly  in  me 
uh  lis'nin',  so  I  went  over  to  de  va- 
randah,  an'  theah  in  front  on  de  drive 
was  de  ol'  Mastah  uh  holdin'  M'liss  an' 
de  Cap'n's  gray.  When  he  saw  me,  he 
say: 

"  'Chloe,  yuh  tell  de  Cap'n  dat  his 
hoss  am  ready,  an'  I'se  heah  uh  waitin' 
foh  him.' 

"When  I  tol'  de  Cap'n  what  de  ol' 
Mastah  say,  he  took  Miss  Marion  in 
his  ahms  an'  kissed  huh  one  long  kiss 
an'  nen  seme  shoht,  quick  ones.  He 
say  somepin'  'bout  one  kiss  long  as 
twenty,  an'  twenty  long  as  one,  an'  uh 
begmnin'  ahgin  wheah  dey  fus'  begun. 
I  know  de  ol'  Mastah  didn'  laike  to  be 
kep'  uh  waitin'  long,  so  I  say : 

"  'I  'specs  yuh'd  bettah  not  begin 
ahgin,  Cap'n,  'cause  de  ol'  Mastah  am 
uh  gittin'  in  uh  pow'ful  huh'y.' 

"Den  de  Cap'n  an'  Miss  Marion  bofe 
smile,  an'  he  say: 

'  'Sweetheaht,  I  mus'  go.  Au  revoh, 
dahlin'.  God  bless  yuh  an'  keep  yuh 
foh  me,  dahlin'.' 

"An'  wif  dat  he  gwine  uhway.  He 
was  on  his  hoss  an'  down  de  long  drive 
befoh  de  ol'  Mastah  had  moh  an'  got 
in  de  saddle ;  but  de  Cap'n  pull  up  an' 
wait  foh  him,  an'  I  went  back  to  my 
young  Mistis.  She  had  gwine  to  de  up- 
staihs  v'randah,  wheah  she  could  see 
de  road  clean  up  to  de  top  ob  de  big 


hill.  We  stood  theah  an'  watched  'em 
till  jes  befoh  dey  went  ovah  de  hill, 
den  de  Cap'n  he  drop  behin'  de  ol' 
Mastah  an'  wave  his  cap  an'  my  young 
Mistis  wave  huh  han'k'chief  back  to 
him.  Den  dey  went  ovah  de  hill  an' 
out  ob  sight.  'Nen  my  young  Mistis 
dropped  huh  haid  on  my  shouldeh  an' 
put  huh  ahms  'roun'  my  neck,  all  de 
time  uh  cryin'  an'  uh  sayin' : 

"  'Oh,  Chloe,  I'se  nevah  gwine  to  see 
my  dahlin'  soger  boy  any  moh!' 

"  'Nevah  min','  I  say  to  huh,  'nevah 
min'  uh  cryin',  my  pooh  HI'  white  chil',' 
jes  laike  she  was  uh  lil  baby  ahgin, 
'nevah  min';  he  shuah  gwine  to  come 
back  to  yuh,  honey,  dahlin'.' 

"An'  all  de  ansah  dat  she'd  make 
was  dat  she  knowed  he'd  come  back 
if  he  didn'  git  killed. 

"As  soon  as  de  ol'  Mastah  come 
back  we  all  knowed  dat  de  Cap'n  had. 
done  ast  him  foh  Miss  Marion.  He 
was  pow'ful  mad.  He  jes  come  uh 
teah'in'  wif  his  back  eyes  uh  blazin' 
an'  his  face  was  as  red  as  uh  tuhkey 
goblah's  haid. 

"  'Foh  shame,'  he  commence,  'foh 
shame,  dat  de  only  daughtah  ob  a  true, 
loyal,  South'n  gen'man  should  want  to 
trow  huhself  uhway  on  uh  low  down, 
wufless  Yank!' 

"An'  nen  he  went  on  uh  sweahin'  an' 
uh  cussin'  pow'ful  wicked.  But  my 
young  Mistis  would  only  ansah: 

"I  lub  him,  an'  I'se  his,  an'  I'll 
wait  yeahs  an'  yeahs  foh  him!' 

"I  kaint  no  ways  tell  yuh,  Mistah 
Jack,  jes  how  mad  de  ol'  Mastah  was. 
But  he  say  if  she  done  hab  anything 
moh  to  do  wif  dat  Yankee  dog,  eben  so 
much  as  writin'  uh  lettah  to  him,  he'd 
hab  huh  tied  to  de  whippin'  pos'  an' 
hab  huh  whipped  laike  de  lowes'  nig- 
gah  on  de  plantation.  An'  Miss  Marion, 
she  jes  gib  him  uh  proud  look  an' 
swep'  out  ob  de  room  laike  uh  angel 
dat  had  got  into  de  wrong  place  by 
mistake. 

"In  uh  couple  ob  weeks  uh  lettah 
come  from  de  Cap'n  to  Miss  Marion, 
an'  hit  made  huh  brighten  up  consid'- 
able.  Nen  she  wrote  a  lettah  to  him, 
but  de  ol'  Mastah  cotched  huh  uh 
writin'  hit,  an'  if  he  was  mad  befoh 


464 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


he  was  sutinly  crazy  now,  an'  he  oh- 
dahed  huh  to  be  whipped  at  oncet. 

"Ebery  niggah  on  de  plantation 
'fused  to  do  de  whippin'  oh  eben  to  tie 
huh  to  de  pos',  an*  dey  all  got  whipped 
foh  'fusin'.  So  de  ol'  Mastah  made  us 
niggahs  stan'  in  uh  ring  roun'  de  pos' 
so  we  all'd  hab  to  watch  de  whippin'. 
But  none  ob  dem  would  look;  they'd 
uh  put  theah  eyes  out  fus'.  I  specs 
dey  all  would  uh  cotched  de  ol'  Mas- 
tah an'  uh  whipped  him  if  de  young 
Mistis  had  uh  made  de  leas'  sign  oh 
uh  said  uh  wuhd.  But  she  didn'  do 
neithah;  she  jes  look  de  ol'  Mastah 
right  in  de  eye,  jes  as  proud  an'  brave 
as  only  dem  ob  de  bes'  blood  c'n 
look. 

"De  ol'  Mastah  had  ohdahed  M'liss 
'roun'  foh  him  to  take  uh  ride  as  soon 
as  de  whippin'  was  ovah,  an'  theah 
she  stood  uh  pawin'  an'  uh  throwin'  up 
huh  haid  like  she  didn'  want  to  see  de 
young  Mistis  whipped  no  moh  den  us 
niggahs  did.  De  HI  pic'ninny  dat  was 
uh  holdin'  huh  was  uh  tryin'  to  keep 
his  cryin'  from  bein'  loud  nuff  foh  de 
ol'  Mastah  to  heah,  an'  uh  nothar  lil 
pic'ninny  was  way  up  de  big  road  uh 
runnin'  'way  to  keep  from  see  in'  his 
young  Mistis  whipped. 

"De  ol'  Mastah  had  his  rawhide 
ridin'  whip  in  his  han',  an'  he  steps  up 
to  Miss  Marion,  an'  he  say: 

"  'Marion,  if  I  don't  whip  yuh,  will 
yuh  promise  to  let  dat  good  foh  nothin' 
Yank  go  out  ob  yuh  min'?' 

"'Nebah!'  she  say,  an'  huh  voice 
was  as  cleah  as  uli  bell. 

"Nen  de  ol'  Mastah  rais'  se  whip, 
an'  all  de  niggahs  commence  to  howl. 
Well,  suh,  I  couldn'  stan'  hit  any 
longah;  I  couldn'  beah  to  see  my  lil 
white  chil' — my  pooh,  young  Mistis, 
whipped  laike  uh  niggah!  An'  so  I 
runs  an'  frowed  my  ahms  'roun'  huh 
an'  I  say: 

"  'Don'  yuh  be  'fraid,  honey,  yuh  ol' 
black  Chloe  gwine  to  take  de  whippin' 
foh  yuh!' 

"An'  jes  den  de  whip  come  down  on 
my  back  uh  buhnin'  laike  fiah.  De 
ol'  Mastah  gib  me  one,  two,  three 
lashin's,  an'  I  could  feel  de  blood  uh 
runnin'  from  de  cuts  de  whip  made. 


"Den  we  huhed  M'liss  whinny  an' 
de  soun'  ob  uh  hoss  uh  gallopin',  an' 
as  we  all  look  up,  theah  come  de 
Cap'n  on  his  big  gray!  His  face  was 
jes  as  white  as  if  he  was  daid,  an' 
his  blue  eyes  was  uh  flashin'  laike  de 
sunshine  on  blue  steel.  De  lil  pic'- 
ninny what  had  run  up  de  big  road, 
we  foun'  out  aftahwahd,  had  done  tol' 
de  Cap'n  'bout  de  whippin'.  He  jes 
fling  hisse'f  offen  de  gray,  an'  de  lil 
pic'ninny  dat  was  uh  holdin'  M'liss 
cotched  de  rein  an'  hel'  bofe  hosses. 
De  Cap'n  jes  gib  one  spring  fohwahd 
an'  knock'  de  ol'  Mastah  down  befoh 
yuh  could  say  two  wuhds.  Den  he  cut 
de  rope  dat  hel'  Miss  Marion,  an' 
picked  huh  up  an'  set  huh  on  M'liss, 
an'  he  jumps  on  his  gray  an'  uhway 
dey  went.  Hit  was  all  done  an'  dey 
was  gone  befoh  yuh  could  hahdly 
think. 

"De  ol'  Mastah  got  up  from  de 
groun',  an'  he  was  as  white  as  dis 
sheeth  I'm  uh  iahnin',  an'  nen  de  blood 
all  went  into  his  face  till  he  was  puh- 
ple,  den  he  went  white  ahgin.  He  oh- 
dahed uh  nothar  hoss. 

"I  runned  up  staihs  to  de  v'randah, 
an'  I  could  see  de  cloud  ob  dus'  dey  all 
was  uh  makin'  as  dey  wen'  ovah  de 
hill,  an'  nen  I  prayed  to  de  good  Lawd 
to  sabe  my  young  Mistis. 

"Ob  cose,  de  niggahs  was  as  long 
uh  gittin'  de  hoss  as  dey  could  be,  so's 
to  gib  de  Cap'n  an'  de  young  Mistis  all 
de  staht  dey  could.  De  ol'  Mastah 
cussed  an'  fumed  an'  tried  to  huh'y 
de  niggahs,  but  we  all  knowed  dey 
wasn'  uh  nothar  hoss  on  de  plantation 
dat  could  cotch  M'liss,  an'  de  niggahs 
at  de  bahn  say  de  Cap'n's  hoss  could 
beat  M'liss. 

"Well,  suh,  hit  was  shuah  nuff  uh 
tryin'  day  foh  us  at  de  house,  'cause 
theah  wasn'  any  white  folks  theah, 
nen  we  couldn'  he'p  wondahin'  how 
things  was  gwine  wif  de  young  Mistis. 
De  bucks,  when  dey'd  think  ob  de  way 
de  Cap'n  done,  dey'd  laugh  an'  dance 
an'  tuhn  han'  springs  all  ovah  de 
lawn;  but  when  dey'd  think  ob  what 
might  happen  if  de  ol'  Mastah  cotched 
dem,  dey  was  laike  dey  was  at  uh 
funah'l. 


"MISS  MARION." 


465 


"When  ev'nin'  was  uh  comin'  on  an* 
we  was  uh  gittin'  gloomier  an'  gloom- 
ier, yuh  c'n  jes  'magine  how  s'prised 
we  all  was  to  see  all  three  ob  dem  uh 
comin'  uh  ridin'  up  de  drive;  de 
Cap'n  on  one  side,  de  ol'  Mastah  on  de 
othar  wif  de  young  Mistis  in  de  mid- 
dle. De  ol'  Mastah,  ob  corse,  was  uh 
ridin'  M'liss.  De  yall  rode  up  to  de 
big  hall  doah,  wheah  we  all  was  uh 
standin'  wif  ouh  eyes  an'  moufs  wide 
open.  De  ol'  Mastah  he  say : 

"  'Niggahs,  de  Cap'n  heah  is  my 
son-in-law,  an'  yuh  all  is  to  min'  him 
in  de  futah  de  same  as  yuh  do  me — 
only  bettah.'  Den  he  smile  uh  lil  bit, 
an'  nen  he  went  on:  'An'  now,  jes  as 
soon  as  yuh  all  c'n  git  dat  whippin* 
pos'  out  an'  buhned,  yuh  all  c'n  hab  a 
big  feas'  an'  celebrate  de  weddin'.' 
When  he  say  dat  de  niggahs  went  foh 
dat  whippin'  pos'  wif  a  great  shout, 
nen  de  ol'  Mastah,  he  come  up  to  me 
an'  hel'  out  his  han'  an'  he  say: 

"Chloe,  yuh  all  is  shuah  uh  good 
wench,  an'  I  kaint  thank  yuh  uh  nuff 
foh  what  yuh  hab  done — heah  is  my 
han'.' 

"  'I  kaint  take  yuh  han',  Mastah/  I 
say  to  him;  'hit  wouldn'  be  right  foh 
uh  niggah  to  take  de  Mastah's  han',  but 
I  wants  to  thank  yuh  foh  uh  bein' 
good  to  my  young  Mistis  at  las'.' 

"Den  he  took  my  two  han's  in  bofe 
ob  his,  an'  nen  I  seen  de  teahs  uh  com- 
in' in  his  eyes,  an'  nen  he  went  in  de 
house  wifout  uh  sayin'  uh  wuhd  moh. 

"Den,  byemby,  my  young  Mistis  an' 
de  Cap'n  dey  come  to  wheah  I  was 
standin',  an'  qb  cose  dey  was  foolish 
'bout  me,  but  hit  shuah  did  make  me 
glad  dat  dey  had  somethin'  to  be  fool- 
ish 'bout.  Den  I  jes  couldn'  he'p  askin' 
Miss  Marion  how  hit  all  done  happen 
to  come  out  de  way  hit  did.  Den  dey 
bofe  tol'  me,  hit  was  dih  uh  way: 

"De  ol'  Mastah  didn'  cotch  dem  till 
in  de  aftahnoon.  Dey  was  jes  uh 
leabin'  de  coht  house  when  he  rode 
up. 

"Stop!'  de  ol'  Mastah  shouts; 
'stop,  suh,  I  want  my  daughtah  an' 
M'liss!' 

"Dey  stopped,  an'  when  de  ol'  Mas- 


tah come  up,  de  Cap'n  he  say: 

"  'Yuh  all  c'n  hab  M'liss,  Colonel, 
but  yuh  kaint  hab  Miss  Marion,  'cause 
she  b'longs  to  me.' 

"Den  de  ol'  Mastah  rides  up  an'  gits 
on  M'liss  an'  flings  de  reigns  ob  de 
othar  hoss  to  Miss  Marion;  den  he 
tuhns  M'liss'  haid  towahds  home  an' 
rides  off  one  way  an  dem  de  othar.  But, 
byemby,  dey  huhd  de  ol'  Mastah  uh 
callin',  an'  he  come  back  up  to  'em  an' 
he  say: 

"  'Marion,  ah  yuh  shuah  nuff  gwine 
uhway  an'  leab  yuh  pooh,  ol'  fathah 
uhlone  ?' 

"Den  Miss  Marion  ansahed  by  uh 
sayin'  something  from  de  Good  Book, 
wif  huh  eyes  on  de  Capn't,  she  say: 

"Wheah  thou  goest,  I  will  go,'  an' 
some  moh,  I  done  fohgot. 

"Den  de  ol'  Mastah,  he  look  solemn 
uh  long  time,  an'  nen  he  look  at  de 
Cap'n's  grey  hoss,  an'  den  at  de  Cap'n 
an'  nen  he  hel'  out  his  han'  an'  he  say : 

"  'Cap'n,  dat  am  uh  good  hoss  yuh 
all  am  uh  ridin',  most  as  good  as  Mliss, 
an' — I'se  proud  to  hab  my  son-in-law 
hab  sich  uh  good  hoss,  an'  now  hit's 
time  we  all  was  uh  gittin'  back  to  de 
house.' " 

Then  Aunt  Chloe  was  silent  for  a 
long  time.  The  only  sound  was  the 
frou-frou  of  her  hot  sand  iron  on  the 
damp  clothes  she  was  ironing.  Pres- 
ently she  said : 

"How'd  yuh  all  laike  yuh  tuhn  down 
collahs  iahned,  Mistah  Jack?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  answered,  ab- 
sently. My  mind  was  not  on  collars 
at  that  moment,  and  I  asked  instead : 

"Auntie,  what  became  of  them?" 

"Who?" 

"Why,  your  young  Mistress,  Miss 
Marion,  the  Captain,  and  your  old 
Master?" 

"Dey  is  all  in  heaben  now,"  she  an- 
swered in  a  low  voice,  and  I  thought  I 
saw  a  tear  drop  on  the  collar  she  was 
ironing.  Presently  she  began  speaking 
again,  and  her  words  bound  me  to  the 
spot  and  destroyed  my  material  for  a 
story. 

"Dey  all  was  yuh  folks,  Mistah  Jack. 
Miss  Marion  was  yuh  mothah !" 


PEACE,    VIA   THE    BABY 


By   Nellie  B.  Ireton 


DEAR,  how  would  you  like  a  va- 
cation?" Fred  Burton,  General 
Superintendent  of  the  Mountain 
States  Lumber  and  Manufac- 
turing Co.,  asked  the  question,  as  he 
looked  at  his  young  wife  across  their 
dinner  table  one  evening  in  the  early 
fall. 

She,  busy  with  the  cups  and  coffee 
pot,  noting  a  peculiar  quality  in  his 
voice,  glanced  up  quickly  and  sur- 
prised an  unusually  sad  and  tender 
look  in  the  frank  blue  eyes. 

"A  vacation!  Why,  what  do  you 
mean,  Fred?" 

"Colton  was  in  town  this  afternoon, 
and  we  had  a  long  conference.  The 
labor  situation  is  such  just  now  that  the 
handling  of  the  men  in  the  camps,  in  a 
way  to  accomplish  anything  this  win- 
ter, is  a  difficult  matter,  and  the  con- 
census of  opinion  seems  to  be  that  I 
had  better  stay  in  the  woods  and  look 
after  things.  I  don't  mind  that,  I've 
done  it  before,  if  it  wasn't  for  leaving 
you — that's  where  the  shoe  pinches — 
eh,  girl?" 

"But,  Fred,  why  shouldn't  MacAl- 
lister  take  charge  of  the  camps  as  he 
did  last  year?  I  have  heard  you  say 
he  was  a  splendid  success  at  handling 
men." 

"Mac,  poor  chap,  had  a  runaway  last 
week,  and  is  laid  up  for  all  winter 
with  a  broken  leg.  No,  there  seems  to 
be  no  other  way  but  for  me  to  go,  and 
I  thought  while  I  was  snowed  in,  you 
might  have  that  winter  East  you  have 
been  wanting  so  long.  Study  a  little, 
hear  and  see  the  good  things,  and  in 
fact  have  a  little  vacation  from  your 
rough  "hubby"  and  this  hole  of  a  mill 
town." 

"I  would  like  nothing  better  than  if 


you  could  go  too,  but  as  it  is,  I  won't 
go — I'm  going  to  the  camps  with  you." 

"Oh,  but  dear,  you  can't.  Why, 
sometimes  we  are  snowed  in  for  weeks 
and  then  there  are  only  the  rough  lum- 
ber 'jacks'  and  a  'Chink'  cook  or  two. 
Why,  you  couldn't  possibly  go.  I 
couldn't  let  you." 

She  coaxed  and  he  protested,  offer- 
ing many  logical  reasons  why  she 
shouldn't  go;  the  hardships,  only  a 
cabin  to  live  in,  distance  from  other 
women,  infrequency  of  outside  com- 
munication, no  doctor,  his  need  of  be- 
ing away  days  at  a  time,  etc.,  but  all 
to  no  avail.  Finally  she  said:  "There 
is  no  use  arguing  further,  Fred;  if  you 
go,  I  go,  and  you  must,  so  I  am  going. 
I  am  sure  I  will  just  enjoy  the  experi- 
ence :  it  will  be  pleasanter  for  you,  and 
anyway  I'm  going,  and  you  know  I 
mean  it  when  I  say  I  am  going  to  do  a 
thing." 

"Oh,  but,  dear,  you  must  not!"  He 
sighed  and  kissed  her,  and  went  hur- 
riedly out  for  a  tramp  to  fight  it  out 
with  himself — for  that  was  his  way. 

When  he  came  back  an  hour  later 
and  joined  her  in  the  cosy  living  room, 
her  first  glance  told  her  that  she  had 
won. 

"Oh,  good — I  may  go,  mayn't  I, 
Fred?" 

"Yes,  dear,  you  said  you  would,  so 
what  was  I  to  do,"  he  answered,  teas- 
ingly,  but  quickly  sobered.  "The  men 
will  think  me  a  fool,  but  you  may  go 
and  try  it,  and  if  it  gets  too  bad,  we 
will  get  you  out  some  way,  I  guess." 

And  so  it  was  decided.  A  new  cabin 
was  built  at  the  central  camp.  It  had 
only  one  room,  but  was  warm  and  com- 
fortable, and  arrangements  were  made 
to  move  in  the  latter  part  of  October, 


PEACE,  VIA  THE  BABY. 


467 


before  the  heavy  snows  would  begin 
to  all. 

One  day  Fred  came  home  from  his 
office  with  a  new  trouble.  Big  Dan 
O'Brien,  one  of  the  best  men  the  com- 
pany had  in  the  woods,  on  hearing  that 
Mrs.  Burton  was  going  into  camp  for 
the  winter — a  bit  of  news  that  had 
created  a  good  deal  of  excitement — 
had  come  with  a  request  for  permis- 
sion to  take  his  wife  and  baby  along 
also,  accompanying  his  request  with  a 
threat  to  quit  and  work  for  a  rival  com- 
pany unless  he  was  allowed  the  privi- 
lege. He  was  such  a  valuable  work- 
man, although  somewhat  quarrelsome, 
that  the  company  could  ill  afford  to 
lose  him.  The  "boss"  did  not  take 
kindly  to  this  family  proposition,  how- 
ever, and  told  Dan  he  would  have  to 
think  the  matter  over  before  giving 
him  an  answer. 

'It  isn't  as  if  she  would  be  any  com- 
pany for  you,  dear,"  he  said  to  his 
wife.  "I  don't  know  where  Dan  picked 
her  up  or  what  she  is  like,  but  the  wo- 
man who  would  marry  big-mouthed, 
swearing  Dan  could  hardly  be  much 
company  for  you,  and  a  kid,  too!  A 
logging  camp  is  no  place  for  women 
and  kids,  anyway,"  he  said,  with  a 
queer  grin  and  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"Oh,  come,  Fred,"  said  his  wife, 
"she  may  be  better  than  you  think,  and 
a  baby,  dear,  is  a  baby,  who  ever  it  be- 
longs to — or  wherever  it  is — and  may 
be  just  worlds  of  company  sometimes." 
So  again  the  wife  decided,  and  Big 
Dan  was  given  permission  to  take  his 
wife  and  child  to  the  camp. 

Eleanor  Burton  found  the  new  cabin 
comfortable  and  cheery  beyond  her 
hopes,  and  when  the  first  heavy  snows 
came,  she  was  already  firmly  estab- 
lished there.  A  rocker,  some  bright 
rugs,  favorite  pictures,  books  and  cur- 
tains, added  to  the  rude  camp-made 
furnitude,  made  the  place  habitable, 
and  when  the  pine  knots  in  the  fire- 
place crackled  and  popped,  filling  the 
room  with  a  ruddy  glow,  the  cabin  was 
indeed  "home." 

A  little  way  down  the  hill,  below  the 
cook  house,  Big  Dan's  colorless,  meek 
little  wife  was  trying  in  her  helpless 


way  to  make  a  home  for  Dan  and  the 
baby. 

And  so  the  winter  began.  Often 
when  the  weather  and  sleighing  were 
good,  Eleanor,  muffled  in  furs,  would 
join  Fred  on  the  long  drives  to  the 
other  camps.  She  learned  to  ride  the 
tricky  Norwegian  skis,  and  almost 
every  day  managed  to  get  out  some 
place  to  enjoy  a  slide  on  them  and  to 
breathe  the  keen,  crisp  air. 

They  had  a  good  Victrola  in  the 
cabin,  and  occasionally  would  take  it 
down  to  the  dining  room  at  the  cook- 
house, and  invite  the  men  and  Annie 
and  the  baby  in  for  the  evening.  Music 
forms  ever  a  common  meeting  ground, 
and  the  loggers  showed  keen  apprecia- 
tion of  the  best  selections.  They 
would  all  sing  the  old  songs  together, 
and  Eleanor  would  recite  poem  after 
poem  that  she  had  scarcely  thought  of 
since  her  college  days. 

The  long  winter  evenings,  when  the 
two  were  alone  in  the  cabin,  were  a  de- 
light, as  they  reveled  in  some  favorite 
book  which  Fred  read  aloud  while 
Eleanor  busied  herself  with  fancy 
work.  Later  drawing  close  about  the 
glowing  fire — she  on  a  low  stool  at  his 
knee — they  talked  over  their  trials  and 
problems,  and  built  air  castles  to- 
gether. 

She  often  went  to  the  O'Brien  cabin, 
helped  Annie  make  the  baby's  clothes, 
and  taught  her  to  make  the  most  of  the 
little  she  had,  for  herself.  She  often 
said  to  her  husband :  "Annie  is  a  much 
better  woman  than  I  am.  She  loves 
Dan  even  when  he  gets  drunk  and 
curses  her,  and  that  I  could  never 
do." 

But  all  days  were  not  pleasant,  all 
evenings  not  bright  and  cheery.  There 
were  days  when  the  men  had  vile 
liquor,  brought  in  from  "Ground-hog 
Charley's,"  a  dive  some  miles  dis- 
tant, by  a  passing  lumber  jack  of 
freighter.  Then  they  were  noisy  and 
quarrelsome  and  sullen,  the  work  went 
badly,  discontent  grew  and  at  night 
Fred  was  tired  and  discouraged. 

There  were  days  and  nights  when 
Fred  was  gone,  and  Eleanor  was  alone. 
She  would  go  down  to  Annie's  and 


468 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


play  with  the  baby — what  a  joy  that 
baby  was — until  dusk,  then  go  home, 
bring  in  her  great  dog,  bolt  the  door 
and  hate  the  long,  long  night.  These 
nights,  she  always  went  to  bed  with 
her  gun  near;  how  thankful  she  was 
that  she  could  shoot,  and  shoot 
straight.  She  would  lie  there  by  the 
hour,  listening  to  the  carousal  of  the 
men  in  the  bunk  house,  if  they  had 
liquor,  as  they  usually  did  when  the 
"boss"  was  gone,  hear  the  wind  moan- 
ing through  the  trees,  the  far  away 
distant  howl  of  a  wolf,  or  the  shrill, 
half-human  cry  of  a  mountain  lion. 
King,  the  great  dog,  would  growl  and 
bark,  and  she  wculd  leap  up  and  grasp 
her  gun,  and  only  lie  down  again  when 
he  was  quiet.  By  the  hour  she  would 
tremble  and  pray,  only  comforted  by 
the  thought  that  in  some  distant  camp 
Fred  too  was  lying  awake  thinking  of 
and  praying  for  her.  Sleep  would 
come  at  last  from  sheer  exhaustion, 
and  she  would  wake  with  a  start  to 
find  the  sun  shining  in  and  the  fears 
all  gone.  She  never  thought  of  giving 
up  and  leaving,  though.  Fred's  place 
was  here,  and  her  place  was  at  his 
side. 

One  day  Annie's  baby  had  not  been 
well,  and  Eleanor  had  been  down 
there  all  afternoon.  She  was  late 
starting  the  supper,  and  it  was  not 
ready  when  Fred  came  in.  He  looked 
unusually  tired  and  worried,  said  little, 
and  sat  down  before  the  fire  with  his 
head  bowed  in  his  hands,  while  he 
waited.  Going  to  him  and  laying  her 
hand  of  his  shoulder,  she  said :  "What 
is  the  matter,  dear.  What  has  gone 
wrong?" 

"Everything,"  came  the  answer. 
"The  men  are  all  sullen  and  worked 
up,  and  Dan  and  I  have  had  a  deuce  of 
a  row,  but  they  can  all  go  straight  to 
the  deuce  for  all  I  care.  I  won't  give 
in." 

She  said  no  more  then,  but  after 
the  supper  things  were  put  away,  she 
drew  her  chair  close,  leaned  her  head 
on  his  shoulder,  and  said:  "Now  tell 
me  all  about  it."  He  slipped  his  arm 
about  her,  smiled  a  grim  smile,  and 
said :  "All  right.  I  think  I  would  feel 


better  to  get  it  out  of  my  system.  Shall 
I  begin  at  the  beginning?" 

"Yes,  at  the  very  beginning." 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,  our  com- 
pany has  been  pretty  tight  run  the  past 
six  months.  That  high  water  with 
the  booms  breaking  hurt  us  badly,  and 
then  came  the  fire,  and  altogether  it 
left  us  in  pretty  bad  shape.  We  sim- 
ply must  get  a  lot  of  logs  down  in 
good  condition  and  have  a  good  year 
next  year,  or  we  are  goners.  That's 
the  chief  reason  for  our  being  in  the 
hills  this  winter,  my  dear.  Now,  the 
Adams  Company  knows  all  this  as 
well  as  we  do,  and  they  have  deter- 
mined by  fair  means  or  foul  to  see  that 
we  have  a  bad  year,  and  thus  force  us 
out  of  business.  They,  with  their 
strong  Eastern  backing,  have  but  little 
use  for  local  competitors.  We  have 
always  made  it  a  rule  to  pay  our  men 
good,  fair  wages,  and  in  addition  to 
give  them  good  "grub"  and  decent 
quarters — in  fact,  to  be  square  all 
around. 

"The  "Jacks"  know  this,  and  conse- 
quently we  have  never  had  any  trou- 
ble in  getting  and  keeping  the  best 
men.  The  Adams  outfit  have  had  it 
circulated  among  our  men  that  the 
company  was  shaky,  even  going  so  far 
as  to  say  that  they  might  not  get  their 
pay.  In  addition  they  furnished  the 
capital  to  set  "Ground-hog  Charley" 
up  in  his  damnable  business  just  as 
near  as  he  dared  to  come.  It  has  been 
convenient  for  them  to  send  men  by 
our  different  camps,  often,  well  sup- 
plied with  'Ground  Hog's'  best,  which 
they  generously  leave  for  the  boys." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  this  whisky  business 
hasn't  been  all  accident,"  he  said,  in 
response  to  Eleanor's  pained  excla- 
mation. "The  whisky  does  its  work 
well,  keeping  the  men,  and  especially 
Big  Dan  and  the  other  more  excitable 
ones,  in  a  quarrelsome,  discontented 
mood.  On  top  of  all,  they  now  make 
a  five  per  cent  raise  in  wages,  and  let 
it  be  known  in  our  camps  that  they 
need  more  men.  To-day  when  I 
reached  camp  I  found  the  men  just  re- 
covering from  a  dose  of  "Ground- 
Hog's'  tonic,  and  only  about  half  doing 


PEACE,  VIA  THE  BABY. 


469 


their  work.  I  spoke  to  Dan  and  Jim, 
whom  you  know  are  in  charge  when  I 
am  gone,  about  it,  and  then  the  Devil 
was  to  pay.  Dan  flew  mad  in  a  min- 
ute. Said  our  'domed*  company  was 
thryin'  to  drive  an  honest  man  to  death 
while  not  payin'  him  at  all,  at  all,  like 
other  people,  and  ended  by  demanding 
the  five  per  cent  increase  the  Adams 
people  are  paying,  or  he  and  at  least 
half  the  men  would  quit.  Men  are 
scarce,  and  they  know  it,  but  they  also 
know  that  the  'grub'  over  there  is 
poorer,  and  they  never  get  a  square 
deal.  It's  mostly  the  whisky  that  does 
it,  of  course,  but  I  have  tried  to  stop 
that  and  can't.  We  are  paying  all 
we  can  afford,  but  I  would  make  the 
five  per  cent  raise  in  order  to  hold  the 
men  if  that  would  settle  it,  but  it  would 
not.  In  another  week  it  would  be  some 
other  concession.  That  Adams  outfit 
never  rests. 

"We  had  a  lively  scrap  of  it,  and 
all  got  mad,  and  I  ended  it  by  telling 
them  I  would  see  them  all  cursed 
before  I  would  give  in  an  inch.  At 
least  half  the  men,  headed  by  Dan,  are 
going  to  quit  in  the  morning,  and  as 
soon  as  the  other  camps  hear  of  it, 
they  will  follow  suit.  It  is  impossible 
to  get  a  new  crew  now,  so  that  spells 
ruin,  my  dear.  Now,  you  have  the 
cause  for  my  worry." 

"Oh,  you  poor  boy!  And  Annie  and 
the  baby:  what  will  they  do  if  Dan 
keeps  on  this  way?  He  is  such  a  dear 
baby,  too — cuddles  up  to  me  so  cute 
when  he  feels  well,  and  is  so  sweet. 
If  he  were  old  enough,  we  could  get 
him  to  persuade  his  father.  Dan  will 
do  anything  for  that  baby  when  he  is 
sober."  They  talked  and  talked,  but 
could  come  to  no  solution  of  the  prob- 
lem, and  at  last  went  sadly  to  bed. 

Fred  had  not  told  her  quite  all, 
though.  He  had  not  told  her  the  men 
had  vowed  to  do  him  personal  injury 
before  they  left  the  camp.  When  he 
was  sure  she  slept,  he  arose,  loaded  the 
gun  and  placed  it  near  him,  to  be  ready 
if  anything  should  happen.  He  lay 
awake  thinking  for  a  long  time,  but 
had  at  last  dropped  into  a  troubled 
sleep  when  he  was  awakened  by  a  loud 


pounding  at  the  door,  and  Dan's  voice 
commanding  him  to  open  it.  In  an 
instant  he  was  alert.  His  first  thought 
was  that  the  men,  fired  on  by  the  bad 
whisky,  had  come  for  him.  Seizing  the 
gun  he  leaped  to  the  floor  and  de- 
manded: "What  do  you  want?"  A 
grim  determination  to  fight  to  the  bit- 
ter end  possessed  him.  Dan's  voice 
came  again :  "Open  the  door,  for  God's 
sake,  mon :  I  want  your  wife  to  come. 
"My  baby  is  dying."  So  completely 
had  the  idea  that  the  men  had  come  to 
harm  him  taken  possession  of  him  that 
he  stood  as  one  dazed  for  a  moment, 
then  he  heard  his  wife's  voice  saying : 
"Fred!  Fred!  Why  don't  you  open 
the  door  and  tell  Dan  I  am  coming." 
Then  he  came  to  himself,  and  as  he 
threw  wide  the  door,  his  wife  called: 
"Go  home  Dan,  and  heat  some  water : 
we  will  be  there  soon."  Dan  turned 
and  fled  down  the  trail,  and  as  quickly 
as  they  could  dress  and  gather  to- 
gether some  medicines  and  flannels, 
Fred  and  his  wife  followed. 

"I  was  afraid  .of  this  when  I  left 
last  evening,"  she  said.  "It  is  croup  or 
pneumonia,  and  I  am  afraid  will  go 
hard  with  the  poor  little  fellow." 

When  they  arrived  at  the  cabin  Dan 
had  the  water  hot,  and  was  standing 
helplessly  near  Annie,  who  held  the 
baby,  fighting  for  his  breath,  while  the 
tears  ran  down  her  cheeks,  and  she 
murmured  prayers  to  the  Virgin.  Then 
Eleanor  went  to  work. 

How  thankful  she  was  for  that  thor- 
ough course  in  "Simple  Home  Treat- 
ments" that  she  once  had  had,  but 
more  than  this  her  woman's  instinct 
seemed  to  tell  her  what  to  do.  As  she 
worked,  she  breathed  over  and  over 
the  simple  prayer,  "Oh,  dear  God, 
please  help  me  to  save  the  baby." 

While  the  women  carefully  went 
through  all  the  mysteries  of  hot  and 
cold  packs,  rubbings,  oilings,  mustard 
plasters  and  the  like,  by  the  pitiful 
light  of  a  smoking  coal  oil  lamp — in 
the  shadow  sat  the  two  men,  watching. 

Big  Dan  alternately  cursed,  and 
prayed  to  the  Virgin,  only  pausing 
long  enough  to  oceasionally  replenish 
the  fire.  Burton  watched  his  wife 


470 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


moving  capably  about,  and  thanked 
God  in  his  heart  for  her  and  all  that 
she  meant  to  him  and  the  others.  Once 
she  sent  him  to  their  cabin  for  some 
other  things,  but  for  the  rest  of  the 
long  night  he  kept  Dan  company  in  the 
shadows. 

Just  as  the  first  pale  light  of  day  be- 
gan to  show  in  the  East,  the  baby, 
who  had  begun  to  breathe  easier, 
sighed,  stretched  his  little  limbs,  and 
like  a  tired  flower,  went  to  sleep.  Elea- 
nor knowing  that  the  worst  was  over, 
bade  the  tired  mother  to  lay  him  down, 
and  saying  she  would  soon  return,  be- 
gan to  pick  up  the  things  preparatory 
to  going  home.  Big  Dan  stumbled 
over  to  the  bed,  looked  long  and  stead- 
ily at  the  now  peacefully  sleeping 
child,  then  awkwardly  kissing  his  wife, 
he  motioned  to  Burton  to  follow,  and 
went  out.  Once  out  in  the  clear,  cold 
air,  he  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  said: 
"Misther  Burton,  Fred  bye,  it's  domed 
square  ye  and  yer  anger  wife  are,  and 
if  you'll  let  by-gones  be  by-gones,  Dan 
O'Brien,  curses  on  his  soul,  will  stand 
by  ye  to  the  ind.  It's  going  back  to 
work  I  am — by  yer  leave — and  I  will 
bate  the  head  o'n  any  ither  man  that 


doesn't  do  the  same.  When  Annie 
called  me  I  was  still  that  mad  and 
drunk  that  I  swore  I  would  niver  ask 
help  av  ye,  but  wan  look  at  the  baby 
and  I  wint,  and  now,  Hiven  help  me, 
I'll  keep  straight  and  work  like  the 
devil." 

"That's  all  right,  Dan,"  said  Fred, 
extending  his  hand;  "I,  too,  lost  my 
temper,  which  no  boss  has  a  right  to 
do.  It  takes  a  woman  or  a  kid  to 
straighten  out  a  man." 

"Right  ye  are,  bye,  right  ye  are," 
said  Dan,  and  jrst  then  Eleanor  ap- 
peared. Her  husband  was  a  proud  and 
happy  man  as  he  helped  her  up  the 
slippery  trail  to  their  cabin.  Once  in- 
side, he  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"You  and  the  baby  saved  the  day, 
dear :  the  men  are  going  back  to  work 
to-morrow." 

"Oh,  Fred!  I  am  so  glad.  'A  little 
child  shall  lead  them.'  It  was  the 
baby  did  it.  We  are  all  powerless 
without  the  baby." 

He  smiled  and  smoothed  back  the 
hair  from  her  forehead  as  he  an- 
swered :  "You  are  right,  dear,  the  baby 
did  it,  but  I  am  glad  you  happened  to 
be  here,  too." 


THE   CHARITY   BALL 

Half-starved,  half-clad  there  in  the  dark, 

In  cold  upon  the  curb; 
Face  pressed  against  the  glistening  glass 

To  watch  the  scene  superb; 
A  wretched  beggar  stands  outside: 

Within  the  dancers  sway 
In  gold  brocade  and  jeweled  lace 

All  dazzling  in  array 
Of  diamonds,  rubies,  ropes  of  pearls — 

How  could  they  valued  be  ? 
Say,  "wealth  enough  to  ease  the  world 

Of  half  its  misery?" 
The  watcher  ground  his  teeth  in  rage, 

Ungrateful  beggar  he! 
Next  day  they  meant  to  give  him  alms ! 

They  danced  for  charity! 


LANNIE  HAYNES  MARTIN. 


THE    FROZEN    CRY 


By  Frederick  Hewitt 


I  MUST  take  Piotr  food  and  drink," 
Katya  Kolzoff  murmured,  as  she 
glanced  out  of  the  small  paned 
window  of  the  log  building.  "It 
is  near  two  o'clock.  He  will  be  starv- 
ing." 

"The  midday  run  must  have  been 
much,  or  Piotr  would  have  come  back 
to  eat,"  old  Kolzoff  grunted,  between 
puffs  through  his  long  pipe. 

The  Superintendent  of  the  Alaskan 
fishing  colony,  sitting  opposite  him, 
shook  his  big  head.  "It  is  hard  times 
for  the  teamsters — for  us  all,"  he 
growled  bitterly.  "Piotr  did  well  to 
stick  by  his  job  if  the  fish  have  been 
running." 

Katya  meanwhile  put  a  flask  of 
home-brewed  vodka  and  some  cheese 
sandwiches  in  a  tin  pail. 

As  she  finished  her  job,  her  father 
murmured  slyly,  glancing  up  at  her: 
"Michael  said  he  would  be  round  to 
see  you  to-day,  my  little  one.  And  it 
getting  black  outside.  It  is  better  to 
let  Piotr  come  for  his  food." 

"Ah,"  the  girl  sighed,  "but  Piotr  has 
helped  us  much  since  you  have  been 
ailing."  As  she  spoke,  a  great  gust 
of  wind  rattled  against  the  side  of  the 
hut. 

Jonidas,  the  superintendent,  yawned, 
drew  up  his  big  height,  rose  and 
stepped  to  the  already  thickly  frosted 
window.  He  smeared  a  big  hot  hand 
across  a  pane,  then  gazed  out.  "It  is 
a  storm  brewing.  It  will  come  across 
the  lake/'  he  prophesied. 

Old  Kolzoff  looked  up  anxiously, 
and  turned  to  Katya.  "The  little  one 
might  get  lost  on  the  ice  if  she  goes," 
he  murmured  uneasily. 

"No,  no,  not  so,"  Katya  shook  her 
head.  Wrapped  in  a  warm  pelisse, 


holding  the  dinner-pail  in  a  mittened 
hand,  she  hurried  out  of  the  warmth  of 
the  hut  into  the  biting  cold  outside. 

"Bog  s'teba"  the  old  man  muttered 
after  her,  as  the  door  banged  to,  and 
another  fearful  gust  of  wind  struck 
against  the  building. 

"She  will  have  her  way,"  Jonidas 
gurgled.  "May  the  good  Voidavoi 
protect  her.  She  is  a  good  girl.  But, 
hark,  it  sounds  like  as  if  it  will  be  a 
night  fit  for  murder!" 

Katya  cautiously  picked  her  way 
down  a  slippery  bank  leading  to  the 
frozen  lake.  The  sky  was  ominous, 
and  a  few  big  snowflakes  were  already 
beginning  to  fall,  but  she  bravely 
started  across  the  lake. 

"Katya!"  a  sharp  voice  suddenly 
cried. 

The  girl  stopped  and  wheeled  round. 
A  tall,  lank  man  hurried  up  to  her.  As 
his  small  eyes  caught  the  sight  of  the 
dinner  pail  that  Katya  held  he  sneered : 
"Ah,  you  go  to  that  fool  of  a  Piotr! 
And  I  left  word  with  your  old  man 
that  I  was  coming  to  see  you!" 

"He  will  starve  if  I  do  not  take  him 
food,"  the  girl  defended. 

"See  here,"  Michael,  the  clerk  of 
the  fishing  company  urged,  "the  fishing 
is  every  day  worse  and  worse.  And," 
he  continued  bitterly,  grabbing  her 
arm,  "I  am  tired  of  your  putting  me 
off  and  off !  I  will  wait  no  longer.  We 
will  go  away  together  to-night!" 

The  girl  drew  away  from  him 
quickly.  "You  talk  too  fast!"  she  sput- 
tered, crossly.  "Go  away  to-night? 
Poof!  Where  would  you  get  the 
priest?" 

"I  will  take  Jonidas'  horse,  and  we 
will  go  to  Laota,"  Michael  insisted,  his 
breath  coming  in  puffs,  his  eyes  glit- 


472 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


taring.    "We  will  go  from  there  to  the 
city,  where  there  are  plenty  of  priests." 

"You  talk  too  fast,"  the  girl  re- 
peated, raising  her  voice  against  the 
growing  storm.  "I  must  go  along,  and 
get  back  before  the  storm  breaks." 

Michael  Silenski  again  seized  the 
girl's  lithe  arm.  "See  here,"  he  cried, 
hotly,  "this  place  is  a  hell-hole !  Noth- 
ing in  the  heat-time  but  sand;  now 
nothing  but  ice  and  storms !  We  might 
as  well  be  back  in  Yaroslavl  I  tell 
you,"  he  went  on  excitedly,  "I'm  sick 
of  working  here.  I  have  much  money 
in  the  bank — four  hundred  and  three 
dollars.  We  will  go  to  San  Francisco. 
I  will  work  in  the  stock  yards.  You," 
he  added  cunningly,  "can  have  much 
company  and  shows  to  go  to  of  even- 
ings." 

Katya's  eyes  momentarily  widened. 
"That  might  be  good,"  she  murmured, 
"but  I  would  not  leave  my  old  father." 

"We  could  send  for  him  by-and-by," 
Michael  eagerly  suggested,  still  hold- 
ing the  girl. 

"I  can  talk  no  longer,"  the  girl  sud- 
denly protested,  wrenching  her  arm 
away.  "I  must  take  Piotr  his  food!" 

She  quickly  again  started  across  the 
lake,  with  the  keen  wind  cutting  into 
her  smooth,  glowing  cheeks. 

"You  are  a  fool!"  Michael  cried, 
springing  after  the  girl.  "A  big  storm 
is  brewing.  Piotr  is  a  cur  to  have  you 
bring  him  food.  You  will  get  lost! 
You — you  know  how  that  old  Servitch 
woman  went  round  and  round  in  circles 
and— and  when  they  found  her — ug — 
she  lay  face  down,  caked  in  ice — quite 
dead!" 

The  girl  paid  no  attention,  but  kept 
quickly  struggling  forward — the  pail 
swinging  in  her  hand. 

"I — I  will  not  let  you  go!"  Michael 
shrieked  in  her  ear,  trying  to  seize 
her. 

Katya  dodged  his  hand  and  ran 
ahead.  Soon,  notwithstanding  the 
great,  yellow  banks  of  snow  that  were 
rolling  towards  her  she  spied  ahead  a 
dark  blurr — Piotr's  fishing  shack.  She 
kept  her  snow-spattered  eyes  on  the 
blurr  as  she  hurried  forward. 

Suddenly,  Michael  dashed  ahead  of 


her  and  barred  her  progress.  "I — I 
would  not  be  a  man  if  I  did  not  stop 
you,"  he  puffed  thickly,  with  tones  of 
conciliation.  "You — you  will  get  lost." 

Katya  eyed  him  angrily,  and  waved 
him  aside.  "I  will  go  on!"  she  trem- 
bled. 

"Piotr  is  a  wolf!"  the  man  snarled. 
"I  will  go  with  you,  and  see  that " 

"Piotr  will  bring  me  back  safe!"  the 
girl  taunted. 

"That  dog!"  Michael  sneered  hotly. 
"Ah,  you  do  not  keep  him  at  your  place 
simply  to  help  your  old  man." 

Katya,  scarlet  faced,  sprang  for- 
ward, with  the  snow  covering  her  pe- 
lisse. 1 1 

Michael  kept  up  with  her.  "He 
knows  nothing,  and  has  no  savings!" 
he  insisted  madly. 

Katya  silently  redoubled  her  energy, 
but  coming  to  a  rill  of  ice,  slipped  and 
fell — the  can  shooting  away  until  it 
became  blocked  by  a  cake  of  snow. 

"Ah-ha!"  Michael  jeered.  "Now, 
then,  I  told  you  it  was  not  safe  to  be 
alone." 

The  girl  grabbed  up  the  can,  and 
again  silently  scudded  on,  still  keeping 
her  painfully  dilated  eyes  on  Piotr's 
fishing  hut.  "He  would  not  even  let 
me  split  a  stick  of  wood  when  he  was 
around,"  she  thought  to  herself.  "And 
though  he  may  not  be  smart  at  figures 
like  Michael,  he  never  spoke  cross  to 
me." 

The  clerk  broke  upon  her  thoughts 
by  once  more  seizing  her  arm,  and  tug- 
ging at  her.  "You  are  mad !"  he  raged. 
"Our  tracks  are  getting  covered!  Come 
back!" 

"Don't  touch  me!"  Katya  blazed,  her 
knees  trembling.  "Go!!" 

"He  has  come  between  you  and 
me,"  Michael  flamed,  still  holding  her 
arm.  "He  is  always  hanging  around 
you!" 

"He  helps  my  father  much,"  the 
girl  trembled  weakly.  "Let  me  alone. 
Let — me — alone." 

"You  love  him!"  Michael  shrieked. 
"Ah,  the  dog !  I  will  speak  to  Jonidas. 
He  shall  lose  his  job!" 

"Coward!"  Katya  faced  him,  her 
strength  and  courage  returning.  She 


THE  FROZEN  CRY. 


473 


pushed  him  aside,  and  again  hurried 
forward,  the  wind  and  snow  beating 
against  her. 

Michael  sprang  after  her.  "Ah! 
You — you  do  love  him!  You  shall  not 
have  him!" 

Something  about  his  tone  of  voice 
brought  terror  to  the  girl's  mind.  For 
a  moment  she  blinked  her  eyes,  then 
glanced  at  him.  She  caught  the  gleam 
of  his  eyes  as  they  were  nearing  close 
to  the  hut.  What  should  she  do?  She 
had  seen  that  same  look  that  Michael 
had,  years  previously,  when  an  infuri- 
ated Cossack  had  mercilessly  bayo- 
neted a  Lithuanian! 

Michael,  amidst  the  boom  of  the 
now  fully  broken  storm,  leaped  ahead 
to  the  right  side  of  th  ^  hut.  What  was 
he  about  to  do  ?  Ah,  a  fish-spear !  He 
would  kill  Piotr!  But  Piotr  would 
hear  him,  see  him.  Piotr  was  strong! 
But  he  might  not  hear!  She  tried  to 
scream  out  a  warning,  but  her  voice 
failed  her.  She  dropped  her  can,  and 
sprang  to  the  other  side  of  the  hut, 
and  dizzily  picked  up  an  ice-coated 
stake  of  wood.  With  everything  swim- 
ming before  her  eyes,  she  jumped  back 
in  front  of  the  hut!  The  storm  was 
now  blinding.  Ah,  there  was  Michael 
in  front  of  her!  She  quickly  poised 
the  stake,  and  crashed  it  down!  It 
struck  with  a  heavy  thud  on  the  man's 
head!  He  toppled  to  the  ice,  a  limp, 
black  heap.  Then  Katya  swooned. 


The  girl's  heavy  eyelids  at  last  gave 
a  little  flutter,  then  a  painful  sigh.  Her 
eyes  opened  slowly;  at  first  unsee- 
ingly.  Gradually  she  discerned  some 
unfamiliar  rafters  overhead,  bearing 
a  pair  of  dull-green  oars,  some  patched 
sails,  and  an  old  dugout.  Was  she 
dreaming?  Where  was  she?  Sud- 
denly she  caught  the  sound  of  the  wail 
and  boom  of  a  storm.  She  quivered 
violently.  Yes,  now  she  knew.  Blood 
was  upon  her  hands!  She  had  killed 
him. 

"Piotr— Piotr!"  she  cried  wildly. 
"Where  am  I!  I— I  killed  Michael!" 

Something  drew  her  to  glace  side- 
ways. Her  staring  eyes  met  those  of 


another  man — the  eyes  of  Michael 
Silenski — the  clerk! 

She  lay  quite  still,  transfixed  with 
horror. 

"Piotr,"  she  murmured,  dully. 

"There — there  is  nothing  to  fear," 
Michael  answered  quickly,  "you — 
you  are  safe  with  me.  I  will  shield 
,  you.  If — if  you  struck  him  dead  I 
will  say  nothing  about  it.  I  drew  you 
across  the  lake  on  his  hand-sleigh.  I 
could  not  draw  both.  The  snow  was 
too  deep.  You  struck  him  so,"  he 
added  dramatically,  raising  his  fist. 
"We  will  go  away  to-night!  They  will 
not  catch  you — the  law  will  not !  Leave 
it  to  me." 

The  girl  thrust  a  hand  before  her 
eyes  and  moaned. 

"We  have  no  time  to  lose,"  Michael 
hurriedly  sputtered.  "I  will  get  the 
horse  while  you  get  ready!  You  can 
put  on  this  heavy  coat  of  mine !" 

The  girl  feebly  waved  him  away. 
In  another  minute  Michael  left  the  hut 
and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock. 

She  struggled  to  think  clearly,  then 
she  cried  violently:  "Piotr,  my  Piotr, 
come  to  me!  What — wha — have  I 
done  ?  It  was  the  storm !  I — I — I  did 
not  mean — to  hit — you !  Piotr !  Piotr !" 

Then  she  lay  back  on  the  bed,  quite 
still — passively.  Suddenly,  during  a 
lull  in  the  storm,  her  lips  moved.  "He 
thinks  of  me,"  she  muttered.  "He 
thinks  of  me!" 

Long  minutes  later,  as  if  in  answer 
to  her  cries,  she  heard  footsteps. 

All  her  thoughts  were  upon  Piotr. 
She  crossed  herself,  and  murmured 
superstitiously :  "His  ghost — he  comes 
across  the  winds!" 

For  answer  there  was  a  heavy 
pounding  on  the  door,  and  a  voice 
called  loudly:  "Michael,  where  the 
devil  are  you?  Old  Kolzoff  wants  us 
to  go  and  look  for  his  girl  and  Piotr." 

Katya  vented  forth  a  plaintive  cry. 

A  huge  shoulder  battered  in  the 
door.  At  the  sight  of  Jonidas,  Katya 
sat  up  and  panted  out  her  tale. 

"I  will  settle  with  that  Michael," 
the  superintendent  shook  a  huge  fist. 
"Here  he  comes  now." 

A  man,  capless,  flaxen-haired,  white 


474 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


with  snow,  lurched  through  the  door- 
way and  sank  on  a  chair. 

"I  am  after  that  cur!"  Jonidas 
again  shook  his  fist,  and  hurried  away 
without  speaking  to  the  newcomer. 

Katya  sprang  towards  Piotr.  "My 
Piotr,  my  Piotr!"  she  murmured,  strok- 
ing one  of  his  wet  hands.  Again  she 
poured  out  her  tale. 

"I  found  the  food  and  drink  when  I 


came  to,"  Piotr  murmured.  "And 
then  I  heard  later  on  a  voice,  as  it 
seemed,  crying  to  me  to  come — the 
voice  shivered  through  me — it — it  was 
like  a  frozen  cry.  I — I  had  to  answer 
it.  So  I  came — came  this  way — to 
Michael's  hut.  Something  made  me 
come  this  way — perhaps  the  voice." 

"My  Piotr,  my  Piotr!"  Katya  kept 
murmuring. 


BREATH   OF   NIGHT 


(BOOK  RIGHTS  RESERVED.) 


Hiding  from  the  morning  sunlight, 
Hiding  from  the  coming  brightness, 
Folded  in  its  modest  calyx, 
Waits  a  nameless  desert  blossom. 

When  the  pixies,  sprites,  and  fairies, 
Hold  their  carnival  at  night-time, 
Down  in  mystic  desert  regions, 
Then  the  yellow  flower  comes  stealing 
From  its  tiny  soft  green  cradle, 
Resting  close  against  the  bosom 
Of  its  silent  desert  mother, 
Shyly  lifts  its  dainty  petals, 
Lifts  its  face  of  starlike  beauty, 
Opes  its  mouth  and  breathes  its  fragrance 
Far  upon  the  balmy  distance; 
Breathes  upon  the  air  around  it, 
Breathes  upon  the  dark'ning  shadows, 
Fragrance  of  surpassing  sweetness. 

Nothing  underneath  the  heavens, 
Not  a  flower  of  Paradise, 
Lavishes  a  richer  perfume 
Than  this  modest  little  flower-cup 
Pours  upon  the  heedless  sand-planes. 

CLARA  HUNT  SMALLWOOD. 


THE    LEAF    OF    THE    GRINGO 


By  Crittenden  Marriott 


THE  LONG  down  grade,  turning 
and  twisting  with  the  inequali- 
ties of  the  mountain  side,  slid 
swiftly  beneath  the  wheels  of 
the  purring  automobile.  On  the  right 
the  cliff  rose  sheer,  save  in  a  few 
places  where  interrupted  by  almost  as 
steep  a  bush-covered  slant.  On  the 
left  the  canyon  dropped  away  to 
depths  of  misty  vagueness.  The  road 
was  a  mere  shelf  pinned  against  the 
cliff.  At  every  turn  it  seemed  to  pinch 
to  nothing  beneath  the  bulging  rock. 

It  was  growing  late.  The  shadows 
of  the  points  lengthened;  the  bays  be- 
tween darkened  into  lilac-hued  pro- 
fundities; beyond  the  sky-line  the  set- 
ting sun  burned  red,  wakening  the 
chaparral  and  manzanita  into  sudden 
flame.  Behind,  the  dust  cloud  raised 
by  the  spinning  wheels  tossed  like 
dun-colored  smoke.  Far  away  and  far 
below  a  gleam  of  blue  marked  the  po- 
sition of  the  lake. 

The  day  had  been  warm  and  long, 
and  I  was  dozing  in  my  seat.  The 
droning  of  the  motor  drowned  all  lesser 
sounds,  and  the  strong  rush  of  the 
spicy  wind  conduced  to  slumber.  Once 
or  twice  I  nodded  violently.  Each 
time,  half-awakened,  I  glanced  toward 
Rigby,  apologetically,  only  to  find 
him  as  somnolent  as  myself. 

Little  by  little  my  eyelids  closed. 
Slowly  the  world  faded  from  my  con- 
sciousness. I  felt  myself  sinking — 
sinking — sinking 

A  hand  clutched  my  arm  fiercely, 
dragging  me  sidewards,  and  a  voice 
shouted  in  my  ear.  Instinctively  I 
threw  out  my  arms.  A  brief,  half- 
conscious  struggle  followed,  and  I 
found  myself  seated  in  the  car,  wide 


awake,  while  Rigby,  beside  me,  was 
wiping  a  chalk-white  brow. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  babbled.  "I 
grabbed  you  just  in  time !  You'd  have 
been  over  the  side  in  another  second." 

I  looked  over  the  edge  of  the  car 
and  shuddered.  The  road,  nowhere 
broad,  had  narrowed  to  a  strip  scarcely 
wide  enough  for  the  wheels  of  the 
automobile.  On  one  side  the  hubs 
scraped  against  the  side  of  the  moun- 
tain. On  the  other  the  rock  fell  sheer 
out  of  sight.  A  rickety  three-foot  rail- 
ing that  ran  along  the  outer  edge  of- 
fered an  assurance  of  safety  that  it 
was  obviously  unable  to  make  good. 

Pedro,  our  Mexican  chauffeur,  had 
stopped  the  motor,  and  now  he  sat, 
white-faced  and  trembling,  looking  at 
me  with  horror-stricken  eyes.  "And 
here!"  he  muttered.  "Here!  Here! 
At  the  White  Shoulder!  What  mad- 
ness came  upon  the  senor  that  he 
should  fall  asleep  here,  where  all 
devils  lurk.  Santa  Maria,  ora  pro 
nobis!"  Piously  he  crossed  himself. 

I  turned  on  him  irritably.  My 
nerves  were  more  shaken  than  I  liked 
to  confess,  and  like  many  another,  I 
vented  my  panic  on  the  nearest  victim. 
"Fool!"  I  cried.  "What  have  devils 
to  do  with  a  six-cylinder  automobile? 
Climb  over  the  dash  and  start  the 
motor,  and  quickly,  or  we  will  be  late 
for  tortillas  and  cafe." 

Pedro  did  not  move.  "Presently, 
senor,"  he  answered.  "Presently, 
when  this  foolish  heart  of  mine  ceases 
to  agitate  itself.  It  is  better  to  miss 
supper  than  to  sup  in  hell,  senor." 

Rigby  stood  up.  "Pedro  is  right, 
Curtis,"  he  said  in  English.  "He's  too 
much  shaken  to  climb  over  the  dash  or 


476 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


to  drive.  There's  a  story  about  this 
place.  Anyway,  the  road  is  danger- 
ous. I'll  fix  things  myself." 

Declining  my  offer  of  aid  he  climbed 
out  over  the  dash,  and  lowered  himself 
to  the  rutted  roadway.  When  he 
climbed  back,  he  took  Pedro's  place 
at  the  wheel.  Before  he  dropped  in 
the  clutch  he  glanced  back  at  me. 
"About  that  story,"  he  remarked  in 
Spanish.  "You'll  want  to  hear  it.  Pe- 
dro shall  tell  it  to  you  when  we  camp. 
That's  the  proper  place,  anyhow,  isn't 
it,  Pedro?" 

The  old  man  nodded.  "Si,  senor! 
I  will  tell  the  story — in  good  time.  Be 
not  impatient,  senor.  Many  times  have 
I  seen  the  hasty  gringo  temper  lash 
out,  make  ruin.  We  of  Mexico  do  not 
hasten.  Perhaps  that  is  why  we  serve 
and  the  gringo  commands.  And  yet  I 

do  not  know.  At  least  once "  He 

fell  to  muttering. 

We  camped  on  a  broad  grass-car- 
peted flat  in  the  bottom  of  the  canyon. 
After  we  had  eaten,  Rigby  called  my 
attention  to  a  twisted,  rusted  mass  of 
metal,  overgrown  in  the  grass.  "Can 
you  recognize  it?"  he  asked. 

1  nodded.  "It's  the  wreck  of  an  au- 
tomobile, isn't  it?"  I  asked. 

"It  is.  Now  look  up."  He  pointed 
to  an  almost  indistinguishable  line  that 
crossed  a  jutting  shoulder  of  rock  a 
thousand  feet  above.  "That's  where 
you  tried  to  go  to  sleep,"  he  explained 
grimly.  "If  you  had  succeeded,  there 
would  have  been  another  cross  to  add 
to  those  yonder.  Four  of  them — three 
Mexican  and  one  American.  But  it's 
Pedro's  story.  Go  ahead,  Pedro." 

"Si,  senor,  the  senor  speaks  true. 
Three  Mexican  and  one  American — 
my  friend,  senor.  Ten  years  have 
passed  since  he  came  to  Sinaloa — ten 
years,  but  I  close  my  eyes  and  see  him 
now  as  then — tall,  blue-eyed,  lithe  as 
a  cougar,  a  king  of  men.  He  tramped 
in,  driving  before  him  two  burros 
laden  with  food,  and  jingling  with  tools 
for  the  mining.  On  this  very  spot  he 
made  his  first  camp,  and  to  it  he  came 
back  again  and  again  when  he  wearied 
of  the  bare  rocks  above. 

"It  was  here  that  I  first  saw  him, 


senor.  In  those  days  my  master — El 
Colorao  we  called  him  because  he 
grew  so  red  when  angry — my  master 
was  bitten  by  the  devil-car  bug.  All 
his  substance  he  squandered  on  auto- 
mobiles, and  raged  that  he  had  no 
more  to  spend.  Me  he  taught  to  drive, 
and  drive  I  did,  though  with  much 
fear.  One  day  I  came  down  the  moun- 
tain road,  the  same  road  that  the  senor 
has  traversed  in  part  to-day,  and  when 
I  reached  this  spot  the  misbegotten 
motor  choked  and  died.  Much  did  I 
sweat  and  greatly  did  I  bewail  my 
fate,  for  El  Colorao  waited,  and  he 
was  not  a  patient  man.  Then  came 
the  Senor  Americano,  appearing  sud- 
denly out  of  nowhere,  and  with  a  twist 
of  a  lever  he  sent  me  on  my  way  re- 
joicing. 

"His  name  ?  Don  Esteban  we  called 
him,  senor.  What  more  it  was  I  can- 
not tell.  Why  does  the  Senor  ask?  He 
knows  Don  Esteban's  name. 

"Tales  of  gold  drew  him  to  these 
mountains,  and  the  lack  of  gold  held 
him  here.  He  was  no  chance  prospec- 
tor, wandering  like  a  lost  soul  as  the 
fancy  took  him.  He  was  a  learned 
man,  skilled  in  the  engineering  and  in 
the  ancient  records,  Aztec  and  Span- 
ish; and  he  sought  a  mine  lost  cen- 
turies ago.  All  the  countryside  knew 
that  he  sought  it.  El  Colorao  knew 
that  he  sought  it,  and  his  eyes  grew 
red  as  he  watched  the  search. 

For  twelve  months  Don  Esteban 
sought  the  mine,  and  at  last  he  found 
it.  The  senor  has  seen  it,  even  to- 
day. The  senor  has  come  many 
miles  to  see  it.  Ah,  yes!  the  senor  is 
a  director  of  the  mine,  one  who  sits 
far  off  and  directs.  Ha!  ha!  Don  Es- 
teban directed  no  one  except  himself. 
Yet  he  found  the  mine — and  lost  it. 
The  senor  and  Don  Esteban  were  very 
close  together  not  an  hour  ago.  A 
moment  more  and  they  would  have 
been  together  for  all  times. 

"Si!  Si!  Senor!  I  will  hasten.  Don 
Esteban  found  the  mine  at  last.  But 
many  things  had  happened  first — Car- 
lotta  among  them. 

"When  Don  Esteban  came,  he 
brought  with  him  the  picture  of  a 


THE  LEAP  OF  THE  GRINGO. 


477 


fair-haired  girl.  Often  have  I  seen 
him  sit  and  stare  at  this  picture,  now 
hopefully,  now  hopelessly.  But  after 
he  had  seen  Carlotta  he  stared  at  it 
less  often  or  more  secretly.  Later  he 
thrust  it  in  the  fire,  and  bowed  his  head 
in  his  hands,  crying  aloud  that  he  was 
not  worthy. 

"Ah !  The  senor  nods  his  head.  He 
agrees  with  Don  Esteban.  The  senor 
is  very  wise.  But  in  this  one  thing  I 
am  wiser  than  the  senor,  for  I  have 
seen  Carlotta  and  the  senor  has  not. 

"Many  years  have  I  lived,  senor, 
both  with  my  own  people  and  with  the 
gringoes,  and  I  say  to  you  that  all 
men  are  alike  at  bottom.  It  is  only 
in  their  training  and  in  their  opportu- 
nities that  they  differ.  Don  Esteban 
was  a  fool,  and  he  paid  for  it,  as  was 
just.  But  he  was  no  more  a  fool  than 
any  other  man  would  have  been.  Even 
the  senor 

"Senor!  Words  cannot  picture  Car- 
lotta. Once  in  many  years  such  a  one 
is  born  to  drive  men  mad.  At  seven- 
teen she  was  in  full  flower — the  early 
flower  of  the  tropics  that  hastes  to 
breathe  its  tremulous  perfume  before 
it  dies.  Languorous  were  her  eyes, 
smoky,  like  the  pitch-pine  fires  I  have 
seen  burning  in  the  mountains  of  the 
north.  Satin-like  was  her  skin.  Se- 
duction trembled  in  the  curves  of  her 
lips.  Mistress,  too,  she  was  of  the  art 
that  sways  men  to  her  will. 

"There  is  this  to  be  said.  It  was  she 
who  sought  Don  Esteban  and  not  he 
who  sought  her.  She  sought  him,  well 
knowing  of  the  fair-haired  northern 
woman.  I  know  that  she  knew,  for 
I  told  her. 

"Was  she  his  mistress?  Senor,  I 
am  sure  she  was  not.  She  played  with 
him,  keeping  him  in  train  till  he  should 
find  the  great  mine  or  should  give  up 
the  search.  El  Colorao  believed  that 
he  would  find  it,  and  he,  too,  waited. 
Nothing  else  can  explain  that  he 
should  permit  his  daughter  to  play  so 
with  Don  Esteban.  Maidens  in  Mex- 
ico are  not  permitted  such  freedom. 
For  much  less,  many  a  gringo  has  died. 

"It  would  have  been  easy  for  El 
Colorao  to  slay  Don  Esteban  in  any 


one  of  many  ways.  One  is  not  lord  of 
ten  thousand  acres  in  Sinaloa  for  not- 
ing. But  he  did  nothing.  He  only 
waited — waited  perhaps  as  the  cougar 
waits,  licking  its  chops,  before  it  kills. 

"It  was  at  this  time  that  Don  Este- 
ban thrust  into  the  fire  the  picture  of 
the  fair-haired  northern  girl. 

"Then  he  found  the  hidden  entrance 
to  the  mine,  found  it,  as  was  reason- 
able, at  the  edge  of  the  ancient  road 
built  by  those  who  worked  the  mine 
in  days  long  past.  Rich  it  was  beyond 
belief.  This  very  day  the  senor  has 
seen  its  gold-specked  seams  but  the 
Senor  did  not  see  it  as  Don  Esteban 
saw  it  on  the  first  day,  before  the  rich- 
est ore  was  hacked  away,  when  the 
gold  lay  in  the  rotting  rock  in  yellow 
lumps  larger  than  the  eggs  of  the 
mountain  quail.  It  was  a  sight  to  drive 
men  mad. 

"Perhaps  it  drove  Don  Esteban  mad 
— perhaps  it  only  made  him  sane  once 
more.  For  months  he  had  been  mad 
over  Carlotta — Carlotta  who  played 
with  him  and  led  him  on  and  thrust 
him  back.  Perhaps  the  gleam  of  the 
gold  dulled  the  glamor  of  Carlotta's 
eyes,  and  he  remembered  the  fair- 
haired  northern  girl.  Perhaps  he  had 
tired  of  Mexico  and  Mexicans,  and 
yearned  for  his  own  people.  I  do  not 
excuse  him.  I  seek  only  to  explain. 
And  who  can  explain  the  gringo? 

"From  the  mine,  Don  Esteban  came 
to  the  hacienda  of  El  Colorao  to  say 
farewell  to  Carlotta.  Foolish?  Un- 
necessary? says  the  senor?  Perhaps! 
But  at  least  it  was  not  cowardly!  Most 
men  would  have  slipped  away,  saying 
nothing.  But  Don  Esteban  was  never 
one  to  slip  away.  He  came  to  the 
house  of  El  Colorao  and  demanded  to 
speak  to  Carlotta.  Before  him  he 
drove  two  burros  staggering  with  the 
weight  they  bore. 

"Carlotta  came !  And  El  Colorao  and 
I,  standing  in  the  shade  of  the  portico, 
beside  the  devil  wagon,  watched  the 
meeting.  El  Colorao  grew  redder  and 
redder  as  he  watched.  His  eyes  smoul- 
dered and  his  fingers  clenched  white 
on  the  handle  of  the  monkey-wrench. 

At  first  we  heard  little,  for  Don  Es- 


478 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


teban  and  Carlotta  spoke  low.  Then 
suddenly  Carlotta  cried  out:  'What!' 
she  shrieked.  'You  go  ?  And  you  dare 
to  tell  me?  And  you  think  I  will  let 
you  go?'  Swiftly  her  hand  flew  to 
her  hair  and  her  dagger  flashed  in 
the  sunlight  as  it  fell. 

"Don  Esteban  caught  her  wrist  and 
twisted  the  knife  from  her  fingers.  But 
before  he  could  turn,  El  Colorao 
leaped  upon  him  from  behind  and 
struck  him  across  the  head  with  the 
monkey-wrench. 

"The  blow  stunned  Don  Esteban  a 
moment  only.  But  in  that  moment  he 
was  roped  and  tied  like  an  ox.  We 
Mexicans  are  skilled  with  the  lariat, 
senor. 

"White  with  rage,  Carlotta  panted 
out  her  story.  'Listen!'  she  cried.  'The 
dog  comes  to  me — to  me,  on  whom  he 
has  fawned  day  after  day — and  says: 
'I  tire  of  you.  I  have  found  the  great 
mine  and  I  leave  you  forever.  I  take 
my  gold  and  go  back  to  the  north. 
Good-bye!' 

"All  the  fury  of  a  woman  scorned 
spoke  in  her  voice.  Perhaps  she  really 
loved  him.  Perhaps  what  she  had  be- 
gun in  treachery  had  turned  to  ear- 
nest. Perhaps  she  raged  only  because 
he  and  not  she  had  cut  the  bonds.  God 
knows  what  a  woman  thinks — some- 
times— man  never  does.  The  s~nor 
has  a  proverb  in  his  own  tongue  con- 
cerning a  woman  scorned!  Basta! 

"El  Colorao  scarcely  listened  to  his 
daughter.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  laden  burros.  'You  have  found  the 
mine,  senor?'  he  purred. 

"Carlotta  answered.  To  the  nearest 
burro  she  leaped  and  slashed  with  her 
knife  against  the  sack  that  hung 
against  its  side.  Through  the  cut  the 
gold  flowed  out — dust,  grains  and  nug- 
gets, a  prince's  ransom. 

"The  veins  in  El  Colorao's  forehead 
swelled.  'When  did  you  find  this  mine, 
senor?'  he  demanded. 

"Don  Esteban  hesitated.  But  he 
scorned  to  lie.  Great  is  the  arrogance 
of  the  gringo :  he  puts  his  head  within 
the  lion's  jaws,  and  laughs  as  the  jaws 
close.  'This  morning!'  he  answered, 
calmly.  'Five  hours  ago.  I  hastened 


to  say  good-bye.  Now,  senor,  release 
me,  and  let  me  go !' 

"El  Colorao's  eyes  glittered  with 
evil  triumph  that  Don  Esteban  had 
come  to  him  without  first  going  to  de- 
nounce the  mine  and  make  sure  of  his 
title. 

"  'Afterwards !'  he  hissed.  'First 
show  me  the  mine.' 

"Don  Esteban  shook  his  head.  'That 
is  my  secret,  senor/  he  answered.  'I 
will  keep  it.' 

"El  Colorao's  face  grew  redder  than 
before,  but  even  he  knew  better  than 
to  waste  time  in  arguing  with  Don  Es- 
teban. Instead,  he  called  Jose,  the 
best  Indian  tracker  in  all  Sinaloa,  and 
ordered  him  to  follow  back  on  Don 
Esteban's  trail.  Five  minutes  later, 
seated  in  the  devil's  wagon,  we  fol- 
lowed Jose  as  he  led  the  way  up  the 
mountain  road. 

"Don  Esteban,  still  fast  bound,  sat 
beside  me  in  front.  Behind  were  El 
Colorao  and  Carlotta.  Behind  us  ran 
a  dozen  stout  peons. 

"So  we  came  to  the  mine!  It  was 
easy  to  find.  Jose  could  read  a  rab- 
bit's track,  and  he  followed  Don  Este- 
ban's at  a  run.  The  peons  tore  down 
the  rocks  that  Don  Esteban  had  placed 
at  the  entrance,  and  El  Colorao  and 
Carlotta  went  in. 

"I  sat  in  the  devil's  wagon  holding 
the  wheel.  Why  did  I  not  cut  Don 
Esteban's  bonds?  Senor,  how  could 
I?  Even  then  I  was  an  old  man  and 
feeble,  and  many  peons  stood  near  at 
hand. 

"After  a  time  Corlotta  and  El  Colo- 
rao came  out,  with  white  cheeks  and 
strangely  glittering  eyes.  They  were 
mad — quite  man — with  the  lust  of  gold 
— I  read  Don  Esteban's  doom  in  their 
eyes.  He,  too,  must  have  read  it,  but 
he  did  not  blench. 

"El  Colorao  stood  before  him  and 
gave  his  rage  vent.  Even  I,  who  knew 
him  of  old,  shuddered.  Perhaps  Don 
Esteban  did  not  understand  it  all.  But 
he  understood  enough. 

"  'So,  Senor,'  he  syllabled,  when  El 
Colorao's  breath  failed.  'So  you  have 
led  me  on,  hoping  that  through  me  you 
might  find  the  gold.  So,  having  found 


THE  LEAP  OF  THE  GRINGO. 


479 


it,  you  have  no  further  use  for  me.  I 
understand.  And  you?'  he  turned  to 
Carlotta.  'What  was  your  part  in  this  ? 
Was  it  all  tricking  on  your  part,  too?' 

"Carlotta's  lips  curled.  'Lash  the 
gringo  dog,  father,'  she  ordered. 

"It  was  done,  senor!  Don  Esteban 
was  beaten  with  rods  till  he  fainted — 
and  he  was  a  strong  man,  senor,  not 
easily  overcome.  When  he  revived, 
El  Colorao  stood  above  him. 

'  'Senor  Gringo!'  he  gritted  'I  thank 
you  for  this  mine.  Kind  it  was  of  you 
to  bring  me  word  of  it  before  you  de- 
nounced it.  Glad  I  would  be  to  keep 
you  alive  to  renew  your  punishment 
from  day  to  day.  But  your  accursed 
government  might  hear  of  it  and  make 
trouble.  So,  senor,  we  will  make  an 
end.  Doubtless  you  would  rest.  So 
we  will  send  you  back  to  your  camp 
by  a  short  cut — from  the  White  Shoul- 
der. You  will  rest  well — when  you 
reach  your  camp,  senor!' 

"The  peons  propped  him  in  the  seat 
beside  me,  feet  and  hands  bound,  more 
dead  than  living.  Behind  were  El  Colo- 
rao and  Carlotta.  And  they  mocked 
him  as  I  drove  down  the  mountain. 

"How  Don  Esteban  slipped  his 
bonds  I  cannot  tell.  Yes,  the  senor 
speaks  true,  I  had  a  knife  at  my  belt. 
But  I  do  not  understand  what  the  senor 
would  infer.  Certain  it  is,  however, 
that  halfway  down  the  mountain  side, 
where  the  cliff  towered  on  the  right 
and  the  precipice  fell  away  on  the  left 
Don  Esteban's  hands  darted  from  be- 
hind his  back  and  fastened  on  the 
steering  wheel  above  mine. 

"El  Colorao's  knife  flashed  up,  but 
before  it  could  fall,  Don  Esteban 
spoke.  'Strike  if  you  dare,'  he  said. 
'Strike — and  I  send  this  car  over  the 
cliff.' 

"My  blood  turned  to  water  in  my 
veins.  I  could  not  see  Don  Esteban's 
face,  but  in  his  tones  was  death.  El 
Colorao  answered  nothing,  but  his  red 
face  turned  ashen,  and  his  lifted  knife 
sank  slowly  to  his  side.  Carlotta 
shrieked  and  fell  back  in  her  seat. 

"Don  Esteban  did  not  even  look  at 
them.  Deliberately  he  moved  the 
throttle  lever  on  top  of  the  steering 


wheel  until  the  throb  of  the  motor  rose 
to  a  humming  roar,  and  the  car  fled 
down  the  mountain  like  a  hunted  wolf. 
The  rocks  whipped  past.  The  scant 
bushes  lashed  us  as  we  went.  The 
dizzy  loops  of  the  road  rose  in  whirls 
of  white  to  meet  us.  Far  below  lay  the 
blue  depths  of  the  canyon.  Across  the 
wheel  lay  Don  Esteban,  weaying  a 
course  between  life  and  death. 

"  'Dog!'  he  flung  the  words  over  his 
shoulders,  'dog,  you  have  dared  to 
lash  an  American!  You  who  have 
used  your  daughter  as  a  cat's  paw. 
You  who  have  stolen  my  fortune,  my 
faith  in  woman,  my  honor.  Down  on 
your  knees  and  beg  your  life.  Down ! 
or  by  the  living  God,  I  will  send  the 
car  over  the  cliff.' 

"El  Colorao  tumbled  to  his  knees 
on  the  floor  of  the  car.  'Mercy! 
Mercy!  Senor!'  he  panted.  'Mercy! 
I  did  but  jest.  Mercy!' 

"Don  Esteban  lurched  toward  me. 
'When  I  say  'jump,'  he  whispered, 
thickly,  'jump  for  your  life.  You  will 
get  no  second  chance.' 

"He  straightened  and  spoke  again 
to  the  trembling  man  behind  him — a 
man  no  longer  El  Colorao,  but  El 
Blanco.  'Coward!'  he  lashed  out. 
'Coward !  I  give  you  one  more  chance. 
You  yourself  named  the  White  Shoul- 
der, and  I  accept  your  choice.  At  the 
White  Shoulder  we  will  take  a  short 
cut  to  my  camp.  You  and  I  and  Car- 
lotta will  go  together.  Till  then  I  am 
at  your  mercy.  Strike  if  you  dare. 
Drive  your  knife  into  my  back.  Per- 
haps you  may  be  quick  enough  to  stay 
my  hands  upon  the  wheel.  Perhaps — 
and  perhaps  not !  It  is  your  only  chance 
for  life.  Be  brave  and  take  it.  You 
were  brave  enough  to  lash  a  helpless 
man.  Strike !' 

"El  Colorao  did  not  strike.  'Mercy! 
Mercy!'  he  groaned. 

"'There  is  no  mercy!  Dog!  Do  I 
not  know  that  your  knife  is  ready  foi 
my  back  the  moment  the  cliff  is  past. 
Do  I  not  know  that  my  strength  is  fail- 
ing and  my  eyes  glazing.  Do  I  not 
know  that  the  end  is  near?  But  first' 
— abruptly  he  jerked  back  the  lever  of 
the  emergency  brake,  and  the  car 


480 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


reared,  groaned,  almost  halted.  'Jump, 
Pedro,  jump!'  he  hissed.  'Jump!' 

"I  jumped.  The  senor  had  seen  the 
place.  Or,  no;  I  forgot;  the  senor 
slept  as  we  passed  it.  It  was  the  one 
place  in  all  that  wild  rise  where  a 
man  might  leap  from  a  moving  car  and 
live.  I  jumped,  hearing  the  brake 
chair;  snap  as  I  did  so,  and  feeling  the 
car  leap  forward  beneath  my  feet. 

"Prone,  ground  into  the  dust  of  the 
road,  I  flung  up  my  head  and  looked. 
I  looked  and  I  saw.  At  the  curve  of 
the  White  Shoulder  the  car  did  not 
turn.  Straight  on  it  went,  over  the 


edge  of  the  cliff.  Like  a  great  bird  it 
shot  humming  into  space.  And  as  it 
went,  Don  Esteban  faced  me  and 
waved  his  hand  in  farewell. 

"We  buried  them  where  they  fell. 
Later  came  the  Senor  Rigby  here  and 
claimed  the  mine  for  Don  Esteban's 
heirs.  Don  Esteban,  it  seemed,  had 
not  been  altogether  mad.  He  had 
mailed  a  letter  to  Senor  Rigby  before 
he  went  to  say  good-bye  to  Carlotta 
and  El  Colorao.  But  since  then  the 
White  Shoulder  has  been  re-christened. 
To-day  we  call  it  the  Leap  of  the 
Gringo !" 


THE   BARGAIN 

O  California!    Golden  Land, 

Here  on  a  bargain  I  strike  my  hand! 

Give  to  dream  by  the  saffron  sea 

Your  billowing  mustard  makes  of  the  lea ; 

Give  me  from  your  poppy  cups  of  gold 
The  gleaming  wine  of  life  they  hold ; 

Give  me  to  learn  of  your  tall  sunflower 
Its  perfect  devotion,  hour  by  hour; 

Give  me  my  need  of  your  yellow  grain 
That  ripples  in  sunlight  across  the  plain; 

Give  me  my  joy  in  your  fruits  of  gold, 
As  fair  as  fabled  gardens  hold ; 

Give  this,  and  I  will  never  strive 

For  your  buried  gold  that's  not  alive — 

The  dead,  cold  thing  you  hid  away, 

You  may  keep  in  your  heart  for  ever  and  aye ! 

So  California,  Golden  Land, 

Here  on  the  bargain  I  strike  my  hand ! 


VIRGINIA  CLEAVER  BACON. 


He  was  a  big  nine  foot  saurian,  with  teeth  that  would  have  crunched  the 

limb  of  a  tree. 


Hunting  Alligators  in  Panama 


By  Dio  Louis 


I    VENTURE  to  say  that  no  one  ever 
thought  of   going   to   Panama   for 
recreation,  or  to  spend  an  interest- 
ing vacation.     Indeed,     the     East 
and  Middle  West  could  go  down  there 
during   the    summer    and    cool    them- 
selves off.     Since  Uncle  Sam  has  put 
down  his  hand  and  said:  "Here  shall 
my  people  reside  in  health  and  lux- 
ury,"   everything   has    been    different 
down  there. 

The  time  is  not  far  distant  when  the 
wily  sportsman 'will  turn  his  footsteps 
toward  the  tropics  in  search  of  new 
and  varied  sport  which  will  possess 
the  thrills  and  chance  of  the  early 
West.  It  is  useless  to  enumerate  the 
long  list  of  animals  that  raise  their 


voices  in  these  jungles,  the  denizens  of 
the  rivers  and  the  birds  of  every  hue 
that  beautify  the  foliage.  Animal  life 
can  almost  be  said,  like  plant  life,  to 
thrive  and  die,  thrive  and  die  with 
endless  rapidity,  and  yet,  no  one  real- 
izes what  a  wonderful  field  lies  open 
here. 

Our  ship  was  lying  far  up  in  the 
Gulf  of  San  Miguel,  and  after  amusing 
ourselves  several  days  with  fishing, 
shooting  ant-eaters  and  attempting  to 
trap  monkeys,  we  decided  upon  an  al- 
ligator hunt.  The  natives  of  the  little 
town,  "Real,"  told  us  they  were  very 
numerous  up  the  river  where  the  salt 
tides  did  not  reach.  This  sounded  very 
reasonable,  especially  as  many  dried 
3 


482 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


We  asked  this  old  gentleman  ap- 
proaching our  party  to  lend  us  his  fat 
infant  for  alligator  bait.  He  grinned 
and  refused. 

skins  and  mummified  toes  of  alliga- 
tors were  to  be  seen  about  the  huts 
of  native  hunters,  who  recounted  to  us 
with  elaboration  the  dangers  to  be  en- 
countered, since  we  knew  nothing  of 
the  ways  of  these  "animals,"  as  they 
called  them. 

One  old  fellow  with  silver  hair  and 
bare  skin  made  a  gesture  with  his 
arms  indicating  that  \ve  would  be  eaten 
alive  between  massive  jaws.  He 
wanted  to  accompany  us,  but  we  did 
not  care  to  be  hampered  with  profes- 
sional skill,  or  any  excessive  knowl- 
edge that  would  impair  the  "Fool's 
Luck"  we  expected  to  have. 

He  ventured  further  that  alligators 
liked  white  legs  to  eat,  and  we  would 
have  to  look  out  where  we  put  ours. 
In  order  to  get  them  out  of  the  water 
for  a  good  shot,  he  advised  our  doing 


as  he  did,  namely,  get  a  small  boy  and 
hang  him  on  the  end  of  a  bamboo  pole 
above  the  water  close  to  a  mud  bank. 
If  we  hid  ourselves  near  by,  we  could 
see  the  'gators  creep  out  and  stand  on 
their  tails  trying  to  reach  the  boy. 

This  method  truly  commended  itself 
to  us;  so  we  asked  an  old  gentleman 
then  approaching  with  his  little  son,  to 
lend  us  the  boy  for  alligator  bait.  The 
scheme  did  not  commend  itself  as  well 
to  him,  and  still  less  to  the  little  son, 
who  began  to  shriek  as  soon  as  he  un- 
derstood what  we  wanted.  And  I  do 
not  blame  him  any,  although  he  would 
have  made  a  tempting  morsel  for  even 
the  most  pampered  alligator. 

The  next  morning  we  took  a  har- 
poon the  blacksmith  had  made  to 
spear  turtles  with  from  on  shipboard 
while  out  at  sea,  and  a  Craig  rifle 
each,  into  one  of  the  small  cutters, 
and  headed  off  up  the  River  Balsas, 
or  "El  Caimanito,"  the  little  Alligator, 
as  the  natives  call  it.  It  is  by  no  means 
a  large  river,  except  as  the  tides  back 
the  water  up  a  long  ways,  submerging 
a  vast  portion  of  the  swamps  round 
about,  then  receding,  leave  almost 
nothing  of  this  apparently  large  river. 

After  we  had  made  several  miles, 
the  taller  jungle  crept  in  closer  and 
closer  until  we  found  ourselves  in  a 
long,  narrow  avenue  with  no  percept- 
ible current,  set  on  either  side  by  a 
growth  so  dense  it  was  impossible  to 
see  into  it.  Heavy  limbs  of  trees 
leaned  out  over  us,  and  sometimes 
swept  low  upon  the  water  so  we  had  to 
crush  our  way  through.  Frequently  the 
keel  of  the  boat  struck  great  black 
snags,  and  we  were  forced  to  pole  her 
off  with  the  oars  at  the  risk  of  capsiz- 
ing. It  was  never  more  than  twilight 
under  the  canopy  of  those  tremendous 
limbs  all  hung  with  linana  and  mot- 
tled with  funguses  that  stuck  like  fes- 
ters upon  the  soggy  trunks  in  which 
were  distorted  crevices  and  decaying 
cavities  which  formed  a  lurking  place 
for  snakes  and  great  creeping  bugs 
that  made  us  shiver  with  nausea.  No 
twist  or  turn  was  too  abrupt  for  these 
slimy,  gnarled  trunks  to  make. 

Although  we  did  not  expect  to  get 


HUNTING  ALLIGATORS  IN  PANAMA. 


483 


a  shot  until  we  reached  the  compara- 
tively open  mud  banks  of  the  river 
where  the  alligators  were  said  to  bask 
in  the  warmth,  we  kept  continually  on 
the  alert.  An  oppressing  stillness  per- 
vaded the  long,  dank  avenue,  and  we 
felt  sure  that  great  events  were  im- 
pending. We  rowed  cautiously,  veer- 
ing this  way  and  that,  dodging  all  the 
submerged  snags  the  man  in  the  bow 
was  able  to  locate.  At  every  swirl  or 
splash  we  would  drop  the  oars  and 
grab  up  the  rifles.  Once  a  chunk  of 
drift  wood  appeared  an  inch  or  two 
above  the  surface,  and  one  of  the 
boys  declared  it  was  an  alligator.  He 
was  going  to  shoot,  but  we  finally  per- 
suaded him  that  alligators  did  not  loaf 
around  on  the  surface  while  people 
were  trying  to  shoot  them. 

After  about  an  hour's  rowing,  we 
suddenly  rounded  a  bend,  and  found 
the  avenue  completely  obstructed  by 
a  great  log  which  sent  up  shoots  in 
such  profusion  that  we  had  to  get  out 
and  cut  a  passage  for  the  boat.  As 
soon  as  we  began  crashing  into  this 
growth,  the  whole  mass  suddenly 
trembled,  the  shoots  next  us  began  to 
wave  and  bend,  and  what  we  at  first 
took  to  be  a  fragment  of  wood,  went 
off  into  the  water  with  a  loud  splash. 
Somebody  yelled  "  'gator!"  and  those 
of  us  who  had  gotten  out  of  the  boat 
sprank  back  with  such  hurry  that  we 
almost  turned  the  boat  over. 

When  we  discovered  that  the  whole 
show,  so  to  speak,  was  over,  and  the 
'gator  was  not  going  to  come  back 
and  attack  us,  we  dragged  the  boat 
through  to  the  other  side  where  a  few 
ripples  still  lapped  among  the  shoots. 
There  we  sat  still  and  watched  in  every 
direction  for  him  to  come  up. 

It  was  a  wide  expanse  of  water  we 
had  come  into,  entirely  enclosed  with 
a  long,  flat  mud  bank  on  one  side, 
which  we  imagined  to  be  an  ideal 
place  for  'gators.  Out  in  the  middle 
of  this  apparent  lake,  a  huge  log 
floated  free.  There  was  something 
peculiar  about  that  log.  It  was 
bleached  white  as  a  bone  all  over,  ex- 
cept where  the  roots  widened  out  into 
a  kind  of  deck.  Something  was  there 


to  darken  it.  From  our  distance  it 
seemed  to  be  some  rubbish,  but  when 
we  had  pulled  over  within  fifty  yards 
we  saw  what  made  the  blood  quicken 
in  our  veins.  At  least  five  alligators 
lay  in  confused  shapes  clinging  to  the 
white  wood  in  the  warmth  of  the  sun, 
dead  asleep.  We  took  up  the  rifles, 
and  aiming  only  at  the  black  mass, 
fired  all  together.  It  was  as  if  an 
army  had  fired,  the  way  the  echoes 
of  our  five  guns  came  back  across  that 
silent  pond.  The  alligators  each  gave 
a  flop  with  their  tails  and  shot  into  the 
water  like  torpedoes. 

Was  it  possible  that  we  had  missed! 
We  pulled  over  and  looked  at  the  log. 
There  was  not  a  sign  of  a  bullet  hole 
in  all  the  smooth  white  wood.  We  con- 
sidered ourselves  good  shots,  but  we 
had  done  no  damage  here.  It  was 
not  until  we  had  discussed  the  thing 
from  A  to  Z  that  we  concluded  our 
bullets  were  ineffective  on  their  tough 
hides.  And  so  we  learned  that  we 
must  shoot  either  an  alligator  of  a  ten- 
der age  or  an  old  one  in  a  tender  spot. 

For  a  time  it  seemed  there  would  be 
no  sequence  to  this  event.  Still,  we 
hung  around,  scouting  the  mud  flat  and 
brush.  Then  two  of  us  decided  to  get 
on  the  log  and  wait  for  some  more 
'gators  to  come  out  for  a  sunning, 
while  the  boat  continued  to  probe  the 
mud  banks.  We  took  the  harpoon  on 
the  log  with  us,  and  sat  like  Esqui- 
maux over  a  blow-hole  in  the  ice, 
watching  at  the  end  where  the  wood 
was  partly  worn  away  by  the  countless 
jagged  toes  that  had  scraped  over  it. 

This  was  a  brilliant  idea,  and  we 
were  properly  rewarded.  In  a  very 
short  time  a  dark  shadow  in  the  water 
passed  under  the  log.  I  did  not  stop 
to  consider  what  it  was,  but  grabbed 
up  the  harpoon,  and  turning  to  the 
other  side,  let  drive  with  all  my  might. 
It  struck,  and  a  wild  struggle  ensued. 
I  was  almost  jerked  overboard  before 
I  could  let  go  the  line. 

Fortunately,  my  companion  grabbed 
up  the  end  and  took  a  turn  around  one 
of  the  projecting  roots  of  the  log.  On 
the  instant  the  alligator  came  against 
it,  and  instead  of  the  line  breaking  or 


At  the  every  edge  of  the  stream  we  fired  and  stopped  his  plunge. 


the  harpoon  coming  out  as  I  feared 
would  happen,  the  impact  partly  rolled 
the  log  over  and  gave  us  the  fright  of 
our  lives.  The  only  thing  that  saved 
us  from  being  thrown  into  the  water 
with  the  fighting  alligator  was  because 
he  did  not  pull  steady  in  any  direction. 
He  would  give  a  snap  of  his  tail  and 
come  to  the  end  of  the  line  with  a 
splash,  then  shoot  under  the  log  and 
go  the  extreme  in  that  direction.  Some- 
times his  head  would  come  clear  to 
the  surface  and  his  jaws  open  and 
snap  shut  with  a  clipping  sound  that 
boded  woe  to  anything  between. 

When  we  saw  that  we  had  him  se- 
cure and  were  in  no  great  danger  our- 
selves, we  began  firing  into  him  every 
time  any  part  of  his  body  came  above 
the  water.  Although  many  of  the 
shots  glanced  off  his  hide,  he  was 
presently  reduced  to  a  great  black  in- 
animate hulk,  and  we  drew  him  along- 
side with  the  line.  He  was  over  ten 
feet  long,  with  a  pair  of  jaws  and  set 
of  teeth  that  could  have  crushed  the 
limb  of  an  oak. 

We  knew  no  more  'gators  would 
come  to  the  log  while  we  had  him 


alcng-side,  and  so  we  signaled  to  the 
boat  which  had  been  kept  from  com- 
ing sooner  by  the  fact  that  a  small 
alligator  had  been  found  sleeping  in 
the  mud,  and  shot  before  he  could  get 
back  into  the  water. 

We  decided  next  to  try  our  luck  in 
the  swamps.  A,  sort  of  rut  or  ditch  led 
through  the  mu'd  flat  over  into  a  patch 
of  jungle.  We  could  make  nothing  of 
it,  and  concluded  it  must  be  a  trail 
along  which  the  alligators  dragged 
themselves  from  one  body  of  water  to 
the  other.  With  the  falling  of  the 
tide  most  of  the  swamp  water  had 
seeped  out,  leaving  only  a  few  puddles 
here  and  there  among  the  growth. 
For  some  time  we  beat  among  these 
peculiar  ditches  or  trails,  expecting 
to  come  upon  a  'gator  who  must  now 
walk  for  his  life  or  fall  our  game. 

There  was  suddenly  the  sound  of  a 
sniffle,  exactly  like  a  man  clearing  his 
nose,  when  he  has  a  cold.  We  stopped 
and  listened  intently,  and  it  came 
again.  Then  we  cautiously  made  our 
way  toward  the  sound,  and  found, 
without  any  difficulty  at  all,  a  huge 
'gator  waddling  down  toward  a  puddle, 


MY  MAN. 


485 


emitting  short  sniffles  as  he  funneled 
his  way  with  his  snout  through  the 
mud. 

He  saw  us,  and  began  to  beat  his 
tail  furiously,  and  approached  some- 
thing like  a  run,  but  as  if  it  were 
useless  to  plunge  into  so  small  a  pud- 
dle, he  stopped  at  the  edge  and  we 
filled  him  with  holes. 

It  was  mere  chance  that  we  had 
found  him  in  such  circumstances,  and 
so  he  was  an  easy  prey,  stranded  as  it 
were  upon  land.  I  was  very  sorry  I 


could  not  have  got  such  a  fine,  big 
fellow  on  the  harpoon  in  deep  water. 
However,  it  was  more  luck  than  any- 
thing else  we  had  gotten  any  game  at 
all,  as  little  as  we  knew  of  the  habits 
of  these  creatures. 

When  we  went  back  to  the  log  where 
we  had  fastened  our  first  catch  the 
tide  had  gone  down,  leaving  it  high 
and  dry,  as  well  as  our  boat,  so  that 
nothing  could  be  done  with  such  cum- 
bersome game  save  leave  them  for  the 
natives  to  strip  their  skins. 


AY    AAN 


My  man  was  like  de  mornin'  sun,  so  warm  an'  strong  an'  bright; 
An'  handsome  as  de  ellum  tree  a-spreadin'  to  de  light. 
An'  I  was  little  yaller  gal,  wif  dresses  to  my  boots; 
Jes'  sassy  little  yaller  gal ;  de  kine  what  nuffin'  suits. 

He  make  a  little  home  fo'  me ;  he  build  it  all  hisself , 
Wif  winders,  do's  an'  chimbely,  an'  cookin'-stove,  an'  shelf. 
An'  den  he  scratch  a  garden  where  de  sweet-potaters  grow, 
An'  turnipses  an'  butter-beans  a-marchin'  in  a  row. 

He  draw  de  water  from  de  well,  an'  chop  an'  tote  de  wood ; 
An'  help  take  care  de  little  ones  jes'  like  a  woman  could ; 
He  walk  de  flo'  wif  puny  Jim,  an'  trundle  little  Lee; 
He  shoo  de  twinses  off  to  school  to  make  it  light  fo'  me. 

An'  when  we  lose  sweet  Flora  Bell,  an'  I  cries  all  de  while, 
He  say:  "The  little  angel  now;  she  am  our  bestes'  chile!" 
But  now  my  man  is  ageing  fas';  he's  dear  ole  head  is  white; 
He's  step  grow  feebler  every  day;  he's  eyes  don't  shine  so  bright. 

I  fix  de  softes'  chair  fo'  him;  I  builds  de  brightes'  fire; 

I  loves  to  cook  de  food  he  like;  I  doesn't  nebber  tire. 

I  doesn't  miss  my  babies,  an'  I  doesn't  wonder  how, 

Fo'  my  heart  an'  han's  am  busy.     My  ole  man's  my  baby  now! 


ROBERTA  CROSBY. 


Comparisons  of  Gold  Seed  and  Japan  Rice.     Japan  Seed  on  right  and 

Gold  Seed  on  left. 


RICE    GROWING    IN    HAWAII 


By  Matilda  Vance  Newman 


Introduction. 

OUT  IN  THE  Hawaiian  Islands, 
on  the  northern  shore  of  Kauai, 
or  the  Garden  Island,  is  the  lit- 
tle valley  of  Hanalei.    A  good 
many  years  ago  this  place  was  devoted 
to  the  growing  of   sugar-cane,  but  it 
being    found    that   the    soil    was    not 
adapted   to   this   crop,   the   land   was 
leased  to  the  Chinamen  for  rice  planta- 
tions. 

Now  if  you  want  to  see  something 
beautiful  and  fresh  and  inspiring,  just 
make  a  visit  to  this  valley.  Passing 
along  the  main  highway  on  the  north 
side,  one  has  a  panoramic  view  of 
Hanalei,  the  largest  rice-growing  sec- 


tion of  the  territory.  Except  the  end 
facing  the  sea,  the  whole  valley  is  in- 
closed with  ranges  of  hills  and  moun- 
tains, the  nearer  elevations  being  cov- 
ered with  a  soft  light  green  carpet  of 
grasses  and  ferns,  reflecting  in  the 
sunlight  a  yellow  glow;  and  the  more 
distant  mountains,  clothed  with  a 
thick  growth  of  forest  trees,  reflect 
every  shade  of  dark  green  and  blue 
and  purple,  while  dreamy  clouds,  like 
mantles  of  swans'  down,  are  draped 
about  their  summits. 

Almost  the  entire  valley,  except  a 
narrow  strip  on  the  beach,  is  covered 
with  rice  fields,  divided  into  irregular 
but  small  patches,  each  being  sepa- 
rated from  the  other  by  narrow  grassy 


RICE  GROWING  IN  HAWAII. 


487 


ridges,  giving  the  landscape  the  ap- 
pearance of  an  immense  crazy-quilt, 
while  through  these  fields,  like  a  huge 
serpent,  winds  and  creeps  the  Hana- 
lei  River  until  it  finds  the  bay  to  the 
right,  which  lies  sparkling  like  a  mir- 
ror in  the  sunlight. 

Preparation  of  the  Land. 

The  valley  appears  as  level  as  a 
floor;  and  rice  land  must  be  level  be- 
cause the  rice  grows  in  water  virtually 
all  the  time;  and  in  order  to  make  it 
as  level  as  possible,  the  fields  are 
divided  into  compartments  ranging 
from  a  few  yards  square  to  a  half  acre, 
and  separated  from  one  another  by 
narrow  embankments  of  earth.  These 
embankments  are  usually  about  six 
inches  high,  but  sometimes  they  are  a 
foot  or  more,  being  overgrown  with 
grass,  and  quite  solid,  thus  making 
neat  little  footpaths  between  the 
flooded  patches.  Openings  are  made 
in  these  paths,  allowing  the  water  to 
pass  from  one  compartment  to  another 
with  a  gentle  motion,  thus  keeping  the 
water  fresh. 


After  the  land  is  plowed,  the  water 
is  turned  on  to  soften  the  earth,  to  test 
levels,  and  to  make  the  embankments 
solid.  When  the  water  has  been  run- 
ning for  a  few  days,  the  ground  is  har- 
rowed, while  it  is  still  under  water, 
thus  cleaning  out  the  weeds  and  grass, 
and  puddling  the  ground  to  make  it 
retain  the  water  better.  If  the  ground 
is  hard,  it  receives  a  second  plowing, 
the  water  being  only  partly  turned  off 
and  the  land  plowed  in  the  mud.  Then 
the  water  is  turned  on  and  the  land  is 
harrowed  again,  ready  for  planting. 

Horses  are  generally  used  in  plow- 
ing and  harrowing,  but  sometimes  the 
water  buffalo  is  used.  This  is  an  ugly 
creature,  ill-shaped  and  of  a  dirty 
blackish-brown  color.  It  resembles 
both  a  cow  and  a  hog. 

Nursery  Beds  and  Planting. 

All  the  rice  is  transplanted  by  hand 
just  as  lettuce  and  tomatoes  are.  While 
the  ground  is  being  prepared  for  plant- 
ing, nursery  beds  are  made  ready  in 
the  same  way.  The  seed  rice,  or  paddy, 
is  soaked  for  a  few  days  in  water,  to 


Showing  method  of  irrigating  fertilizer  plats. 


488 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


which  a  fertilizer  is  sometimes  added; 
and  when  the  grain  is  well  sprouted  it 
is  sown  thickly  in  the  nursery  beds. 
The  water  is  not  turned  on  for  about 
three  days;  the  rice  roots  during  this 
time  and  the  plants  have  grown  about 
three  inches;  then  the  beds  are  sub- 
merged and  the  water  kept  running. 

The  rice-birds  are  a  great  pest.  They 
pull  up  the  young  plants,  unless  a  man 
is  kept  standing  among  the  beds  to 
frighten  the  birds  away,  which  he  does 
by  yelling,  and  by  pounding  on  a  large 
kerosene  can  stuck  up  on  a  pole. 

When  the  plants  are  six  or  eight 
inches  tall,  men  go  about  in  the  water 
and  pull  them  up,  tying  them  in  bun- 
dles, clipping  off  the  ends,  and  stand- 
ing them  in  the  water.  These  bundles 
lock  like  miniature  sheaves  of  wheat 
with  their  heads  clipped  off,  only  that 
they  are  of  a  fresh  green  color. 

Early  next  morning  the  men  carry 
away  these  plants  in  baskets  to  their 
prepared  patches,  and  set  them  out  in 
the  mud  under  the  water,  a  plant  at  a 
time,  just  as  one  would  set  out  cab- 
bage plants.  The  rice  is  planted  in 
rows  about  eight  inches  apart  each 
way.  The  rows  are  made  straight  by 
stretching  two  cords  across  the  patch 
one  way  four  or  five  feet  apart,  and 
setting  out  a  row  of  plants  along  each 
cord,  then  removing  the  cords  and 
planting  the  rows  between,  which  are 
the  same  distance  apart  each  way.  The 
Chinamen  are  very  careful  and  skillful 
in  this  work,  each  plant  being  set  in 
its  exact  place. 

Cultivation. 

Sometimes  a  fertilizer  is  used,  which 
is  shipped  to  the  planters  from  Hono- 
lulu. This  is  put  on  the  ground  about 
a  month  after  the  rice  has  been  trans- 
planted. 

The  weeds  are  cleaned  out  of  the 
rice  patches  only  once,  which  is  done 
about  two  months  after  the  rice  has 
been  transplanted.  The  Chinamen 
pull  up  the  weeds  in  the  water,  and 
roll  them  up  and  stuff  them  down  into 
the  mud.  This  is  the  only  cultivation 
the  rice  gets. 


The  water  is  not  turned  off  until  a 
while  before  cutting  unless  the  rice  is 
growing  too  fast,  when  it  is  drained 
off  for  a  few  days  to  check  the  growth 
of  the  plants,  and  thus  prevent  their 
seeding  too  early. 

Harvesting. 

In  about  four  months  after  planting 
the  rice  is  ready  to  harvest.  When  the 
grain  begins  to  mature  the  birds  must 
be  kept  away;  but  the  Chinamen  are 
vigilant  and  are  on  the  grounds  by  the 
time  the  birds  are,  making  all  sorts 
of  hideous  noises  to  frighten  them 
away.  It  is  amusing,  as  well  as  pa- 
thetic, to  hear  the  din  in  the  early 
morning,  and  to  see  the  old  kerosene 
cans  strung  on  cords  and  the  scare- 
crows standing  guard  all  over  the 
patches. 

About  ten  or  fifteen  days  before  the 
crop  is  ready  to  harvest,  the  water  is 
turned  off.  The  plants  are  now  about 
twenty-five  or  thirty  inches  high.  The 
grain  is  ripe  when  the  heads  begin  to 
turn  yellow  and  bend  over  from  their 
weight.  Then  the  Chinaman  reaps  it 
with  a  small  sickle,  cutting  several 
times  close  to  the  ground  till  he  gets 
a  handful,  which  he  holds  in  place  on 
the  ground  with  his  foot  while  he  cuts 
off  about  ten  inches  of  the  lower  part 
of  the  stalks.  This  he  leaves  on  the 
ground,  and  on  it  he  lays  the  part  of 
the  stalks  containing  the  grain.  Here 
it  is  left  for  a  half  day  or  more  to 
dry,  when  it  is  bound  into  large 
sheaves. 

Two  of  these  sheaves  are  fastened 
to  a  bamboo  pole,  one  at  each  end,  and 
carried  on  the  shoulder  of  a  China- 
man to  a  cement  platform,  where  the 
grain  is  trampled  out  by  horses  or 
water  buffaloes  or  threshed  by  machin- 
ery. There  are  three  threshing  ma- 
chines for  the  large  plantations,  but 
the  smaller  planters  have  the  grain 
trampled  out.  It  is  now  called  paddy, 
which  is  the  grain  with  the  husk  on, 
and  is  ready  to  be  taken  to  the  mill. 
Sometimes  the  paddy  is  stored  for 
months,  as  it  keeps  better  in  this  con- 
dition than  when  it  :'s  milled. 


Chinese  method  of  harrowing. 


Milling. 

Milling  the  rice  is  removing  the 
husks  and  polishing  it.  This  is  done 
by  machinery.  The  paddy  is  first 
poured  into  a  hopper  and  run  through 
the  mill  to  remove  the  husks.  Then 
it  is  put  through  the  mill  again  to  pol- 
ish it.  This  is  unfortunate,  for  the 
part  removed,  called  rice  polish,  is  the 
most  nutritious  part  of  the  grain,  the 
rice  as  it  is  placed  on  the  market  be- 
ing mostly  starch.  The  rice  polish  is 
a  grayish  cream-colored  flour  of  a 
sweetish  taste.  After  it  is  polished, 
the  rice  is  graded  by  means  of  sieves, 
and  put  into  bags  of  one  hundred 
pounds  each,  ready  for  the  market. 

The  husks  are  run  through  sieves, 
or  bolts  as  ground  wheat  is  bolted  or 
sifted  to  remove  the  bran  and  mid- 
dlings of  the  wheat.  The  first  time 
the  husks  go  through  the  sieve  a  coarse 
bran  is  obtained;  this  bran  is  put 
through  the  sieve,  and  the  coarse  is 
separated  from  the  finer  part,  and  two 
grades  of  bran  is  the  result;  the  finer 
of  the  two  grades  is  again  run  through 


the  mill,  thus  obtaining  a  still  finer 
quality  of  bran,  making  three  grades 
in  all. 

The  rice  polish  is  mixed  with  the 
bran,  and  is  used  as  feed  for  chickens, 
ducks,  and  horses.  The  chaff  that  re- 
mains after  the  husks  have  gone 
through  the  mill  is  either  burned,  and 
the  ashes  used  as  a  fertilizer,  or  it  is 
mixed  with  bran  and  fed  to  the  horses. 
The  broken  rice  is  also  used  as  feed 
for  stock  after  mixing  it  with  bran. 

In  Hanalei  there  are  different  kinds 
of  rice  mills,  but  all  are  run  by  water 
power.  Some  of  the  mills  turn  out  the 
rice  without  removing  the  inner  skin. 
This  is  brown,  or  unpolished,  rice. 
The  unpolished  rice  is,  sent  to  Honolulu 
— where  it  is  polished  and  placed  on 
the  market.  Polished  rice  will  not 
keep  long  without  losing  its  color. 

Yield  Per  Acre,  Rent,  Market,  Etc. 

When  two  crops  a  year  are  grown, 
the.  first  is  planted  in  February,  March 
and  April,  and  the  second  in  June, 
July  and  August;  but  when  only  one 


490 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


crop  is  grown,  it  is  usually  planted  in 
April,  May  and  June. 

The  land  is  leased  to  the  Chinamen 
for  ten  to  fifteen  dollars  an  acre,  in- 
cluding water,  the  lease  running  about 
ten  years — sometimes  fifteen.  The 
rent  is  just  the  same  whether  one  of 
two  crops  are  grown.  The  average 
yield  per  acre  is  about  thirty  bags  of 
rice  of  one  hundred  pounds  to  the 
bag,  from  which  the  Chinaman  de- 
rives a  gross  income  of  about  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  dollars  an  acre.  One 
Chinaman  can  cultivate  six  acres,  but 
this  does  not  include  the  help  he  must 
employ  for  planting  and  harvesting. 

One  crop  a  year  yields  as  much  as 
if  two  were  grown,  because  the  land 
is  not  fertile  enough  to  produce  two 
crops  a  year  to  advantage.  The  Chi- 
nese, seldom  use  a  fertilizer;  if  they 
would  fertilize  the  land  sufficiently, 
two  good  crops  a  year  could  be  grown. 

Plantations. 

There  are  eighteen  rice  plantations 
in  the  Hanalei  Valley,  varying  in  size 
from  three  or  four  acres  to  three  hun- 
dred or  more.  These  are  nearly  all 
managed  and  worked  by  Chinamen,  a 
few  of  the  smaller  ones  being  worked 
by  Japanese  and  Coreans. 

The  plantations  are  separated  from 
one  another  by  embankments  of  earth 
much  larger  than  those  separating  the 
patches;  and  on  the  outside  of  the 
embankment,  on  at  least  one  side  of 
the  plantation,  runs  a  stream  of  water 
for  irrigating  the  field,  with  here  and 
there  a  small  tunnel  in  the  embank- 
ment through  which  the  water  passes 
to  the  rice  patches.  This  water  is  con- 
ducted through  little  openings  in  the 
paths  from  one  patch  to  another. 

Each  plantation  has  its  own  seed 
bed,  its  own  cement  floor  for  tramp- 
ling out  the  rice,  and  its  own  buildings, 
where  all  the  men  of  the  plantation 
lodgre  and  eat,  and  feed  and  take  care 
of  their  stock. 

The  Chinese  are  an  example  of 
plodding  industry;  they  never  hurry, 
but  they  keep  at  their  work  and  are 
faithful.  When  working  in  the  rice 


fields,  the  men  rise  at  four  and  are 
ready  for  work  by  the  time  it  is  light, 
continuing  until  sundown,  and  occa- 
sionally later,  even  by  the  light  of 
lanterns.  During  the  rice  season,  the 
men  eat  four  meals  a  day,  partaking 
of  breakfast  before  beginning  their 
day's  work.  At  ten  they  come  to  their 
quarters  for  dinner,  taking  one  hour 
for  themselves  and  their  horses  to  eat, 
not  feeding  their  horses  any  more  un- 
til night;  but  at  two  the  cook  brings 
lunch  to  the  men  in  the  field,  when 
they  take  fifteen  minutes  for  eating 
and  rest.  Then  they  resume  their 
work,  at  which  they  continue  until 
about  sundown,  when  they  return  to 
the  house  for  supper  and  for  sleep. 

Conclusion. 

The  planting,  cultivation  and  har- 
vesting of  rice  is  all  done  by  hand;  in- 
deed, it  would  seem  almost  impossible 
to  do  the  work  by  machinery,  as  it  is 
done  mostly  in  the  water,  and  the 
fields  are  cut  into  such  small  and  ir- 
regular patches.  Of  course,  if  the 
Yankee  had  charge  of  the  work  he 
would  probably  rearrange  everything 
and  adopt  time-saving  methods;  but 
it  is  doubtful  if  it  would  be  as  well 
done  as  it  is  by  the  primitive  methods 
employed  by  the  Chinaman.  He  does 
every  detail  of  his  work  with  all  the 
care  and  patience  that  a  woman  puts 
upon  her  embroidery,  or  an  artist  be- 
stows on  his  painting. 

If  we  stop  to  consider  the  fact  that 
rice  is  the  principal  food  of  two-thirds 
of  the  human  family,  we  may  get  a 
better  idea  of  its  importance  as  a  food 
product.  It  was  one  of  the  earliest 
crops  cultivated,  because  of  its  large 
and  sure  yield,  and  because  of  its  great 
value  as  a  food.  When  properly 
cooked,  it  is  one  of  the  most  easily 
digested  of  foods,  and  can  be  very  well 
substituted  for  bread  and  potatoes,  as 
it  supplies  both  heat  and  energy. 
While  sugar  is  the  principal  agricul- 
tural product,  not  only  of  Kauai,  but 
of  the  whole  territory,  and  far  exceeds 
the  yield  of  rice  both  in  quantity  and 
commercial  value,  yet  rice  is  the  chief 
food  consumed  in  H,awaii;  and  if  all 


Transplanting  rice  seedlings. 


other  crops  should  fail,  and  supplies 
be  cut  off,  the  inhabitants  could  subsist 
on  this  one  staple. 

Though  Hanalei  is  not  so  convenient 
for  tourists  to  visit  as  could  be  de- 
sired, being  on  the  north  side  of  the 
most  northern  island  of  the  group,  and 
being  out  of  the  line  of  the  regular 
steamships,  yet  a  trip  to  .this  valley  is 
well  worth  the  while  of  any  one  visit- 
ing the  islands,  as  it  is  considered  the 
most  beautiful  spot  on  the  Garden  Is- 
land, and  one  of  the  most  beautiful 


places  in  the  whole  group :  not  so 
much  for  its  awe-inspiring  scenery  as 
for  the  simple  beauty  of  the  whole 
landscape — the  ocean  and  bay  and 
rivers;  the  valley  thickly  dotted  with 
rice  patches  in  all  their  various  hues 
from  dainty  green  to  golden  yellows; 
and  the  hills  and  mountains  covered 
with  their  ever-fresh  vegetation,  with 
here  and  there  a  cascade  like  a  narrow 
silver  veil  draped  among  the  rich  green 
and  purple  covering  of  the  mountain- 
sides. 


Aaking  A  Hundred  Million  A  Year 


By  Felix  J.  Koch 


A  MERE  bagatelle  of  a  hundred 
million  dollars  is  being  turned 
out  each  year  by  the  Mint  at 
San  Francisco.  What  Uncle 
Sam  isn't  ready  to  use,  beyond  this, 
the  Mint  converts  into  long  yellow 
bars,  which  it  files  away  for  future  use, 
or  pending  the  pleasure  of  the  Secre- 
tary of  the  Treasury.  The  process  of 
making  the  money  is  interesting,  par- 
ticularly for  the  system  it  involves. 

A  million  dollars,  it  is  stated,  repre- 
sents about  3,800  pounds  of  gold.  This 
gold,  with  the  mint,  is  obtained  from 
many  places,  ranging  from  Alaska  to 
Mexico  almost.  Along  with  the  gold 
an  alloy  is  used,  and  this  is  roughly  10 
per  cent  copper. 

The  Mint,  it  is  stated,  can  be  given 
an  order  to  coin  a  million  dollars  a 
day,  and  be  done  with  the  stunt  by 
3 :00  of  the  afternoon.  There  are  only 
178  employees  involved  in  all  this,  and 
of  those,  44  are  women. 

Most  of  these  folk  are  under  civil 
service,  except  a  few,  who  are  Presi- 
dential appointees.  That  there  are 
others  who  would  study  the  art  of 
making  money  is  evident  from  the  fact 
that  there  are  several  hundred  visitors 
daily,  and  for  their  benefit  four  guides 
are  maintained.  Much  of  the  minting 
at  San  Francisco  is  done  for  private 
citizens.  The  government  charges 
nothing  for  coining  the  gold,  preferring 
to  turn  it  into  money  rather  than  run 
the  risk  of  owners  counterfeiting  with 
it  themselves.  But  they  do  charge  for 
preparing  the  gold  for  coinage,  and 
this  charge,  then,  is  divided  into  sev- 
eral items. 

Meanwhile,  though,  you  are 
launched  on  a^rrney  to  the  scene  of 


making  the  money.  It  begins  with  the 
receiving  room.  Gold  is  brought  here 
from  the  mines  in  all  sorts  of  condi- 
tions. In  sacks,  in  bundles,  often 
wrapped  in  ordinary  paper,  or  occa- 
sionally already  iri  bars  from  the  assay 
offices,  this  gold  is  brought.  It  is 
coined  in  amounts  of  anywhere  from 
three  to  eighteen  hundred  ounces.  Be- 
yond that  amount  it  is  unwieldy. 

Some  of  the  gold  comes  from  smelt- 
ers and  refining  works,  since  innumer- 
able miners  take  it  there  for  refining 
before  shipment.  As  a  general  thing, 
though,  when  brought  here  the  gold  is 
unrefined  and  in  the  bar. 

It  is  weighed  in  the  presence  of  the 
depositor,  on  a  scale  of  the  double 
balance  sort,  the  kind  that  Justice 
bears  in  the  pictures.  The  weight  of 
the  crude  gold,  before  melting,  is  thus 
certified  to  him.  Then  it  is  taken  to 
a  room  at  the  rear,  melted  and  run  into 
bars.  Three-ounce  bars  are  very 
small  ones.  After  this,  it  is  weighed 
again,  the  dirt  and  lead  which  have 
been  burnt  out  in  the  melting  leaving 
the  gold  and  silver  and  some  of  the 
base  metals  behind,  with  which,  then, 
they  are  to  work. 

As  you  listen  to  the  story,  there 
comes  a  cry  for  way,  and  a  man  rolls 
in  a  little  iron  sled  with  seven  bars  of 
gold,  12,000  ounces  in  all.  This  repre- 
sents something  like  $2,000  to  the  bar. 
Each  bar  has  its  number  stamped  on  it 
by  sledge  hammer  and  plug,  this  insig- 
nia being  beaten  in.  Then  a  record  of 
each  is  kept. 

From  this  reception  chamber  of  the 
precious  metal,  the  way  lies  through 
a  hall  into  the  milling  and  refining  de- 
partment. Silver  bars,  looking  most 


MAKING  A  HUNDRED  MILLION  A  YEAR. 


493 


like  aluminum,  and  bars  of  copper,  for 
the  alloy,  are  likewise  here.  This  coin 
of  the  future,  both  gold  and  silver,  is 
9-10  pure  and  1-10  copper,  being  com- 
posed of  what  is  known  to  the  techni- 
cal philatelist  as  standard  metal.  Some 
months  as  much  as  $30,000,000  in  coin 
is  run  out  the  mint,  and  the  amount  of 
metal  this  requires  it  is  difficult  for  the 
mind  to  conceive. 

Entering  here,  the  eye  is  greeted  by 
ingots  of  copper  for  the  alloy,  this  of 
a  reddish  hue. 

Each  foreman  of  a  department  gives 
a  receipt  for  the  metal  entering  his 


department.  In  a  safe,  one  sees  the 
bars  of  gold,  like  so  many  large  bricks, 
some  of  them,  but  where  percentages 
are  figured  out,  tapering  in  size  to  the 
merest  slugs.  By  the  bar  of  gold  is 
the  bar  of  alloy,  but  weights  cannot 
always  be  just  so,  when  it  comes  to  the 
smelting,  and  so  bits  of  alloy,  extra 
morsels  are  added — to  give  the  exact 
legal  percentage  of  the  coin. 

The  next  room  is  the  melting  room, 
and  it  connects  with  the  receiving  room 
for  convenience  sake.  Here  there  are 
chests  with  soda  and  nitre,  with  bone 
ash  and  sulphur.  They  interest,  but 


The  Mint,  San  Francisco.     (From  a  photograph  taken  shortly  after    the 
big  fire  of  April,  1906.) 


494 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


more  fascinating  than  these  are  the 
other  things  your  guide  has  to  show 
you.  Yonder,  for  example,  there  is  a 
bar  made  of  old  jewelry.  Another  mass 
is  of  a  light  yellow  gold.  Five  ounces 
is  the  smallest  amount  of  old  jewelry 
they  will  take  here,  and  it  represents 
fifty  dollars.  You  remark,  with  half 
an  eye,  the  floor — there  is  an  iron  mat, 
serving  as  scraper  to  the  feet,  as  one 
walks.  The  why  of  this  is  made  evi- 
dent before  one  has  gone  very  far. 

For  the  moment,  instead,  you  find 
your  interest  in  watching  the  men  put- 
ing  great  bricks  of  the  alloy  into  the 
kiln.  There  are  five  pots  to  the  gas 
furnace,  and  the  lids  seem  to  rise  out 
of  the  oven-top,  as  it  were.  Within, 
one  sees  the  red  hot  metal — it  requires, 
roughly,  2,500  degrees  to  melt  gold. 
Gas  is  cheaper  than  coke  for  the  pur- 
pose, it  has  been  found,  as  result  of 
experience.  The  ovens  are  in  a  severe 
row  at  one  side  of  the  aisle. 

From  them,  one  passes  to  an  adjoin- 
ing chamber,  where  the  fine  gold  and 
the  copper  are  melted  and  run  into 
molds,  emerging  as  great  ingots,  these 
strip-shape,  with  place  to  cut  out  the 
coins.  Something  like  $33,000,000  has 
been  run  out  every  month  here,  when 
such  order  came  from  Washington.  The 
mint  does  not  work  on  a  basis  of  regu- 
lar output,  but  turns  out  what  may  be 
ordered  from  the  Capital. 

Should  they  chance  to  have  made 
a  surplus  above  this  amount,  they 
keep  it,  and  any  surplus  brought  in  by 
out-siders,  putting  the  gold  into  bricks 
and  keeping  it  so  till  the  orders  come 
to  proceed  and  coin  it. 

At  the  time  of  the  Klondike  fever, 

the  packets  of  gold  came  down  here 

in  great  amounts  to  be  coined.    Now 

much    of    the    Alaskan    gold    comes 

through  the  Seattle  assay  office,  and  so 

reaches  the  San  Francisco  mint  already 

in  bars.    When  the  metal  is  brought  in, 

there  is  a  charge  of  a  dollar  a  bar  for 

the  process  of  melting  it,  regardless  of 

^the  size  of  the  bar.    Then  they  charge 

™the  actual  expense  of  refining,  and  this 

e  depends  on  the  amount  of  base  metal 

in  the  bar.    After  this  they  charge  for 

the  actual  Dtice  of  the  copper  used  as 


an  alloy.    Those  are  the  only  charges. 

All  this  is  in  the  preparing  of  the 
metal  for  coinage  and  all  prior  to  the 
time  that  the  gold  is  made  into  ingots. 
Occasionally  a  man  brings  in  the  metal 
from  the  mines,  thinking  that  it  is  free 
to  coin,  but  while  they  do  not  charge 
for  the  coining,  they  do  for  its  prepara- 
tion for  that.  The  mint  takes  these  in- 
gots and  gives  a  receipt.  It  then  asks 
four  or  five  day  to  work  them  up.  They 
are  put  into  rollers  and  then  made  into 
strips,  a  50  h.  p.  dynamo  being  used  to 
this  end.  One  man  feeds  in  the  strips 
for  the  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  about 
as  fast  as  he  can  push  them  in.  They 
are  passed  through  the  rollers  about 
sixteen  times,  until  they  draw  out  as 
strips  of  the  proper  thickness.  There 
is  a  register  at  the  base  to  tell  this. 

It  is  found  that  it  isn't  practicable 
to  put  the  strips  into,  say,  a  more 
powerful  roller,  and  then  only  once,  as 
the  tremendous  pressure  that  would  be 
required  would  then  harden  the  metal. 
This  rolling,  moreover,  not  only 
hardens,  but  makes  the  strips  brittle, 
so  that  annealing  must  follow.  Em- 
ployees at  these  labors  one  and  all 
wear  aprons,  which  are  burnt  every  lit- 
tle while  in  order  to  recover  the  gold. 

At  the  annealing,  other  interesting 
devices  are  encountered.  The  strips 
are  placed  on  series  of  rollers,  four  in 
a  row.  These  roll  the  strip  gently  but 
surely  into  a  gas-furnace,  heated  to 
tremendous  heat.  The  furnace,  its 
work  done,  cools  gently,  so  as  to  an- 
neal the  strips.  Inside  the  gas  furnace 
or>e  sees  them  grow  red  hot.  Then  they 
come  out,  a  blueish  black,  much  like  an 
old  steel  knife.  This,  of  course,  is  due 
to  the  oxidizing  of  the  copper  in  the 
alloy. 

The  temperature  here  is  kept  around 
1,700  degrees.  If  allowed  to  go  to 
2,200,  which  might  happen,  when  one 
is  playing  with  such  high  heats  as  this, 
it  would  at  once  melt  the  gold. 

You  wonder  at  the  garments  worn 
by  attendants  here,  whether  gold  in 
paying  amounts  might  not  be  recov- 
ered even  from  these.  Uncle  Sam, 
though,  it  is  stated,  does  not  insist  that 
the  workers  burn  their  old  clothing. 


MAKING  A  HUNDRED  MILLION  A  YEAR. 


495 


The  strips  are  now  ready  to  have 
the  money  cut  out  from  them.  They 
can  be  easily  bent  and  will  stay  so, 
whereas,  before  the  annealing,  they 
would  snap  back  into  position. 

Here,  then,  one  man  attends  a  cut- 
ter. He  feeds  the  strips  in,  cuts  out  the 
plugs,  and  the  rest  of  the  strip,  the 
"clipping,"  they  call  it,  is  remelted  by 
and  by.  There  are  about  42  blanks  to 
be  taken  from  a  strip,  and  machines 
will  cut  possibly  about  280  strips 
every  minute. 

If  the  strip  be  too  heavy,  there  is 
a  fine  roller  at  one  side  to  work  it  finer. 
If  it's  too  light,  it  is  condemned  and  re- 
melted.  Somehow,  there  is  a  lure  in 
the  sight — a  man,  standing  at  a  distant 
roller,  feeding  strips  of  solid  gold  into 
a  stamper ;  another  man,  weighing  the 
result  on  a  scale  at  his  side.  All  day 
long  this  man  weighs  the  blanks 
stamped  from  the  ore,  and  the  rear 
end  of  each  bar,  to  make  sure  that  the 
weight  is  correct.  Queer  profession, 
is  it  not — but  the  job  is  a  coveted  one. 

After  these  disks  are  cut,  one  must 
get  off  the  black,  the  oxidization,  that 
is.  Once  they  are  milled,  i.  e.,  have  a 
rim  thrown  about  the  coin,  this  is  done 
by  passing  through  a  cylindrical  gas 
furnace.  After  that  there  is  a  second 
annealing,  so  as  to  get  the  disks  red 
hot.  They  are  immersed  in  sulphuric 
acid  (5  per  cent  in  water),  while  still 
so  heated,  this  so  that  the  acid  eats 
whatever  oxidation  may  remain.  For 
this  work  the  disks  are  handled  by 
emptying  when  red  hot  in  huge  copper 
baskets,  pierced  with  holes  to  admit 
the  acid.  Then  each  is  dipped  into 
the  acid  bath.  Innumerable  queer  dip- 
ping baskets  are  all  about  here,  used 
for  various  sizes  of  disks. 

The  disks,  in  this  annealing  furnace, 
are  carried  through  a  spiral,  revolving 
upward  to  the  end,  much  like  a  coffee- 
mill  arrangement.  The  coolness  of  the 
place  is  delightful,  particularly  on  a 
hot  summer's  day,  and  the  more  strik- 
ing in  contrast  with  the  heat  of  the 
metal. 

They  show  you  some  of  the  metal 
that  has  just  been  cleaned,  golden  dials 
possessed  of  the  rim,  and  reminding 


of  the  disks  with  which  one  plays  tid- 
dle-de-winks. 

The  processes  now  come  to  conclu- 
sions. There  are  two  dies,  each  repre- 
senting a  respective  side  of  a  coin, 
which  are  set  in  a  press.  The  upper 
comes  down  upon  the  lower,  and  at 
the  same  time  a  cuff  comes  about  the 
sides,  so  that,  under  the  150-ton  pres- 
sure, the  gold  is  squeezed  into  the  form 
and  stamped. 

A  man  feeds  the  blanks  into  the 
stamper.  A  tubeful  is  dropped  in,  that 
is  to  say,  and  then  wored  by  a  slit  into 
the  die  itself,  automatically,  so  as  to 
put  on  upper  and  lower  face  and  collar 
at  once.  They  make  120  five-dollar 
gold  pieces  a  minute,  the  day  through. 
Of  the  larger  coin  they  make  ninety  a 
minute. 

There's  a  man  here  who  has  been 
employed  in  the  place  27  years  now. 
One  wonders  how  much  money  he's 
made! 

These  coins  then  pass  upstairs,  to 
be  examined  for  defects.  They  are 
handled  on  wooden  trays  throughout. 
The  care  which  is  given  in  every  par- 
ticular, in  fact,  interests.  On  the  ma- 
chines, for  example,  they  use  castor- 
oil  and  olive  oil,  and  even  with  such 
fine  oil  as  this,  occasionally,  a  bit  of  it 
on  the  die  spoils  the  impression,  and 
so  it  must  be  recast.  When,  as  occa- 
sionally happens,  they  turn  out  a  Lib- 
erty lady  with  whiskers  on  her  face,  it 
would  hardly  do  to  turn  her  broad- 
cast. 

The  disks  are  "counted"  by  shaking 
into  great  forms,  and  then  into  boxes. 
There  are  about  4,000  pieces  in  a  box. 
and  they  can  inspect  ten  boxes  a  day. 
A  woman  can  examine  6,000  dollar 
pieces  in  an  hour,  if  there  is  need.  The 
number  of  coins  she  will  condemn 
varies;  occasionally  there  is  a  great 
number. 

Upstairs  there  are  fifty  girls  en- 
gaged in  hunting  flaws.  That,  too,  is 
tedious  work,  and  so  every  hour  and 
a  half  they  are  given  ten  minutes  re- 
cess. 

You  follow  on  into  the  weighing 
room  of  the  coinage  department.  In- 
teresting here  is  the  method  employed 


496 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


to  keep  track  of  every  ounce  of  the 
gold.  There  are  four  weighers.  The 
one  man  checks  the  metal  off  each 
morning  as  it  is  taken  out  of  the  vault. 
It  is  receipted  for  by  the  foreman  of 
each  room. 

Then,  as  they  work  it,  it  is  checked 
back  by  the  different  workers,  so  that 
inside  of  twenty  minutes  of  the  time 
they  fmish  in  the  evening  they  have  all 
the  work  checked  up.  They  must  set- 
tle up  the  account  before  they  can 
leave,  and  before  this  have  it  passed 
on  by  the  head  of  the  department  as 
well.  Employees  of  any  one  depart- 
ment are  not  allowed  to  go  into  any 
other  department. 

Often  it  occurs  that  at  the  end  of 
the  day,  if  the  metal  that  is  missing 
cannot  be  found,  all  will  be  detained 
several  hours,  and  so  the  foreman  of 
that  room  makes  the  amount  good  from 
his  own  pocket  pro  tern. 

When  the  money  is  finished,  it  is 
put  up  in  canvas  sacks  of  $5,000  each. 
All  gold  goins  of  a  given  sort  will  be 
packed  together  in  this  amount.  Sil- 
ver is  packed  in  bags  of  $1,000  value, 
except  for  dimes,  which  come  out  in 
bags  holding  $500.  The  process  of 


minting  is  much  the  same  for  the  sil- 
ver coins  as  the  gold. 

The  bags  with  the  money  are  sealed, 
first  by  folding  the  top  and  then  seal- 
ing until  the  steel  pin  pierces  the  bag. 
The  loops  come  out,  and  after  this  a 
machine  stamps  the  steel  to  the  bar  in 
such  wise  that  one  can't  open  it  ex- 
cept by  cutting  the  string.  The  result 
is,  that  one  can't  tamper  with  this  with- 
out the  knowledge  of  whoever  may 
budge  it. 

The  dime  was  long  the  smallest  coin 
made  at  the  San  Francisco  mint,  but 
some  six  years  ago  permission  was 
given  to  coin  lesser  moneys  as  well. 

Meanwhile,  as  you  listen,  you  note 
sidelights.  You  see  the  half-dollars 
being  dumped  from  the  pails;  the 
board  shaken  that  these  may  enter  the 
grooves,  then  a  lever  is  swung  across, 
putting  each  into  its  hole.  The  count 
is  there  for  an  even  one. 

Philippine  coins,  in  Spanish  de- 
nominations, are  another  by-product  of 
the  mint.  In  one  year,  1904,  there  was 
coined  at  this  place  $103,168,500  in 
gold  and  $114,825,019  in  silver,  mak- 
ing it  the  greatest  coinage  of  gold  in 
the  world. 


The  old  ammunition  magazine,  showing  Wm.  J.  Daly   (at  left),  a  retired 
army  non-commissioned  officer,  and  who  "soldiered"  at  Fort  Townsend  many 

years  ago. 


A    FORT    OF    '49 


By  /Aonroe  Wooley 


Illustrated  with  photographs  taken  by  the  author. 


THE     LATE     "Fighting     Bob" 
Evans  used  to  say  that  by  the 
help  of  God  and  a  few  marines 
he  could  do     most     anything. 
Perhaps  that's  why  they  used  to  send 
Bob  down  into  the  rebellious  republics 
south  of  us  when  an  erstwhile  presi- 
dent got  his  ire  up  because  he  was  no 
longer    on   the    "throne" — and   conse- 
quently was  minus  a  key  to  the  treas- 
ury— and  as  a  consequence  showed  a 
tendency   to   snarl   and   snap,   and   to 


make  things  generally  uncomfortable 
for  the  incumbents  in  office  in  com- 
pany with  the  "foreign  devils"  sojourn- 
ing within  the  land  of  discord. 

But  we  did  not  do  things  in  '49  a  la 
the  Evans  style.  In  '49  Bob  was  much 
a  baby,  and  while  the  grace  of  the  Al- 
mighty remains  always  the  same  and 
the  efficacy  of  the  marine  was  as  satis- 
fying then  as  it  is  now,  military  posts 
far-flung  from  civilization  were  a  ne- 
cessity in  our  Western  wilderness  as 


498 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


advance  agents  for  the  era  of  develop- 
ment to  follow  in  future  decades. 

Prairie  schooners  could  not  go  sail- 
ing at  a  twenty-knot  clip  over  desert 
and  divide  carrying  crews  of  wobbly- 
legged  marines  every  time  a  redskin 
gave  utterance  to  a  sonorous  war- 
whoop,  so  the  "scrapping  strategists" 
of  that  day  decided  that  a  chain  of 
frontier  posts  permanently  occupied 
by  strong  commands  might  save  the 
hardy  pioneers  from  the  pains  and  tor- 
tures of  the  scalping  knife. 

The  year  '49  is  a  long  way  back — 
sixty-three  years  back — a  longer  way 
than  many  of  we  Westerners  have  trav- 
eled on  life's  lively  highway.  That  is 
the  year  that  saw  the  oldest  frontier 
posts  planned,  although  the  actual  oc- 
cupation of  many  of  them  by  blue-uni- 
formed troopers,  all  now  grown  grey 
or  gone  from  us,  did  not  take  place 
until  a  few  years  later. 

Not  many  of  these  relics  of  the 
early  days  remain.  Maybe  some  day 
when  the  limitation  of  armaments  is  a 
fact,  or  better  still,  when  total  dis- 
armament is  agreed  upon,  as  seems 
not  improbable  at  some  future  time, 
the  remains  of  these  old  homes  of 
fighting  men  may  be  preserved  purely 
as  relics  of  a  barbarous  age  to  show 
to  future  generation-s  at  a  dime  a  head. 

There  is  now  a  mere  remnant  of  one 
of  these  old  garrisons  at  Yuma,  Ari- 
zona, and  Vancouver  Barracks,  across 
the  river  from  Portland,  is  still  occu- 
pied by  a  large  command.  For  a  long 
time  it  was  the  headquarters  of  the 
general  commanding  the  Department 
of  the  Columbia,  and  while  this  de- 
partment is  yet  in  existence,  most  of  its 
functions  have  been  transferred  to  the 
commander  of  the  newly-created  West- 
ern Division  having  headquarters  in 
San  Francisco.  Vancouver  Barracks  is 
one  of  the  few  of  these  older  posts  oc- 
cupied at  the  present  day.  Besides 
being  one  of  the  most  historic  spots  on 
the  Pacific  Slope,  having  been  built 
out  of  an  early  trading  post  at  about 
the  same  time  as  the  Astors  founded 
Astoria,  it  is  also  a  beauty  garden  with 
well-kept  parades,  its  gracefully 
curved  drives  fringed  with  stately  oak 


and  maple,  its  innumerable  flower  beds 
and  creeping  vines  which  seem  to 
climb  frantically  over  the  old  barracks 
and  quarters  to  cover  the  scars  of  ad- 
vancing age.  Here  Grant  served  be- 
fore fortune  smiled  and  gave  the  man 
an  opportunity  to  become  one  of  the 
greatest  generals  the  world  has  ever 
known. 

Captain  Pickett  was  another  army 
officer  that  was  sent  in  the  early  days 
to  establish  a  small  detachment  at  a 
pioneer  post  in  the  San  Juan  Islands  in 
Puget  Sound,  where  there  was  a  Brit- 
ish garrison.  This  was  at  the  excit- 
ing times  resulting  from  the  boundary 
dispute  between  the  United  States  and 
Great  Britain.  As  is  generally  known, 
these  islands,  which  now  constitute 
San  Juan  County,  Washington,  were 
awarded  to  the  United  States. 

Another  small  fort  was  also  estab- 
lished at  Steilacoom,  Wash.,  by  a 
Captain  Maloney. 

But  the  fort  that  catches  the  eye 
hungry  for  military  relics,  having  per- 
haps greater  attractions  than  the 
Acropolis  or  the  Coliseum  has  for  the 
ordinary  sight-seeing  globe  trotter,  the 
"ruins"  where  once  were  housed  the 
men  who  blazed  the  trail  along  with  the 
old  settlers  for  advancing  civilization, 
is  old  Fort  Townsend,  lying  near  the 
town  and  on  the  bay  of  that  name  on 
Puget  Sound. 

This  old  fort  still  stands  as  it  al- 
ways did,  except  that  the  marks  of 
many  years  are  plainly  evident  on  the 
old  frame  buildings.  Fort  Townsend 
was  first  actually  occupied  by  regular 
troops  in  the  year  '54.  The  officers' 
quarters  are  of  the  story  and  a  half 
type,  with  the  wide,  roomy  verandas 
common  to  construction  in  colonial 
times.  What  tales  these  rotting  struc- 
tures might  tell  is  romantic  to  think 
about.  In  the  commanding  officer's 
quarters,  the  most  pretentious  building 
on  the  officers'  row,  at  one  time  lived 
many  officers  who  became  notable  in 
after  years,  if  they  were  not  at  the 
time.  Many  of  these  retired,  some  to 
round  out  useful  careers  in  civil  life, 
others  to  their  final  rewards. 

Granville  O.  Haller,  an  officer  who 


The  flagstaff  still  stands  on  the  little  Parade,  but  Old  Glory  no  longer 

floats  from  the  peak. 


had  an  illustrious  record,  has  children 
who  are  prominent  in  Western  life  to- 
day. Indeed,  it  seems  that  most  of 
the  officers,  and  a  great  many  of  the 
men  who  served  at  Fort  Townsend, 
either  remained  in  the  West  or  came 
back  to  it  after  completing  their  army 
careers. 

Haller  was  a  major  when  he  took 
command  of  old  Fort  Townsend,  but 
shortly  afterward,  report  has  it,  he 
was  summarily  dismissed  the  service 
for  publicly  expressing  cessation  sen- 
timent. He  at  once  went  to  Coupe- 
ville,  Island  County,  Washington,  not 
far  distant  from  the  fort,  and  opened 
up  a  store.  Later  on  he  was  rein- 
stated by  President  Lincoln  as  a  full 
colonel,  with  back  pay  for  the  time 
he  was  out  of  the  army. 

The  last  troops  to  garison  old  Fort 
Townsend  was  the  Fourteenth  Infan- 
try, commanded  at  the  time  by  Thos. 
M.  Anderson,  who  now  lives  in  Port- 
land, and  who  is  a  nephew  of  General 
Robert  Anderson  of  Fort  Sumpter 
fame. 


Colonel  John  Murphy  was  another 
old-time  officer  dear  to  the  hearts  of 
his  men,  and  every  one  who  knew  him. 
He  served  at  the  old  fort  as  commis- 
sary and  quartermaster  in  the  early 
eighties :  he,  too,  lives  in  Portland. 

The  officers  of  the  old  fort  are  not 
the  only  ones  of  the  personnel  who 
have  succeeded  to  greatness.  Among 
the  hundreds  of  enlisted  men  who 
served  at  the  fort  during  the  many 
years  of  its  existence  scores  have 
achieved  greatness  in  all  walks  of  life. 

"What  village  is  that  with  such 
beautiful  lawns?"  is  a  question  hun- 
dreds of  steamship  passengers  ask 
when  ships  pass  into  Port  Townsend, 
itself  the  oldest  town  in  the  State  of 
Washington.  They  refer  to  the  old 
fort  at  the  foot  of  the  bay  nestling  on 
a  pretty  green  clearing  in  the  midst 
of  giant  fir.  But  few  learn  that  it  is 
no  town  at  all,  for  sea-faring  men  are 
not  over-communicative.  And  the 
story  of  an  old-time  fort  that  is  decay- 
ing away  with  time  rarely  reaches 
them  in  detail. 


LONG-DISTANCE  MOSFITALTIY 


By  Ray  /Aclntyre  King 


WE  HAVEN'T  much  to  offer  in 
the  way  of  hospitality  except 
climate  and  plenty  to  eat,  but 
such  as  it  is,  we  gladly  offer 
our  friends.    When  you  come  to  Cali- 
fornia, we  shall  feel  offended  if  you  do 
not  make   our   ranch   your   headquar- 
ters." 

Mother  Myra  Allison  penned  this  in- 
vitation, as  she  had  written  it  dozens 
of  times  before  within  the  six-month, 
with  the  kindliest  intention  and  dimest 
expectations  of  its  acceptance.  Some 
months  before,  her  husband  had  quite 
innocently  given  a  realty  firm  a  per- 
sonal letter  expatiating  upon  his  suc- 
cess at  small  farming  in  the  Sacra- 
mento Valley.  The  reality  firm  had 
published  his  letter  with  those  of  other 
satisfied  settlers  and  scattered  it  as  ad- 
vertising literature  all  over  East  of  the 
Rockies. 

So  effective  had  the  letters  proved, 
that  the  Allisons  had  had  to  sit  up  o' 
nights  answering  the  letters  of  inquiry 
that  had  poured  in  upon  them.  As  the 
Allisons  had  no  land  to  sell  and  no  con- 
nection with  any  realty  firm,  their  in- 
terest in  their  unknown,  distant  cor- 
respondents was  purely  altruistic. 
Mother  Myra  had  taken  upon  herself 
most  of  the  burden  of  this  correspon- 
dence. 

The  Allisons  belonged  to  the  thrifty 
home-making  clan  that  can  make  a 
bower  of  lovliness  and  a  competence 
out  of  any  location,  be  it  on  a  desert  or 
an  ice-cap,  and  to  either,  they  would 
have  been  equally  loyal.  They  were 
the  type  of  family  that,  like  a  burning 
glass,  concentrates  a  lot  of  dispersed, 
ineffective  sunshine  into  one  powerful 
beam — their  own  home,  wherever  it 
may  be. 


Mother  Myra  Allison  very  honestly 
believed  California,  especially  her  bit 
of  it,  to  be  next  door  to  Paradise,  so, 
why  should  it  not  seem  so  to  folk  of 
other,  harsher  climes?  When  John 
Doe  of  Sinia,  Georgia,  or  Bilkins, 
North  Dakota,  or  Fairview,  Maine,  or 
Rollins,  Pennsylvania,  wrote  to  know 
immediately  if  irrigating  be  hard  work,, 
and  what  is  the  cost  of  cows,  and  lum- 
ber, and  flour,  etc.;  and  what  does  a 
water  right  mean;  and  how  far  do  you 
dig  for  well  water;  and  how  cold  is  it 
in  winter  and  how  hot  in  summer ;  and 
numerous  other  urgent  inquiries  that 
took  him  ten  minutes  to  write  and 
Mother  Myra  Allison  a  long  winter's 
evening  to  answer;  she,  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  loyal  Californian, 
patiently,  sincerely  answered,  placing 
at  his  disposal  a  fund  of  valuable,  dis- 
interested information,  just  the  sort  of 
intimate  data  that  homeseekers  appre- 
ciate. 

It  was  at  the  time  of  the  California 
hegira,  at  the  height  of  the  California 
advertising  propaganda,  when  one  of 
the  valley  organizations,  alone,  was 
spending  $50,000  a  year  to  draw  set- 
tlers to  the  Sacramento  Valley.  It 
seemed  ,to  Mother  Myra  that  about 
every  third  person  outside  of  Califor- 
nia was.  plotting  and  planning  to  get 
inside  the  State  lines. 

In  her  simple,  kindly,  vivid  way, 
this  country  woman  had  taken  every 
correspondent  (whether  he  enclosed 
stamps  or  not)  into  the  inner  court  of 
her  good  favor.  They  seemed  more  to 
her  than  mere  names.  With  her  family 
she  eagerly  discussed  the  letters,  striv- 
ing to  read  the  personalities  of  the 
writers,  conjecturing  and  imagining 
their  circumstances  and  conditions. 


LONG-DISTANCE  HOSPITALITY. 


501 


They  were  all  "friends"  to  her,  al- 
though they  had  spoken  to  her  out  of 
the  void,  from  across  the  continent. 

Invariably,  she  closed  her  long,  en- 
thusiastic answers  to  her  correspond- 
ents with  the  invitation: 

"We  haven't  much  to  offer  in  the 
way  of  hospitality  except  climate  and 
plenty  to  eat,  but  such  as  it  is,  we 
gladly  offer  our  friends.  When  you 
come  to  California  we  shall  feel  of- 
fended if  you  do  not  make  our  ranch 
your  headquarters." 

"Of  course,"  she  explained  to  her 
family,  her  round  face  aglow,  "I  add 
that  invitation  to  warm  their  hearts. 
It  will  make  them  feel  good  to  think 
that  some  strange  woman  away  out 
in  California  is  personally  interested 
in  them." 

"But  if  they  should  accept  your  in- 
vitation?" protested  her  husband  dubi- 
ously. 

"Oh,"  laughed  Mother  Myra  confi- 
dently, "there  is  about  one  chance  in 
a  million  that  even  one  of  them  will 
accept  my  invitation.  You  know  it  is 
a  long,  long  way  from  Back  East  out 
here.  Why,  I  have  been  sending  that 
identical  invitation  back  to  friends 
and  relatives  for  the  last  five  years, 
and  no  one  but  father  has  ever  come 
out  to  see  us." 

"Well,"  retorted  Mr.  Allison,  "we'd 
be  in  a  pretty  predicament  if  even  one 
family  accepted.  You  must  remember, 
mother,  that  we've  only  a  bird's  nest 
of  a  house,  and  it  is  chock-a-block  full 
of  children.  We  can's  entertain  with 
any  fashionable  frills.  Why,  we  have 
not  even  a  spare  room!" 

"Don't  you  worry,"  consoled  Mother 
Myra,  untroubled.  "Not  one  will  come 
—but  my  invitation  will  warm  their 
hearts  wonderfully.  Now,  that  Mrs. 
Bostwig  I  wrote  to  last  night — she 
didn't  exactly  say,  but  her  husband — 
he's  a  stonecutter — I  suspect  has  the 
white  plague.  I  can  see  that  she  is 
just  about  wild  trying  to  get  him  away 
from  Chicago.  I  can  just  see  how 
dreadfully  worried  she  is  for  fear  they 
haven't  enough  to  get  a  start  out  here. 
Now,  you  can  imagine  how  much  my 
invitation  will  mean  to  her.  She  will 


just  sit  down  and  shed  tears  of  joy 
to  think  that  an  unknown  woman  'way 
out  in  California  has  offered  her  even 
a  temporary  refuge." 

"That's  lovely  of  you,  of  course," 
persisted  Mr.  Allison,  "but  what  on 
earth  will  you  do  with  her  if  she  should 
come?" 

"I  never  trouble  trouble  till  trouble 
troubles  me,"  quoth  Mother  Myra 
blithely. 

As  spring  came  on,  the  letters  of  in- 
quiry lessened,  and  Mother  Myra  Alli- 
son, busy  with  her  chickens  and  gar- 
den and  children,  quite  forgot  her 
reckless  invitations.  Little  did  she 
realize  how  those  invitations  were 
treasured  in  scores  of  homes  Back 
East.  They  had  quickened  many  a 
family's  desire  to  go  West.  Each  in- 
vitation represented  to  the  family  pos- 
sessing it  a  definite,  tangible  landing 
place  in  that  far-off,  indefinite,  beatific 
vision,  California. 

The  long,  clear,  hot,  rainless  Sacra- 
mento Valley  summer  came  on.  The 
roses  were  brilliant  and  riotous  about, 
and  all  over  the  little  Allison  ranch 
house.  Oleanders  and  pomegranates 
flamed  in  their  hedges.  Their  palms 
lifted  unblistered  and  defiantly  green 
their  spiney  fans  into  the  blistering 
molten  gold  of  the  tropical  sunshine. 
The  hot,  sweetish  odor  of  fig  foliage 
permeated  the  air.  At  the  Allison's 
the  fruit  crops  crowded  each  other  for 
harvesting. 

All  during  June  the  Loganberry  crop 
must  be  gathered.  The  whole  Allison 
family  was  busy  afield  from  daylight 
till  noon  each  day  picking  hundreds 
of  crates  of  the  coral  berries.  House- 
keeping was  reduced  to  a  minimum, 
and  cooking  became,  in  the  fervid 
weather,  a  thing  to  plan  to  avoid.  Af- 
ter the  berries,  came  the  peaches  to 
be  packed  for  distant  markets,  or  cut, 
sulphured  and  dried  in  the  sun.  By 
August  1st,  the  Allisons  were  con- 
fronted with  unusually  heavy  grape 
and  fig  crops. 

At  that  time,  the  scarcest  thing  in 
the  Sacramento  Valley  was  white  help. 
Like  their  neighbors,  the  Allisons  had 
to  harvest  their  own  fruit  or  else  see 


502 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


it  rot  in  -vineyard  and  orchard.  The 
only  alternative  was  to  write  some  city 
contractor  to  send  up  a  gang  of  Hin- 
dus or  Japanese.  This  the  Allisons  dis- 
liked to  do,  although  the  whole  family, 
including  Mother  Myra  herself,  felt 
rushed  and  overworked  nearly  to  the 
limit. 

One  brilliant  late  July  noon,  when 
the  thermometer  stood  at  103  deg.  in 
the  north  porch,  Mother  Myra  came  in 
hot  and  tired  from  the  packing  shed  to 
prepare  a  hasty  lunch  for  her  family. 
As  she  wiped  the  irritating  peach  fuzz 
from  her  face,  a  taxicab  rolled  into 
the  driveway. 

"Mother,"  said  ner  twelve-year-old 
daughter  in  a  portentous  whisper,  "it 
is  a  pale  man  and  woman  and  a  suit 
case!" 

Hurriedly,  Mother  Myra  creased  her 
face  into  welcoming  smiles,  and  went 
out  to  greet  her  unexpected  guests.  It 
was  Mrs.  Bostwig  and  her  husband 
from  Chicago.  They  explained  that 
they  had  taken  advantage  of  the  cheap 
rates  to  San  Francisco,  where,  it 
seemed,  a  great  convention  was  con- 
vened, and  being  so  near,  naturally 
they  had  taken  the  opportunity  to  call 
on  that  dear  Mrs.  Allison  who  had  in- 
vited them  so  kindly  to  visit  her! 

Would  Mrs.  Allison  permit  them  to 
continue  their  journey  after  an  hour's 
visit?  Indeed,  she  wouldn't,  not  hos- 
pitable Mother  Myra!  She  had  them 
out  of  the  taxi  and  into  the  house,  and 
pledged  to  a  week's  stay,  at  least,  be- 
fore they  could  voice  their  weak  pro- 
testations. Mother  Myra,  inwardly 
thanking  their  provident  methods  of 
living  whereby  there  was  always  at  her 
hand  a  full  larder,  a  dairy,  a  smoke- 
house, a  garden,  and  abundant  fresh 
or  canned  fruit,  arose  grandly  to  the 
occasion.  That  was  a  luncheon  to  be 
remembered. 

The  Bostwigs  were  properly  im- 
pressed and  deeply  interested  with 
everything  on  the  little  farm.  They 
spent  the  afternoon  in  the  packing  shed 
getting  acquainted.  Meanwhile  Mother 
Myra  hurriedly  arranged  two  cots  on 
the  screened  north  porch,  and  lo,  such 
an  open-air  sleeping  porch  as  the  tubu- 


cular  Mr.  Bostwig  had  long  desired! 

The  next  morning,  after  such  a 
breakfast  of  new-laid  eggs  and  peaches 
and  cream  as  city  folk  can  only  dream 
of,  the  Bostwigs  were  taken  away  for 
the  day  by  a  realty  firm's  automobile. 

"I'm  so  glad  they  came!"  Mother 
Myra  explained  enthusiastically  to  her 
family  when  she  joined  them  in  the 
fruit  shed.  "It  did  my  soul  good  to 
see  that  poor  fellow  eat." 

At  that  moment  the  postman  brought 
Mrs.  Allison  a  letter.  Professor  Hart- 
well  and  his  wife  of  the  Normal  Uni- 
versity of  Ohio  begged  to  announce 
that,  having  taken  advantage  of  the 
convention  rates  to  San  Francisco,  and 
being  so  near,  and  remembering  Mrs. 
Allison's  very  kind  offer  of  hospitality, 
they  would  arrive  on  the  11 :30  electric. 

Mother  Myra  tossed  the  letter  to  her 
husband.  He  read  it  frowningly. 

"How  many  more,"  he  asked, 
waving  the  letter  toward  the  populous, 
over-crowded,  effete  East,  "have  you 
invited?" 

"I  can't  remember,  exactly,"  she 
wailed,  "but  maybe  they  can't  all  take 
advantage  of  the  convention  rates.  ;  . 
Professor  Hartwell  wrote  such  a 
pretty  hand!  But  I'm  scared  to  death 
of  his  wife.  I'm  afraid  she'll  turn  up 
her  nose  at  me." 

The  idea  that  any  mere  Ohio  wo- 
man would  dare  to  turn  up  her  nose 
at  Mother  Myra  set  the  children  to 
exhorting  and  expostulating. 

"There,  there,"  soothed  Mr.  Alli- 
son above  the  indignant  din,  "mother's 
put  her  hand  to  this  plow,  and  she 
mustn't  turn  back.  We'll  entertain  the 
Hartwells,  or — or — bust!  Give  'em 
my  room.  I'll  sleep  on  some  sacks  of 
straw  on  the  kitchen  porch." 

Bob,  the  eldest  boy,  brought  the 
Hartwells  from  the  station.  The  pro- 
fessor proved  to  be  a  large,  bland, 
persuasive  gentleman,  who  clearly  was 
the  artificial  product  of  his  scholastic 
habitat.  Transplanted  to  the  wide 
vistas  of  the  valley,  he  would  inevi- 
tably become  a  real  estate  agent.  His 
wife  was  fussy,  with  the  thin,  perking 
nose  and  hypercritical  eye  acquired  by 
long  residence  in  second-rate  boarding 


LONG-DISTANCE  HOSPITALITY. 


503 


houses.  She  had  the  sharp,  suspicious 
air  of  a  woman  accustomed  to  getting 
her  money's  worth  and  a  little  more. 
She  was  the  exact  opposite  of  her 
kindly,  generous,  hospitable  Western 
hostess. 

"While  the  enlarged  household  was 
awaiting  supper,  the  Bostwigs  re- 
turned from  their  day's  sightseeing, 
the  men  fraternized  over  politics.  Mrs. 
Hartwell  rested  in  the  hastily  prepared 
guest  room.  The  heavy  fragrance  of 
myriad  roses  filled  the  air,  and  a  sense 
of  peace  and  plenty  surged  over  her 
worn  soul.  It  came  to  her  dimly  that 
here  was  life  somewhat  different  from 
her  scant  perceptions  of  it.  Some- 
how, out  here  was  so  much  incom- 
mensurable with  mere  money. 

Just  as  the  real  estate  agent  returned 
with  the  Bostwigs,  a  second  taxi  fol- 
lowed into  the  driveway.  Mother  Myra 
— putting  the  finishing  touches  to  her 
supper  table — took  time  to  say  to  her 
daughters  as  she  bustled  out: 

"More  guests!  You  girls  give  up 
your  room  and  fix  you  a  shake-down 
in  the  tank  house." 

Mother  Myra  hurried  out  and  was 
soon  shaking  hands  heartily  with  a 
small,  smiling,  bewhiskered  gentleman 
and  a  stout,  motherly  woman  wearing 
an  elaborate  silk  sunbonnet. 

"This  is  Sister  Allison?"  asked  the 
gentleman.  "We  received  your  letter 
and  came  on  as  soon  as  possible.  I  am 
Pastor  Tankadour  of  the  Dunkards, 
and  this  is  my  wife-." 

"Of  course,  of  course,  Brother  Tan- 
kadour," cried  Mother  Myra,  cordially. 
All  sects  and  creeds  were  one  to  her, 
parts  of  a  common,  universal  Christian 
brotherhood.  "Of  course,  you  are  the 
gentleman  who  wrote  me  about  lands 
for  a  Dunkard  colony." 

The  Dunkard  pastor  and  his  wife 
had  not  really  intended  anything  but 
a  brief  call,  but  the  Allisons  by  sheer 
force  of  hospitality  took  them  out  of 
the  taxi  and  established  them  in  the 
girls'  room.  At  length,  when  Mother 
Myra  had  her  guests  all  seated  at  her 
much  extended  tables,  Pastor  Tanka- 
dour asked  a  blessing.  Before  he  shut 
his  small,  keen  eyes,  he  had  appre- 


ciatively noticed  the  wholesome,  abun- 
dant food,  and  it  was  not  mere  empty 
phrases  when  he  asked  God's  bless- 
ing on  "the  bounteous  repast  before  us 
and  on  the  household  of  our  entertain- 
ers." 

In  fancy,  Pastor  Tankadour  saw  all 
his  brethren  and  their  children  sitting 
at  similar  tables  once  they  should 
immigrate  from  the  far,  inhospitable 
places  of  earth  to  this  land  that  seem- 
ingly flowed  with  milk  and  honey. 
That  his  poor  brethren's  children 
should  be  well  fed,  clothed  and 
schooled,  represented  to  Pastor  Tan- 
kadour a  large  and  urgent  gospel. 

Before  the  meal  was  fairly  finished, 
there  came  a  third  rap-rap  at  the 
door.  It  might  be  merely  some  one  on 
business,  or  it  might  be  another  fam- 
ily that  had  taken  advantage  of  the 
cheap  convention  rates  to  California! 
Mother  Myra  excused  herself  from 
the  dining  room,  and  went  out  to  see 
who  it  was. 

On  her  front  porch  she  found  ranged 
in  a  row  of  decreasing  statues,  like  a 
human  stairway,  a  tall  man,  a  shorter 
woman,  and  ten  children.  Mother 
Myra  recognized  them  instantly. 

She  recalled  vividly  a  pathetic  let- 
ter from  a  Pennsylvania  coal  miner 
which  she  had  received  and  answered 
months  before.  The  writing  was  that 
stiff,  vertical  script  of  some  public 
school  child,  very  likely  this  foreign- 
er's Americanized  young  daughter. 
Mother  Myra  could  well  remember 
every  word  of  that  letter : 

"I  write  you,  how  is  farming  in 
California,  and  do  it  pay  I  work  in 
the  mines  since  I  was  young  and  now 
I  am  old  I  am  fifty  and  I  cannot  work 
any  more  and  I  cannot  pay  the  rent 
and  buy  shoes  I  got  ten  children  and 
I  want  to  go  to  California  tell  me 
everything  and  my  name  is  John 
Swenski." 

"Now,  isn't  this — Mr. — Swenski?" 
asked  Mother  Myra,  her  face  dimpling 
with  smiles.  She  held  out  both  hands 
to  the  mute,  weary,  staring  family. 

"So,  so,  it  is,  Mis'  Allison,"  re- 
sponded the  man  in  tones  of  infinite 
relief,  his  lined,  harassed  face  light- 


504 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


ing  up  wonderfully  at  Mother  Myra's 
hearty  greeting. 

By  some  miracle  of  finance  the  bent, 
broken,  work-worn  man  had  contrived 
to  get  cheap  colonist  tickets  to  Cali- 
fornia for  his  family,  but  the  ten  child- 
ren had  arrived  shoeless,  hatless,  the 
smaller  ones  wrapped  in  rags,  and  all 
sleepy,  dazed,  drooping  and  half- 
starved  from  a  long,  tedious  transcon- 
tinental journey  in  second-class  cars. 

That  night  the  Swenskies  slept  on 
the  clean,  fragrant,  springy  alfalfa  in 
the  hay  barn. 

"I  et  nine  peaches,"  boasted  one 
youngster  as  they  disposed  themselves 
for  sleep. 

"I  had  a  whole  watermelon  to  my- 
self," vaunted  another. 

"She  guv  me  berries  and  cream  four 
times,"  contentedly  announced  a 
third. 

"Huh,"  cautioned  their  father,  drow- 
sily, "don't  you  kids  try  to  eat  up  all 
o'  Calif orniy  to  oncest!" 

"In  your  letter,  Mis'  Allison,"  John 
Swenski  carefully  explained  to  his 
hostess  at  the  breakfast  table,  "you 
give  us  the  kind  invite,  but  it  is  not 
for  that  we  come.  Your  letter  say  in 
Californy  there  is  much  shobs  in  the 
fruit  for  men,  womans  and  childer, 
and  it  is  for  shobs  we  come.  Show 
us  them  shobs." 

"A  job,  eh?"  cried  Mr.  Allison,  "I 
have  fruit  spoiling  for  help  this  min- 
ute. I'll  be  glad  to  give  your  whole 
family  a  job  right  after  breakfast." 

Turning  to  his  wife,  he  added  dra- 
matically, "Don't  you  dare  boast  to 
the  neighbors  that  we've  found  a  fam- 
ily to  help  us  with  the  fruit,  or  they 
will  come  by  night  and  kidnap  Mr. 
Swenski's  family." 

"I  tell  you,"  addressing  the  whole 
table,  "what  Superior  California 
needs  is  train  loads  of  willing  workers 
like  Mr.  Swenski's  family.  Just  now, 
Mr.  Swenski,  you  are  a  Godsend  to 
me.  This  morning  I  received  an  order 
from  my  commission  firm  to  get  off 
my  grape  crop  within  four  days  or  else 


lose  the  market." 

"Show  us  the  shob,"  cried  Mr.  Swe  • 
ski,  delightedly. 

The  Allisons  and  their  guests  de- 
ployed themselves  variously  for  the 
day.  The  Swenskies  took  possession 
of  their  job  in  the  vineyard  under  the 
direction  of  Mr.  Allison  and  the  boys. 
A  word  over  the  telephone  brought 
several  different  land  companies'  au- 
tomobiles to  take  the  other  guests 
away  for  sightseeing  and  land  view- 
ing. 

Now  that  the  Allisons  were  some- 
what relieved  of  the  burden  of  har- 
vesting their  fruit,  they  gave  them- 
selves up  gladly  to  the  duties  and  de- 
lights of  hospitality.  Mother  Myra 
and  her  girl  lieutenants  marshaled 
such  feasts  of  California  delicacies  on 
the  long  table  in  the  cool  dining  room 
as  made  their  city  guests  delighted 
with  country  living. 

Within  a  few  days,  however,  their 
guests  reluctantly  departed  under  the 
urge  of  their  personal  affairs.  The 
Bostwigs  removed  to  a  tiny  farm 
where  the  invalid  began  a  vigorous 
and  successful  campaign  against  his 
ill-health. 

The  Swenskies  found  no  lack  of 
"shobs."  Pastor  Tankadour  and  his 
good,  comfortable  wife  went  forth  to 
the  far,  drear  places  of  earth  to  gather 
in  their  poor  brethren  to  a  colony  site 
which  he  had  purchased  not  far  from 
the  Allisons'.  The  Ohio  professor 
and  his  wife  selected  a  bungalow  home 
in  the  nearest  village;  meanwhile,  he 
became  the  Eastern  agent  for  one  of 
the  many  local  land  companies. 

When  they  were  all  gone,  Mother 
Myra  sat  down  and  recalled  with  much 
satisfaction  the  unexpected  debauch 
of  guests. 

"This  has  been  the  most  condensed, 
concentrated  entertaining  I  ever  did 
in  my  life,"  she  told  her  family.  "But 
how  I  have  enjoyed  it!  When  I  think 
of  all  the  new  friends  and  neighbors 
we  have  gained,  I'm  glad  they  came, 
even  if  they  did  come  all  at  once." 


THE    COWARD 


By  Fred  B.  Smith 


DEAR  CONNIE :  As  you  know,  I 
have  been  absent  from  New 
York  several  weeks,  but  my 
first  leisure  thought  when  I  re- 
turned, after  the  rush  of  business  cor- 
respondence was  over,  was  of  you,  and 
I  went  to  see  you  as  soon  as  I  could 
spare  the  time.  To  my  surprise  and 
regret,  I  learned  that  you  were  so- 
journing with  friends  in  the  capital 
city  of  Georgia.  Having  myself 
passed  a  few  weeks  last  year  in  At- 
lanta, I  though  that  perhaps  I  could 
point  out  for  you  several  places  of  in- 
terest; accordingly  this  letter. 

"Connie,  native  Atlantians  will 
probably  want  you  to  see  the  Capitol, 
the  Carnegie  Library,  Henry  Grady's 
monument,  the  Federal  prison,  Ponce 
de  Leon  and  Grant  Park.  But  you  will 
find  the  counterparts  of  most  of  them 
in  New  York,  hence  will  doubtless  de- 
sire to  see  something  more  unique. 
There  is  one  thing  you  must  not  miss, 
and  that  is  a  trip  through  Decatur 
street  on  Saturday  night.  You  have 
been  through  the  Bowery,  but  Deca- 
tur street  is  very  different.  I  might 
attempt  a  description  of  it  if  my  pic- 
torial powers  were  adequate.  As  they 
are  too  limited,  my  advice  is,  go  and 
see  for  yourself.  I  promise  you  the 
most  thrilling  adventure  you  ever  ex- 
perienced, one  as  novel  as  it  will  be 
interesting.  You'll  find  nothing  like  it 
in  New  York.  The  Bowery,  perhaps, 
approaches  it  more  nearly,  but  our 
noted  thoroughfare  lacks  certain  dis- 
tinctively Southern  features  that  be- 
long to  Decatur  street. 

"It  may  not  be  easy  for  you  to  take 
the  trip,  owing  to  the  rather  quixotic 
ideas  of  Southern  men  regarding  fit 
places  for  ladies  to  visit.  I  had  great 


difficulty  in  persuading  one  of  the 
men  I  met  to  take  me,  a  Mr.  Evelyn 
Earle.  He  insisted  that  Decatur  street 
was  never  a  fit  place  for  women,  and 
even  less  so  on  Saturday  night.  But 
a  New  York  man  had  seen  it  and  ad- 
vised me  to  do  so,  too.  and  as  my  curi- 
osity was  keenly  whetted,  I  persevered 
until  my  friend,  though  with  evident 
reluctance,  consented  to  take  me.  I 
have  never  regretted  it,  for  I  wit- 
nessed a  scene  that  is  never  found  in 
a  Northern  city.  So  go  by  all  means, 
then  write  me  your  opinion. 

"Don't  linger  too  long  down  South, 
or  you  may  fall  a  victim  to  the  fascina- 
tion of  Southern  wooing,  and  be  lost 
to  your  friends.  I'm  wild  to  see  you, 
having  lots  of  things  to  talk  about.  I 
won't  write  them,  but  will  save  them 
for  your  return. 

"Write  as  soon  as  you  have  seen  De- 
catur   street,   for   an    interested      girl 
awaits  your  verdict,  ir  the  person  of 
"Your  chum, 
"GERALDINE  REVERE." 

The  letter  fell  from  Constance 
Grey's  hand  and  fluttered  to  the  floor, 
while  her  eyes  kindled  with  fires  of 
curiosity.  She  now  recalled  having 
heard  a  New  York  friend  allude  to  a 
trip  similar  to  her  chum's,  and  he  had 
advised  her,  if  she  ever  visited  At- 
lanta, to  tour  Decatur  street.  This 
recollection  added  fuel  to  the  kindling 
flames  of  her  curiosity,  and  she  in- 
stantly resolved  to  visit  the  thorough- 
fare that  very  night,  which  chanced  to 
be  Saturday. 

Constance  Grey,  an  heiress  and  an 
only  child,  had  been  somewhat  spoiled 
by  too  much  humoring;  nothing  had 
ever  been  denied  her,  for  she  had  only 


506 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


to  express  a  wish  of  a  desire  to  have 
it  gratified.  As  she  made  the  de- 
cision to  tour  the  street  that  evening, 
her  thoughts  flew  to  the  man  whose 
name  was  mentioned  in  her  chum's 
letter,  Evelyn  Earle,  her  fiance,  on 
whose  escort  she  confidently  relied. 
She  thought,  whimsically,  that  she 
would  have  no  difficulty  in  bending 
him  to  her  will.  Her  thoughts  of  him 
gave  birth  to  a  tender  smile,  and 
Cupid's  tapers  burned  in  her  dark 
eyes.  Geraldine's  warning  against 
"the  fascination  of  Southern  wooing" 
had  come  too  late.  The  heart  of  the 
proud  beauty  had  capitulated  before 
the  sudden  onslaught  of  the  handsome 
young  attorney. 

"Evelyn  will  take  me,  I  know,"  she 
murmured.  That  he  would  hesitate  to 
comply  with  her  request  was  an  idea 
to  which  her  brain  never  gave  birth. 
Was  her  lover  not  the  most  devoted  of 
men?  Had  he  ever  refused  her  slight- 
est wish,  either  expressed  or  implied? 

Rousing  from  her  pleasant  reflec- 
tions, Constance  glanced  at  the  French 
clock  and  started.  Evelyn  had  said 
that  he  would  be  with  her  at  eight,  and 
it  was  five  minutes  past  that  hour  now. 
What  did  it  mean?  To  be  kept  wait- 
ing by  a  caller  of  the  male  sex  was, 
to  her,  a  unique  experience.  For  five 
minutes  more  she  listened  for  the 
sound  of  Earle's  footstep,  and  then 
surprise  gave  way  to  irritation.  Ten 
more  minutes  fled,  and  the  irritation 
passed  into  resentment.  The  spoiled 
beauty,  accustomed  to  have  her  ad- 
mirers at  her  beck  and  call,  was  dumb- 
founded at  her  lover's  tardiness. 

When,  as  the  hands  of  the  clock  in- 
dicated the  half  hour,  Evelyn  entered 
the  drawing-room,  he  met  a  pair  of 
very  angry  black  eyes. 

"You  should  get  another  watch, 
Evelyn,  or  have  yours  regulated,"  she 
said,  coldly,  glancing  meaningly  at  the 
clock.  He  started  with  surprise  at 
her  tone,  but,  hastening  forward,  he 
caught  her  hands.  She  withdrew  them 
immediately,  and  evaded  his  arms.  He 
drew  back  slightly. 

"I'm  sorry  I  am  lace,  dear,  but  I  was 
detained  at  the  office  by  pressing  busi- 


ness of  a  very  important  character. 
Forgive  me;  it  shall  not  occur  again," 
he  said  quietly. 

"Indeed!"  she  exclaimed,  raising 
her  eyebrows,  "for  a  man  to  keep  me 
waiting  thirty  minutes  on  account  of 
business  is  an  experience  as  unique  as 
it  is  irritating.  Pray,  sir,  what  busi- 
ness can  be  more  important  than  a 
gentleman's  engagement  with  a  lady?" 

Constance  was  now  thoroughly  an- 
gry, and  her  words  had  the  edge  of  a 
knife.  Her  lover  recoiled. 

"Have  you  forgotten,  Constance, 
that  I  am  not  a  millionaire  ?  This  case 
means  to  me  a  fee  of  twenty-five  thou- 
sand dollars,  which  will  go  far  toward 
making  our  home  one  in  keeping  with 
the  beauty  and  grace  of  its  mistress," 
he  replied,  keeping  a  strangle-hold  on 
his  temper.  But  she  was  not  mollified 
by  his  explanation,  and  her  lip  curled 
in  scorn. 

"Have  I  asked  you  for  a  home?" 
she  queried  cuttingly.  "I  have  a  faint 
recollection  of  possessing  something 
toward  that  myself;  I  do  not  need  to 
marry  for  it." 

He  looked  at  her  in  amazement. 
"Constance,  did  you  think  that  I  could 
live  on  your  money?  My  self-respect 
could  never  survive  that.  Come, 
sweetheart,"  he  pleaded,  with  the  win- 
ning smile  that  had  ever  captivated 
her,  "forgive  my  tardiness,  and  give 
me  my  kiss." 

She  looked  into  his  eyes,  saw  the 
love  shining  there,  and  swayed  toward 
him  in  surrender.  He  caught  her  in 
his  arms,  and  covered  her  lips  with 
burning  kisses.  Then  he  drew  her  to 
a  seat  beside  him  on  a  divan,  and,  with 
his  arm  about  her  waist,  whispered : 

"Have  you  forgiven  me,  sweetheart? 
I  admit,  however,  that  you  should 
make  me  do  penance  for  keeping  so 
sweet  a  girl  waiting.  My  little 
priestess,"  with  a  fond  smile,  "what  is 
the  penalty  I  must  pay?" 

She  smiled  at  his  whimsical  words, 
and  was  on  the  point  of  laughingly 
dismissing  the  matter,  when  her  eyes 
fell  on  Geraldine's  letter  lying  on  the 
carpet,  which,  in  a  flash,  riveted  her 
thoughts  on  the  subject  of  her  inter- 


THE  COWARD. 


507 


est.  She  turned  to  Evelyn  with  an 
arch  smile. 

"I  believe  that  I'll  give  you  a  pen- 
ance, but  I  will  share  it  with  you,"  she 
said. 

"It  won't  be  a  penance  then,"  he  re- 
plied; "a  crust  of  bread  and  a  cup  of 
water  shared  with  you  would  be  para- 
dise. But  what  is  the  joyous  pen- 
ance?" 

At  that  instant  an  unseen  monitor 
warned  her  not  to  persist  in  the  course 
she  meditated,  but  disregarding  it,  she 
turned  to  him,  her  face  lit  with  the 
noonday  of  curiosity. 

"Dear,  have  I  seen  all  the  places  of 
interest  in  Atlanta?"  she  asked  with 
her  sweetest  smile. 

"I  can't  say,  until  I  know  what  you 
have  seen,"  he  replied.  "Let  me  de- 
termine. Have  you  visited  the  Capi- 
tol?" 

"Yes." 

"The  Carnegie  Library?" 

"Certainly." 

"Have  you  emptied  your  purse  at 
Ponce  de  Leon?" 

"You  emptied  yours  for  me,"  she 
laughed. 

"Been  to  Grant  Park  and  inspected 
the  Cyclorama?" 

"Yes." 

"Seen  Grady's  monument?" 

"To  be  sure." 

"The  Federal  prison?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you've  about  covered  the 
ground;  I  can't  think  of  any  other 
place  to  go." 

"Think  again.  There's  something 
yet  that  I'm  wild  to  see.  I  would  go 
alone,  but  I'm  afraid." 

Without  the  faintest  suspicion  of  her 
meaning,  he  replied: 

"Command  me,  dearest,  as  your  es- 
cort; but  I  cannot  imagine  what  it  is 
you  so  desire  to  see  unless  it  is  White- 
hall street  at  night,  which  is  only  a 
miniature  of  Broadway." 

"What  I  wish  to  see  must  be  seen 
to-night." 

"Very  well;  what  is  it  and  where? 
I  am  at  your  service." 

She  pointed  to  the  letter.  "Get  that 
for  me,  dear." 


It  was  in  her  hand  almost  before  her 
sentence  was  finished. 

"Evelyn,  do  you  know  a  New  York 
girl  whose  name  is  Geraldine  Revere?" 

His  brow  wrinkled  in  thought  a  mo- 
ment, then  cleared.  "Yes ;  a  sort  of  so- 
ciological enthusiast.  I  met  her  last 
year  while  she  was  visiting  a  friend 
here.  What  of  her?" 

"This  is  a  letter  from  her.  We've 
been  chums  for  years,  and  when  she 
learned  that  I  was  here  she  wrote  tell- 
ing me  what  to  see.  Read  her  letter 
and  you'll  learn  what  I  am  anxious 
to  behold." 

He  took  the  letter  and  looked  at  it 
curiously,  while  she  watched  him 
breathlessly.  He  had  not  gone  far 
into  it  before  she  perceived  a  frown 
gathering  on  his  brow,  and  her  heart 
leaped.  When  he  finished  the  perusal, 
he  returned  it  to  her  and  rose  to  his 
feet,  beginning  to  pace  the  apartment 
with  nervous  strides. 

"Evelyn,  I  am  wild  to  see  Decatur 
street  to-night.  Geraldine's  letter  has 
inflamed  my  curiosity  to  red  heat,  and 
it  won't  be  satisfied  without  a  trip 
through  that  thoroughfare.  You  took 
her  down  there,  and  you  must  take 
me." 

He  faced  her,  and  she  saw  that  he 
was  pale.  "Dearest,"  he  said,  "your 
friend  spoke  the  truth  when  she  said 
that  she  had  great  difficulty  in  persuad- 
ing me  to  take  her  down  there.  I  did 
take  her,  but  my  esteem  for  her  was 
shaken  by  her  request.  If  I  did  not 
wish  to  escort  through  Decatur  street 
a  lady  who  was  merely  an  acquaint- 
ance, most  decidedly  do  I  object  to 
performing  the  same  service  for  my 
promised  wife.  That  avenue  isn't  a 
fit  locality  for  a  lady." 

She  smiled  at  him  with  calm  assur- 
ance. "I  did  not  suppose  that  the 
place  was  a  drawing-room,  which  is 
the  reason  I  can't  go  alone;  but  with 
you  I  shall  be  perfectly  safe.  Come, 
let  us  start  now,"  and  she  rose  to  her 
feet.  But  he  shook  his  head,  at  which 
he*-  eyes  opened  wide  with  amazed  sur- 
prise. 

"Nor  Constance,  I  won't  take  you 
down  there;  the  very  thought  of  your 


508 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


being  in  that  street  is  profanation.  Dis- 
miss the  idea  from  your  mind,  because 
there  is  nothing  to  see  that  can  pos- 
sibly interest  you." 

The  imperious  girl  faced  him,  red 
danger  signals  flaming  in  her  cheeks. 
To  have  her  expressed  desire  refused 
by  her  lover,  on  whose  aid  she  had 
confidently  relied,  was  irritating  be- 
yond measure. 

"Evelyn,  I  shall  be  sorry  to  be  com- 
pelled to  think  that  your  word  is  not 
trustworthy:  you  have  already  prom- 
ised to  take  me." 

He  looked  at  her  in  unveiled  aston- 
ishment. "Constance,  are  you  mad? 
or  are  you  merely  trying  to  test  your 
power  over  me  ?  You  cannot  be  in  ear- 
nest about  wishing  to  visit  Decatur 
street." 

Her  eyes  gleamed  with  repressed 
anger.  "Am  I  to  trust  your  word  or 
not?"  she  demanded  abruptly,  rapidly 
losing  control  of  her  temper.  "I  am 
beginning  to  suspect  that  you  are  de- 
ficient in  courage,  are  afraid  to  go 
down  there,  for  your  pretended  scru- 
ples are  too  quixotic  for  the  twentieth 
century.  If  you  are  not  afraid,  let  us 
start  at  once." 

He  was  deadly  white,  but  did  not 
quail  before  her  scornful  eyes.  With 
anger  vibrating  in  her  tones,  she  con- 
tinued : 

"It  was  bad  enough  to  keep  me  wait- 
ing thirty  minutes  on  account  of  vulgar 
business,  but  to  positively  refuse  to 
grant  a  simple  request  to  escort  me  to 
a  place  of  interest  is  adding  insult  to 
injury.  Are  you  willing  for  me  to  im- 
pute your  refusal  to  a  lack  of  courage  ? 
If  not,  then  comply  with  my  request." 

All  the  haughty  pride  of  her  im- 
perious womanhood  flamed  in  her  eyes, 
bristled  in  her  proud  bearing  as,  with 
head  held  high,  she  awaited  his  an- 
swer. 

"My  bitterest  foe  never  questioned 
my  courage,"  he  replied  calmly;  "that 
affront  comes  from  my  promised  wife. 
Be  it  so:  I  prefer  to  suffer  the  ques- 
tioning of  my  courage  to  having  you 
appear  in  Decatur  street.  When  I  said 
that  I  was  at  your  service,  I  supposed 
that  you  desired  to  visit  a  place  where 


a  lady  might  go.  If  a  man  had  inti- 
mated to  me  that  my  promised  wife 
would  desire  to  appear  on  that  avenue, 
his  blood  would  have  wiped  out  the 
insult  to  your  honor.  Don't,  darling," 
his  arms  held  out  in  an  attitude  of 
pleading,  "don't  doubt  my  devotion  be- 
cause I  can't  take  you,  my  pure  pearl, 
into  a  pen  of  swine!" 

Her  face  became  livid  with  rage. 

"Mr.  Earle,"  she  said,  with  cutting 
sarcasm,  "you  are  a  coward.  You  do 
not  fear  for  me,. but  for  yourself." 

Her  lip  curled  scornfully  as  she  con- 
fronted the  white-faced  man.  For  the 
first  time  he  seemed  about  to  yield, 
his  eyes  blazed  resentfully;  but  in  a 
moment  the  yielding  impulse  passed. 
With  set  teeth,  he  bowed : 

"If  it  is  cowardice  to  decline  to  es- 
cort a  lady  to  a  locality  unfit  for  her 
presence,  then  I  am  a  coward,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"Pshaw!"  she  cried,  throwing  him  a 
glance  of  contempt,  "don't  attempt  to 
veil  your  unmanly  fear  beneath  the 
transparent  garb  of  concern  for  me.  I 
am  not  afraid — you  are;  that  it  all. 
And,"  drawing  the  diamond  from  her 
finger,  "as  I  could  not  wed  a  coward, 
permit  me  to  return  your  ring.  Mr. 
Percival  will  soon  be  here,  and  he, 
I'm  sure,  will  not  be  afraid  to  escort 
me  through  Decatur  street." 

"Constance,"  said  Earle  earnestly, 
"it  is  madness  even  to  think  of  ap- 
pearing to-night  on  that  thoroughfare 
— you'd  be  insulted.  I  must  bow  to 
your  mandate,  I  suppose,  and  accept 
my  release,  but,  as  one  who  loves  you 
better  than  his  life,  let  me  beg  you  not 
to  do  this  thing." 

She  laughed  scornfully.  "You've 
said  enough.  When  I  began  the  jour- 
ney to  this  city  from  my  home  in 
New  York,  I  never  dreamed  of  sinking 
so  low  as  to  fall  in  love  with  a  cow- 
ard; I  imagined  that  all  Southern  gen- 
tlemen were  brave  men.  My  disillu- 
sionment, however,  comes  in  time.  You 
may  go." 

Without  another  word,  with  only  a 
long,  intense  look  into  her  beautiful, 
scornful  eyes,  he  turned  and  was  gone. 
But  as  she  stood  looking  after  him,  the 


THE  COWARD. 


509 


tears  began  to  trickle  down  her  pale 
cheeks.  Stumbling  blindly,  she  left 
the  drawing-room  and  went  to  her  pri- 
vate apartment. 

Even  while  the  betrothed  lovers 
were  engaged  in  their  stormy  dialogue 
there  had  appeared  on  the  streets  of 
Atlanta  a  sensational  newspaper  "ex- 
tra," narrating  the  story  of  a  human 
fiend's  attempt  to  commit  an  unmen- 
tionable crime  in  one  of  the  city's 
suburbs.  Within  the  previous  three 
weeks  similar  crimes  had  been  perpe- 
trated in  the  vicinity  of  the  city.  None 
of  the  criminals  had  been  appre- 
hended, which  bred  uneasiness  in  wo- 
men and  resentment  in  men.  Fires  of 
racial  hatred  were  smouldering  in 
many  white  breasts  which  needed  only 
a  sharp  breeze  in  the  form  of  a  new 
horror  to  fan  them  into  a  conflagra- 
tion. The  sensational  "extra"  was  the 
breeze. 

Constance  had  barely  regained  her 
composure  before  a  servant  came  to 
announce  that  Elrod  Percival  waited 
in  the  drawing-room.  He  rose  as,  with 
a  smile,  she  entered. 

"Mr.  ^  Percival,  your  coming  is  most 
opportune.  I  am  wild  to  see  Decatur 
street  to-night.  Will  you  take  me?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  unveiled  amaze- 
ment. She  misinterpreted  the  expres- 
sion on  his  face  and  colored  angrily. 

"Are  you  also  afraid?  I  asked  Mr. 
Earle  to  take  me,  but  he  was  a  cow- 
ard. I  dislike  men  who  are  not  above 
fear.  Is  it  yes  or  no  ?" 

Elrod  started.  Had  she  quarreled 
with  Earle  ?  If  so,  might  not  he  him- 
self win  this  glorious  girl  ?  He  did  not 
permit  these  ideas,  however,  to  show 
in  his  face. 

"Certainly  you  shall  go,  Miss  Grey," 
he  replied.  "There  is  no  danger;  I 
was  startled  only  by  the  novelty  of 
your  request.  I  will  step  to  the  tele- 
phone and  call  a  carriage." 

"Don't  do  that;  I  prefer  to  walk," 

Elrod  felt  a  quiver  of  fear  when  she 
gave  her  verdict  in  favor  of  walking, 
but  not  for  worlds  would  he  have  per- 
mitted her  to  know  it. 

As  the  couple  left  the  house,  nei- 
ther perceived  standing  in  the  shadow 


of  an  elm  across  the  street,  the  figure 
of  a  gentleman  clad  in  evening  clothes. 

"By  Jove!"  exclaimed  Evelyn  un- 
der his  breath,  "that  fool's  taking  her 
down  there!" 

Forming  a  quick  decision,  Earle  fol- 
lowed, keeping  in  sight  of  them,  but 
not  near  enough  to  betray  himself.  He 
turned  after  them  into  Decatur  street. 

As  she  walked  slowly  along,  Con- 
stance momentarily  forgot  her  lover 
in  the  delicious  excitement  of  her 
novel  adventure.  The  throngs  of  care- 
free darkies,  laughing  and  jesting  like 
children,  the  shouting  fish  vendors,  the 
Greek  fruit  merchants,  seemed  to 
transport  her  into  another  world.  She 
was  too  deeply  absorbed  to  notice  the 
glances  of  amused  suggestiveness 
thrown  at  them  by  many  men;  but  of 
which  Percival  was  painfully  con- 
scious, cursing  himself  for  yielding  to 
her  quixotic  whim. 

Constance's  first  shock  came  when 
a  drunken  woman,  young  and  pretty, 
staggered  against  her  in  passing.  The 
courtesan  hissed  a  curse  at  the  beauty, 
whose  delicate  cheek  flushed.  A  few 
minutes  later  she  saw  two  negroes  reel 
from  a  saloon,  struggling  in  each 
other's  embrace,  an  open  razor  in  one's 
hand.  He  made  a  vicious  slash  at  his 
adversary's  throat,  and  Constance 
paled  when  the  blood  spurted.  The 
prompt  appearance  of  a  big  policeman 
put  an  end  to  the  fight,  and  both  com- 
batants were  placed  under  arrest. 

When  they  reached  Police  Head- 
quarters at  the  lower  end  of  the  street, 
Elrod  suggested  their  turning  back. 
Passing  a  cross  street,  they  perceived 
a  company  of  soldiers  drawn  up.  They 
were  regulars  returning  to  their  bar- 
racks south  of  the  city  after  a  ten 
days'  "hike"  to  the  mountains.  Their 
present  pause  was  due  to  the  fact  that 
their  march  was  interrupted  by  a  train 
of  freight  cars  which  had  blocked  the 
street  where  it  cross  the  tracks.  Later 
Constance  felt  profoundly  grateful  for 
their  presence. 

The  couple  had  traversed  four 
squares  when  they  noticed  a  commo- 
tion ahead.  Suddenly  they  saw  negroes 
running  down  the  s-treet  towards  them. 


510 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


A  moment  later  they  perceived  a  mob 
of  men  and  youths  in  hot  pursuit  of  the 
flying  blacks.  At  that  instant  one  of 
the  frightened  creatures  stumbled  and 
fell.  Immediately  afterward,  while 
Constance  looked  on  with  horror-filled 
eyes,  a  dozen  knives  flashed  and  were 
buried  in  his  body,  which  writhed  a 
few  moments,  then  lay  still. 

The  awful  spectacle  was  but  one  of 
many  at  that  moment  being  enacted  in 
the  city,  of  which  the  public  prints 
have  long  ago  told  the  reading  world. 
Racial  hate,  inflamed  to  madness  by 
the  story  told  in  the  newspaper  "ex- 
tra," was  wreaking  its  vengeance  on 
the  execrated  race. 

Yelling  curses,  the  mob  swept  to- 
wards the  pair.  Too  terrified  to  move, 
Constance  stood  trembling.  Suddenly 
they  were  perceived  by  a  negro  youth. 
Seeing  possible  succor,  he  fled  to  them 
and  threw  himself  in  abject  terror  at 
their  feet. 

"Save  me,  Massa!  Save  me,  Mis- 
tis!"  he  shrieked.  "My  God!  they'll 
kill  me!" 

By  a  swift  movement,  of  which  she 
was  barely  conscious,  Constance 
stepped  between  the  fugitive  and  his 
pursuers.  But  they  had  seen  him. 

"Here,  men,"  called  the  leader, 
"vender's  a  nigger.  Come  on,  let's  kill 
the  damned  scoundrel!" 

"Yes,  kill  'im;  shoot  'im;  stab  'im; 
smash  'im  to  pieces!"  yelled  the  fran- 
tic men  as  they  approached  the  couple. 

"Come,  Miss  Grey,"  said  Elrod 
quickly,  "let  us  get  away;  we  can't 
protect  him,  and  the  mob  will  not  re- 
spect you." 

Constance  glanced  at  him  in  sur- 
prise. When  she  saw  how  he  trembled 
her  lip  curled. 

"You  must  not  let  them  kill  him, 
Mr.  Percival!"  she  cried  in  an  agony 
of  terror. 

"I  tell  you,  we  can't  stop  them. 
They'll  kill  us  if  we  try.  Come,  let  us 
go.  quick." 

"Kill  the  dude!  kill  the  strumpet! 
smash  'em  both — they're  shieldin'  a 
nigger!"  yelled  the  mob. 

The  girl  stretched  out  her  hand  to 
Percival  for  protection,  but  grasped 


empty  air  only.  Turning  swiftly,  she 
saw  him  flying  down  the  street  as  if 
for  his  life.  A  chill  of  deadly  fear 
clutched  her  heart  on  finding  herself 
abandoned.  But,  with  the  crouching 
negro  still  behind  her,  she  turned  and 
again  faced  the  mob.  Suddenly  she 
felt  the  touch  of  a  hand  on  her  arm, 
and  heard  a  cool,  familiar  voice  in  her 
ear. 

"Stand  behind  me,  dearest." 

Wheeling,  she  gazed  wonderingly 
into  the  face  of  the  man  whom  she  had 
stigmatized  as  a  coward.  An  automatic 
pistol  was  in  his  hand. 

The  mob  perceived  Elrod's  cowardly 
retreat  and  yelled  in  savage  triumph. 
The  ruffians  surged  forward,  but  a 
stern  voice  commanded : 

"Halt!  one  step  and  I'll  fire!" 

The  sublime  courage  in  that  daunt- 
less tone  served  to  check  the  rush  of 
the  mob.  Its  leader  did  not  want  to 
provoke  a  battle  with  a  gentleman, 
neither  did  he  wish  to  surrender  his 
prey.  He  attempted  to  parley : 

"Say.  Mister,  let  us  have  'im;  we're 
goin'  to  kill  'em  all.  We  don't  want  to 
hurt  you,  but  we'll  have  that  nigger, 
or  there'll  be  trouble.  Give  'im  up 
and  you'll  not  be  hurt." 

"No,"  replied  Earle  calmly;  "I  do 
not  know  what  this  means,  but  I  will 
not  connive  at  murder." 

"Come  on,  fellers,  we'll  take  'im 
anyhow,"  shouted  the  leader.  "Come 
on,  it's  only  a  dude  and  a  street- 
walker," and  they  rushed.  Instantly 
there  was  a  flash,  a  report,  and  the 
leader  fell  dead  with  a  bullet  in  his 
heart.  Then  pandemonium  reigned. 
Sticks,  stones,  and  beer  bottles  came 
hurtling  towards  the  couple,  pelting 
Earle's  chest  and  shoulders.  He  man- 
aged, however,  to  shield  Constance 
with  his  own  body. 

Presently  one  of  the  ruffians  fired  a 
revolver,  and  the  girl  saw  Evelyn  stag- 
ger. At  that  moment  a  shout  in  their 
rear  drew  her  eyes  thither.  A  fleeing 
negro  had  given  the  alarm  to  the  com- 
pany of  soldiers,  and  the  captain, 
urged  by  necessity,  had  ordered  his 
men  to  double-quick  to  the  scene.  As 
Constance  glanced  backward,  the  sol- 


THE  COWARD. 


511 


diers  swept  round  a  corner  and  charged 
with  the  bayonet.  It  was  too  much 
for  the  nerves  of  the  cowardly  villains, 
who,  scattering  in  all  directions,  fled 
pell-mell  from  the  spot. 

Realizing  that  his  life  was  saved, 
the  negro  boy  tried  brokenly  to  thank 
his  preservers.  Earle  made  a  gesture. 

"Go  while  you  have  the  chance,"  he 
said,  and  the  youth  hastened  to  obey. 
Evelyn  turned  to  Constance.  She 
looked  at  him  and  screamed.  Blood 
was  dyeing  his  shirt  front  from  a  bul- 
let wound  in  his  breast. 

"Darling,  you're  hurt!"  she  cried 
in  anguish. 

"It's  nothing,"  he  replied,  but  with 
the  words  he  tottered  and  fell  heavily 
to  the  pavement. 

During  the  next  two  hours,  while 
physicians  worked  over  her  lover's 
insensible  body,  Constance  Grey  lived 
an  age.  Her  conduct  loomed  before 
her  eyes  frowningly,  and  she  lashed 
herself  in  the  bitterness  of  her  remorse. 
Barred  by  inexorable  necessity  from 
Earle's  side,  she  could  only  wait  in 
anguish  of  soul  the  result  of  the  op- 


eration, and  while  she  waited,  the 
scales  fell  from  her  eyes.  She  saw  her 
insane  folly  in  all  of  its  naked  ugli- 
ness, realized  the  enormity  of  her  con- 
temptible pride ;  and  from  the  crucible 
of  conscience  she  emerged  a  new  wo- 
man, stripped  of  selfishness.  Breath- 
ing an  agonized  prayer  for  her  lover's 
life  in  order  that  she  might  atone  for 
her  cruelty,  she  arose,  in  response  to 
the  quiet  summons  of  a  nurse,  and  was 
conducted  to  the  room  where,  after  the 
successful  operation,  her  lover  lay. 

"He  wants  to  see  you  alone,"  said 
the  nurse.  "You  must  not  stay  over 
five  minutes,  or  he'll  be  endangered." 

Constance  softly  opened  the  door 
and  entered.  Earle  turned  his  eyes 
and  saw  her.  Falling  on  her  knees  be- 
side his  bed,  she  buried  her  face  in  the 
coverlet  and  shook  with  silent  sobs. 
Then  she  felt  his  hand  caress  her  hair, 
and  she  looked  into  his  face. 

"Darling,  forgive!"  she  cried  in  an- 
guish. 

He  met  her  swimming  eyes;  then 
Love's  chisel  carved  a  pardoning 
smile  on  his  lips. 


THE    SABBATH    DAY 


By  C.  T.  Russell,  Pastor   London   and    Brooklyn   Tabernacles 


"The  Sabbath  was  made  for  man, 
and  not  man  for  the  Sabbath;  therefore 
the  Son  of  Man  is  Lord  also  of  the 
Sabbath."— Mark  2 :27,  28. 

SEVEN  is  a  very  prominent  num- 
ber in  the  Bible — in  everything 
relating  to  the  Divine  Program. 
In  the  first  chapter  of  Genesis, 
the  Sabbath  Day  is  referred  to  in  a 
figurative  way  in  speaking  of  the  sev- 
enth epoch  of  God's  creations  on  our 
earth — bringing  order  out  of  chaos. 
Not  until  Mt.  Sinai,  however,  when 
the  Law  was  given  to  Israel  on  two 
tables  of  stone,  was  the  Day  Sabbath 
made  obligatory  on  anybody.  And 
since  that  law  covenant  was  made 
with  the  one  nation  (Israel)  and  none 
other,  the  Sabbath  requirements  of 
that  Law  apply  to  that  nation  only. 
This  does  not  signify  that  the  setting 
apart  of  a  certain  time  for  rest  would 
be  of  advantage  only  to  the  Jew,  nor 
that  a  special  seventh  day  devoted  to 
God  would  be  disadvantageous  to  all 
people.  It  merely  means  that  God  en- 
tered into  covenant  relationship  with 
the  one  nation  only,  and  hence  to  them 
only  He  told  His  will,  His  law — obe- 
dience to  which  He  made  the  founda- 
tion of  the  blessing  He  promised  to 
that  people.  There  ;s  no  room  to  ques- 
tion the  import  of  the  Fourth  Com- 
mandment of  the  Jewish  law.  It  dis- 
tinctly commanded  that  the  seventh 
day  of  the  week  should  be  to  the  Jews 
a  rest  day,  in  which  no  work  of  any 
kind  should  be  done,  either  by  parent 
or  child,  employer  or  servant,  male  or 
female,  ox  or  ass,  or  any  creature 
owned  by  a  Jew.  It  was  a  rest  day 
pure  and  simple.  Divine  worship 
was  not  commanded  to  be  done  on  that 


day — not  because  God  would  be  dis- 
pleased to  have  Divine  worship  upon 
that  day  or  upon  any  day,  but  because 
there  is  a  reason  connected  with  the 
matter  which  related,  not  to  worship,, 
but  to  rest,  as  we  shall  see.  The  strict- 
ness of  this  law  upon  the  Jew  is  fully 
attested  by  the  fact  that  upon  one  occa- 
sion, by  Divine  command,  a  man  was 
stoned  to  death  for  merely  picking  up 
sticks  on  the  Sabbath  Day.  It  is  plain, 
therefore,  to  be  seen  that  the  law  given 
to  Israel  on  this  subject  meant  what  it 
said  to  the  very  letter. 

In  the  New  Testament,  Jesus  is  sup- 
posed by  some  to  have  taught  a  laxity 
in  the  matter  of  Sabbath  observance,, 
but  this  is  quite  a  misunderstanding. 
Jesus,  born  a  Jew,  "born  under  the 
law,"  was  as  much  obligated  to  keep 
that  law  in  its  very  letter  as  was  any 
other  Jew.  And  he  did  not,  of  course, 
violate  the  obligation  in  the  slightest 
degree.  The  Scribes  and  Phaisees 
had  strayed  away  from  the  real  spirit 
of  the  law  in  many  particulars.  Their 
tradition,  represented  at  the  present 
time  by  their  Talmud,  attempted  to  ex- 
plain the  law,  but  really,  as  Jesus  said 
frequently,  made  it  void,  meaningless, 
absurd.  For  instance,  according  to  the 
traditions  of  their  eiders,  it  was  break- 
ing the  Sabbath  if  one  were  hungry  to 
rub  the  kernels  of  wheat  in  their  hands 
and  blow  away  the  chaff  and  eat  the 
grain,  as  the  disciples  did  one  Sabbath 
Day  in  passing  through  the  wheat  field.. 
The  Pharisees  called  attention  to  this, 
and  wanted  Jesus  to  reprove  ^he  dis- 
ciples, because,  according  fo  their 
thought,  this  simple  process  was  labor 
— work — reaping  and  thrashing  and 
winnowing.  Jesus  resisted  this  absurd 
misinterpretation  of  the  law,  and  by 


THE  SABBATH  DAY. 


513 


His  arguments  proved  to  any  one  will- 
ing to  be  taught  that  they  had  mis- 
taken the  Divine  intention — had  mis- 
translated the  law  of  the  Sabbath.  On 
several  occasions  He  healed  the  sick  on 
the  Sabbath  Day.  Indeed,  the  major- 
ity of  His  healings  were  done  on  that 
day,  greatly  to  the  disgust  of  the 
Pharisees,  who  claimed  that  He  was 
a  law-breaker  in  so  doing.  We  cannot 
suppose  that  Jesus  performed  these 
miracles  to  aggravate  the  Pharisees; 
rather  we  are  to  understand  that  their 
Sabbath  Day  typified  the  great  Sab- 
bath of  blessing  and  healing — the  an- 
titypical  Sabbath  which  is  in  the  future 
— the  period  of  the  Messianic  reign 
and  the  healing  of  all  earth's  sorrows. 
Jesus  clearly  pointed  out  to  the 
Scribes  and  Pharisees  that  they  were 
misinterpreting  the  meaning  of  the 
Divine  arrangement,  that  God  did  not 
make  man  merely  to  keep  a  Sabbath, 
but  that  He  had  made  the  Sabbath  for, 
in  the  interest  of,  mankind.  Hence 
everything  necessary  for  man's  assist- 
ance would  be  lawful  on  the  Sabbath 
Day,  however  laborious  it  might  be. 
Indeed,  Jesus  carried  the  thought  still 
farther,  and  pointed  out  to  His  hearers 
the  absurdity  of  their  position — for, 
He  said,  if  any  of  you  should  have  an 
ox  or  an  ass  fall  into  the  pit  on  a  Sab- 
bath Day,  would  you  leave  him  to  die 
and  thus  suffer  loss,  as  well  as  allow 
the  animal  to  be  in  pain?  Assuredly 
they  would  not,  and  assuredly  they 
would  be  justified  in  helping  any  crea- 
ture out  of  trouble  on  that  day.  Then 
said  Jesus,  If  so  much  might  be  done 
for  a  dumb  creature,  might  not  a  good 
work  of  mercy  and  help  for  mankind 
be  properly  enough  done  on  the  Sab- 
bath Day? 

The  Seventh  Day  Still  a  Sabbath. 

A  mistake  made  by  many  Christ- 
ians is  the  supposition  that  the  law 
covenant  which  God  made  with  Israel 
ceased,  nassed  away.  On  the  contrary, 
as  the  Apostle  declares,  "The  law 
hath  dominion  over  a  man  so  long  as 
he  liveth."  The  Jewish  law  is  as  ob- 
ligatory upon  the  Jew  to-day  as  it  was 


upon  his  fathers  in  the  days  of  Moses. 
Only  death  could  set  the  Jew  free 
from  that  law  covenant  until,  in  God's 
due  time,  it  shall  be  enlarged  and 
made  what  God,  through  the  Prophet, 
styles  a  new  covenant — a  new  law 
covenant.  That  will  take  place  just 
as  soon  as  the  Mediator  of  the  new 
covenant  shall  have  been  raised  up 
from  amongst  the  people.  That  pro- 
phet will  be  like  unto  Moses,  but 
greater — the  antitype.  That  prophet 
will  be  the  glorified  Christ — Jesus  the 
head  and  the  completed  church,  who 
are  frequently  spoken  of  as  members 
of  His  body,  and  sometimes  styled  the 
bride,  the  lamb's  wife.  This  antitypi- 
cal  mediator  (Acts  3:22,  23),  under 
the  new  law  covenant  which  He  will 
then  establish,  will  assist  the  Jews 
(and  all  who  come  into  harmony  with 
God  through  Him)  back  to  that  human 
perfection  in  which  they  will  be  able 
to  keep  the  Divine  law  perfectly  in 
every  particular.  This  great  mediator, 
Messiah,  will  for  a  thousand  years 
carry  on  this  great  work. 

This  mediator  is  not  yet  completed. 
The  head  has  passed  into  glory  cen- 
turies ago,  but  the  body,  the  church, 
awaits  a  completeness  of  membership 
and  resurrection  change — to  be  made 
"like  Him  and  see  Him  as  He  is"  and 
share  His  glory  and  His  work.  ^ 

Meantime  the  law  covenant  is  still 
in  force  upon  every  Jew;  but  it  is  not 
in  force  upon  any  but  Jews,  as  it  never 
has  been  in  force  upon  any  other  peo- 
ple. During  these  eighteen  centuries, 
between  the  death  of  Christ  and  the 
inauguration  of  the  new  covenant, 
Jesus,  as  the  great  high  priest,  is  offer- 
ing the  "better  sacrifices"  mentioned 
by  St.  Paul  ( Hebrews  ^  9:23)  and  de- 
scribed in  type  in  Leviticus  16.  The 
first  part  of  the  great  high  priest's  sac- 
rifice was  the  offering  of  the  human 
body  which  He  took  for  the  purpose 
when  He  was  made  flesh— "a  body 
hast  thou  prepared  Me"  "for  the  suf- 
fering of  death."  (Heb.  10:5,  2:9.) 
The  second  part  of  His  "better  sacri- 
fices" is  the  offering  of  His  mystical 
body — the  church.  This  work  has 
been  in  progress  since  Pentecost.  To 


514 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


the  consecrated  ones  who  approach  the 
Father  through  Him  He  becomes  the 
advocate.  He  accepts  them  as  His 
members  on  the  earth;  and  their  suf- 
ferings thenceforth  are  His  sufferings 
so  fully  that  He  could  say  of  them  to 
Saul  of  Tarsus,  "Saul,  Saul,  why  per- 
secutest  thou  Me  ?"  "I  am  Jesus  whom 
thou  persecutest."  These,  accepted  as 
His  representatives  in  the  flesh,  their 
blemishes  covered  by  their  advocate's 
merit,  are  begotten,  by  the  Heavenly 
Father,  of  the  Holy  Spirit  to  be  mem- 
bers of  the  new  creation — the  spiritual 
body  of  Christ,  of  which  He  is  the 
head. 

We  remarked  that  the  Sabbath  Day, 
still  in  full  force  and  its  observance 
obligatory  upon  the  Jew,  is  not  upon 
other  nationalities.  We  should  modify 
this  statement  by  the  remark  that  there 
are  some  who  mistakenly  endeavor  to 
be  Jews  and  try  to  get  under  the  law 
covenant  provisions  as  Sabbath-keep- 
ers. St.  Paul  recognized  this  ten- 
dency in  his  day.  Note  his  words  to 
the  Christians  of  Galatia,  who  were 
not  by  nature  Jews,  but  Gentiles.  He 
says,  "Ye  that  desire  to  be  under  the 
law,  do  ye  not  hear  the  law?"  "Oh, 
foolish  Galatians,  who  hath  bewitched 
you?"  He  proceeds  to  show  them 
that  the  Jews  are  in  bondage  to  their 
law  and  can  never  get  eternal  life  un- 
der it  until  the  Mosaic  law  covenant 
shall  ultimately  be  merged  into  the 
Messianic  new  law  covenant.  His  ar- 
gument then  is  that  if  the  Jew  cannot 
get  life  in  keeping  the  law,  it  would 
be  foolish  for  Gentiles  to  think  that 
they  could  secure  Divine  favor  and 
everylasting  life  by  keeping  the  law. 
He  declares,  "By  the  deeds  of  the  law 
shall  no  flesh  be  justified  in  God's 
sight."  The  only  way  to  obtain  justi- 
fication in  God's  sight  is  by  the  ac- 
ceptance of  Christ  and  by  a  full  conse- 
cration to  be  His  disciples  and  to  join 
with  Him  in  His  covenant  of  sacrifice 
as  it  is  written,  "Gather  together  My 
saints  unto  Me,  saith  the  Lord,  those 
who  have  made  a  covenant  with  Me  by 
sacrifice."  (Psalm  50:5.);  and  again, 
"I  beseech  you,  brethren,  present  your 
bodies  living  sacrifices,  holy  and  ac- 


ceptable to  God,  your  reasonable  ser- 
vice."— Romans  12 :1. 

Christians  and  the  Law  Sabbath. 

St.  Paul  did  not  mean  that  Christ- 
ians should  not  strive  to  keep  the 
Divine  law,  but  that  they  should  not 
put  themselves  under  it  as  a  covenant, 
nor  think  that  by  striving  to  oppose 
the  law  covenant  they  would  get  or 
maintain  harmony  with  God  and  gain 
the  reward  of  everlasting  life.  On  the 
contrary,  he  declares  in  so  many 
words,  "The  righteousness  of  the  law 
is  fulfilled  in  us  who  are  walking,  not 
after  (or  according  to)  the  flesh,  but 
after  (or  according  to)  the  spirit." 
(Romans  8:4.)  His  meaning  is  clear. 
The  Decalogue  was  never  given  to 
Christians,  but  it  is  quite  appropriate 
that  Christians  should  look  back  to 
that  Decalogue  and  note  the  spirit  of 
its  teachings  and  strive  to  conform 
their  lives  thereto  in  every  particular. 

But  what  is  the  spirit  of  the  Deca- 
logue? Our  Lord  Jesus  clearly  set  it 
forth  to  be — "Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord 
thy  God  with  all  thy  heart,  with  all  thy 
mind,  with  all  thy  being,  with  all  thy 
strength,  and  thou  shalt  love  thy  neigh- 
bor as  thyself."  St.  Paul  says  that 
our  Lord  not  only  kept  the  law,  but 
that  He  magnified  it,  or  showed  it  to 
have  greater  proportions  than  the  Jews 
ever  supposed  it  had — length  and 
breadth,  height  and  depth  beyond  the 
ability  of  fallen  humanity  to  perform; 
moreover,  the  apostle  declares  that 
our  Lord  Jesus  made  that  law  honor- 
able. The  Jews  having  tried  to  keep 
the  Divine  law  for  more  than  sixteen 
centuries,  had  reason  to  doubt  if  any 
one  could  keep  it  in  ,\  way  satisfactory 
to  God.  But  the  fact  that  Jesus  did 
keep  the  law  perfectly,  and  that  God 
was  satisfied  with  His  keeping  of  it, 
made  the  law  honorable — proved  that 
it  was  not  an  unreasonable  require- 
ment— not  beyond  the  ability  of  a  per- 
fect man. 

Jesus  showed  the  spirit  or  deeper 
meaning  of  several  of  the  command- 
ments; for  instance,  the  commandment 
Thou  shalt  do  no  murder.  He  indi- 


THE  SABBATH  DAY. 


515 


cated  would  be  violated  by  any  one's 
becoming  angry  and  manifesting  in 
any  degree  an  injurious  or  murderous 
spirit.  (See  also  1  John  3:15.)  The 
commandment  respecting  adultery  our 
Lord  declares  could  be  violated  by  the 
mind  without  any  overt  act — the  sim- 
ple desire  to  commit  adultery  if  an  op- 
portunity offered  would  be  a  violation 
of  the  spirit  of  that  commandment.  It 
is  this  magnified  conception  of  the 
Ten  Commandments  that  the  apostle 
says  Christians  are  better  able  to  ap- 
preciate than  the  Jews,  because  of 
having  received  the  begetting  of  the 
Holy  Spirit.  And  it  is  this  highest 
conception  of  the  Divine  Law  which 
is  fulfilled  in  us  (Christians — footstep 
followers  of  Jesus)  who  are  walking 
through  life,  not  according  to  the  flesh 
and  its  desires  and  promptings,  but  ac- 
cording to  the  spirit — the  spirit  of  the 
Divine  law,  the  spirit  which  the  Father 
hath  sent  forth  into  our  hearts — the 
desire  to  be  like  Him  who  is  the  foun- 
tain of  love  and  purity. 

The  Spirit  of  the  Sabbath. 

And  there  is  another  or  deeper  mean- 
ing to  the  other  commandments  than 
v/as  understood  by  the  Jews;  so  it  is 
also  with  the  Fourth,  which  enjoins  the 
keeping  of  the  seventh  day  as  a  day 
of  rest  or  Sabbath.  The  word  Sab- 
bath signifies  rest,  and  its  deeper  or 
antitypical  meaning  to  the  Christian 
is  the  rest  of  faith.  The  Jew,  unable 
to  keep  the  Mosaic  law  and  unable, 
therefore,  to  get  everlasting  life  under 
the  law  covenant,  was  exhorted  to  flee 
to  Christ;  and,  by  becoming  dead  to 
the  law  covenant,  by  utterly  renoun- 
cing it,  he  was  privileged  to  come  'into 
membership  in  Christ — become  sharer 
in  the  covenant  of  sacrifice.  So  doing, 
he  was  promised  rest  from  the  law  and 
its  condemnation,  because  "to  them 
that  are  in  Christ  there  is  no  condem- 
nation"— the  merit  of  Christ  covers 
the  shortcomings  of  all  those  who  are 
striving  to  walk  in  His  steps,  and  the 
Divine  Spirit  and  Word  give  them  the 
assurances  of  Divine  favor,  which  ush- 
ers them  into  peace  with  God  through 


our  Lord  Jesus  Christ — ushers  them 
into  rest.  Thus  the  apostle  declares, 
"We  which  believe  do  enter  into  (Sab- 
bath) rest." — Hebrews  4:3. 

Moreover,  the  Apostle  indicates  that 
although  we  enter  into  a  rest  of  faith 
now,  through  faith  and  obedience  to 
Christ,  Christians  have  a  still  greater 
rest  awaiting  them  beyond  their  resur- 
rection, when. they  shall  enter  into  the 
rest  which  is  in  reservation  for  those 
that  love  the  Lord — the  rest,  the  per- 
fection, on  the  spirit  plane,  attained, 
as  the  Apostle  describes,  by  resurrec- 
tion— "sown  in  weakness,  raised  in 
power;  sown  in  dishonor,  raised  in 
glory;  sown  an  animal  body,  raised 
a  spirit  body." 

Fiftieth  Day   and  Fiftieth  Year. 

Here  we  are  reminded  that  Israel 
had  two  systems  of  Sabbaths — one  of 
Sabbath  days  and  the  other  of  Sab- 
bath years.  The  Sabbath  days  began 
to  count  in  the  spring.  It  was  a  multi- 
ple of  seven.  Seven  times  seven  days 
(forty-nine  days)  brought  them  to  the 
Jubilee  day,  the  fiftieth  day,  which 
was  styled  Pentecost.  It  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  call  attention  to  the  ful- 
fillment of  the  anti-type  of  this.  Pen- 
tecost never  had  its  true  meaning  un- 
til the  Lord,  as  "the  first-fruits  of  them 
that  slept,"  arose  from  the  dead.  Then 
immediately  the  seven  times  seven, 
plus  one,  began  to  count,  and  on  the 
fiftieth  day,  the  Holy  Spirit  was  shed 
abroad  upon  all  those  "Israelites  in- 
deed who,  already  consecrated,  were 
waiting  in  the'  upper  room  for  the  anti- 
typical  high  priest  to  make  satisfac- 
tion for  their  sins  and  to  shed  forth 
upon  them  the  holy  spirit,  as  the  evi- 
dence of  their  restoration  to  divine 
favor.  Immediately  they  had  peace 
with  God.  Immediately  they  entered 
into  rest.  Immediately  they  realized 
that  they  were  children  of  God,  begot- 
ten of  the  holy  spirit,  that  they  might 
in  due  time  become  joint-heirs  with 
Jesus  Christ,  their  Lord.  And  is  it  not 
true  that  all  down  throughout  this 
gospel  age  all  who  followed  in  the 
footsteps  of  Jesus  and  the  disciples, 


516 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


all  who  renounce  sin,  trist  in  Jesus  and 
fully  consecrate  their  lives  to  Him,  be- 
come recipients  of  the  holy  spirit  and 
similarly  enter  into  His  rest?  Only 
those  who  have  entered  into  this  rest 
and  joy  of  the  holy  spirit  can  fully  ap- 
preciate the  matter. 

Now  let  us  glance  at  the  year  Sab- 
bath. Every  seventh  year  the  land  had 
its  rest.  And  seven  times  seven  (forty- 
nine)  brought  them  up  to  the  fiftieth 
year  or  the  year  of  jubilee,  in  which 
year  all  debts  were  cancelled  and  each 
Israelite  returned  to  his  own  inheri- 
tance. It  was  a  year  of  rest,  peace, 
joy.  That  jubilee  p!ctuies  the  glor- 
ious restitution  times  of  Messiah's 
kingdom,  which,  we  believe,  are  nigh, 
even  at  the  door.  When  these  times 
shall  be  ushered  in,  all  the  faithful 
followers  of  Jesus  will  have  reached 
the  heavenly  condition,  to  be  forever 
with  the  Lord.  Their  rest  (Sabbath 
keeping)  will  have  reached  its  comple- 
tion, its  perfection,  and  throughout  that 
antitypical  jubilee  the  blessings  of 
Divine  favor  will  be  gradually  ex- 
tended to  the  whole  world,  that  every 
creature  desirous  of  coming  into  har- 
mony with  God  may.  enter  into  the 
rest  which  .God  has  provided  for  the 
poor,  groaning  creation  through  the 
great  Redeemer. 

The  Christian's  Sunday  Sabbath. 

From  what  we  have  already  seen,  it 
is  manifest  that  God  has  put  no  Sab- 
bath obligations  upon  the  Christian — 
neither  for  the  seventh  day  nor  for 
any  other  day  of  the  week.  He  has, 
however,  provided  for  them  a  rest  in 
the  Lord,  which  is  typified  by  the  Jew- 
ish Sabbath  day.  Do  we  ask  upon 
which  day  we  should  celebrate  this 
rest?  We  answer  that  we  should  be 
in  this  heart  attitude  of  joy,  rest,  peace 
in  the  Lord  and  in  His  finished  work, 
every  day.  So,  then,  the  Christian,  in- 
stead of  having  a  Sabbath  rest  day, 
as  the  Jew,  has  rest  perpetual — every 
day.  And  instead  of  its  being  merely 
a  rest  for  his  body,  it  is  better — a  rest 
for  his  soul,  a  rest  for  his  entire  being. 
It  can  be  enjoyed  wherever  he  may  be, 


"at  home  or  abroad,  on  the  land  or  the 
sea,"  for  "as  his  days  may  demand, 
shall  his  rest  ever  be."  This  is  the 
spiritual  antitype  to  the  spiritual  Is- 
raelite, of  the  law  Sabbath  given  to 
the  natural  Israelites.  Whoever  quib- 
bles for  the  day  Sabbath  of  the  Jew 
shows  clearly  that  he  has  not  under- 
stood nor  appreciated  as  yet,  to  the 
full,  at  least,  the  antitypical  Sabbath 
which  God  has  provided  for  the  spirit- 
ual Israelite  through  Christ. 

But  is  there  not  a  compulsion  to  the 
Christian  to  observe  one  day  in  the 
week  sacred  to  the  Lord?  Yes,  we 
answer;  there  is  an  obligation  upon 
him  such  as  there  is  upon  no  one  else 
in  the  world.  He  is  obligated  by  his 
covenant  to  the  Lord  to  keep  every 
day  sacred  to  the  Lord.  Every  day  he 
is  to  love  the  Lord  his  God  with  all 
his  heart,  with  all  his  mind,  with  all 
his  being,  with  all  his  strength;  every 
day  he  is  to  love  his  neighbor  as  him- 
self. And  while  striving  to  the  best 
of  his  ability  to  conform  to  this  spirit 
of  the  Divine  law,  and  while  realizing 
that  the  blood  of  Jesus  Christ  our  Re- 
deemer cleanses  us  from  all  the  im- 
perfections contrary  to  our  intentions 
— these  may  rest  in  the  peace  and  joy 
of  the  Lord  continually.  "We  which 
believe  do  enter  into  rest." 

There  is  no  day  of  the  week  com- 
manded to  the  spiritual  Israelite  as  re- 
spects physical  or  mental  rest — the 
latter  they  may  have  always,  and  the 
former  may  be  ordered  by  human 
regulations  for  one  day  or  for  another. 
The  Christian  is  commanded  to  be  sub- 
ject to  the  laws  that  be,  in  all  such 
matters  as  are  non-essential,  not  mat- 
ters of  conscience. 

The  Right  Use  of  Liberty. 

Let  us  remember,  however,  that  our 
liberty  in  Christ  is  the  liberty  from 
the  weight  and  condemnation  of  sin 
and  death.  Let  us  not  think  specially 
of  a  liberty  from  the  Jewish  restraints 
of  the  seventh  day,  nor  think  especi- 
ally of  the  fact  that  no  day  above  an- 
other has  been  commanded  upon 
Christians  in  the  Bible.  Let  us  rather 


THE  SABBATH  DAY. 


517 


consider  this  liberty  as  of  minor  con- 
sequence and  importance  as  compared 
with  our  liberation  from  the  power  of 
sin  and  death. 

If  one  day  or  another  be  set  apart 
by  human  lawgivers,  let  us  observe 
their  commands.  Let  us  be  subject  to 
every  ordinance  of  men.  In  Christian 
lands  generally  the  first  day  of  the 
week  is  set  apart  by  law.  Shall  we 
ignore  this  law  and  claim  that  God  has 
put  no  such  law  upon  us,  and  that  we 
should  have  our  liberty  to  do  business, 
etc.  ?  Nay  verily ;  rather,  on  the  other 
hand  let  us  rejoice  that  there  is  a  law 
which  sets  apart  one  day  in  seven  for 
rest  from  business,  etc.  Let  us  use 
that  day  as  wisely  and  as  well  as  we 
are  able  for  our  spiritual  upbuilding 
and  for  assistance  to  others.  What  a 
blessing  we  have  in  this  provision! 
How  convenient  it  makes  it  for  us  to 
assemble  ourselves  together  for  wor- 
ship, praise,  the  study  of  the  Divine 
word!  And  if  earthly  laws  provided 
more  than  one  Sabbath  (rest)  day  in 
the  week  we  might  well  rejoice  in  that 
also,  for  it  would  afford  us  that  much 
more  opportunity  for  spiritual  refresh- 
ment and  fellowship. 

Nor  should  our  knowledge  of  the 
liberty  we  enjoy  in  Christ  ever  be  used 
in  such  a  manner  that  it  might  stum- 
ble others.  Our  observance  of  the 
Sabbath  enjoined  by  the  law  of  the 
land  should  be  most  complete — to  the 
very  letter — that  our  good  be  not  evil 
spoken  of — that  our  liberty  in  Christ 
and  freedom  from  the  Mosaic  law  be 
not  misunderstood  to  be  a  business  or 
pleasure  license,  but  a  privilege  and 
opportunity  for  the  worship  and  ser- 
vice of  the  Lord,  and  the  building  up 
of  the  "brethren  in  the  most  holy  faith, 
"once  delivered  to  the  saints." 

Who  Changed  the  Sabbath  Day? 

Often  the  question  is  asked,  Who 
changed  the  Sabbath  day  to  Sunday? 
The  proper  answer  is  that  nobody 


changed  it.  The  seventh  day  (Satur- 
day) is  still  as  obligatory  upon  the 
Jew  as  it  ever  was. 

The  early  Christians  observed  the 
seventh  day  for  a  long  time,  because 
it  was  the  law  of  the  land,  which  gave 
them^  a  favorable  opportunity  for 
meeting  for  praise,  prayer  and  the 
study  of  God's  word.  In  addition,  the 
fact  that  Jesus  arose  from  the  dead  on 
the  first  day  of  the  week,  and  that  He 
met  with  them  on  that  day,  led  them 
to  meet  again  and  again  on  the  first 
day,  in  hope  that  He  would  again  ap- 
pear; thus  gradually  it  became  a  cus- 
tom for  them  to  meet  on  that  day  for 
Christian  fellowship.  In  this  way,  so 
far  as  we  know,  both  the  first  day  and 
the  seventh  day  of  the  week  were  ob- 
served by  Christians  for  quite  a  time, 
but  neither  was  understood  to  be  ob- 
ligatory— a  bondage.  Both  days  were 
privileges.  And  as  many  other  days 
of  the  week  as  circumstances  would 
permit  were  used  in  praising  God  and 
building  one  another  up  in  the  most 
holy  faith,  just  as  God's  people  are  do- ' 
ing,  or  should  be  doing,  in  this,  our 
day. 

Are  we  told  that  a  pope  once  desig- 
nated that  the  first  day  of  the  week 
should  be  observed  by  Christians  as 
the  Christian  Sabbath?  We  answer 
that  this  may  be  so,  but  that  neither 
popes  nor  any  beings,  not  even  the 
Apostles,  could  have  right  to  add  to  or 
to  take  from  the  word  of  God.  St. 
Paul  particularly  warned  the  church 
against  coming  into  bondage  to  the 
Jewish  custom  of  observing  new  moons 
and  Sabbaths,  as  though  these  were 
obligations  upon  Christians.  The  Son 
of  God  has  made  us  free — free  indeed. 
But  our  freedom  from  the  Law  Cove- 
nant of  Israel  enalles  us  the  more  and 
the  better  to  observe  the  very  spirit  of 
the  Divine  law  daily,  hourly,  and  to 
present  our  bodies  living  sacrifices, 
holy  and  acceptable  to  God  through 
the  merit  of  our  Redeemer. 


"Romantic  America,"  by  Robert 
Haven  Schauffler,  author  of  "Ro- 
mantic Germany,"  "Scum  o'  the 
Earth,"  etc. 

Here  is  a  book  to  stimulate  to  eager 
enjoyment  of  America's  glories  and 
unmatched  beauties.  Are  you  young 
and  in  the  first  grip  of  wanderlust? 
This  volume  will  prove  a  joyous  guide 
to  your  own  country's  most  interesting 
and  picturesque  places.  It  is  a  book 
rich  in  real  information,  with  the  char- 
acteristic charm  of  each  region  caught 
and  pictured  with  rare  skill  and  sym- 
pathy : 

Provincetown  and  the  Heart  of 
Cape  Cod— The  Spell  of  Old  Virginia 
—The  City  of  Beautiful  Smoke- 
Mammoth  Cave — Yellowstone  Park — 
Among  the  Old  California  Missions — 
The  Yosemite  Valley— The  Grand 
Canyon — The  Creole  City  of  New  Or- 
leans— The  Open  Road  in  Maine — 
Unique  Mt.  Desert. 

The  very  spirit  of  city  and  park,  of 
coast  and  natural  wonder,  seems  to 
have  been  caught  and  set  down  by 
both  author  and  artists — the  list  of  ar- 
tists including  Maxfield  Parrish,  Geo. 
Inness,  Jr.,  Joseph  Pennell,  Andre 
Castaigne,  Winslow  Homer,  and  Al- 
bert Herter — and  the  result  is  a  gift- 
book  of  exceptional  worth  as  well  as  of 
unusual  beauty. 

In  his  introduction,  the  author  suc- 
cinctly expresses  the  aim  of  his  re- 
markable collection  of  distinctive 
spots  most  characteristic  of  the  four 
kinds  of  romances  to  be  found  in 
America:  "The  volume  hopes  to  ap- 
peal alike  to  the  traveler  and  the  stay- 
at-home.  It  would  persuade  the  young 
victim  of  Wanderlust  to  see  America 
first,  and  the  veteran  wanderer  to  see 
America  last.  It  desires  to  burnish 
the  memories  of  the  man  whose  rov- 


ing is  done.  To  the  recluse  it  hopes  to 
bring  some  sort  of  substitute  for  the 
look  and  feel,  the  sound  and  human 
atmosphere  of  Romantic  America." 

An  art-made  book.  Frontispiece  in 
color  and  seventy-nine  illustrations, 
plates  in  tint.  Royal  octavo,  340 
pages.  Price  $5  net;  carriage  19  cents. 
Published  by  the  Century  Co.,  New 
York. 

"The  Gringos,"  by  B.  M.  Bower,  author 
of  "Good  Indian,"  "The  Uphill 
Climb,"  etc. 

The  author  has  written  again  of  the 
West  and  of  ranch  life  as  she  knows 
so  intimately  and  loves  so  well.  The 
time  is  the  days  of  '49  in  California, 
and  the  setting  is  the  ranch  of  Don 
Andres  Picardo,  a  Spanish  grandee. 
Here  come  the  two  Americans  or 
"gringos,"  ^as  they  are  called,  Dade 
and  his  friend  Jack  Allen,  whom  he 
has  just  rescued  from  a  disgraceful 
death  at  the  hands  of  the  Vigilance 
Committee  in  San  Francisco.  They 
are  accepted  hospitably  by  Don  An- 
dres and  given  employment,  and 
naturally  both  fall  victims  :to  the 
beauty  of  their  host's  daughter,  Senor- 
ita  Teresita,  to  the  intense  jealousy  of 
another  suitor,  Don  Jose.  Here  come 
to  the  two  Gringos,  practically  alone 
in  a  community  generally  hostile, 
trials  of  strength,  of  courage,  of  honor. 
Back  of  the  romance  of  a  maid  and 
her  three  lovers  is  a  glowing  picture 
of  old  Spanish  ranch  life,  of  the  con- 
flict of  the  proud  ranch  owners  with 
the  United  States  government  for  the 
retention  of  the  land  so  carelessly  be- 
stowed by  Spain,  a  picture  of  Califor- 
nia in  the  days  of  '49,  a  comparison  of 
American  character  and  Spanish  tem- 
perament. Setting  and  characters  are 
realistic  and  dramatic.  In  every  re- 


IN  THE  REALM  OF  BOOKLAND. 


519 


spect — in  plot,  in  atmosphere,  in  char- 
acter and  in  workmanship — this  is  the 
best  novel  to  come  from  this  author. 

Price,  $1.25  net.  Profusely  illus- 
trated by  Anton  Otto  Fischer.  Pub- 
lished by  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  Boston. 

"The  Golden  Rule  Dollivers,"  by  Mar- 
garet Cameron. 

The  title  came  to  the  Dollivers  as  a 
matter  of  course,  and  it  stuck.  Page 
and  Marjorie  were  two  young  married 
people  who  had  saved  up  money 
enough  to  buy  a  cheap  car,  and  when 
they  had  obtained  it,  decided  to  have 
fun,  not  to  speak  of  doing  a  little  good 
in  the  world  by  helping  people  on  their 
way.  The  results  were  more  compli- 
cated than  if  they  had  planned  a  ser- 
ies of  crimes,  though  all  ended  well. 
The  first  person  they  helped  was  an 
obviously  weary  old  man  whom  they 
overtook,  and  with  great  difficulty  per- 
suaded into  their  car.  Unfortunately, 
the  man  proved  to  be  the  enormously 
rich  Galen  Corbin,  and  when  Page 
called  upon  him  the  next  day  with  a 
view  to  securing  an  important  con- 
tract for  his  firm,  Corbin  had  no  other 
thought  than  that  the  automobile  in- 
cident had  been  carefully  arranged. 
Page  didn't  get  the  contract,  and  al- 
truism was  temporarily  damped.  But 
not  for  long.  Once  the  Dollivers  were 
started  upon  their  benevolent  career, 
there  was  no  stopping  them.  Other 
adventures  followed,  bringing  bewil- 
dering complications. 

The  automobile  was  invaluable  in 
this  connection,  and  so  was  the  golden 
rule,  not  to  mention  a  dark,  rainy 
night,  which  made  it  easy  to  lose  one's 
way.  The  climax  came  when  Page 
and  Marjorie  were  arrested  for  aiding 
the  escape  of  two  criminals;  but  just 
here  altruism  began  to  be  justified.  It 
was  Galen  Corbin  who  came  to  the 
rescue  of  the  two  altruists,  and  through 
him  Page  obtained  the  sort  of  business 
opening  he  had  been  longing  for.  The 
Dollivers  are  a  pair  of  as  jolly  young 
people  as  one  would  meet  in  a  sum- 
mer's reading.  A  lively  sense  of 
humor  supports  them  through  their 
trials,  and  they  never  lose  faith  in 


human  nature.    Their  story  is  refresh- 
ing and  good  to  read  aloud. 

Published  by  Harper  &  Brothers, 
Franklin  Square,  New  York. 

"The  Blossom  Shop,  a  Story  of  the 
South,"  by  Isla  May  Mullihs. 

An  exquisite,  simple  and  appealing 
story  of  mother  love  and  sacrifice'  for 
a  little  blind  daughter,  written  in  de- 
lightful vein,  combining  humor  and 
pathos.  The  reader  will  love  little 
blind  Eugene  (the  child  had  received 
the  name  of  her  dead  father)  and  will 
rejoice  with  the  brave  young  mother, 
the  heroine  of  the  story,  when  the 
child's  sight  is  restored.  There  is  a 
time  for  rejoicing,  too,  when  a  lost 
will  is  found,  bringing  wealth  and  re- 
lease from  all  worries,  and  the  young 
mother  is  free  to  accept  the  love  and 
protection  that  in  her  sorrow  she  had 
denied  herself.  Southern  types  are 
amusingly  contrasted  with  those  of  the 
North;  and  the  simple  language  and 
fine  sentiment  of  the  story  will  charm 
readers  of  all  ages. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  net  $1; 
postpaid,  $1.15.  Published  by  L.  C. 
Page  &  Company,  Boston,  Mass. 

"Source  Problems  on  the  French 
Revolution,"  by  Fred  Morrow 
Fling,  Professor  of  History  in  the 
University  of  Nebraska. 
To  the  general  reader  history  prob- 
ably presents  a  more  interesting  and 
difficult  problem  than  do  most  other 
cultured  studies.  That  it  may  become 
coherent  without  being  merely  the  ex- 
position of  some  one's  theory  or  preju- 
dice; that  it  may  become  scientific 
without  developing  into  a  pseudo- 
science — this  is  the  consummation  to 
be  wished.  All  sorts  of  approaches  to 
the  problem,  of  course,  are  possible. 
One  of  the  very  best  is  typified  in  the 
volume  under  consideration.  First, 
the  historical  setting  of  the  particular 
problem,  or  topic,  is  given  in  the  form 
of  condensed  narrative;  then  follows 
a  critical  biography  of  the  sources; 
next  comes  a  series  of  questions  in- 
volving comparison  and  choice  be- 
tween conflicting  statements  and 


520 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


views.  The  student  learns  that  noth- 
ing like  historic  certainty  can  be  ob- 
tained until  no  questions  remain  un- 
answered. Finally,  copious  quotations 
from  the  sources  themselves  are  given 
That  the  student  can  hardly  acquire  a 
true  conception  of  history  or  a  living 
interest  in  it  without  some  study  of  the 
process  by  which  history  is  thought 
and  written  is  a  proposition  that  com- 
mends itself  to  common  sense.  In  his- 
tory, as  in  the  physical  science,  one 
may,  in  a  manner,  "learn  by  doing." 
Through  such  a  method  the  student 
learns,  as  in  no  other  way,  the  true 
nature  of  the  problems  history  dis- 
cusses, and  ceases  to  be  disappointed 
and  baffled  by  its  inevitable  omissions. 
Professor  Fling's  book  will  find  mani- 
fold uses  among  teachers  and  laymen. 
Published  by  Harper  &  Brothers, 
Franklin  Square,  New  York. 

"Memoirs  of  the  Court  of  England," 
by  Baronne  d'Aulnoy. 

In  the  library  of  an  ancient  French 
chateau,  a  vaulted  stone  room  in  a 
tower,  was  found  the  ancient  leather- 
bound  volume,  with  stained  paper,  odd 
characters,  and  the  old  French  spell- 
ing which  forms  the  basis  for  these 
memoirs.  Other  books  were  used  to 
corroborate  the  facts.  The  present  vol- 
ume might  well  be  classed  as  "inti- 
mate history."  It  still  preserves  a 
flavor  of  quaint  seventeenth  century 
idiom. 

Published  by  John  Lane  Co.,  The 
Bodley  Head,  New  York. 

"The  Opinions  of  Jerome  Coignard," 
by  Anatole  France. 

Just  before  the  serial  publication  of 
one  of  his  books,  Mr.  France  went  on 
a  long  vacation.  "I  divided  my  MMS.," 
he  says,  "into  separate  parts  for  each 
day,  and  saw  them  arranged  in  pigeon 
holes  in  the  newspaper  office.  Unfor- 
tunately the  printer  took  them  out  in 
vertical  instead  of  horizontal  order." 
The  disconnected  gems  brought  in  as 
many  letters  of  praise  as  usual,  and 
only  one  or  two  protests.  The  Abbe 
Coignard  is  one  of  Anatole  France's 


best  creations,  with  the  brilliancy  and 
wit  of  his  conversations,  and  the  naive 
reflections  elicited  from  his  pupil. 

Published  by  John  Lane  Co.,  The 
Bodley  Head,  New  York. 

"The  -Social  Rubaiyat  of  a  Bud,"  by 
Mrs.  Ambrose  Madison. 

One  of  the  cleverest  society  satires 
that  has  been  written  for  many  moons. 
The  author  has  a  pretty  vein  of  sar- 
castic humor,  which  she  works  skill- 
fully in  the  measure  which  Fitzgerald 
used  in  his  classic  version  of  Omar. 
Mrs.  Willis,  who  was  formerly  Miss 
Maud  Bagley,  the  niece  of  the  well- 
known  pioneer,  David  Bagley,  comes 
of  a  long  line  of  distinguished  ances- 
tors, both  Southern  and  New  England, 
among  whom  are  Margaret  Fuller, 
Bryant  and  Harriet  Hosmor,  so  she 
comes  naturally  by  her  talents. 

Orchid  edition;  beautifully  printed 
in  delicate  purple  tint,  gold  and  black 
throughout,  on  toned  double-leafed  du- 
plex paper,  and  bound  in  flexible  Rhi- 
nos boards  similarly  decorated  with 
uniform  end  papers.  75  cents  net; 
by  mail,  81  cents.  Paul  Elder  &  Com- 
pany, publishers,  San  Francisco. 

"The  Jungle  Book,"  Rudyard  Kipling. 
The  publication  of  an  elaborate,  il- 
lustrated edition  of  "The  Jungle  Book" 
which  the  Century  Company  an- 
nounces, and  the  same  company's  is- 
sue of  "Captains  Courageous"  in  a 
limp  red  leather  edition,  calls  atten- 
tion to  the  constantly  and  largely  in- 
creasing sales  of  Rudyard  Kipling's 
books.  In  ten  years  the  yearly  sales 
of  "The  Jungle  Book,"  "The  Second 
Jungle  Book"  and  "Captains  Cour- 
ageous" have  considerably  more  than 
doubled.  It  is  stated,  on  good  author- 
ity, that  Rudyard  Kipling's  books  now 
sell  many  more  copies  every  month 
throughout  the  year  than  those  of  any 
other  living  author.  The  new  edition 
of  "The  Jungle  Book,"  which  is  prob- 
ably more  widely  read  than  any  other 
one  book  by  Kipling,  will  have  sixteen 
full-page  illustrations  in  full  color  by 
the  well  known  English  artists,  Mau- 
rice and  Edward  Detmold. 


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Night  illumination  of  the  tower  on  the  Union  Ferry  Depot. 


OVERLAND 


Founded  1868 


MONTHLY 


BRET  HARTE 


VOL.  LX1I 


San  Francisco,  December,  1913 


No.  6 


Balboa  and  a  captain  of  his  guard  sighting  San  Francisco  from  the  deck  of 
a  vessel  coming  through  the  Golden  Gate. 

The  Fortola  Festival:  San  Francisco 


By    Thornly   Hooke 


IN  SEVERAL  ways,  Don  Caspar  de 
Portola.  Spanish  explorer  and  first 
Governor    of    California,   made    a 
bigger  dent  in  the  future  than  he 
realized  at  the  time  he  discovered  San 
Francisco  Bay.     San  Franciscans  re- 
gard that  discovery  to  be  of  such  prime 


importance  that  they  are  gradually 
slipping  into  the  fashion  of  commemo- 
rating the  event  with  a  festival  which 
shows  every  indication  of  becoming  an 
annual  one.  The  first  was  given  four 
years  ago  with  the  intent  to  show  the 
rest  of  the  Pacific  Coast  that  San 


Queen  Conchita  and  Balboa  descending  from  the  throne  on  the  royal  barge, 
Union.  Square,  to  review  the  parade. — From  a  photograph  by  Pillsburg  Pic- 
ture Company. 


Francisco  had  recovered  commercially 
from  the  effects  of  the  big  fire  of  April, 
1906,  and  was  amply  prepared  to  han- 
dle business  on  a  par  with  the  de- 
mands of  the  surrounding  territory. 
The  features  to  attract  visitors  were 
the  city  and  shipping  decorated  in  gala 
attire,  gorgeous  electrical  illumina- 
tions, night  and  day  parades,  punctu- 
ated with  historical  floats  and  charac- 
ters depicting  the  development  of  the 
industries  and  life  on  the  Pacific  Coast, 
day  and  night  fireworks,  the  music  of 
many  bands  in  the  public  squares,  a 
big  masquerade  ball,  public  games  and 
contests,  and  on  the  final  night  a  pa- 
geant winding  up  with  dancing  on  the 
main  street,  accompanied  by  the  music 
of  bands  stationed  near  by.  On  this 
last  night  the  carnival  spirit  ruled,  and 
many  of  those  in  the  enormous  crowd 
wore  dominoes,  masks  and  costumes  of 
various  characters.  Serpentines  twined 
and  confetti  showered  the  air  till  the 
streets  were  blanketed  with  it.  The 


sidewalks  of  the  main  downtown  thor- 
oughfares were  packed  with  a  slowly 
moving  throng  which  overflowed  into 
the  streets  till  the  clanging  lines  of 
electric  cars  were  obliged  momentarily 
to  cease  headway.  In  all  the  apparent 
confusion  and  merriment,  Revelry  held 
sway,  its  volatile  spirit  inspiring  the 
great  throng  and  invading  the  theatres, 
cafes,  hotels,  cars,  boats,  and  wherever 
people  congregated. 

The  fete  was  an  immense  success 
and  the  thousands  of  visitors  who 
joined  in  it  returned  to  their  homes 
up  and  down  the  Pacific  Coast,  bub- 
bling with  enthusiasm  over  their  many 
delightful  adventures.  The  result 
was,  that  when  the  committee  this 
year  decided  to  repeat  the  festival  in 
October  on  a  grander  scale,  it  was 
taken  up  with  enthusiasm  by  residents 
of  outside  towns. 

This  year  being  the  four  hundredth 
anniversary  of  the  discovery  of  the 
Pacific  Ocean  by  Don  Vasco  Nunez  de 


^i         ^ 


o        .< 


Sag 

Ctf       •«        *iS 

"S       S 


d 

•Q 


Ci. 

Jtf) 

I 


Some  of  the  yoats  of  vessels  depicting  the  evolution  of  the  modern  Dread- 
naught,  night  parade.  This  photograph  was  taken  during  the  day  while  the 
vessels  were  grouped,  and  consequently  fails  to  show  any  of  the  electric  ef- 
fects, which  were  one  of  the  features  of  the  night  parade. 


Balboa,  and  marking  the  practical 
opening  of  the  Panama  Canal,  the  com- 
mittee decided  to  make  Balboa  the 


prominent  and  appealing  figure  in  the 
setting  of  the  pageant.  Don  Portola 
was  present,  a  bowing,  graceful  figure 


•   «r 


The  group  of  pages  which  headed  the  big  day  parad? 


THE  PORTOLA  FESTIVAL:   SAN  FRANCISCO. 


529 


on  his  prancing,  mettlesome  steed.  The 
street  decorations  were  more  gaily  re- 
splendent than  on  the  previous  festival, 
the  romantic  colors  of  old  Spain,  red 
and  yellow,  covering  the  facades  of 
the  buildings  on  the  main  streets,  in 
banners,  pennants  and  rosettes.  On 
the  main  thoroughfare  and  the  leading 
side  shopping  streets  the  electric 
masts  along  the  pavements  supported 
gigantic  baskets  filled  with  colored 
grasses  and  flowers,  presenting  a  lane 
of  resplendant  and  lively  coloring  to 
spectators  thronging  those  thorough- 
fares. The  effect  became  a  fairyland 
under  the  night  electric  lights.  Where 
the  two  main  thoroughfares  of  the  city 
crossed,  there  was  an  enormous  elec- 
trolier more  than  a  hundred  feet  high, 


of  merry-makers  below.  Off  the  Union 
ferry  depot  the  half  dozen  battleships 
in  the  bay  were  outlined  in  electric 
lights,  while  their  moving  searchlights 
shot  broad  bands  of  illumination  across 
the  city's  hills  and  the  sky  above 
them.  The  vessels  about  the  bay  were 
all  in  gala  attire  with  dressings  of 
flags. 

The  setting  of  the  pageants  were 
more  elaborate  than  those  of  four  years 
ago,  and  the  detail  far  more  finished. 
The  years  bring  confidence  and  dis- 
cernment in  these  matters.  Don  Vasco 
de  Balboa,  attended  by  four  heralds 
and  eight  cavaliers,  all  accoutered  in 
the  attire  of  the  adventurers  of  Spain 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  came  through 
the  Golden  Gate  in  the  morning  hours 


Union  Square,  where  the  official  ceremonies  of  Queen  Conchita  and  Don 
Vasco  Nunez  de  Balboa  were  held.  At  the  right  is  the  "royal  barge"  on 
which  stood  the  throne;  on  either  side  of  the  barge  swung  two  huge  gonfa- 
lons in  red  and  yellow  of  Spain.  The  granite  column  in  the  center  of  the 
square  topped  with  the  figure  of  Victory  ivas  surrounded  by  a  large  electric 
fountain  which  played  in  varicolors  at  night.  On  the  left,  spectators'  stands, 
reached  the  length  of  the  square.  Concerts  were  held  here  throughout  the 
festival.  The  decorative  motif  was  in  Japanese. — From  a  photograph  by  R. 
].  Waters  &  Co.,  San  Francisco. 


shaped  like  a  bell  and  composed  of 
thousands  of  lights  which  radiated 
light  on  the  thronging,  surging  mass 


aboard  a  gunboat,  and  in  the  early 
forenoon  landed  at  the  Embarcadero 
amid  the  cheers  of  thousands  of 


530 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


4  group  of  "Portola 
Indians"  on  the  war- 
path along  the  parade. 
Hundreds  of  these 
holiday  savages  on 
foot  and  horseback 
livened  the  parades 
with  their  picturesque 
attire  and  antics. 


eagerly  waiting  celebrants.  A  com- 
mittee whisked  the  great  explorer  and 
his  retinue  into  autos,  and  a  few  min- 
utes later  he  was  leading  a  procession 
headed  by  ba"nds  of  music  to  Union 
Square,  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  where 
preparations  were  perfect  for  him  to 
be  presented  to  Queen  Conchita,  sur- 
rounded b  ya  retinue  of  ladies  and 
courtiers  in  waiting,  attendants,  royal 
heralds  and  pages.  King  Charles  him- 
self could  not  have  provided  Her 
Highness  with  a  lovelier  or  better 
gowned  background. 

At  one  glance,  and  without  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  the  Queen  appointed 
the  willing  Balboa  her  consort  for  the 
festival,  and  the  cheers  of  popular  ac- 
claim sealed  the  arrangement.  Mayor 
Rolph  closed  his  warm  approval  of  the 
visit  of  Balboa  by  presenting  him  with 
the  keys  of  the  city.  These  ceremonies 
were  held  on  a  specially  constructed 

The  great  electric  light  bell  at  the 
junction  of  the  main  thoroughfares  of 
the  city;  showing  the  dense  crowd  on 
the  streets  and  some  of  the  electric 
light  effects  at  night. — From  a  photo- 
graph by  R.  J.  Waters  &  Co.,  San 
Francisco. 


One  of  the  Indian  floats  escorted  by  Indians,  in  the  day  parade. — From  a 
photograph  by  the  Pillsbury  Picture  Company. 


"royal  barge"  in  the  square,  and  easily 
viewed  by  the  dense  throng.  The 
bands  played,  daylight  fireworks 
roused  the  enthusiasm  of  the  vast 
crowd,  and  the  four  days  of  moving- 
picture  merriment  and  revelry  was 
started  on  its  reel.  A  varied  and  ex- 
tensive marathon  of  attractions  had 
been  arranged  by  the  committee,  al- 
most a  surfeit,  for  the  several  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  visitors  during 
the  four  days'  program.  It  extended 
from  swimming  and  motor  boat  races 
on  the  bay  to  all  kinds  of  athletic 
sports  in  courts,  field  and  track,  with 
opportunities  tucked  in  to  aviate  or 
attend  concerts,  fireworks  day  and 
night,  a  big  social  ball,  masquerade 
ball,  visits  to  the  battleships  lying  in 
the  harbor,  and  to  the  Panama-Pacific 
Exposition  grounds,  Golden  Gate  Park 
and  scores  of  other  attractions. 

The  two  great  public  spectacles  were 
of  course  the  day  and  the  night 
parades.  Both  far  surpassed  those 
of  four  years  ago,  and  by  far  the  big- 
gest crowds  of  the  festival  gathered  to 


see  them.  The  day  parade  was  divided 
into  four  main  divisions,  civic,  indus- 
trial, fraternal  and  military.  Every  ef- 
fort was  made  to  have  it  glitter  with 
color,  spontaneity  and  life ;  band  music 
was  plentiful  and  gay.  The  early  in- 
dustries of  California  offered  abundant 
and  excellent  opportunities  to  set  forth 
in  an  historical  way  the  picturesque 
pioneer  days  of  California,  both  in  the 
Spanish  period  and  the  golden  mining 
period.  Caballeros,  in  all  their  re- 
splendent trappings,  on  their  curvet- 
ting horses,  led  the  way  of  the  floats 
carrying  replicas  of  old  Missions.  Fol- 
lowing them  came  the  prairie  schoon- 
ers, troops  of  cowboys,  and  the  early 
prospectors,  with  their  loaded  burros. 
Trailing  them  were  hundreds  of 
whoopings  Indians,  holiday  savage 
who  made  no  bones  about  grabbing 
open-eyed  and  wondering  children 
from  their  mothers'  skirts  along  the 
sidewalks.  The  pop-eyed  captives, 
however,  were  invariably  returned  be- 
fore they  wailed  a  protest;  they  scut- 
tled back  to  their  mothers'  arms  in 


532 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


great  glee  at  having  escaped  the  wild 
marauders. 

Soldiers  and  most  of  the  fraternal 
organizations  vitalized  the  usual  rou- 
tine of  parade  by  series  of  attractive 
evolutions  and  figures,  and  were 
roundly  applauded  all  along  the  line. 
The  day  parade  lasted  over  tw.o- Jiours 
in  passing  a  given  point.  It  counter- 
marched, so  that  the  special  features 
might  be  re-enjoyed  by  the  great  - 
crowd. 

The  feature  of  the  electrical  parade 
on  the  last  night  depicted  the  evolution 
of  the  modern  Dreadnaught,  from  the 
trireme  of  the  early  Greeks.  The  large 
vessels  were  beautifully  lighted, 
manned  by  crews  and  officers  in  ap- 
propriate costumes,  and  those  mount- 
ing miniature  cannon,  fired  confetti 
into  the  lanes  of  spectators  massing 
the  sidewalks,  tiers  of  windows  and 
the  roofs  of  buildings.  The  floats, 
borne  on  trolley  car  trucks  covered 
with  canvas  "water,"  rolled  down  the 
center  of  Market  street  in  the  follow- 


ing order:  Trireme,  viking  ship,  Chi- 
nese junk,  Columbus'  vessel,  Santa 
Maria*,  Sir  Francis  Drake's  ship,  Por- 
tuguese vessel,  early  English  man-of- 
war,  Indian  war  canoe,  old-fashioned 
side-wheeler,  "Savannah,"  1842,  "Con 
stitution,"  1812,  "Monitor,"  1860, 
Charleston,  Oregon  and  torpedo  boat 
destroyers.  Following  them  came  the 
float  of  the  Queen  of  the  Pageant. 

After  the  parade  was  over,  the  big 
crowd  surged  \over  the  streets,  and 
those  not  too  tired  give  themselves  up 
to  enjoying  the  closing  revelries,  ser- 
pentine and  confetti  throwing,  dancing 
on  the  asphalt  pavement  of  the  streets 
to  the  music  of  bands  stationed  several 
squares  apart,  and  to  obeying  the 
prankish  notions  of  the  Queen  of  Rev- 
elry. Parties  crowded  the  cafes, 
hotels  and  restaurants  till  many  places 
had  to  close  their  doors  and  admit 
new  patrons  only  when  some  of  those 
inside  vacated  their  seats.  Revelry 
ruled  unchecked,  and  melted  away 
only  with  the  morning  hours. 


SEEKING,     I     FOUND 


Love,  I  came  seeking  precious  worldly  gold, 
And  prayed  that  men  might  see  my  wealth  abound — 
You  see  the  poppies  blowing  on  the  hill, 
The  gold  I  found. 

I  sought  to  make  a  wondrous  melody, 
Love,  I  have  wasted  many  a  useless  year — 
You  hear  the  sighing  of  the  summer  wind, 
The  song  I  hear. 

I  prayed,  my  love,  oh  long  I  prayed  for  light 
To  love  the  God  they  taught  me  years  ago — 
You  cannot  see  the  light,  'tis  in  your  eyes, 
The  love  I  know. 

DOROTHY  GUNNELL. 


GOLDEN    GATE    PARK 

The  Story  of  the  Initial 
Development  of  the  Idea: 
With  Illustrations  showing 
Its  Extraordinary  Im- 
provements of  Late  Years 


FORTY-SEVEN  years  ago,  the 
site  which  is  now  Golden  Gate 
Park  was  mainly  a  series  of 
desolate  sand  dunes,  barren  of 
vegetation  of  any  kind,  save  a  small 
fringe  of  chaparral  and  weak  soil  at 
the  eastern  end.  It  was  then  known  as 
a  part  of  what  were  termed,  in  the  mu- 
nicipal parlance  of  the  day,  the  out- 
side lands.  These  outside  lands  had 
originally  been  the  pueblo  lands  of  the 
old  pueblo  of  Yerba  Buena  as  it  exist- 
ed in  the  .days  of  the  Spanish  and 
Mexican  dominion.  These  lands  were 
held  in  trust  by  the  Alcalde  for  the 
benefit  of  subjects  and  citizens,  each 
of  whom  had  the  right,  after  comply- 
ing with  certain  legal  requirements,  to 
have  a  site  for  a  homestead  set  apart 
and  transferred  to  him.  When  the  sov- 
ereignty over  California  was  ceded  to 
the  United  States  by  Mexico,  and  be- 
fore the  municipality  of  San  Fran- 
cisco, as  created  under  the  American- 
ized California  law,  obtained  a  title 
from  Congress  to  these  lands,  they  be- 
came, it  was  contended  by  some,  a  part 
of  the  public  domain  of  the  United 
States,  and  as  such,  subject  to  appro- 
priations, under  the  pre-emption  laws, 
by  all  citizens.  Much  of  the  area  upon 
which  San  Francisco  now  stands  was 
taken  up  in  this  way.  Still  another 
class  of  questionable  titles  were  found- 
ed upon  a  claim  of  succession  to  the 
grantees  under  old  Spanish  and  Mexi- 
can grants.  Many,  if  not  most,  of  these 
claims  of  title  were  little  better  than 


assertions  of  what  has  been  designated 
squatter  sovereignty;  but  it  was  an  era 
of  confusion  and  self-assertion  in 
which  squatter  sovereignty  was  a  rec- 
ognized institution,  and,  as  the  commu- 
nity settled  down  upon  a  more  orderly 
and  methodical  basis  it  was  thought 
advisable  in  the  interests  of  harmony 
to  partially  recognize  and  compromise 
with  what  may  be  termed  the  claims  of 
vested  rights  that  had  grown  out  of 
this  squatter  sovereignty.  At  the 
same  time  an  effort  was  made  to  save 
as  much  as  possible  for  the  city.  It 
was  in  the  course  of  following  out  this 
policy  that  the  municipal  authorities, 
under  the  leadship  of  the  late  Mr. 
Frank  McCoppin,  succeeded  in  getting 
possession  of  the  lands  upon  which 
the  Golden  Gate  Park  now  stands.  In 
1864,  Mr.  Justice  Field,  in  the  United 
States  Circuit  Court,  rendered  a  de- 
cision in  favor  of  the  city's  claim  to 
four  square  leagues  of  land  upon  the 
San  Francisco  peninsula.  This  decree 
was  approved  of  by  a  confirmatory  act 
of  Congress  passed  in  1866.  But  the 
squatters,  or  settlers,  as  they  termed 
themselves,  were  still  in  possession  of 
their  lands,  and  it  was  an  open  ques- 
tion whether  they  would  not  be  able 
in  the  end  to  maintain  their  titles.  The 
legal  battle,  indeed,  was  only  begun, 
not  ended.  The  city  had  gained  little 
more  than  a  good  standing  in  court 
and  an  interminable  litigation  seemed 
before  it.  Besides  this,  the  squatters 
or  settlers,  in  addition  to  having  a  good 


534 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


legal  position,  had  certain  equi- 
ties which  everybody  recognized.  In 
this  condition  of  affairs  the  municipal 
authorities,  with  Mr.  McCoppin  at  their 
head,  held  a  conference  with  the  squat- 
ters or  settler — among  whom  were 
such  able  and  influential  men  as  John 
B.  Felton,  Eugene  Casserly,  Eugene 
Sullivan,  John  H.  Baird,  Eugene  Lies, 
Thomas  U.  Sweeny,  who  has  since  do- 
nated to  the  Park  the  Observatory  on 
Strawberry  Hill,  and  many  others — 
at  which  the  latter  were  asked  if  they 
would  be  willing  to  surrender  ten  per 
centum  of  their  holdings  to  the  city, 
for  the  purpose  of  creating  a  Park^if 
the  city  authorities  would  join  with 
them  in  procuring  State  legislation 
confirming  their  titles  and  thus  settling 
for  ever  the  existing  dispute. 

They  all  agreed  to  this.  Some  of 
them,  indeed,  offered  to  give  up  an 
even  larger  percentage.  John  B.  Fel- 
ton, who  was  a  large-minded,  open- 
handed  man,  offered  to  give  twenty- 
five  per  centum.  Thereupon  an  ordi- 
nance was  passed  by  the  Board  of 
Supervisors  embodying  this  agreement 
and  a  committee  was  appointed  to  ap- 
praise the  value  of  all  the  outside 
lands,  and  also  to  fix  a  price  for  that 
portion  required  for  Park  purposes. 
This  committee  found  that  the  value 
of  the  outside  lands  was  something 
over  twelve  millions  of  dollars,  and 
that  the  portion  to  be  taken  for  Park 
purposes  was  worth  something  under 
thirteen  hundred  thousand  dollars.  An 
assessment  of  ten  and  three-fourths 
per  centum  was,  therefore,  sufficient 
to  pay  for  the  Golden  Gate  Park  lands, 
as  well  as  for  the  Avenue  Park,  com- 
monly known  as  the  Panhandle,  and 
Buena  Vista  Park,  which  were  ac- 
quired at  the  same  time,  and  are  now  a 
part  of  the  territory  under  the  imme- 
diate jurisdiction  of  the  Park  Commis- 
sioners. While  the  ordinance  em- 
bodying the  compromise  was  before 
the  Supervisors,  and  while  the  con- 
firmatory acts  were  before  the  Legis- 
lature, a  fierce  opposition  to  the  whole 
project  was  maintained. 

The  Park  site  being  acquired,  the 
Legislature  proceeded  to  pass  a    bill 


creating  a  Park  Commission  and  au- 
thorizing the  Supervisors  to  appropri- 
ate money  for  the  reclamation  of  the 
land.    In  the  forty  odd  years  that  have 
since  elapsed  that  work  has  been  car- 
ried forward  steadily  and     energeti- 
cally.    Mr.  William  Hammond  Hall, 
the  eminent  engineer,  laid  out  a  broad 
plan  of  reclamation  and  designed  an 
appropriate   system  of  roadways  for 
the  Commissioners.    While,  of  course, 
it  has  been  elaborated  in  detail  to  an 
extent  and  in  ways  that  propably  its 
designer  never  thought  of,  the  gen- 
eral lines  of  Mr.  Hall's  plan  have  been 
carried  out,  and  the  artistic  and  en- 
during nature  of  the  scheme  bears  tes- 
timony to  his  judgment  and  taste.  At 
first  the  Commissioners  were  a  good 
deal  embarrassed  for  the  want  of  funds 
commensurate  with  the  extent  of  the 
undertaking,  for,  as     Mr.  McCoppin 
said,  there  was  at  that  time  no  public 
sentiment  upon  the  subject  of  parks, 
and  there  was  a  widespread  ignorance 
among  the  masses  as  to  the  value  of 
public  recreation  grounds,  while,  up- 
on the  other  hand,    the     Supervisors 
were  always  anxious  to  have  the  ap- 
pearance of  giving  a  very  economic 
administration.    But  as  the  Park  work 
began  to  develop     into     picturesque 
lawns  surrounded  by  fringes  of  forest, 
well-made  drives,  and  walks  running 
through  exquisite  gardens  and  charm- 
ing landscapes,  its  importance  was  ac- 
corded a  growing  recognition. 

When  the  work  of  reclamation  was 
first  begun,  the  Park  Commissioners 
were  confronted  with  one  of  the  most 
discouraging  tasks  that  men  have  ever 
faced.  Commencing  with  the  eastern 
boundary  line  of  the  Panhandle  and 
ending  at  the  ocean  beach,  they  had  a 
territory  four  and  a  quarter  miles  long 
by  half  a  mile  wide,  and  consisting 
mainly  of  dry,  shifting  sand  dunes,  to 
improve  and  make  beautiful.  The 
vastness  of  the  undertaking  was 
equaled  by  the  apparently  unsur- 
mountable  difficulties  that  had  to  be 
overcome.  All  sorts  of  devices  were 
tried  for  the  reclamation  of  the  shift- 
ing sand  dunes.  Grain  crops  were  put 
in,  and  nearly  all  varieties  of  grass 


Huntington  Falls,  Golden  Gate  Park. 


536 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


were  cultivated,  with  but  little  success. 
Yellow  lupin  was  tried,  but  did  not 
fully  produce  the  results  desired.  Fin- 
ally the  sea  bent  grass  was  experi- 
mented with,  and  its  strong,  fibrous 
roots  were  found  to  accomplish  the 
purposes  desired.  This  grass  held  the 
sand  in  place,  and  under  its  shelter 
stronger  plants  and  shrubs  were  set  out 
and  grew  up.  After  four  years  of  ef- 
fort that  which  had  been  a  barrer 
waste  began  to  clothe  itself  in  a  rough 
and  dingy  verdure  that  inspired  tne 
hope  of  future  ana  more  pertect 
achievements.  Subsoiling,  tree-plant- 
ing, flower  sowing,  shrub  setting,  road 
making  and  water-pipe  laying,  were 
soon  inaugurated,  and  in  a  little  time 
the  eastern  end  of  the  area  up  as  far 
as  the  present  Conservatory  began  to 
present  a  most  attractive  appearance. 

Soon  after  the  work  of  improving 
the  Park  had  begun  to  take  shape  and 
form,  men  of  means  also  began  to  as- 
sist the  development  by  creating  spe- 
cial features  at  their  own  expense.  Mr. 
William  Alvord,  President  of  the  Bank 
of  California,  led  the  way,  in  this 
direction  by  presenting  the  lakelet 
which  bears  his  name  at  the  Haight 
street  entrance,  where  the  daily  life 
of  curious  species  of  water  fowl  have 
for  years  past  interested  children  as 
well  as  adults.  Later  on  Mr.  Alvord 
headed  the  syndicate  which  erected 
the  Conservatory.  The  material  of 
which  the  Conservatory  was  originally 
constructed  was  brought  to  this  coast 
by  the  late  Mr.  James  Lick  for  the 
purpose,  it  is  believed,  of  erecting  a 
sanitarium  at  San  Jose.  Upon  Mr. 
Lick's  death,  Mr.  Alvord  saw  the  op- 
portunity to  get  material  for  a  Park 
Conservatory,  and  he  induced  a  num- 
ber of  others  to  join  him  in  the  pro- 
ject. As  a  result,  the  Conservatory 
was  soon  built  and  stocked.  In  1880 
it  was  nearly  destroyed  by  fire.  After 
this  catastrophe  the  late  Mr.  Charles 
Crocker,  one  of  the  famous  builders  of 
the  Central  Pacific  Railroad,  stepped 
to  the  front  and  restored  the  struc- 
ture at  a  cost  to  himself  of  about 
fourteen  thousand  dollars. 

The  creation  of  the  Children's  Play- 


ground with  money  left  by  the  late 
Senator  Sharon  was  another  individual 
contribution  to  the  Park  that  adds 
much  to  its  completeness  as  a  place 
for  recreation. 

The  Huntington  Waterfall  on  Straw- 
berry Hill  is,  perhaps,  the  most  im- 
portant gift  ever  made  to  the  Park.  Its 
importance  does  not,  however,  grow 
out  of  itself  so  much  as  it  does  out 
of  the  improvements  to  which  it  has 
led — the  creation  of  Stow  Lake  in  its 
present  form  and  of  the  innumerable 
scenic  effects  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
borhood. The  Huntington  Waterfall 
was  built  with  twenty-five  thousand 
dollars  contributed  by  the  late  C.  P. 
Huntington  at  the  solicitation  of  the 
late  W.  W.  Stow.  Strawberry  Hill  in 
its  present  condition,  and  with  its  ad- 
joining Japanese  tea  garden,  is  one  of 
the  most  charming  bits  of  park  effect 
to  be  found  in  the  world.  Surrounded 
by  a  lake  which  makes  it  an  elevated 
island,  its  sides  present  delightful  bits 
of  scenery  no  matter  what  point  it  is 
viewed  from.  While  everything  is  ar- 
tificial, the  visitor  would  never  for  a 
moment  suspect  that  that  which  so  de- 
lights his  eye  is  not  a  creation  of 
Nature  in  one  of  her  most  generous 
moods.  Amfd  rocks  gracefully  droop- 
ing ferns  thrive  luxuriously,  their  deli- 
cate green  colors  forming  a  picturesque 
contrast  to  the  darker  shades  of  the 
pines  and  acacias  with  which  the  hill 
is  covered.  By  a  well-formed  drive- 
way that  reminds  one  of  some  remark- 
ably nice  piece  of  mountain  road,  as 
well  as  by  numerous  paths  leading 
through  delightful  grottoes  and  shady 
places,  the  summit  is  reached.  And 
there  is  the  Observatory.  Below  lies 
the  Park,  its  winding  drives  and  walks 
bordered  with  noble  trees,  its  forests  of 
pine  and  other  trees,  its  undulating 
slopes  covered  with  rich  verdure,  its 
lake  glistening  in  the  sunlight,  and  its 
romantic  cascade.  On  the  Park's  west- 
ern side  the  Pacific  Ocean  tosses  in 
fretful  impatience,  while  its  waves 
break  with  a  dull  and  ceaseless  roar 
on  the  sandy  beach.  Still  farther  off, 
faintly  outlined  against  the  horizon, 
one  can,  on  clear  days,  catch  a  glimpse 


£4  ^^ 


! 
I 


Ci.  ^ 

«    a 


"^        ^ 

r*1*  **-» 


£ 

^ 


540 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


of  the  Farallone  Islands — twenty-one 
miles  away.  To  the  northwest  lies 
the  entrance  to  the  bay  of  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  its  famous  Golden  Gate.  Be- 
yond are  the  lighthouses  on  Points 
Bonita  and  Arena.  To  the  east  the 
quiet  households  of  Sausalito  can  be 
seen  nestling  beneath  the  shadow  of 
the  rugged  hills  on  the  Marin  shore, 
while  Mount  Tamalpais  rises  in  colos- 
sal grimness  toward  the  blue  sky 
above.  Across  the  lower  bay  are 
seen  the  towns  of  Oakland,  Berkeley 
and  Alameda  standing  out  in  relief 
from  the  dark  background  of  hills  that 
rise  in  gradual  undulations  until  they 
blend  with  the  towering  form  of  Mount 
Diablo. 

Another  gift  of  great  value  was  that 
of  the  Museum,  which  was  erected  by 
Mr.  M.  H.  de  Young  and  his  associates 
in  the  Midwinter  Fair  enterprise,  as  a 
memorial  of  the  success  of  their  great 
undertaking.  This  is  one  of  those  im- 
provements which  grow  with  age.  It 
is  now  one  of  the  principal  attractions 
in  the  Park.  Near  the  Children's 
Playground,  at  the  entrance  to  what  is 
known  as  Concert  Valley,  a  magnifi- 
cent statue  to  the  memory  of  the  au- 
thor of  the  Star  Spangled  Banner 
has  been  erected  by  money  provided 
by  the  late  Mr.  James  Lick.  Numer- 
ous other  works  of  statuary,  personal 
and  allegorical,  have  been  contributed 
by  individuals  and  associates.  Among 


these  are  a  statue  of  General  Halleck, 
another  of  General  Grant,  and  another 
of  the  Rev.  Thomas  Starr  King.  Fur- 
ther contributions  of  a  like  nature  are 
expected  from  time  to  time.  Some 
time  before  his  death  the  late  Mr.  Geo. 
W.  Childs  of  the  Philadelphia  Ledger 
contributed  a  Prayer  Book  Cross,  in 
the  Runic  style  of  architecture,  which 
is  in  commemoration  of  the  first  Epis- 
copal prayer  offered  up  on  this  coast. 
The  prayer  was  uttered  by  the  chap- 
lain of  Sir  Francis  Drake,  when  that 
famous  and  daring  navigator  leader 
landed  on  the  shores  of  Drake's  Bay, 
June  24,  1579. 

Another  generous  gift  that  now  con- 
stitutes one  of  the  principal  attrac- 
tions of  Golden  Gate  Park  is  that  of 
the  new  Music  Stand  in  the  Musical 
Concourse.  This  was  contributed  by 
Mr.  Claus  Spreckels.  It  is  designed 
in  the  Italian  Renaissance  style  and 
executed  in  Colusa  sandstone.  In  ele- 
vation, the  new  stand  presents  itself 
as  a  central  feature,  with  a  frontage 
of  fifty-five  feet  and  a  height  of  sev- 
enty feet.  This  central  feature  is 
flanked  on  each  side  with  Corinthian 
columns.  Extending  from  these  col- 
umns on  each  side  are  colonnades, 
fifty-two  feet  long  by  fifteen  feet  wide, 
each  of  which  supports  16  Ionic  col- 
umns. Taken  as  an  entirety,  the  struc- 
ture is  massive  and  artistic,  yet 
charmingly  simple. 


IDENTITY 

The  day  is  man's :  each  in  his  little  sphere 

Pursues  his  phantoms  to  the  rim  of  night, 

Supreme  within  himself,  for  God's  great  light 

Blots  out  the  heavens  that  His  nights  make  clear. 

Not  till  the  sun  goes  out  does  He  appear, 

Then  in  the  starry  mantle  of  His  might, 

Poised  on  the  throne  of  worlds,  from  unthought  height, 

He  leans  down  to  the  earth  and  draws  it  near. 


Then  in  the  shadowed  stillness  all  about 

I  sense  Him  in  the  touch  of  leaf  and  stone ; 

His  life  from  every  universe  above 

Comes  feeling  down  and  vanquishes  my  doubt, 

And  I  forget  the  thing  called  me :  alone 


With  God,  I  am  an  atom  of  His  love. 


RALPH  BACON. 


0 


a  & 

"Q  *Q 

C  ^ 

a  o 

(S)  J* 


Among 

the 

Head 

Hunters 

All    Rights    Reserved 

By 
Daniel  Folkman 

With  photos  taken 
by  the  author. 


Presidente  of  Tinglayan,  showing  tatoo. 


IMAGINE  my  sitting     in     state— I 
might  almost  say  in  Igorrote  state, 
for  my  court  is  comprised,  aside 
from  myself  and  my  two  Christi- 
ano  clerks,  of  Igorrote     officials     in 
their  native  dress,  or  rather  undress. 
The   two   "messengers"    of    the    sub- 
province  have  only  added     to     their 
usual  gee-string  a  short  "official"  coat. 
The  group  of  Igorrotes  who  at  most 
hours  of  the  day  fill  my  little  house,  do 
not  have  any  coats,  except  in  the  case 
of  some  of  the  presidentes,  or  town 


mayors.  All  have  their  spears  and 
head-axes  with  them.  I  cannot  make 
my  messengers  wash  themselves  regu- 
larly, and  least  of  all,  keep  their  coats 
clean.  But  I  suppose  they  give  a 
homelike  air  to  the  Governor's  quar- 
ters when  their  fellow  citizens  call  on 
business. 

It  is  less  than  two  weeks  since  my 
arrival  at  Bontoc,  and  I  am  introduced 
to  the  bloody  business  of  head-hunting 
by  complaints  from  two  quarters,  the 
towns  of  Balangao  and  Daneo. 


'Official  coaf  of  presidente. 


This  Sunday  morning  there  ap- 
peared at  my  office  a  half  a  dozen  men 
of  strangely  wild  appearance.  They 
were  more  truly  savages  than  any  I 
had  yet  seen  in  this  savage  land.  They 
actually  had  the  wild  look  of  hunted 
animals  in  their  eyes.  They  had  come 
by  forced  marches  from  the  town  of 
Balangao,  which  is  at  the  extreme 
southeastern  point  of  my  sub-province, 
according  to  their  story,  near  the  join- 
ing of  the  provinces  of  Lepanto-Bon- 
toc,  Isabela  and  Nueva  Vizcaya. 

From  what  my  interpreter  says,  this 
is  the  first  time  that  men  from  Balan- 
gao have  appeared  at  Bontoc,  at  least 
since  the  American  occupation.  They 
live  in  the  region  most  dangerous  to 
Americans,  for  the  towns  of  Barlig  and 
Lias,  lying  between  Bontoc  and  Ba- 
langao in  the  same  valley,  are  known 
as  our  "bad"  towns.  It  was  in  this 
valley  that  a  detachment  of  Spanish 
soldiers  is  said  to  have  been  nearly 
annihilated,  and  it  is  Barlig  which  was 


burnt  by  a  large  force  of  our  own  na- 
tive troops  in  the  last  fight  before  my 
arrival. 

One  of  the  Balangao  party  appears 
to  be  a  man  of  importance,  perhaps  the 
presidente  of  the  town,  as  he  claims 
to  be,  although  he  has  nothing  to  show 
for  his  authority.  His  name  is  Olaian, 
He  and  Nakisim  were  the  chief  wit- 
nesses to  the  fight,  and,  therefore,, 
signed  the  warrants  which  I  had  sworn 
out  on  the  basis  of  their  story.  They 
said  that  the  Balangao  people  were 
cutting  rice  when  a  band  of  perhaps 
twenty  of  their  enemies,  from  the  next 
town  of  Guines,  appeared  on  the  hill 
above  them  and  challenged  them  to 
fight.  This  is  the  usual  method  of 
beginning  a  head-hunt,  and  only  a 
cowardly  town  would  refuse.  So  the 
Balangao  men  left  their  fields  to  meet 
their  enemy,  although  the  latter,  they 
say,  had  ten  guns,  which  they  had 
taken  from  the  Spanish  troops.  In 
short,  the  result  of  the  fight  was  the 


544 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


disastrous  defeat  of  the  small  Balan- 
gao  party.  Four  of  their  men  were 
shot  and  another  killed.  The  heads  of 
all  were  taken,  and,  in  some  cases, 
even  arms  and  legs  were  cut  off.  Niki- 
sim  was  a  witness  and  participant  in 
the  fight,  and  the  presidente  was  in 
the  party  which  recovered  the  muti- 
lated bodies  on  the  mountain  side.  The 
presidente  himself  lost  in  this  fight  a 
son  and  two  brothers,  and  the  enemy 
vowed  that  they  would  return  in  three 
days  to  renew  the  attack.  Such  was 
their  "Merry  Christmas"  this  year. 

There  seems  to  be  a  good  deal  of 
chivalry  in  the  plan  of  attack  of  one 
town  upon  another  that  reminds  me  of 
the  Scottish  customs  of  generations 
ago.  It  is  not  a  cowardly  attack  in  the 
dark,  nor  the  ambush  of  the  American 
Indians.  A  messenger  is  often  sent  to 
the  enemy's  town,  who  enters  and 
presents  a  spear  or  head-axe  to  the 
chief  men,  saying:  "This  is  a  chal- 
lenge of  my  town  to  fight  you."  The 
usual  answer  is,  "All  right:  we  are. 
ready  to  fight  you,"  for  it  is  seldom 
that  a  town  will  put  itself  in  the  cow- 
ardly light  of  r  fusing.  The  challenge 
is  again  repeated  in  the  open  field  by 
the  approaching  warriors,  perhaps 
from  a  hill-top  overlooking  the  town. 
"Come  and  fight,  if  you  dare,"  they 
shout.  Then  all  the 'men  of  the  chal- 
lenged town  sally  forth  in  their  war 
equipments.  There  may  be  only  a 
series  of  single  combats  between 
champions  of  the  respective  sides  un- 
til a  few  heads  have  been  secured  by 
one  party  or  the  other,  when  they  re- 
tire satisfied. 

As  regards  the  commission  of  a 
crime  by  one  town  against  another, 
there  is  no  other  recourse  than  the  law 
of  retaliation — of  public  as  well  as  of 
private  vengeance.  In  the  Igorrote 
system  there  is  no  authority  which  pre- 
sides over  several  towns  and  can  en- 
force justice  among  them.  The  blood 
feud  descends  here  from  generation  to 
generation,  as  in  some  portions  of  our 
own  land  and  Europe ;  but  the  Igorrote 
who  lost  his  relative  in  a  head-hunt  is 
not  so  much  concerned  to  expiate  the 
crime  by  taking  a  head  in  the  family 


Igorrote  woman. 

of  the  criminal  as  he  is  to  take  a  head 
from  the  offending  village.  If  cow- 
ardly enough,  he  will  attack  a  defense- 
less woman,  or  a  child,  working  in  the 
fields,  and  secure  a  head  in  this  man- 
ner to  avenge  his  wrong.  Crimes  of 
this  sort  are  so  frequent  that  armed 
men  accompany  the  women  to  their 
work  in  the  fields,  especially  if  they 
go  to  some  distance  from  the  town. 
The  men  go  usually  merely  as  an  es- 
cort, and  sit  in  idleness  while  the  wo- 
men work.  It  is  the  same,  also,  when 
a  carabao,  or  buffalo,  is  stolen  by  a 
town.  There  is  no  means  of  bringing 
the  offender  to  justice  except  by  steal-- 
ing a  carabao  from  his  town  in  return, 
There  is  really  not  a  town  in  this 
province  that  would  not  like  to  go  out 
on  a  head-hunt  if  it  dared.  It  is  only 
the  presence  of  the  Americans  and 
native  soldiers  in  this  corner  that  has 
reduced  the  towns  between  Bontoc  vil- 
lage and  the  Lepanto  border  to  a  com- 


AMONG  THE  HEAD  HUNTERS. 


545 


parative  quiet.  Even  here,  heads  are 
taken  not  infrequently.  Cases  have 
occurred  on  the  main  street  of  Bon- 
toe  since  the  first  Americans  reached 
the  town.  The  regular  cause  is,  that 
every  town  is  enemy  to  all  surround- 
ing towns  except  the  one  nearest  to  it 
on  each  trail,  and  even  these  are  part 
of  the  time  at  war,  as  seen  in  the  case 
of  Barlig  and  other  towns  toward  the 
south.  An  American  cannot  take  a 
trip  through  the  sub-province  without 
changing  carriers  at  every  town,  and 


south.  In  other  towns  the  skulls  of 
carabaos  and  pigs  take  the  place  of 
human  heads  as  ornaments,  long  rows 
of  them  being  fastened  up  along  the 
sides  of  houses. 

I  had  a  good  opportunity  to  exam- 
ine the  native  equipment  of  these  men. 
The  so-called  head-axe  is  as  broad  as 
our  woodsman's  axe,  but  as  light  as  a 
hatchet,  and  has  the  peculiar  prong, 
or  spur,  which  characterizes  head-axes, 
extending  in  the  opposite  direction 
from  its  cutting  edge.  The  native 


Igorrote  village. 


even  then  a  large  party  of  armed  war- 
riors generally  accompanies  these  car- 
riers for  protection. 

Every  council  house  in  Bontoc,  and 
there  are  sixteen  of  them,  has  one  or 
more  human  heads  stowed  away  in  it. 
Before  the  white  man  settled  in  their 
midst,  the  Igorrotes  kept  these  heads 
exposed  on  posts,  or  around  the  eaves 
of  the  house,  as  a  decoration,  a  cus- 
tom which  still  prevails,  I  understand, 
among  towns  just  over  the  range  to  the 


name  is  "aliwa."  The  name  given  by 
the  white  man  is  somewhat  mislead- 
ing; for,  although  this  is  the  axe  al- 
ways used  for  cutting  off  the  heads  of 
enemies,  it  is  used  for  all  sorts  of 
culinary  and  domestic  purposes  as 
well.  The  boys  very  skillfully  used 
their  head-axes,  for  instance,  in  carv- 
ing our  chicken  when  preparing  it  for 
the  pot.  I  have  even  seen  an  Igor- 
rote's  hair  banged  with  his  head-axe. 
The  name,  "head-basket,"  is  also 


546 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


somewhat  sensational,  although  I  be- 
lieve this  is  not  generally  carried  ex- 
cept on  long  head-hunts.  They  may 
be  used,  however,  in  carrying  food,  a 
blanket,  tobacco  and  whatever  is  nec- 
essary on  a  trip,  as  well  as  in  bringing 
back  a  chance  head  on  the  return. 

The  spear  has  an  iron  point,  which 
is,  of  course,  manufactured  by  them 
from  iron  which  is  brought  into  their 
country  in  commerce,  and  has  a  handle 
about  six  feet  long. 

I  learned  more  about  the  secrets  of 
head-hunting  in  one  day  in  Mabontoc 
than  I  ever  learned  in  the  same  num- 
ber of  hours  before  or  since.  I  had 
remarkably  well  informed  teachers. 
The  famous  presidente  of  Tinglayan 
was  there,  and  with  him  was  his  teni- 
ente  mayor,  and  a  portion  of  the  time 
"the  old  man  who  makes  the  law"  of 
Tinglayan.  The  presidente  of  Mabon- 
toc himself  was  wise  in  the  law  and  the 
custom  of  the  community,  for  he  was 
both  presidente  and  destined  to  suc- 
ceed "the  old  man  who  makes  the 
law."  With  him  were,  of  course,  his 
wise  councillors.  One  of  them  was 
loathesome  to  look  upon  because  of 
some  permanent  disease  of  the  skin 
which  covered  his  entire  body  with 
scales.  Even  his  face  was  disfigured 
and  hideous,  although  he  always  met 
me  with  a  smile  and  was  most  eager  to 
do  anything  for  me  that  was  in  his 
power. 

This  group  of  men  talked  with  me 
hour  after  hour  in  the  presidente's 
house,  shut  out  from  the  disturbing 
crowd,  and  replied  with  the  utmost 
frankness  to  the  questions  which  I 
asked  about  their  manner  of  head- 
hunting. This  is  usually  a  very  deli- 
cate subject  for  an  American  to  broach 
to  his  Igorrote  friends.  But  the  men 
with  me  at  Mabontoc  seemed  to  have 
become  convinced  of  my  friendliness 
by  my  long  conversations  on  Igorrote 
customs  and  Igorrote  laws  and  my  ex- 
planation that  the  government  in 
America  wished  to  preserve  the  his- 
tory of  their  people  in  books,  and  had 
sent  me  to  learn  from  their  wise  men 
all  about  it.  More  than  that,  I  had 
been  honestly  able  to  show  a  great  in- 


terest in  these  matters,  one  might  say 
an  enthusiasm,  which  seemed  to  win 
their  hearts.  No  doubt  they  thought 
that  I  could  look  upon  the  rights  and 
wrongs  of  head-hunting  very  much 
from  their  own  point  of  view.  Indeed, 
later  cases  showed  me  that  the  Igor- 
rote  chief  of  the  old  schools  expects 
you  to  look  at  head-hunting  as  he  does. 
It  has  not  occurred  to  him  but  that  it 
is  a  necessary  method  of  revenge  and 
of  self-protection,  and  he  counts  upon 
you  to  coincide  in  his  views — perhaps 
even  to  take  part  with  him  in  a  head- 
hunt— as  the  presidente  of  Sadanga 
once  proposed  to  me. 

I  had  already  learned  that  the  Igor- 
rotes  throughout  the  sub-province  be- 
lieve that  the  harvest  would  not  be 
abundant  unless  a  head  is  taken  be- 
fore the  harvest  ripens. 

I  asked :  "Is  it  necessary  for  a  young 
man  to  take  a  head  before  he  can  be 
married?" 

"No,"  they  replied,  "a  head  is  not 
necessary,  but  a  young  woman  likes 
it  better." 

Not  only  with  the  girls  of  the  town, 
but  with  the  men,  a  young  man  who 
has  not  participated  in  a  successful 
head-hunt  passes  as  of  little  account. 

There  are  several  motives  which 
have  been  added  during  centuries,  no 
doubt,  to  the  original  motive  of  re- 
venge. There  is  the  economic  motive 
just  mentioned,  the  belief  that  the  suc- 
cess of  the  crops  depends  upon  the 
head-hunt.  There  is  the  desire  of  the 
young  man  to  stand  in  a  creditable 
light  in  the  community,  and  to  win  a 
girl  of  his  choice,  who  would  refuse 
him  unless  he  had  a  right  to  the  head- 
hunter's  tattoo.  And  finally,  there  is 
the  religious  motive,  perhaps  the  most 
ancient  of  all,  the  belief  that  the  spir- 
its, the  "anitos,"  of  his  slain  relatives 
demand  the  taking  of  a  head  as  a  sac- 
rifice to  them.  I  have  heard  the  old 
medicine  woman,  in  a  frenzy  as  of 
one  possessed  of  the  Devil,  scream  to 
a  patient  that  her  dead  relative,  giving 
his  name,  was  angry  because  there 
had  for  this  long  time  been  no  sacri- 
fice; that  he  was  angry,  and  that  he 
would  plague  the  sick  one  with  disease 


A  MOTHER  HEART. 


547 


until  the  people  took  revenge  for  him 
by  the  capture  of  a  head. 

When  the  law-giver  receives  a  favor- 
able omen  from  the  sacred  bird,  it  is 
he  who  sets  the  head-hunt  in  motion; 
and  it  is  the  duty  of  every  able-bodied 
man  in  the  community  to  join  in  it.  If 
he  is  too  old  to  take  the  difficult  posi- 
tion of  actual  leader  in  the  fight,  this 
is  delegated  to  a  younger  warrior. 

In  the  Igorrote  country,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  law  as  well  as  morally,  the 
whole  town  is  culpable  when  an  ordi- 
nary head-hunt  is  organized.  Every 
man  is  accessory  to  the  fact,  at  least 
because  of  his  guilty  knowledge  of  it 
and  his  participation  in  the  spoils.  The 
head  men  are  the  chief  criminals,  be- 
cause they  organize  it  if  they  do  not 
actually  cut  off  the  heads,  as  did  the 
vice-presidentes  of  Lubwagan  and 
Baso  recently. 

I  want  to  make  this  clear  as  a  justi- 
fication of  the  policy  which  officers 
in  the  Philippines  have  sometimes 
found  it  necessary  to  adopt — that  of 
burning  a  town  when  the  chief  crimi- 
nals could  not  be  captured.  If  we 
depended  strictly  upon  the  procedure 
of  civilized  countries,  the  result  would 
be  that  in  nearly  every  case  criminals 
would  escape  punishment  and  crime 
would  go  unchecked.  It  is  the  uni- 
versal experience  in  this  Igorrote  coun- 
try that  when  soldiers  are  sent  to  make 
an  arrest  the  entire  town  decamps  for 


the  hills,  where  they  can  live  indefin- 
itely upon  the  rice  in  the  mountain 
store-houses  which  they  have  prepared 
for  this  emergency.  Upon  my  capture 
of  the  vice-presidente  of  Lubwagan, 
which  was  accomplished  only  by  burn- 
ing the  town,  Lieutenant  Bennett  said 
I  had  done  what  could  not  be  done 
once  in  a  hundred  times,  and  he  gave 
the  reason  I  have  just  stated. 

The  tattoo  marks  are  cut  into  the 
skin  by  needle-like  points.  In  fact, 
the  American  needles  which  we  bring 
into  this  country  are  put  mainly  to  this 
use,  several  of  them  being  set  closely 
together  in  the  end  of  a  stick.  Into 
the  designs  thus  scratched  in  the  skin 
is  rubbed  a  mixture  of  soot  and  water. 
The  wounds  fester  for  a  few  weeks 
and  then  remain  of  a  dark  blue,  or 
sometimes  of  a  greenish  color. 

I  got  some  very  interesting  and 
delicate  information  from  these  old 
men  about  their  tattoo  marks.  They 
admitted  that  certain  tattoo  marks 
could  only  be  worn  by  one  who  had 
cut  off  a  head  himself,  or  had  struck 
his  weapon  into  the  body  of  the  victim 
before  or  after  the  decapitation.  These 
choicest  marks,  as  I  have  learned  from 
other  sources,  are  intricate  designs 
worn  on  the  breast.  The  presidente  of 
Tinglayan  said  that  they  were  made 
more  and  more  intricate  with  every 
head  taken.  His  own  breast  tattoo  was 
one  of  the  most  complex. 


A     MOTHER     HEART 

O  patient  heart!  whose  every  deed 
Exemplified  the  Mother  Creed 

Throughout  a  life  of  useful  years ; 
We  cannot  know  your  worth  untold; 
Recording  angels  only  hold 

The  triumph  of  your  hopes  and  fears. 

O  Mother  Heart !  what  human  eyes 
Can  see  the  long  self-sacrifice 

That  crowns  the  glory  of  your  days! 
The  attribute  which  looms  above 
All  other  traits  of  Mother  Love, 

Too  high  a  thing  for  human  praise ! 

GEORGE  B.  STAFF. 


I 

I 


.5 
•3 


I 


8 


s= 

H~» 
<3 

•+•» 

>-. 
O 


Ruins  of  ancient  Mission  church  at  La  Cuarai,  New  Mexico.  The  church  was 
'milt  with  flat  stones  laid  in  adobe  mortar,  the  walls  being  of  immense  thick- 
ness, in  order  to  serve  as  a  fortification  as  well  as  a  church. 

Prehistoric  Indian   Ruins  Found 

By  E'  Dana  Johnson 


TWENTY  skeletons  of  the  extinct 
Te-wa  Indian     tribe;     eleven 
rooms  of  a  great     prehistoric 
communal  house;  curious  im- 
plements, bits  of  pottery,     pieces  of 
partly  decayed  fabrics,  and  other  rel- 
ics of  a  civilization  which  began  hun- 
dreds of  years  ago,  have  just  been  un- 
earthed by  savants  of  the  American 
Institute  of  Archaeology  in  the  mounds 
which  cluster  about  the  venerable,  sen- 
tinel-like ruin  of  the  Mission  church 
of  La  Cuarai,  seven  miles  from  Moun- 
tainair,  New  Mexico. 

La  Curai  was  a  populous  town  of  the 
Te-was,  or  Tiguas,  believed  to  be  an- 
cestors of  one  branch  of  the  present 
Pueblo  Indians  of  New  Mexico.  Its 
remains  are  near  the  old  Mexican  town 
of  Manzano,  in  the  eastern  foothills  of 
the  densely  wooded  and  lonely  Man- 
zano range  of  mountains,  the  town  and 


mountain  range  deriving  the  name 
(Apple)  from  the  centuries-old  or- 
chard adjoining  the  town,  the  oldest  or- 
chard in  America,  still  bearing  fruit,  as 
it  was  in  1806,  when  the  first  Spanish 
settlement  of  which  there  is  authentic 
record  was  made  here.  Nearly  200 
years  previous,  in  1630,  Father  Pera 
erected  or  supervised  the  erection  of 
the  massive  mission  church-fortress  at 
La  Cuarai.  How  many  centuries  pre- 
vious to  this  the  Indians  first  built  their 
town  is  largely  conjecture;  authorities 
agree  that  its  antiquity  is  close  to  800 
years;  possibly  it  is  a  thousand. 

The  first  systematic  excavation  work 
was  done  in  August,  1913,  as  the  field 
work  of  the  summer  session  of  the 
School  of  American  Archaeology  at 
Mountainair,  and  following  the  acquisi- 
tion of  title  from  the  State  by  the 
school  to  the  site  of  the  ruins.  The 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


area  will  be  fenced  in  and  improved 
and  maintained  as  a  State  park.  The 
setting  is  most  attractive,  with  fine 
water,  beautiful  big  cottonwood  trees, 
cedar  and  pinon  trees  and  a  magnifi- 
cent vista  of  rugged  mountains,  foot- 
hills and  plains.  The  discoveries  so 
far  made  in  the  ruins  have  proved  im- 
mensely interesting  to  scientists  and 
ambitious  plans  are  being  made  for 
further  research.  The  skeletons  have 


chambers.  The  area  of  the  old  Mis- 
sion church  has  revealed  an  extensive 
ecclesiastical  establishment  of  the 
early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
To  the  east  of  the  church  are  the  foun- 
dation walls  of  a  monastery  and  ad- 
joining buildings  and  the  foundations 
of  what  was  probably  the  mission 
school.  It  has  been  found  that  the 
walls  and  fortifications  of  the  town 
and  Mission  are  more  extensive  and 


Interior  of  the  ruins  of  the  church  at  La  Cuarai,  N.  M. 


been  shipped  to  the  Smithsonian  In- 
stitute for  further  study  of  an  extinct 
type  of  aboriginal  Americans,  the  mys- 
tery of  whose  origin  and  fate  offers 
a  strong  challenge  to  science. 

The  excavation  so  far  made  shows 
that  La  Cuarai  was  a  terraced  town  of 
from  fifteen  to  twenty  dwellings  ar- 
ranged in  quadrangles,  with  a  number 
of  underground  "kivas"  or  council 


complete  than  any  others  so  far  ex- 
plored in  the  southwest.  A  stone  wall 
of  substantial  construction  encircled 
the  town;  inside  were  inner  defenses 
and  still  other  strong  walls  were  built 
to  protect  the  Indian  workers  in  the 
fields  from  the  attacks  of  hostile  tribes. 
It  was  in  the  year  1674  that  the  Apa- 
ches finally  drove  these  peaceful  In- 
dians from  their  homes  and  left  town 


•2 


£ 


Old  apple  trees  at  Manzano,  New  Mexico.    The  trees  are  several    hundred 
years  old,  probably  the  oldest  in  America.    Fruit  experts  are  unable    to    tell 
their  age.    They  continue  to  bear  fruit. 


and  Mission  to  fall  into  ruin. 

The  bodies  recovered  were  taken 
from  a  mound  about  200  by  133  feet  in 
dimensions,  the  principal  burying 
ground  of  the  Te-was.  It  is  believed 
many  more  bodies  will  be  unearthed 
by  the  special  expedition. 

Little  less  interesting  is  the  pictur- 
esque town  of  Manzano,  with  its  boil- 
ing spring  of  crystal  water,  its  lake, 
its  apple  trees  and  its  picturesque 
adobes.  The  apple  trees  have  proved 
a  puzzle  to  horticultural  experts,  and 
it  is  impossible  to  more  than  guess  at 
their  age.  It  is  said  that  eighteen 
inches  of  decayed,  decaying  and  ripe 
apples  covered  the  ground  under  the 
trees  when  first  seen  by  the  white  man. 
The  trees,  although  gnarled,  knotty 
and  dwarfed,  are  still  bearing  a  very 
fair  grade  of  apples,  and  their  tenacity 
of  life  is  remarkable,  what  appears  to 
be  only  a  thin  ribbon  of  bark  being 
sufficient  to  support  a  tree  top  full  of 
apples.  The  apples  are  small  and 
hard,  but  quite  good  to  eat. 

A  round  tower  locally  known  as  the 
"Old  Fort"  is  another  interesting  sight 
at  Manzano.  It  was  used  as  a  place 
of  refuge  from  the  Indians  which  made 


raids  through  this  section  as  late  as 
the  seventies,  and  is  in  a  good  state  of 
preservation.  The  tower's  walls  are  of 
great  thickness,  with  loopholes  for  gun- 
fire and  a  subterranean  chamber  hol- 
lowed out  beneath.  Nearby  is  a  large 
stone  walled  corral  into  which  the 
stock  was  driven  in  time  of  danger. 
The  present  owner  of  the  place,  one 
Filomeno  Sanchez,  is  one  of  four 
brothers  stolen  from  a  band  of  Nava- 
jos  when  quite  small,  and  who  took 
the  name  of  his  Mexican  abductor. 
His  three  brothers  are  still  living  in 
the  same  vicinity. 

The  work  of  excavation  at  La  Cua- 
rai  has  been  under  the  direction  of  Dr. 
Edgar  L.  Hewett,  director  of  the 
School  of  American  Archaeology, 
which  has  its  headquarters  in  the  Old 
Palace  at  Santa  Fe.  Those  assisting 
him  included  Charles  F.  Lummis,  for- 
mer editor  of  the  "Out  West"  maga- 
zine, and  well  known  as  an  archaeolo- 
gist; Dr.  Mitchell  Carroll,  of  Washing- 
ton, D.  C.;  Dr.  L.  B.  Paton,  Hartford, 
Conn.;  Mr.  Ralph  Linton,  of  Philadel- 
phia; Dr.  B.  O.  Adams,  of  Pueblo, 
Colo.,  and  Miss  Dorothea  Fischer,  of 
St.  Louis,  Mo. 


PRIVILEGES  OF  THE   COLONEL 


By  Jane  Dalziel  Wood 


GREAT-GRANDMAMMA,  lah, 
and  I  all  agree  in  thinking  work 
a  pernicious  thing.  Great- 
grandmama  is  very  old  and  be- 
longs to  a  luxurious  generation;  lah 
is  our  black  cook,  and  I  do  not  know 
whether  she  owns  me,  or  I  own  her. 

To  both  Great-grandmamma  and  me 
life  means  amusements,  accomplish- 
ments, conversation,  hospitality  and 
sleep.  Great-grandmamma  inter- 
sperses hers  with  occasional  leisurely 
acts  of  charity — but  strictly  speaking, 
I  doubt  if  I  ever  did  a  deed  of  benevo- 
lence in  my  life.  The  things  I  do  to 
please  other  people  I  do  to  please  my- 
self, and  as  that  calls  for  no  self-de- 
nial, I  suppose  I  am  altogether  carnal. 
I  have  a  sympathetic  disposition  that 
makes  me  interested  in  everything  and 
everybody.  It  makes  me  crazy  to  be 
doing  things  for  people  and  for  ani- 
mals. 

But  I  do  not  call  that  work.  Real 
work  is  making  your  living  school- 
teaching,  typewriting  and  dancing  with 
beginners.  Mine  is  illustrating  maga- 
zines. I  guess  you  have  seen  some 
of  my  things.  They  have  been  the 
rage  for  about  two  years.  It's  bad 
enough  to  have  to  make  my  living  and 
Great-grandmamma's  and  lah's  with- 
out being  plagued  to  death  by  them 
about  it.  They  see  the  reasonableness 
of  our  having  to  have  dollars  and  cents 
to  buy  bread  and  butter  and  chocolate 
creams,  but  they  have  never  gotten 
used  to  my  being  the  bread  winner  of 
the  family. 

I  make,  of  course,  a  lot  of  money 
with  my  swirly-windblown  things,  but 
then  I  spend  a  lot.  Like  this — my  man 
chum  is  a  struggling  architect,  and 
when  he  looks  particularly  hungry  and 


anaemic,  I  weep  my  eyes  out  because 
I  can't  say,  "Worth,  here's  fifty  dol- 
lars; for  goodness'  sake  buy  yourself 
food  and  cocktails,"  why,  then  Great- 
grandmamma  begins  to  age  rapidly  (of 
course  she  might,  you  know,  whether 
Worth  were  hungry  or  not) ,  and  then  I 
beg  him  to  befriend  us — to  stay  with 
us  awhile  because  I  am  afraid  to  be  in 
the  house  alone,  with  her  advancing 
infirmities — so  he  comes,  bless  his 
dear,  guileless  old  heart,  and  I  hustle 
to  market  before  breakfast  and  buy 
fruit  and  steaks  worth  their  weight  in 
gold,  and  sweetbreads  and  wines  and 
things,  and  we  live  like  Haroun-al- 
Raschid  till  Great-grandmamma's  con- 
dition improves.  Worth  looks  like  a 
new  creature  at  the  end  of  ten  days, 
and  I  lie  in  bed  at  night  and  gloat  over 
the  power  of  money. 

Worth's  awfully  good  to  me.  Some- 
times after  I've  been  out  to  the  tennis 
court  to  play  with  a  girl  I  like  who's 
got  tuberculosis,  and  has  to  stop  now 
and  then  to  cough — I  think  such  sor- 
rowful thoughts  about  her  when  I  get 
back  home  that  I  feel  like  snatching 
out  to  eternity  and  seizing  some  of  the 
years  of  my  own  life  to  give  her, 
and  then  Worth  comes  along  and  jests 
about  life  and  jokes  about  death  until 
I  shrug  my  shoulders  and  look  at  Fate 
with  unflinching  eyes.  And  I  can  never, 
never  forget  what  he  was  to  me  after 
the  Colonel  died.  Besides  being  my 
godfather,  the  Colonel  was  our  next 
door  neighbor.  My  mother  died  when 
I  was  eight  hours  old,  and  they  tell  me 
the  Colonel,  trembling  with  emotion, 
was  sent  for  to  come  into  the  room 
where  death  throes  immediately  fol- 
lowed birth  throes.  For  he  was  spon- 
sor at  the  hurried  baptism,  and  he 


554 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


gathered  in  his  arms  the  bundle  that 
made  up  my  infant  self,  and  swore  by 
whatever  gods  there  be  that  he  would 
make  me  happy.  My  father  had  died 
three  months  before  my  birth ;  lah  and 
Great-grandmamma  brought  me  up, 
and  when  lah  punished  or  denied  me, 
I  used  to  creep  through  the  gate  in  the 
division  fence  made  by  the  Colonel  for 
the  purpose,  and  go  over  to  him  to  be 
comforted  and  consoled,  and  when  I 
grew  older,  why,  I  practically  kept 
house  for  him.  I  knew  much  better 
where  his  '69  Port  and  best  cigars  were 
than  he  did.  Oh,  just  any  time,  he'd 
come  through  the  gate  in  the  division 
fence,  walk  stiffly  up  the  back  stairs, 
tap  commandingly  at  the  sitting  room 
door,  and  ask  me  to  come  all  painty 
and  be-aproned  as  I  was,  to  pour  tea 
for  his  guests.  Or  he  might  only 
want  me  to  bring  my  guitar  and  sing 
for  him  or  play  a  game  of  cards.  He 
always  kept  a  sitting-room-bed-room, 
with  every  conceivable  thing  I  could 
want  for  my  use,  and  he  stole  a  lot  of 
my  shabby  old  treasures  to  put  in  it  to 
attract  me  there. 

Until  my  sixteenth  birthday  the 
Colonel  used  to  kiss  me  indiscrimi- 
nately; then  he  made  a  rule  that  he 
would  never  kiss  me  except  on  his 
birthday,  and  he  suggested  that  I 
might  kiss  him  on  mine.  But  I  re- 
minded the  Colonel  that  I  had  not  been 
brought  up  to  regard  rules  with  much 
favor,  and  would  probably  go  on  kiss- 
ing him  whenever  it  occurred  to  me, 
and  I  did — but  the  Colonel  never  al- 
lowed himself  any  privileges. 

I  always  took  supper  with  him  on  his 
birthday,  and  in  the  evening,  after  he 
had  talked  about  my  mother  and  had 
sung  in  a  quavering  voice  "The 
Squire's  Song,"  we  tinkled  our  glasses 
together  and  drank  a  toast  to  by-gone 
days.  It  was  after  that  that  the  Col- 
onel would  stretch  out  his  hand  to  me 
across  the  cozy  tea  table  with  a  quaint 
old-fashioned  formality,  then  come 
round  to  me  and  present  his  yearly  kiss 
upon  my  forehead.  It  was  a  thrilling 
moment,  for  he  made  me  feel  that  I 
was  my  mother's  proxy,  and  I  was  se- 
cretly amazed  that  she  had  ever  been 


able  to  refuse  him,  to  resist  him ! 

There  was  something  in  the  person- 
ality of  the  Colonel  that  made  the  at- 
mosphere of  his  house  throb  with  ro- 
mance. The  candle-lighted  sitting- 
room  breathed  secrets,  and  often  I 
have  heard  tender,  rhythmic  sounds 
from  the  old-fashioned  harp  in  the 
fireside  corner  which  I  dare  say  was 
the  sigh  of  some  soul  that  had  tus- 
sled with  a  Laocoon  Fate  beside  that 
very  hearth. 

It  meant  a  great  deal  to  me  to  have 
the  Colonel's  house  to  go  to,  for  when 
Great-grandmamma  and  lah  teased 
me  to  stop  working  I  would  just  slip 
through  the  gate  and  steal  up  to  my 
room  by  the  back  way,  and  paint  un- 
disturbed. 

So  that  was  the  way  my  life  went 
along  until  the  Colonel's  sixtieth  birth- 
day. He  should  have  been  hale  and 
vigorous  at  that  age,  but  he  was  an 
old  and  broken  man,  and  acknowledg- 
ing it,  he  said  a  man  ought  to  die  when 
he  had  outlived  his  courage. 

We  talked  about  my  mother  that 
evening,  and  the  Colonel,  on  the 
threshold  of  the  Verities  and  Realities, 
told  me  how  he  had  loved  her — told  me 
without  reserve  how  a  man  of  honor 
loves  a  woman  with  a  burning  passion, 
and  I — envied  my  mother.  It  seemed 
to  me  to  be  worth  dying  for,  to  be 
loved  like  that. 

"It  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  Om- 
nipotence has  created,  Isabelle,"  my 
godfather  said,  with  rebuking  gravity, 
as  though  he  expected  me  to  scoff. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  I  shouted,  and 
dropping  on  my  knees  by  the  Colo- 
nel I  clasped  my  hands  about  his  thin 
arm.  "Ah,  I  could  love  like  that!"  I 
gasped,  choking  with  my  emotions. 
The  Colonel's  eyes  shook  off  their  per- 
sonal reminiscent  look  and  searched 
mine  keenly. 

"Isabelle,"  he  said,  commandingly, 
but  not  unkindly,  "when  you  can  love 
a  man  like  that,  marry  him,  or  God 
help  you!" 

"Oh!"  I  cried  stormily,  choking 
with  regret  and  resentment,  "why 
wouldn't  my  mother  marry  you?" 

The  Colonel's  lip  quivered  nervously 


PRIVILEGES  OF  THE  COLONEL. 


555 


and  the  harp  in  the  fireside  corner 
which  he  accidentally  touched  with  a 
restless  foot,  sighed  like  a  broken 
heart. 

"I  never  asked  her — God  forgive 
me!"  he  whispered. 

"Why?"  I  demanded.    "Why?" 

"There  were  reasons  enough  and 
good  ones,  too,"  he  answered  drearily. 
"I  was  poor  and  past  my  first  youth. 
My  income  was  sunk  in  an  annuity 
that  will  die  with  me,  and  I  was 
ashamed  to  offer  so  little  to  her  gor- 
geous and  imperial  young  woman- 
hood." 

"Did  she  love  you?"  I  demanded, 
breathlessly. 

"Even  as  I  loved  her,  though  I  was 
not  aware  of  it  until  the  day  she  died. 

She  told  me "  the  Colonel  sobbed 

a  hard,  bitter  sob  for  a  hopeless  sor- 
row, "she  told  me  (she  did  not  mean 
to  reproach  me),  she  told  me  if  a 
man  makes  up  his  mind  not  to  pro- 
pose to  a  woman,  he  takes  the  respon- 
sibility of  shaping  her  life  as  well  as 
his  own." 

"And  it  is  not  right,"  I  cried  tem- 
pestuously, springing  to  my  feet,  "and 
I  am  ashamed  of  you,  and  ashamed  of 
my  mother  for  letting  your  happiness 
slip  through  your  fingers.  Happiness 
— why,  happiness,"  I  stammered,  "is 
more  than  a  matter  of  life  and  death, 
and  as  God  lives  in  Heaven,  if  I  see 
mine  for  a  fraction  of  a  heart  beat, 
I  mean  to  pursue  it  to  the  ends  of  the 
world  and  swath  it  in  wool  or  pack  it 
in  ice — whichever  is  necessary,  and 
bring  it  home  and  guard  it  as  though 
it  were  the  apples  of  Hesperides!" 

"There  are  more  things  in  heaven 
and  earth  than  are  dreamed  of  in 
your  philosophy,  Isabelle,"  he  quoted 
wearily,  and  then  he  closed  his  eyes, 
and  I  gently  stroked  his  straggling 
hair,  but  his  admonition  sent  my 
thoughts  whirling  into  the  maze  we 
call  life,  and  I  scanned  the  faces  of 
those  I  knew,  by  the  flaming  torch  of 
knowledge  that  the  Colonel  had  kin- 
dled, and  bah !  I  saw  only  putty  faces, 
lovers  who  knew  not  passion,  friends 
who  knew  not  love. 

The   Colonel   stirred  uneasily.     "I 


haven't  finished,"  he  said.  I  stumbled 
to  my  feet  and  brought  him  his  long 
pipe,  and  dropped  by  his  side  again. 
Then  his  eyes  lighted  a  little,  and  he 
put  his  hand  fondly  on  my  head,  and 
sang  in  a  tremulous,  husky  voice  "The 
Squire's  Song,"  but  he  finished  it — ah, 
I  hope  he  finished  it  in  my  mother's 
ears  in  Paradise! 

I  lifted  the  Colonel's  hand  from  my 
head  and  laid  it  on  my  knee.  I  stood 
beside  him  for  a  moment  uncompre- 
hending, dazed,  mystified — then  a  kind 
of  hardihood  overtook  me,  and  I 
stepped  to  the  tea-table,  and  turned 
down  an  empty  wine  glass;  then  I 
kissed  the  Colonel  on  the  forehead, 
and  went  home  through  the  gate  in  the 
division  fence. 

Well,  after  that  life  seemed  like  a 
target  with  the  bull's-eye  shot  out,  and 
I  just  pulled  down  all  the  shades  on 
the  Colonel's  side  of  the  house,  and 
lived  riotously  with  Worth.  He  helped 
me  to  bluff  things  out,  and  kept  me 
from  flinching  ov(  r  the  inevitable,  and 
in  time  I  got  back  to  a  comfortable, 
commonplace  basis  again. 

Just  before  Easter,  when  our  funds 
were  pretty  low,  and  I  pitched  in  as  if 
a  skull  and  cross  bones  hung  over  my 
shoulder,  lah  and  Great-grandmamma 
nagged  me  till  I  thought  they  would 
drive  me  to  drink. 

"We've  got  to  live,"  I  expostulated, 
"and  I've  got  to  work,  so  we  can  live." 

"But  you  can't  live  while  you  work," 
argued  Great-grandmamma,  and  the 
paradoxes  worse  confounded  made  me 
giddy,  so  I  took  my  private  keys  and 
went  over  to  the  Colonel's  deserted 
house.  I  crept  up  the  back  way  to  my 
room,  and  I  painted  ir.  a  man's  face  all 
I  had  seen  in  my  godfather's  face  the 
night  he  died,  and  I  painted  in  a  wo- 
man's face  all  the  emotion  that  the 
Colonel's  words  had  aroused  in  me.  I 
worked  until  the  light  failed,  and  then 
gathered  up  the  things  I  had  finished 
to  take  home  with  me.  The  silence 
grew  oppressive  in  the  twilight,  and  I 
began  to  sing :  "Drink  to  me  only  with 
thine  eyes,"  it  was  the  Colonel's  favor- 
ite song,  and  then,  in  the  house  I  be- 
lieved utterly  deserted  save  for  myself 


556 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


— a  man's  voice,  a  marvelous  tenor, 
joined  me,  and  sang  on  and  on  after 
my  voice  had  died  in  terror.  But  when 
the  last  note  was  gone  with  its  echo, 
I  suddenly  caught  my  breath  with  a 
laugh — I  knew  who  the  man  was — 
the  Colonel's  nephew.  Why,  of  course 
it  was  Aleck  MacCutcheon — hadn't  I 
helped  the  Colonel  to  scrimp  and  save 
to  give  him  those  years  in  Paris  which 
had  developed  that  wonderful  talent  he 
was  found  to  possess?  The  Colonel 
had  counted  a  good  deal  on  his  com- 
ing home  a  great  and  famous  artist — 
and  marrying  me — but  he  had  not  been 
able  to  manage  it — the  home  coming, 
I  mean — and  he  had  just  begun  to  be 
celebrated  when  the  Colonel  died. 

After  I  made  up  my  mind  that  it 
was  Aleck  MacCutcheon  whose  voice 
I  heard,  I  ran  down  to  the  sitting 
room,  and  the  door  was  open.  In  the 
Colonel's  chair  there  sat  a  man  with 
a  steamer  rug  over  his  knees,  and  his 
right  hand  thrust  into  the  breast  of 
his  coat,  and  he  had  a  touch  of  auburn 
in  his  hair,  and  great,  great  brown 
eyes,  and  as  I  looked,  honest,  the  ex- 
pression I  had  just  been  painting  came 
into  them. 

"I  thought  you'd  never  come,"  he 
said,  with  the  most  flattering  expres- 
sion of  expectant  waiting,  and  I  an- 
swered with  a  little  laugh;  then  I 
blushed  when  I  heard  how  contented  it 
sounded,  and  drew  up  my  own  parti'cu- 
lar  chair,  threw  open  my  rain  coat,  and 
said  the  silliest  thing  you  ever  heard 
of.  I  said :  "Well,  here  I  am!"  Wasn't 
that  an  absurd  thing  to  say  to  a  man 
I  was  seeing  for  the  first  time?  And 
then  I  laughed  again,  a  nervous  little 
laugh,  and  because  I  didn't  dare  risk 
the  intimate  contact  of  our  eyes  a 
moment  longer,  I  cried:  "What's  the 
penalty  of  trespassing?  You  must 
think  me  a  very  meddlesome  some- 
body— Aleck  MacCutcheon,  don't 
you?"  It  seemed  good  to  tease  some 
one  in  the  Colonel's  house  again. 

"Trespassing!"  he  repeated  with  a 
wry  grin,  "you  call  it  trespassing !  I've 
been  sitting  here  gazing  at  your  close- 
curtained  house  for  a  week,  hoping 
and  longing  for  you  to  come  over.  For 


I  know  all  about  you,  you  see,"  he 
gloated  gaily,  and  then  turned,  oh,  ever 
so  slowly,  his  splendid  forehead  wrin- 
kling with  pain,  while  he  reached  with 
his  left  hand  for  the  Colonel's  diary. 
Wasn't  that  a  give-away? 

"Of  course  I  had  the  right  to  read  it, 
and  I  find  by  so  doing  that  the  Colo- 
nel had  a  lot  of  rights  and  privileges 
not  mentioned  in  his  legal  papers,  and 
I'd  like  to  know  if  I  inherit  them  with 
the  house."  His  eyes  danced  with 
a  teasing  smile. 

I  ran  over  in  my  mind  some  of  the 
things  I  used  to  do  for  my  godfather, 
intimate  and  remote,  and  I  wondered 
how  many  of  them  he  had  seen  fit  to 
Incorporate  in  his  journal,  but  I  said, 
bravely:  "Why,  I'm  afraid  I  don't 
know  much  law,  but  I  should  say  you 
hadn't  a  shadow  of  legal  right  to  them 
— however,"  I  haotened  to  add,  noting 
his  falling  face,  "you  might  acquire 
some  as  rewards  of  good  conduct.  If 
you  prove  nice  and  neighborly  and  ac- 
commodating, for  instance,  why,  I'll 
come  over  some  time  and  make  your 
afternoon  tea.  I  wish  I  had  some 
now,"  I  added  with  a  shiver,  for  the 
room  was  chilly  and  the  dark  had  come 
on  in  clumsy  hiding  shadows.  "Hadn't 
we  better  have  the  candles  ?"  I  went  on 
persistently.  "Twilight  isn't  nice  with- 
out a  fire." 

"I,"  he  began  helplessly,  "I,"  he 
faltered  nervously,  "I  am  lame — quite 
lame — I  am  sorry " 

"Oh!"  I  cried,  "I  should  have 

known.  The  rug  over  your  knees 

How  stupid,  how  stupid!" 

I  found  matches  and  lighted  can- 
dles and  put  them  on  the  table,  and  I 
found  some  splinters  and  built  a  roar- 
ing fire.  And  I  went  to  a  little  cup- 
board where  the  Colonel  and  I  kept  our 
tea-things,  and  there  was  tea  still,  and 
some  unopened  boxes  of  wafers  and 
crackers.  I  chatted  gaily  as  I  could 
on  my  little  errands  back  and  forth, 
but  the  man's  mirth  was  forced  and 
sadder  than  sorrow. 

I  drew  my  chair  to  the  tea  table  and 
smiled  reassuringly  through  the  can- 
dle light  and  poured  tea  for  him  in  a 
Dresden  china  cup. 


PRIVILEGES  OF  THE  COLONEL. 


557 


"One  lump  or  two  ?"  I  asked,  but  he 
did  not  hear  me,  his  eyes  were  hidden 
in  his  hand.  I  put  the  sugar  in  the 
saucer  and  set  it  down  in  front  of  him. 
"Drink  your  tea,  neighbor,"  I  coaxed 
persuasively;  "drink  it  while  it's  hot." 

He  came  out  of  his  reverie  with  a 
singularly  sweet  and  dazzling  smile, 
put  both  lumps  of  sugar  in  his  tea,  and 
stirred  it  clumsily  with  his  left  hand; 
he  stirred  it  until  it  must  have  been 
quite  cold,  and  then  he  lifted  it  with 
shaky  hesitation,  and  it  see-sawed  for 
a  moment  in  the  air,  and  fell  with  a 
crash  of  fragile  china  against  his 
chair. 

"Why,  I  did  better  than  that  yester- 
day," he  said  in  a  surprised  way. 

"You  haven't  hurt  your  hand — your 
right  hand?"  I  blurted  out,  the  artist's 
dread  of  such  a  misfortune  keying  my 
voice  to  an  unnatural  pitch. 

"Well,  yes,"  he  admitted.  "I  was 
in  a  railroad  accident  a  few  weeks 
ago,  and  I  am  fortunate  to  have  es- 
caped with  only  a  broken  leg  and  a 
fractured  wrist.  For  a  time  it  was 
thought  that  I  might  lose  both — then 
I  would  be  up  against  it,"  he  laughed 
boyishly. 

"But  you  will  get  well  now?"  I 
begged.  "Your  hand  will  be  quite, 
quite  supple  again?" 

"If  I  keep  it  perfectly  still  in  this 
cast  I  am  assured  that  the  ligaments 
will  knit — in — time,"  he  answered, 
with  a  whimsical,  skeptical  expression, 
and  I  saw  in  a  second  that  he  was  com- 
paring his  chance  with  a  miner's  for 
whom  deliverance  comes  after  he  has 
starved  to  death  in  his  underground 
prison. 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry,"  I  cried.  "I'm 
sorry!" 

"Then,"  he  smiled,  "it's  all  right- 
all  right!" 

We  both  laughed,  and  then  I  asked 
him  in  a  blundering,  stammering,  tact- 
less fashion  how  he  managed,  asked 
him  who  cared  for  him,  who  did  the 
cooking. 

He  laughed  in  an  embarrassed  way. 
"I'm  learning  to  do  all  those  little 
things  for  myself,"  he  said.  "I'm  try- 
ing to  use  my  left  hand,  and  I'm  really 


doing  pretty  well,  but  the  canvasses 
are  a  sad  muddle,"  he  added  with  a 
shake  of  the  head. 

Then  I  saw  everything  in  a  flash.  He 
had  left  his  friends  after  his  disabling 
accident,  assuring  them  of  his  legacy, 
and  he  had  come  to  it  a  perfect  stran- 
ger, keeping  to  himself,  hiding  from 
his  uncle's  friends,  and  determining  to 
take  a  last  chance  with  Fate.  Probably 
without  means,  certainly  without  help 
— he  was  merely  keeping  soul  and 
body  together.  I  went  home  in  a  very 
sober  frame  of  mind.  It  is  easy  enough 
to  rush  into  impetuous  action  on  your 
friend's  account,  but  a  very  different 
thing  to  help  an  utter  stranger  who 
happens  also  to  be  an  artist  of  no  mean 
repute  and  the  man  with  whom  you 
have  unexpectedly  fallen  in  love. 

"When  you  can  love  a  man  like  that 
— marry  him — or — God  help  you!" 
That  was  what  my  godfather  had  said, 
and  I  knew  I  had  spoken  the  truth 
when  I  had  bragged  I  could  love  as  he 
had  loved  my  mother,  and  it  was  very 
perilously  sweet  to  know  the  look  in 
the  eyes  of  the  Colonel's  nephew  was 
meant  entirely  for  me,  and  not  for  my 
dead  mother.  I  sat  for  a  long  time 
and  pitied  the  Colonel  because  I  felt 
assured  that  lover  as  he  was,  he  had 
never — why  he  could  never  care  for 
any  one  on  earth  as  I  cared  for  his 
nephew ! 

Suppose  the  Colonel  had  known  he 
was  advising  me  to  marry  an  injured 
and  disabled  man !  But  if  the  Colonel 
was  the  man  I  took  him  to  be,  he  would 
have  approved  of  my  marrying  the 
"Headless  Hessian"  if  I  could  "love 
him  to  death,"  as  lah  is  so  fond  of  ex- 
pressing it. 

Certainly  there  was  nothing  for  the 
Colonel's  nephew  to  do,  but  to  marry 
some  one  who  would  be  willing  to  help 
him  express  himself  in  pen  and  paint 
— work,  in  other  words — and  work  is  a 
pernicious  thing.  But  wouldn't  my 
godfather's  nephew  (with  more  reason 
than  his  uncle  had)  wouldn't  he  be 
even  more  likely  on  account  of  his 
disabling  accident  to  seal  his  lips  and 
forbid  them  to  say  what  his  eyes  were 
telling? 


558 


PRIVILEGES  OF  THE  COLONEL. 


Likely  enough,  but  hadn't  I  sworn 
that  if  ever  I  saw  my  happiness  for 
the  fraction  of  a  heart  beat,  I  would 
procure  it  if  I  had  first  to  obtain  the 
Medusa's  head  and  grapple  with  three 
headed  Cerebus?  If  the  Colonel's 
nephew  followed  the  Colonel's  exam- 
ple of  silence — why,  she  would  be  a 
mighty  unsuccessful  woman  who  could 
not  tempt  a  man  beyond  his  resolu- 
tion! 

So  every  afternoon  after  that  I 
slipped  away  and  made  tea  for  the  ar- 
tist, and  we  had  chafing  dish  suppers, 
and  I  was  continually  finding  things 
in  the  inner  store  room,  and  when  he 
asked  me  to  tell  him  the  secret,  I 
made  it  purposely  too  perplexing  for 
the  mind  of  man  to  understand.  It 
was  a  fearfully  curious  thing  to  wake 
every  morning  to  the  knowledge  that 
a  helpless  man  was  sitting  waiting  for 
you  to  come.  I  would  scramble  out  of 
bed  and  peep  breathlessly  through  the 
shutters  to  make  sure  that  the  house 
was  still  there,  then  I'd  work  like  fury 
till  the  afternoon,  and  about  four 
o'clock  I'd  begin  to  get  so  wretchedly 
restless  that  I  couldn't  keep  still,  and 
when  I'd  spoiled  a  canvass  or  two  in 
my  impatience  to  get  through,  I'd  go 
over  and  see  my  neighbor. 

He  would  stretch  out  his  hand  to 
me  as  soon  as  he  saw  me  in  the  open 
doorway,  eagerly,  naturally,  as  a  child, 
and  as  heedless  of  consequences.  And 
I  exulted  in  it!  I  walked  with  wide 
open  eyes  through  that  breathless, 
thrilling  wonderland!  There  were  no 
boundaries  to  my  happiness,  no  limit 
to  his  love,  but  often  it  made  me  gasp 
to  keep  up  with  it,  and  I  felt  that  my 
small  body  was  not  big  enough  to  hold 
it  all. 

One  afternoon,  when  I  went  over  on 
my  usual  errand,  the  artist  was  not  in 
the  sitting  room  to  greet  me,  and 
though  I  dawdled  around  and  waited 
and  wondered  and  listened  for  the 
thud  of  his  crutch — I  heard  nothing. 
A  great  fear  clutched  my  heart — per- 
haps he  lay  ill — ill  and  helpless  and 
untended.  Why,  he  might  have  star- 
vation fever — people  do  have  it.  I 
hurried  to  his  bedroom  and  I  rapped 


on  the  door.  A  feeble  invitation 
reached  my  ears,  and  I  turned  the 
knob  and  entered.  He  lay  in  bed  with 
his  head  supported  on  his  hand,  and 
his  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  door.  He 
bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  his  un- 
cle; he  had  the  look  of  all  the  race, 
and  it  was  as  though  the  Colonel  told 
me  over  again  without  reserve  of  his 
passion  for  my  mother,  for  the  story 
was  as  clear  as  the  noon  day  sun  upon 
his  nephew's  face,  and  I  wondered  if 
I  would  hear  my  own  voice  shouting 
out,  "Oh,  I  love  like  that!"  and  for 
an  instant  I  didn't  know  whether  I 
would  or  not,  and  then  the  front  door 
bell  rang.  It  rang  with  an  ominous 
clanging,  and  consternation  crept  over 
the  sick  man's  face. 

"Let  it  ring,"  he  counseled  feebly; 
"above  all  things,"  he  added,  striving 
against  weakness  with  all  his  will 
power,  "do  not  open  the  door!"  He 
fell  back  exhausted  on  his  pillow,  and 
the  bell  rang  again.  "I'm  not  afraid," 
I  said,  and  went  and  answered  the 
ring.  "Why,  Worth,"  I  cried  in 
amazement,  "how  did  you  know  I  was 
here?" 

"lah  told  me.  Isabelle,  I  want  to 
see  you." 

"Then  do  come  in,"  I  said,  leading 
him  into  the  sitting  room. 

"Isabelle,"  he  began  abruptly,  "what 
is  all  this  I  hear  about  Colonel  Mac- 
Cutcheon's  crippled  nephew  living  in 
this  abandoned  house,  and  your  fre- 
quent visits  to  him?" 

"Why,"  I  said  calmly,  curling  up  in 
my  godfather's  chair,  "it  means  that 
I'm  going  to  marry  him." 

"Going  to  marry  a  cripple!"  Worth 
exclaimed  incredulously.  I  felt  my 
face  flame  with  indignation. 

"Pray  confine  your  remarks  to  me. 
The  Colonel's  nephew  is  in  the  next 
room,  and  it  is  possible  that  your 
brutality  of  speech  might  wound  his 
feelings,  and  besides,  he  doesn't  know 
— I  am  going — to  marry  him!"  I 
broke  off  because  else  I  had  broken 
down. 

"Well,  of  all  the "  (but,  my 

goodness,  I  can't,  just  can't,  convey  to 
you  Worth's  amazement  and  incredul- 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


559 


ity.)  "Let's  have  the  truth  about  this, 
Isabelle,"  he  managed  to  say  after 
awhile.  "I've  known  you  to  give  away 
the  hat  on  your  head,  the  shoes  on 
your  feet,  and  the  coat  on  your  back. 
I've  seen  you  cry  like  a  colicky  baby 
because  a  woman  you  knew  had 
lost  her  lover;  and  I've  known  you  to 
grieve  yourself  sick  over  the  illness  of 
a  friend.  Now,  I  must  say  this:  You 
can  get  new  clothes  to  replace  the 
ones  you  give  away,  and  you  can  buy 
more  food,  but  if  you  give  yourself 
away,  like  that,  you  have  no  other  re- 
source." 

"Why,  but  don't  you  see/'  I  said,  "I 
am  doubling  my  resources  by  combin- 
ing them  with  his?" 

"Fiddlesticks !  If  I  didn't  know  you 
so  well,  I'd  call  you  a  romantic  fool!" 
he  said  hotly,  pausing  in  front  of  me 
and  frowning  like  sixty. 

"You  do  not  love  this  man,"  he  cried 
hotly  after  a  moment,  "you  are .  sim- 
ply aroused  and  stirred  by  his  misfor- 
tune. Good  God!  If  he  needs  to  be 
supported,  in  Heaven's  name  let's  sup- 
port him — take  up  a  collection,  send 
him  to  the  hospital,  communicate  with 
his  friends,  teach  him  a  trade " 

"Hush!"  I  cried,  springing  to  my 
feet,  and  thoroughly  angry.  "You 
shall  not  speak  so  about  the  man  I 
love." 

"Love!"  Worth  repeated,  "why  it's 
absurd.  A  woman  like  yourself  of 
physical  perfection,  of  great  attrac- 
tiveness, of  reputable  talent — love  a 
helpless  cripple.  Why,  the  man  has 
not  enough  manhood  left  to  arouse  any 
woman's  love." 

Then  I  was  angry.  I  was  so  angry 
that  I  couldn't  speak.  I  got  up  and 
leaned  against  the  harp.  My  fingers 
accidentally  touched  the  strings,  and 
in  the  discordant  sounds  that  issued 
from  it,  I  seemed  to  hear  the  first  notes 
of  "The  Squire's  Song,"  and  then  I 
saw  the  Colonel's  face,  and  his  im- 
passioned eyes  that  age  never  dimmed 
and  heard  him  tell  about  my  mother. 
The  remembrance  of  my  groping  emo- 
tion stirring  feebly  then  inasmuch  as  it 
was  yet  unborn,  and  the  comparison  of 
it  with  the  living  thing  that  experience 


had  now  brought  forth,  drove  indigna- 
tion from  me. 

The  love  wherewith  I  loved  the 
Colonel's  nephew  was  too  great  a  pas- 
sion to  live  with  hate.  I  seemed  to 
understand  that  Worth  was  clinging 
selfishly  to  the  tradition  of  my  exclu- 
sive friendship  and  doubtless  argued 
why  disturb  so  pleasant  a  relation- 
ship? 

Then  I  heard  the  thud  of  a  crutch 
on  the  floor  of  the  next  room,  and  the 
handle  of  the  sitting  room  door  was 
turned  awkwardly,  and  the  Colonel's 
nephew  stood  before  us  with  the  late 
afternoon  sun  making  his  dark  hair 
auburn,  and  his  thin,  emaciated  face 
lighted  with  a  smile  of  dogged  cour- 
age, and  it  made  me  glad  that  I  had 
recognized  my  happiness  when  I  saw 
it,  and  very,  very  glad  I  had  pursued 
it  beyond  the  borders  of  convention- 
ality, and  had  all  but  brought  it  home 
to  guard. 

We  invited  Worth  to  tea  with  us, 
and  the  artist  was  delightfully  cordial, 
but  he  would  not  stay,  and  I  sent  word 
to  Great-grandmamma  by  him  that  I 
would  not  be  home  to  supper.  I  felt, 
and  I  think  we  all  realized  that  it  was 
a  significant  message,  and  after  he 
was  gone,  I  turned  to  the  Colonel's 
nephew,  and  his  eyes  were  eloquent 
with  his  untold  story. 

"This  is  the  Colonel's  birthday,"  I 
said,  mendaciously,  sitting  down  to  the 
quivering  harp ;  "let  us  celebrate  in  the 
old  way.  The  Colonel  always  began 
by  telling  me  a  love  story — don't  you 
know  one  you  could  tell  me?" 

"I  know  one,"  he  said,  wistfully, 
"but  it  would  be  a  breach  of  honor  to 
tell  it." 

"I  am  sorry,"  I  said,  "for  I  should 
love  to  hear  it,"  and  then  I  sang  the 
tender  verses  of  "The  Squire's  Song," 
playing  my  accompaniment  on  the 
harp.  When  the  last  breath  died 
away,  I  turned  to  the  table  and  poured 
two  glasses  of  wine  with  a  hand  that 
no  resolution  could  keep  steady,  and 
taking  one  up,  I  offered  it  to  my  neigh- 
bor. 

"We  always  drank  a  toast  to  by- 
gone days,"  I  said;  "but  life  lies  be- 


560 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


fore  us.  Shall  we  not  drink  to  the 
future?" 

"There  may  be  no  future  for  me," 
said  my  neighbor,  in  a  sad  and  tremu- 
lous voice. 

"Oh,"  I  cried,  vexed  and  dismayed, 
"you  won't  help  me,  and  I  can't  keep 
the  Colonel's  birthday  all  alone!" 

"Why  I  will,"  he  said,  "only  tell  me 
what  comes  next." 

I  seized  the  tongs  and  gathered  the 
fire  together.  The  glowing  coals 
touching  each  other,  rushed  into  a  tu- 
multuous roar.  I  looked  like  a  coal 
myself  in  my  accordian-pleated  crim- 
son chiffon,  with  its  round  neck  and 


elbow  sleeves  ruffled  and  frilled  and 
f urbelowed  from  the  crown  of  my  head 
to  the  red  rosettes  on  my  red  slippers, 
and  all  in  an  instant  I  said  tumultu- 
ously:  "Once  a  year — on  his  birthday 
— your  uncle — used  to — kiss  me — on 
my  forehead!" 

"Once  a  year!"  shouted  the  Colonel's 
nephew,  in  a  voice  that  reminded  me 
of  flame  licking  up  alcohol,  and  my 
heart  fell  in  an  elevator  shaft  at  the 
rate  of  a  million  miles  a  minute.  "On 
your  forehead!"  jeered  my  neighbor, 
stiffling  my  throat  and  bruising  my 
eyes  and  mouth  with  his  lips,  "God! 
my  uncle  was  a  fool!" 


A     CHRI5T/AAS    SILHOUETTE 

Upstretch  bare  boughs  to  reach  black — bending  skies — 
Who  knows  what  hope  in  frozen  branches  lies? 
Like  hands  with  fingers  gaunt  lift  topmost  stem — 
A  prayer  in  silhouette  seems  moving  them. 

Cold,  still  and  silent  seems  the  winter  night — 
No  breath  save  icy  kiss  in  hoarfrost  light. 
Numbs  down  the  blacken'd  trunks  a  shiv'ring  sigh 
To  stir  the  gnarled  roots  that  dormant  lie  ? 

Nature  so  old  her  time  and  season  waits — 
Her  trees  are  sentinels  outside  the  gates. 

ELIZABETH  REYNOLDS. 


KRUARINE 


By  K.  S. 


THE  LETTER  reached  me  in 
London — and  a  bulky  letter  it 
was.  It  began  unceremoni- 
ously, and  after  I  had  read  a 
page  or  two,  it  dawned  upon  me  that 
the  writer  was  Richard  Krumrine — a 
musician — with  whom  I  had  but  the 
slightest  acquaintance.  I  had  crossed 
from  Antwerp  in  the  same  steamer 
with  him  some  ten  years  before,  and  I 
recalled  that  I  had  with  me  my  aunt, 
Mrs.  Manning,  and  her  daughter,  Betty 
— and  I  also  remembered  that  I  had 
been  somewhat  concerned  over  Betty's 
little  shipboard  flirtation  with  Krum- 
rine. 

Krumrine  had  more  than  a  national 
reputation  as  a  musician.  Indeed,  he 
was  one  of  the  few  who  always  re- 
ceived personal  invitations  from  Frau 
Wagner  to  the  Beyreuth  festivals. 

In  appearance  he  was  what  Betty 
called  "most  interesting."  Evidently 
he  had  been  a  handsome  youth,  but  he 
now  bore  the  unmistakable  signs  of 
dissipation  and  fast  living.  When  he 
chose,  he  had  very  passable  manners, 
and  could  be  extremely  agreeable.  He 
was  very  obliging  about  playing  for  us 
at  Betty's  request,  and  luckily  the 
piano  on  board  was  new  and  of  good 
make.  Betty  said  he  could  play  like 
an  angel.  However  that  may  be,  I 
do  know  that  there  did  not  seem  to  be 
an  emotion  he  could  not  express  on 
the  piano. 

Now,  when  I  was  a  youngster,  I  used 
to  pick  out  "Onward,  Christian  Sol- 
dier," with  one  finger,  and  the  patience 
of  Job.  I  confess  that  classical  music 
bores  me  beyond  endurance,  and  that 
I  like  a  good,  stirring  march,  with 
enough  noise  in  it  to  let  you  know  it 
is  being  played. 


With  Krumrine's  music  I  never 
thought  whether  it  was  classical  or 
ragtime.  More  than  once  I  was  so 
powerfully  stirred  by  it  that  after- 
wards I  wanted  no  companionship  but 
that  of  my  cigar,  and  the  moonlight  on 
the  windward  side  of  the  ship,  with 
whitecaps  breaking  away  to  meet  a 
cloudless  sky. 

After  parting  with  Krumrine  at  the 
dock  I  met  him  upon  but  one  other 
occasion.  I  was  in  Philadelphia  on 
business  about  five  years  after  that, 
and  ran  across  him  in  Broad  street  sta- 
tion. I  remember  he  looked  rather 
seedy  and  run  down.  I  asked  him  to 
dine  with  me,  and  after  dinner  he 
talked  about  his  affairs  at  some  length. 

"How  you  used  to  worry  about  that 
little  cousin  of  yours,"  he  said.  "She 
married  Beresford  Jordan  two  years 
ago,  did  she  not?" 

"Yes;  but  I  am  surprised  that  you 
have  kept  track  of  us,"  I  answered. 

"Why,  my  only  interests  in  life  have 
been  chance  ones,"  he  said.  "I  shall 
end  it  some  day.  Some  day  when  I 
get  to  the  end,  I  shall  pass  out.  Why 
not?" 

Now,  when  one's  dinner  guest  talks 
in  this  way  of  suicide,  it  is  rather  dis- 
concerting, so  I  chose  to  treat  the  mat- 
ter as  a  jest,  and  I  said : 

"What  route  do  you  propose  to 
take?  Gun,  rope,  dagger,  river,  rail- 
way, horseless  carriage,  etc.  In  these 
days  of  laborless  labor,  not  even  sui- 
cide is  neglected.  But  all  told,  al- 
though much  might  be  said  for  any  one 
of  these,  poison  is,  on  the  whole,  most 
dignified." 

"I  am  not  jesting,"  he  answered, 
with  a  queer  smile.  "Why,  I  ask  you, 
when  I  have  exhausted  my  resources, 


562 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


may  I  not  make  a  decent  exit?  I  have 
no  tie  on  earth.  No  one  is  interested 
in  me  one  way  or  the  other.  Of  course, 
you  will  say  this  is  my  own  fault.  But 
there  have  been  circumstances " 

I  became  at  once  interested. 

"No,"  he  said,  with  a  shake  of  his 
hand,  "not  now,  but  some  day  later. 
"If,"  he  hesitated,  "perhaps  if  when 
I  was  young  I  had  married  a  clever 
girl,  like  your  cousin  Betty,  for  in- 
stance. But  it  was  too  late — always 
too  late." 

I  parted  from  him  after  dinner,  and 
I  never  saw  him  again,  and  in  fact 
forgot  his  very  existence. 

My  object  in  printing  the  letter  is 
two-fold.  The  letter  itself  is  impos- 
sible of  belief — and  yet,  at  what  point 
shall  we  say  that  possibility  ceases? 
If  he  was  sincere,  and  honest,  I  would 
like  to  let  the  world  know  the  truth,  if 
this  be  the  truth.  If,  as  seems  most 
likely  the  case,  he  was  not  honest,  and 
the  letter  was  a  hoax — then  it  will  but 
add  to  his  fame  as  a  most  original  and 
cheerful  prevaricator,  and  add  another 
curious  case  of  Providence  helping 
those  who  help  themselves,  in  that  he 
was  given  a  chance  to  die  a  glorious 
death  at  last,  and  be  praised  as  a 
hero. 

"Do  you  remember  our  talk  in  Phila- 
delphia five  years  ago,"  began  the  let- 
ter. "Well,  I  have  got  to  the  end  of 
my  line.  I  shall  go  by  the  prussic  acid 
route  as  cleanest  and  most  dignified, 
and  as  suggested  by  you.  I  shall  be 
dead  long  before  this  reaches  you,  for 
it  will  have  to  follow  you  to  Europe 
and  perhaps  back. 

'When  we  crossed  together  several 
years  ago  we  had  a  number  of  'talks' 
— and  I  remember  you  are  one  of  the 
few  people  to  whom  I  ever  gave  any 
confidence.  Perhaps  you  have  forgot- 
ten. Perhaps  it  did  not  interest  you. 
My  memory  does  not  go  back  to  the 
time  when  I  could  not  play  the  piano. 
As  a  child  I  was  considered  a  mild 
prodigy.  I  suppose  a  man  about  to 
end  a  bad  bargain  and  take  himself 
off  may  praise  himself  so  far  in  his 
effort.  But  although  in  time  I  came 
to  play  with  considerable  skill  and 


technique,  I  had  no  music  in  my  soul. 
I  hated  music  and  everything  con- 
nected with  it — the  piano,  the  organ, 
the  practice,  and  at  times  even  my 
good  mother.  We  were  poor — we  had 
nothing  but  unbounded  courage  and 
my  one  talent.  I  shudder  when  I  re- 
member how  she  slaved  to  cultivate 
that  talent,  and  with  what  result." 

Here  there  was  a  break  in  the  letter, 
for  the  writer  had  evidently  stopped, 
and  after  that  the  big  scrawling  char- 
acters were  harder  to  read  than  be- 
fore. 

"There  was  no  use  struggling.  There 
was  but  one  thing  I  could  do — and  that 
was  to  play  the  piano.  It  was  my 
treadmill,  not  perhaps  hard  to  run,  but 
a  treadmill  nevertheless.  In  some 
wonderful  way,  by  the  drudgery  of 
keeping  boarders,  by  heaven  knows 
what  means,  my  mother  managed  to 
give  me  the  best  teachers  in  New  York. 
After  awhile  I  was  able  to  earn  money 
myself  by  playing  at  entertainments, 
and  later  by  teaching.  Then  by  our 
combined  efforts  I  went  abroad  and 
studied  there  with  good  masters.  I 
made  a  certain  amount  of  progress, 
and  I  composed  acceptably,  but  what 
I  did  was  mere  mechanism,  an  no- 
body realized  this  more  than  myself. 
At  last  I  came  to  the  end  of  my  money, 
and  knew  that  I  must  return  to  Amer- 
ica. I  came  back  by  way  of  England 
and  spent  some  time  visiting  places 
of  interest — particularly  the  Cathedral 
towns. 

"One  day  I  found  myself  in  X . 

Here  there  is  a  famous  cathedral  with 
a  wonderful  organ.  Happening  in  at 
the  twilight  hour,  I  sat  down  and 
watched  the  people  come  to  even- 
song. Suddenly  the  tones  of  the 
mighty  organ  pealed  forth.  I  am  not 
gifted  of  words  and  I  cannot  perhaps 
make  you  understand,  but  I  entered 
the  cathedral  with  no  music  in  my 
soul,  no  love  of  music  in  my  heart,  and 
I  came  out  after  the  service  bathed  in 
music,  suffocating  with  the  love  of  it. 
I  was  uplifted,  ennobled.  It  was  as  if 
some  king  had  touched  me  with  the 
sword  and  said,  'Arise,  Sir  Knight?' 
Where  before  I  had  cursed  my  fate,  I 


KRUMRINE. 


563 


felt  a  sorrow,  an  anguish  at  my  own 
blindness,  and  an  eagerness  to  strug- 
gle and  succeed." 

Here  there  was  another  break  in 
the  letter. 

"I  felt  that  I  must  see  the  man  who 
had  thus  created  my  soul  anew,  and 
into  my  heart  there  crept  a  kind  of 
idolatry,  and  I  enshrined  him  as  an 
image  to  worship. 

"But  when  I  tried  to  make  his  ac- 
quaintance, I  was  told  that  he  was 
very  peculiar  and  that  he  positively 
refused  to  meet  strangers,  particularly 
musicians,  and  even  more  particularly 
Americans.  After  several  vain  at- 
tempts, I  gave  up  all  hope  of  meeting 
him  regularly,  and  tried  to  content  my- 
self with  the  thought  that  I  might  meet 
him  accidentally.  Day  after  day  I 
went  to  the  cathedral,  and  each  day  I 
grew  more  and  more  under  the  spell 
of  the  player. 

"Coming  out  of  the  cathedral  one 
day  I  met  some  tourists,  an  old  gen- 
tleman and  his  daughter.  They,  too, 
were  Americans,  and  we  were  soon 
talking  of  the  cathedral  and  the  music. 
The  daughter  had  been  able  to  get  a 
snapshot  of  the  organist  as  he  was  go- 
ing into  the  cathedral  one  day,  and 
she  promised,  if  it  turned  out  well,  to 
send  me  a  copy. 

"Between  us,  we  found  out  a  good 
many  things  about  Bertrand,  for  that 
was  his  name.  One  thing  we  were 
told  that  he  was  dreadfully  dissipated, 
and  had  a  trick  of  suddenly  going 
away  and  not  turning  up  for  a  long 
time.  His  father,  who  was  the  son 
of  the  good  old  Bishop,  had  been  a 
gay  and  dashing  officer  in  Her 
Majesty's  service,  and  while  on  In- 
dian duty  had  married  the  unac- 
knowledged daughter  of  an  English  of- 
ficer and  a  woman  of  half  caste.  Ber- 
trand was  born  in  India,  and,  in  the 
Anglo-Indian  fashion,  had  been  sent 
home  to  England  to  be  cared  for  and 
educated.  His  parents  he  never  saw 
again,  for  they  died  soon  after  of  a 
fever. 

"Bertrand  was  raised  in  the  best  en- 
vironment, with  everything  to  encour- 
age him  in  right  living,  but  he  grew 


up  cultivating  only  the  worst  traits 
of  his  mother's  blood  and  having 
naught  of  good  in  him  but  the  wonder- 
ful gift  of  music.  He  was  worthless 
and  dissolute,  without  cause  except 
desire. 

"Every  day  found  me  at  the  Cathe- 
dral, worshipping  the  magic  of  his 
music,  and  nights  I  could  not  sleep 
with  the  thought  that  I  must  soon  tear 
myself  away  to  catch  the  Southamp- 
ton steamer.  One  day  there  was  a 
strange  hand  at  the  organ,  and  I  knew 
that  Bertrand  had  gone,  and  the 
chances  were  that  he  would  be  long 
away.  So  I,  too,  went  away,  sadly 
and  yet  bettered,  and  with  a  love  for 
this  man,  a  boundless  love  that  could 
forgive  him  everything  because  he 
had  created  for  me  a  new  world  and 
taught  me  to  live. 

"A  few  months  after  my  return  to 
New  York  I  received  his  picture  from 
my  chance  acquaintance.  To  me  it 
was  a  wonderful  thing.  I  had  some 
good  copies  made  of  it.  One  hung 
where  the  morning  sun  came  in  and 
shone  on  it,  and  I  looked  upon  it  when 
I  awoke.  I  studied  his  face.  It  fasci- 
nated one.  Wherever  I  turned,  the 
eyes  followed  me,  sorrowful,  mystical 
Italian  eyes,  always  appealing  and 
pitiful.  His  features  clear  and  strik- 
ing became  engraved  on  my  inmost 
soul.  I  loved  him.  I  had  a  feeling 
that  sometime  I  must  meet  him  and 
know  him.  I  thought  of  him  always 
with  a  sigh  as  a  god  beyond  my  ken 
of  criticism. 

"I  succeeded  pretty  well  in  my  mod- 
est career.  I  made  plenty  of  money; 
I  was  sincere  and  earnest,  and  best  of 
all,  I  loved  my  work. 

"The  third  summer  after  my  return, 
a  man  who  at  that  time  was  a  great 
friend  of  mine,  invited  me  to  accom- 
pany him  on  an  extensive  journey 
through  the  Far  West.  We  visited 
some  wild  places,  places  where  the 
theft  of  a  horse  is  as  great  a  crime  as 
the  taking  of  human  life.  My  friend 
was  an  old  rancher,  and  \  'e  fared  very 
well  indeed. 

"Late  one  afternoon  we  were  riding 
leisurely  across  a  level  plain  away 


564 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


from  the  setting  sun,  toward  the  vil- 
lage where  we  were  to  pass  the  night. 
In  the  distance  we  saw  some  trees  that 
grew  up  tall  and  lonely  in  this  treeless 
land.  As  we  came  nearer,  there  was 
outlined  against  the  sky  and  lit  by  the 
red  rays  of  the  setting  sun  the  awful, 
shapeless  something  that  had  once 
been  a  man.  As  I  write,  the  dreadful, 
nameless  feeling  comes  over  me,  and 
I  see  again  the  figure  hanging  high, 
and  I  hear  the  horrible  birds  that  were 
beginning  to  circle  round." 

Another  break  in  the  letter  and  the 
tale  went  on: 

"We  did  not  stop,  but  rode  silently 
on.  Arriving  at  the  village,  we  heard 
that  a  certain  cowboy,  a  newcomer, 
had  shot  one  of  his  fellows.  The 
thing  had  been  done  in  a  fit  of  drunken 
rage,  and  there  had  been  no  provoca- 
tion. Before  the  body  of  his  victim 
was  cold,  the  murderer  himself  was 
hanging  from  the  nearest  trees. 

"After  supper  we  went  out  on  the 
porch  to  smoke  our  pipes  and  listen  to 
the  talk  of  the  loungers  about  the 
hotel.  Suddenly  the  name  Bertrand 
caught  my  ear,  and  my  heart  almost 
stopped  beating.  To  be  brief,  I  found 
that  the  man  who  had  been  lynched 
was  Bertrand. 

"No  words  can  picture  my  feelings, 
and  I  will  not  weary  you  with  the  de- 
tails of  how  I  went  out  and  paid  lib- 
erally to  have  his  body  interred.  I 
had  not  much  trouble  in  proving  his 
identity  and  obtaining  some  papers 
which  he  left  at  the  place  where  he 
had  been  staying  in  the  town.  Then 

I  wrote  to  his  grandfather  at  X , 

merely  saying  that  Bertrand  had  died. 

"I  came  back  to  New  York,  and 
worked  harder  than  ever,  trying  in 
vain  to  rid  my  mind  of  all  thought  of 
Bertrand  and  his  untimely  end.  I 
even  put  his  pictures  out  of  sight,  for 
they  recalled  too  keenly  the  unhappy 
circumstances  of  his  death.  The  next 
year  I  went  abroad,  and  at  the  request 
of  the  Bishop,  I  visited  him  at  X . 

"The  very  afternoon  of  my  arrival 
I  went  over  to  the  cathedral  to  even- 
song, and  lingered,  lost  in  thought, 
long  after  everybody  else  had  gone. 


In  my  heart  there  was  a  hungry  yearn- 
ing for  the  strains  of  the  organ  under 
the  master's  hand. 

"More  than  likely  you  will  consider 
what  I  am  about  to  tell  you  merely  the 
raving  of  an  insane  man  about  to  take 
his  own  life.  Be  it  so.  But  I  was  not 
then  as  I  am  now,  a  helpless  wreck. 
Then  I  was  thirty,  young,  vigorous, 
full  of  ideals  and  of  good  habits. 
Health  lends  no  imaginative  uneveness 
to  the  character. 

"As  I  sat  there  musing  and  marvel- 
ing that  a  talent  so  divine  should  have 
been  wasted  on  such  an  unhealthy 
body  as  Bertrand's,  I  became  suddenly 
conscious  of  a  faint  harmony,  as  of 
music  far  off.  Nearer  and  nearer  yet 
it  seemed  to  come,  softly,  sadly  and 
then  more  loudly,  and  all  at  once  I 
realized  that  the  organ  was  being 
played.  I  caught  my  breath,  over- 
come with  awe,  for  I  recognized  the 
touch  of  Bertrand ! 

"Presently  the  notes  of  the  organ 
were  awakened  to  their  full  beauty. 
There  were  notes  sadder  than  the 
sound  of  the  earth  I  heard  fall  on  my 
mother's  coffin.  Sometimes  as  solemn 
as  the  thundering  of  Niagara;  some- 
times as  majestic  and  terrifying  as  a 
storm  at  sea.  And  then  there  was 
laughter,  folly,  twittering  birds,  joy, 
passion,  despair,  singing,  weeping,  all 
following  pellmell,  and  then,  good 
God!  the  silence,  the  mighty  silence 
of  his  far-off  grave. 

"Do  you  wonder  that  I,  into  whose 
soul  this  master  had  first  sent  the  pas- 
sion of  music,  I  who  loved  him  living 
and  adored  him  dead,  do  you  wonder 
that  I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  cried  with 
sobs:  'O  Sublime  Genius!  To  be 
dead!  To  have  this  buried!  To  pos- 
sess no  body!  God!  If  I  could  but 
give  you  my  body!'' 

Another  break  in  the  letter. 

"It  sounds  very  theatrical,  melodra- 
matic and  far-fetched,  very  unreal  and 
unnatural,  does  it  not?  I  do  not  re- 
member what  happened  after  that — 
very  likely  I  went  to  the  palace  and 
behaved  properly. 

"The  next  day  I  went  to  the  organ 
and  touched  the  wonderful  keys.  I 


KRUMRINE. 


565 


played  as  never  before,  but  it  was  not 
my  music,  it  was  the  music  of  Ber- 
trand.  I  tell  you  frankly,  and  with 
the  honesty  of  a  man  who  already 
feels  the  shadows  of  Death  closing 
around  him,  I  have  played  his  music 
ever  since.  Whatever  of  success  I 
have  achieved  has  been  his.  But  I 
have  paid — I  have  paid  most  dearly 
for  it. 

"Again  I  feel  the  want  of  words  to 
carry  the  truth  to  you.  And  yet  the 
thing  is  so  plain  to  me.  I  know  that 

after  that  day  in  X I  was  never 

quite  the  same.  I  left  off  doing  the 
things  that  I  had  before  enjoyed  doing 
— my  tastes  took  strange  fancies,  and 
wandering  ways,  ways  that  up  to  that 
time  were  utterly  foreign  to  me. 

"At  first  I  did  not  heed,  I  did  not 
know,  because  I  lived  in  a  state  of  ex- 
citement and  exultation.  I  played  and 
won  fame,  and  was  much  sought  after. 
If  I  drank  too  much  of  a  night,  per- 
haps I  paid  for  it  by  being  done  up  the 
next  day  and  thought  the  score  settled. 
With  the  terrible  rush  of  a  tornado  bad 
habits  enveloped  me,  and  when  I  real- 
ized what  I  was,  what  I  .must  become 
— I  was  lost. 

"As  a  bolt  from  the  blue,  so  sud- 
denly did  I  realize  that  by  a  cruel  fate, 
with  Bertrand's  music  he  had  given 
me  his  vices.  This  I  believe — I  be- 
lieve as  firmly  as  I  believe  in  my 
mother.  I  do  not  know  how  it  was 
done — but  done  it  was,  swiftly  and 
surely.  In  some  mysterious  way,  by 
means  superhuman,  by  some  occult 
power  inherited  perhaps  from  his 
mother,  or  some  remote  Indian  ances- 
tor, Bertrand  brought  his  wandering 
soul  to  live  in  my  body.  He  came 
with  his  wonderful  music,  but  also 
with  his  dissolute  consciousness. 

"With  the  certainty  of  this  once 
fixed  in  my  mind,  a  black  unreasoning 
hatred  entered  my  heart  and  drove 
out  the  love  I  had  before  borne  him,  a 
hatred  so  fearful  that  it  has  sometimes 
extended  to  all  men  and  women,  and 
I  have  spared  none,  neither  man  nor 
woman,  and  where  there  was  evil  to 
be  done  I  have  done  it  as  cheerfully 
as  even  Bertrand  himself  could  wish. 


"Long,  long  ago  I  destroyed  his  pic- 
tures, but  still  see  his  face,  always 
and  ever  with  the  wide,  dark  eyes,  the 
eyes  that  at  first  were  piteous  and  then 
afterward  pitiless. 

"I  hate  him!  I  hate  him  so  much 
that  I  am  glad  that  he  was  lynched, 
and  I  hope  that  he  suffered  in  dying! 
So  much  do  I  hate  him  that  I  could  at 
this  instant  end  his  life  with  my  own 
hands ! 

"And  I  have  begged  of  him!  But 
he  was  ever  without  pity  and  without 
mercy!  You,  who  do  not  believe  in 
evil  spirits,  will  not  believe  how  I  have 
honestly  struggled  t  rid  myself  of 
this  haunting  soul.  At  first  I  called  up 
all  my  will  power  and  I  struggled — 
God !  how  hard  I  tried.  And  I  investi- 
gated all  sorts  of  things,  theosophy,. 
the  occult  sciences,  spiritualism,  every- 
thing. I  tried  in  turn  every  sort  of 
religion.  I  would  have  worshipped  at 
the  feet  of  any  god  or  goddess  who 
would  have  freed  me  from  my  bonds. 
The  world  holds  nothing  I  have  not 
tried,  for  fortune  was  with  me  in 
everything  else,  and  money  was  easily 
acquired.  This  went  on  for  years. 
Sometimes  I  have  been  myself  for 
days,  weeks,  and  how  I  have  tried  to 
keep  straight — straight — for  I  knew 
the  end.  And  then,  just  when  I  would 
begin  to  take  heart,  this  sleeping  devil 
would  awake,  and  the  struggle  would 
be  renewed,  and  I  went  down  each 
time — down  to  ruin. 

"Then  I  gave  up.  Of  late  I  have 
come  to  believe  the  simple  thing  of 
reward  and  punishment  is  the  best  af- 
ter all.  It  is  some  comfort  to  me  to 
think  that  the  sins  I  have  committed 
against  the  world's  standard  and  re- 
ligion's standard,  too,  have  been  his 
sins  and  not  mine.  I  know  I  shall  have 
to  answer  in  some  way — every  man 
knows  it,  whatever  he  may  say  to  the 
contrary.  But  I  feel  that,  all  said  and 
done,  there  will  be  some  sort  of  an 
intercession  for  me  if  I  make  an  end 
to  this  life  when  I  can  stand  no  more 
of  it. 

"I  have  been  a  scoffer  for  long — a 
public  scoffer.  I  do  not  know  of  any- 
thing that  I  have  spared,  but  if  it  were 


566 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


permitted  me  to  die  happily,  of  a 
fever  or  accident,  or  in  any  honest 
way,  I  tell  you  that  I  would  gladly 
and  honestly  forgive  Bertrand  for  the 
hell  I  have  been  enduring  here,  just  to 
quit  the  world  and  escape  him.  I  do 
not  want  heaven  beyond  this.  I  want 
to  be  just  free  and  quiet  and  forgotten. 

"It  sometimes  seems  to  me  a  little 
odd  that  so  many  really  good,  profess- 
ing Christian  people  take  so  much  pre- 
caution to  keep  off  death,  and  yet  a 
poor,  miserable  sinner  like  myself 
only  takes  his  own  life  because  a  wel- 
come and  ordinary  death  is  denied 
him.  Of  course  I  am  a  coward.  I 
acknowledge  it.  I  cannot  face  the 
world  any  longer.  What  about  my 
soul?  I  know  I  have  one.  What 
about  people  who  have  mismanaged 
with  their  souls?  Surely  there  is 
something  in  mine  worth  saving,  just 
as  there  was  something  in  Bertrand's. 
What  about  these  scraps  of  souls? 
Perhaps  we  may  be  given  another 
chance ;  not  that  I  want  another  chance 
— but  it  does  seem  that  these  good 
pieces  of  souls  ought  to  be  used. 
Whatever  my  punishment,  it  cannot 
be  worse  than  my  life  here. 

"You  think  that  probably  I  am  just 
over  a  spree  and  repentent  ?  It  is  true, 
and  to-morrow  I  should  very  likely  be 
drunk  again,  except  that  I  have  de- 
cided that  to-morrow  I  shall  die.  Yes- 
terday I  was  dismissed  from  my  place 
as  organist  in  the  Jewish  synagogue. 
This  was  my  last  regular  employment. 
I  can  no  longer  make  money  because 
I  am  such  a  wreck  that  nobody  will 
risk  engaging  me.  So  to-morrow  is 
the  day,  and  I  am  not  sorry. 

"You  have  probably  wondered  why 
I  have  told  you  all  this.  I  have  won- 
dered a  little  myself — stay,  I  will  be 
honest.  I  tell  you  because  I  want 
you  sometime  to  tell  your  Cousin  Betty 
— she  judged  well  when  she  told  me 
that  I  was  a  man  whose  acquaintance 
she  did  not  care  to  continue.  She  told 
me  this  the  morning  we  landed — do 
you  remember  we  all  got  up  at  three 
o'clock  to  see  the  Fire  Island  light? 
She  was  right.  I  was  not  in  love  with 
her  then,  and  am  not  now — but  I  want 


her  to  know  the  truth,  and  perhaps  she 
may  think  more  kindly  of  me. 

"I  know  the  verdict  of  the  world, 
for  the  world,  though  it  be  of  poor 
understanding,  acts  up  to  its  lights.  To 
it  I  shall  be  merely  a  man  who  went 
to  his  ruin  with  his  eyes  open  and 
willfully.  You  perhaps  may  partly 
understand  and  believe,  and  one  other 
— may  pity.  Alive  I  loathed  pity,  but 
about  to  die — it  seems  sweet.  Per- 
haps if  I " 

The   letter   ended     abruptly,     and 

there  was  just  the  name  and  the  date. 
*  *  *  * 

By  the  next  mail  I  had  a  letter  from 
Betty. 

"The  queerest  thing  happened  last 
Wednesday,"  she  went  on,  after  the 
usual  beginning.  "I  am  still  so  upset 
that  I  can  hardly  write  about  it.  About 
eleven  o'clock  I  got  a  telephone  mes- 
sage from  Bellevue  Hospital  that  a 
man  named  Richard  Krumrine  had 
been  injured,  and  was  in  a  dying  con- 
dition, and  that  he  had  asked  to  have 
me  sent  for.  I  was  amazed,  for  I  had 
not  seen  him  since  the  morning  we 
landed  years  ago,  when  he  came  over 
from  Antwerp  with  us.  But  of  course 
I  rushed  to  the  hospital.  It  seems  that 
the  day  before  as  Krumrine  was  walk- 
ing down  Broadway  a  little  crippled 
newsboy  got  in  the  way  of  a  heavy 
truck.  Krumrine  sprang  forward  and 
snatched  the  boy  back,  but  was  him- 
self run  over  and  fatally  injured.  He 
seemed  very  glad  to  see  me,  and  talked 
in  the  most  satisfied  and  happy  way 
about  approaching  death.  After  such 
a  life  he  had  led  I  should  have  thought 
he  would  have  been  afraid  to  die.  But 
the  most  perfect  and  exemplary  Chris- 
tian could  have  been  more  expectant. 
Poor  fellow,  he  hadn't  a  soul  in  the 
world  to  come  to  see  him.  His  people 
were  all  dead,  and  you  know,  Philip, 
he  was  a  man  of  such  bad  habits  that 
he  no  longer  had  any  friends.  He 
gave  me  a  letter  to  mail  to  you  directly 
I  left  the  hospital.  Then  he  asked  me 
to  write  and  tell  you  about  the  acci- 
dent, and  he  begged  me  not  to  come 
to  the  funeral.  Now  I  have  been 
dreadfully  puzzled  by  it  all.  I  staid 


WHEN  DADDY  COMES. 


567 


with  him  till  nearly  four  o'clock,  and 
when  I  left  he  seemed  quite  cheerful, 
but  they  said  he  died  in  half  an  hour. 
He  was  buried  yesterday,  and  I  sent 
a  quantity  of  flowers  and  some  in  your 
name.  He  belonged  to  a  number  of 
lodges,  and  one  of  them  undertook  the 
arrangements,  and  he  was  buried  at 
Greenwood  by  his  mother.  What  a 
terrible  thing  to  die  with  no  one  to 
say  farewell,  or  be  sorry!  I  wonder 
why  people  like  that  have  to  die?  I 
do  not  mean  people  of  dissolute  habits, 
but  people  so  gifted.  It  seems  to  me 
it  ought  to  be  possible  to  bequeath  a 
talent  as  one  can  money  or  lands.  Life 
is  very  puzzling.  Do  you  know  I  have 
been  thinking  about  this  poor  Krum- 
rine  so  much  the  past  week  that  at 
times  I  imagine  I  hear  him  playing  far 
off.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  read  the 
letter  he  wrote  you." 


I  did  let  her  read  it.  She  gave  it 
back  to  me  without  comment,  and  his 
name  has  never  been  mentioned  be- 
tween us. 

Once  when  I  had  some  money  I  did 
not  know  what  to  do  with,  I  had  a 
marker  put  up  at  his  grave,  and  last 
year  I  happened  to  remember  the  an- 
niversary of  his  death,  and  I  took  some 
flowers  over.  To  my  surprise  I  found 
that  some  one  had  been  there  before 
me,  for  on  both  Krumrine's  grave, 
and  that  of  his  mother  there  were 
great  bunches  of  purple  and  golden- 
hearted  pansies. 

As  I  was  coming  away,  I  saw  on 
the  grass  a  tiny,  flimsy  conceit,  a  wo- 
man's handkerchief.  Picking  it  up,  I 
deciphered  the  monogram — E.  M.  J. 
Betty's  initials!  Then  I  understood 
about  the  flowers,  and  understanding, 
I  wondered  still. 


WHEN    DADDY    COAE5 


When  the  evening  shadows  lengthen  and  come  creeping  'cross  the  town, 
When  the  street  lamps  blink  so  gayly  through  the  dark, 

Then  the  wee  ones  cease  their  playing  and  I  throw  my  sewing  down, 
And  we  gather  'round  the  window  that  faces  on  the  Park. 

There's  no  fairy  tale  so  luring,  no  toy  that's  half  so  sweet 

As  this  enchanting  game  we  play  each  night, 
When  we  sit  and  watch  for  Daddy  to  come  smiling  down  the  street — 

If  the  day's  been  hard  his  coming  makes  it  right. 

And  he  puts  his  arms  around  me,  murmuring  just  one  fond  word  "Dear," 

Strange  emotions  flood  my  heart  and  fill  my  brain, 
Then  a  baby  voice  says  softly,  pleading:  "Daddy,  we  is  here!" 

And  he  draws  us  all  close  to  his  heart  again. 

Oh,  some  have  wealth  beyond  my  dreams,  and  some  have  Fame  and  Power, 

And  pleasure,  too,  helps  some  along  their  way, 
But  there  isn't  anything  on  earth  for  which  I'd  change  the  hour 

When  Daddy  comes  home  to  us  at  the  closing  of  the  day. 

ALICE  HATHAWAY  CUNNINGHAM. 


HARDIGAN'S  QUARRY 


By  Harold  de  Polo 


HARDIGAN  urged  his  stubborn 
mule  onward  with  cuts  of  his 
rawhide  quirt,  his  weakened 
arm  putting  such  little  power 
behind  the  blows  that  the  hardy,  tough 
skinned  animal  barely  felt  the  sting  of 
them.  Yet  the  man  on  his  back, 
stricken  with  Campeche  bush  fever 
though  he  was,  kept  doggedly  at  his 
purpose,  and  did  his  best  to  make  the 
beast  travel  along  the  narrow,  sparsely 
trodden  trail  through  the  Mexican  jun- 
gle. Occasionally  an  overhanging 
vine  or  a  low  branch  would  impede 
the  mule's  progress,  and  the  man,  with 
a  determination  and  a  strength  that 
were  wonderful  for  one  in  his  condi- 
tion, would  take  his  machete  from  the 
scabbard,  dismount,  and  hack  and 
hack  at  the  thing  that  stopped  him 
until  he  had  cut  it  away.  Then,  his 
head  whirling  and  his  breath  coming 
in  short  gasps  from  the  exertion,  he 
would  get  clumsily  and  slowly  onto 
his  mount's  back  and  again  make  his 
way  forward,  hoping  with  all  that  was 
in  him  that  he  might  be  able  to  reach 
his  destination  before  he  entirely  gave 
out. 

There  was  but  one  thought  in  his 
mind.  He  must  go  onward,  for  about 
ten  or  fifteen  miles,  until  he  reached 
the  little  village  that  was  a  good 
seventy-five  miles  from  any  camp, 
where  he  knew  for  a  certainty  he 
would  find  his  quarry.  For  five  years, 
now,  he  had  been  hunting  that  same 
quarry :  a  young  bank  clerk,  John  Mar- 
vin, who  had  left  the  country  after 
having  spent  some  two  thousand  dol- 
lars of  the  bank's  money.  And  Har- 
digan,  known  in  the  Secret  Service  as 
the  man  who  never  missed  his  man, 
had  been  detailed  to  bring  him  back, 


dead  or  alive — for  he  who  steals  from 
a  bank  or  government  will  be  hunted 
to  death. 

Hardigan's  quarry  had  had  a  week's 
start  on  him,  that  day  five  years  ago, 
when  he  had  taken  the  steamer  for  the 
country  where  ninety  out  of  a  hundred 
refugees  from  the  law  always  go — 
South  America.  Then,  for  three  long, 
hard  years  the  officer  of  the  Secret 
Service  had  followed  John  Marvin  over 
the  whole  of  South  America,  pushing 
doggedly  on  and  on,  yet  always,  for 
some  strange  reason,  missing  his  man 
by  a  week,  a  day,  and  just  twice  by 
not  more  than  a  few  minutes.  But 
then,  two  years  ago,  the  trail  had  sud- 
denly come  to  an  abrupt  halt  in 
Guatemala,  after  he  had  followed  him 
into  Central  America,  and  since  that 
time  Hardigan  had  been  persistently 
doing  his  best  to  again  pick  it  up. 

Finally,  only  a  brief  month  ago, 
he  had  met  an  American  from  Mexico 
who,  upon  being  questioned,  remem- 
bered hearing  of  a  man  answering 
Marvin's  description  as  he  was  passing 
through  the  Campeche  bush.  And  so 
it  was  that  Hardigan  had  purchased 
the  best  mule  procurable,  and  ridden 
over  the  border  into  Campeche,  where 
he  had,  almost  immediately,  found  out 
that  v/hat  his  chance  acquaintance  had 
said  was  true :  an  American  answering 
Marvin's  description,  but  going  under 
the  name  of  Daniels,  was  living  in  a 
little  native  village  whose  people  made 
their  living  from  selling  rubber  to 
any  one  who  passed  by.  So  he  was 
told  at  a  large  American  lumber 
camp ;  and,  upon  being  told,  had  ridden 
for  the  village  that  they  had  said  was 
some  seventy-five  miles  into  the  heart 
of  the  bush. 


HARDIGAN'S  QUARRY. 


569 


But  last  night,  after  having  spent 
two  days  cutting  through  the  jungle, 
he  had  suddenly  been  gripped  by  the 
bush  fever  that  is  such  an  enemy  to 
foreigners,  although  his  iron  constitu- 
tion had  kept  him  from  falling  from 
his  saddle  where  others  might  have 
collapsed,  making  him  push  on  and  on 
for  the  little  village  that  was  compara- 
tively close  to  him.  But  could  he  reach 
it — could  he  reach  it?  ...  It  was  all 
he  thought  of  now,  especially  as  the 
singing  buzz  in  his  heated  brain  and 
the  weakness  that  was  every  moment 
creeping  over  him  more  and  more 
made  him  realize,  in  a  dazed  sort  of 
way,  that  every  second  that  passed 
lessened  his  chances  of  his  gaining  his 
destination.  And  should  he  once  en- 
tirely lose  consciousness,  he  knew  that 
the  chances  for  his  very  life  were  few 
indeed ;  for  who  would  find  him  in  this 
desolate  and  unfrequented  spot!  .  .  . 
Again,  with  all  his  strength,  he  lashed 
his  animal  on  and  on,  his  teeth  clicked 
tight  and  his  jaw  thrust  out  as  he 
vowed  to  himself  that  he  would  yet 
win  out! 

Every  moment,  now,  the  fever  got 
a  deadlier  grip  on  him  and  made  his 
head  go  light,  although  he  did  not 
quite  realize  to  what  an  extent.  The 
thick,  majestic  greenness  of  the  al- 
most impenetrable  bush  seemed  to  be 
closing  in  on  him  and  crushing  out 
his  very  life;  the  great,  hot  ball  of 
sun,  sending  such  heat  into  the  stag- 
nant woods  that  the  air  was  a  hundred 
and  fifteen,  made  him  feel  that  some 
fiend  was  trying  to  burn  him  alive; 
the  gorgeous,  strikingly  colored  tropi- 
cal flowers,  abundant  on  all  sides,  ap- 
peared to  him  to  be  but  wreaths  spread 
over  his  coffin ;  and  the  warbling  of  in- 
numerable birds  and  the  occasionally 
chattering  of  playing  monkeys,  im- 
pressed him,  now,  as  the  chant  of  un- 
earthly beings  who  were  Heralding  his 
entrance  into  another  world — for  Har- 
digan  was  quite  delirious. 

Then,  very  suddenly,  and  for  but  a 
brief  moment,  life  seemed  to  come  to 
him,  through  a  dim  haze,  in  the  form 
of  a  man — a  white  man — running  hast- 
ily toward  him  with  a  startled  cry  on 


his  lips,  as  he  felt  himself  pitch  over 
onto  his  mule's  neck.  As  the  stranger 
reached  him  just  in  time  to  keep  him 
from  falling  from  the  saddle,  Hardigan 
caught  one  clear  glance  at  the  face  that 
told  him  that  the  man  before  him  was 
the  one  for  whom  he  had  been  hunting 
for  the  last  five  years.  Then  he  knew 

no  more. 

*  *  #  * 

For  six  dreary  weeks  Hardigan  lin- 
gered on  between  life  and  death,  al- 
most every  wakeful  moment  spent  in 
delirious  ravings;  but,  during  several 
brief,  clear  hours  that  came  to  him  at 
intervals,  he  saw  bending  over  him, 
with  an  anxious  face,  the  man  whom 
he  had  come  to  take  back  to  "God's 
country"  and  imprisonment.  Also, 
there  was  a  sweet-faced,  soft-eyed  girl 
whom  he  remembered  seeing  by  the 
man's  side,  helping  him  administer 
quinine  and  to  bathe  his  burning  fore- 
head. And  always  there  was  a  gentle, 
compassionate  look  upon  her  face  that 
somehow  soothed  him  and  brought 
sleep  to  his  fevered  brain. 

Then,  finally,  the  day  came  when 
his  delirium  left  him  and  he  woke  up 
one  morning  with  a  perfectly  clear 
head  but  a  very  much  weakened  body 
— so  weak  that  he  had  to  be  helped  to 
sit  up  in  his  cot  as  he  leaned  back, 
propped  up  against  pillows. 

Dazedly,  he  looked  about  him,  notic- 
ing that  the  woman  was  not  present. 
Then  he  became  aware,  for  the  first 
time,  of  the  presence  of  the  man  who 
had  helped  him  to  a  sitting  posture, 
and  who  had  nursed  him  all  those 
weeks. 

"Feel  better,  eh?"  commented  his 
host,  with  a  smile.  "Well,  you  surely 
did  have  a  hard  pull  of  it.  Thought 
you  were  going  under  several  times. 
I'll  tell  you  that  you're  in  luck  in  hav- 
ing such  a  strong  constitution;  also, 
you're  lucky  that  I  happened  to  be 
hunting  that  day  so  far  away  from 
home." 

The  voice  was  pleasant,  yet  there 
was  a  certain  dull,  hopeless  sort  of 
tone  to  it  that  made  Hardigan  won- 
der. Before  answering  his  host's  words 
he  looked  the  man  carefully  over. 


570 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


was  young — not  more  than  twenty- 
eight — and  the  beard  that  covered  his 
face  did  not  hide  the  features  that 
told  the  Secret  Service  man  that  they 
were  the  same  as  those  in  the  photo- 
graph that  was  so  firmly  stamped  upon 
his  brain.  Yes;  here  was  his  man. 
He  looked  like  a  nice,  clean  young 
chap,  too,  even  though  his  face  was 
dead  white  and  haggard  from  the 
weeks  he  had  put  in  nursing  the  man 
who  was  to  take  away  his  freedom. 
The  drawn  face  before  him  hurt  Har- 
digan  as  he  thought  that  it  had  been 
made  so  because  of  him,  even  though 
his  quarry  had  not  known  whom  he 
was  befriending.  It  seemed,  indeed, 
hard  to  take  a  man  to  jail  who  had 
just  brought  him  back  to  life.  But  he 
put  these  thoughts  away  and  thought 
only  of  his  duty. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  speaking  for  the  first 
time.  "I  guess  I  did  have  a  pretty 
hard  pull  of  it.  But,  thanks  to  you, 
I'm  still  alive.  I— thanks!"  The 
Secret  Service  man  spoke  simply,  but 
yet  with  the  utmost  sincerity  and  feel- 
ing. He  could  not,  somehow,  bring 
himself  to  converse  freely  with  this 
man  whom  he  would  arrest  just  the 
moment  he  was  able  to  get  onto  his 
feet.  It  seemed  unfair  to  appear  too 
friendly. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  the  other. 
"But — but  I  guess  my  wife  did  more 
than  I  did.  She  was  the  one!" 

"Your — wife?"  emitted  Hardigan, 
his  voice  surprised;  for  this  would 
make  it  harder. 

"Yes.  My  wife!"  answered  his 
quarry,  a  tinge  of  red  suddenly  spot- 
ting either  cheek-bone. 

"Oh!"  said  Hardigan,  and  that  was 
all. 

The  other  man,  apparently,  did  not 
know  him.  The  very  heavy  beard  he 
had  worn  for  over  a  year  had  no  doubt 
changed  his  face  so  much  that  Mar- 
vin, who  had  seen  him  clearly  but  two 
or  three  times,  had  failed  to  recognize 
him.  That  was  fortunate — very  fortu- 
nate. He  wondered,  in  fact,  what  his 
quarry  would  have  done  had  he  known 
who  the  man  was  that  he  was  nursing 
so  faithfully  and  bringing  back  from 


the  very  grave.  He  wondered!  .  .  .  . 
Anyway,  Marvin  had  saved  him — 
saved  the  man  who  would  shortly  take 
him  back  to  jail.  It  was  indeed  hard 
for  him  to  do  it.  There  was  some  com- 
fort, though,  in  knowing  that  he  had 
befriended  him  without  knowing  his 
identity.  Yes;  it  made  his  task  the 
least  bit  easier — for  Hardigan  was  a 
grateful  man.  He  put  these  thoughts 
from  him,  though,  and  started  to 
speak  of  other  things;  but  the  other 
told  him  that  he  had  conversed 
enough,  and  must  get  more  quiet  rest, 
as  he  was  still  very  weak.  And  again 
the  Secret  Service  man  felt  a  pang  as 
he  saw  the  care  that  Marvin  was  tak- 
ing of  him. 

In  nine  days  more,  Hardigan  was 
again  on  his  feet,  the  only  thing  telling 
of  his  illness  being  the  slight  stoop  to 
his  usually  straight  body  and  the  pal- 
lor on  his  usually  ruddy  cheeks.  But 
during  those  nine  days  he  had  heard 
and  seen  much  that  troubled  him 
greatly.  He  had  learned  that  Marvin 
— or  Daniels,  as  he  called  himself — 
was  looked  upon  by  the  Mexicans  as 
almost  a  god.  He  had  married  one  of 
their  kind;  he  had  treated  them  fairly 
and  honestly;  he  had  helped  them  in 
times  of  trouble  and  sickness;  he  was 
always  doing  some  kind  act  for  them; 
and  he  was,  in  fact,  living  a  happy, 
honest  life  that  any  man  might  be 
proud  to  live. 

To  take  him  away  from  all  this  was 
hard  after  what  he  had  done  for  him 
— to  take  him  back  to  disgrace  and 
prison.  Especially  so,  of  course,  after 
his  quarry  had  spent  nights  and  days, 
without  sleep,  in  nursing  him  and  giv- 
ing him  back  the  life  that  had  practi- 
cally been  lost.  Also,  it  would  be  a 
hard  blow  to  his  wife — that  slim,  soft- 
eyed  girl  who  had  done  just  as  much 
as  her  husband  had  in  bringing  him 
back  to  health.  Yes;  it  would  be  hard. 
But  his  duty,  though,  came  before  all 
else. 

There  was  just  one  thing  that  made 
his  task  easier,  he  again  told  himself : 
Marvin  had  not  known,  apparently, 
whom  he  was  bringing  back  to  life ! 

Yes,  he  must  do  his  duty.     So  the 


HARDIGAN'S  QUARRY. 


571 


day  after  he  was  well,  as  he  was  sit- 
ting in  the  hut  that  Marvin  had  had 
fixed  up  for  him,  he  casually  took  out 
his  revolver  and  allowed  it  to  dangle 
in  his  hands.  Suddenly  he  looked  the 
other  straight  in  the  eyes,  his  own  face 
at  the  same  time  going  a  deep  red.  He 
spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

"I'm  sorry.  John  Marvin,  I — you're 
my  prisoner!  I'm  Hardigan  of  the 
Secret  Service!"  and  he  raised  his 
weapon. 

Then  Hardigan,  trapper  of  men,  was 
vastly  surprised.  Marvin  simply 
looked  vacantly  into  space,  his  hands 
locked  over  one  knee,  his  face  set, 
with  not  a  tremor  going  through  him. 
Presently  he  relaxed  from  his  rigid 
position,  sighed  heavily,  and  smiled 
a  bitter,  dreary  smile.  He  spoke  in 
a  dull,  dead  voice. 

"Oh,  well,  I  supposed  it  had  to 
come  sooner  or  later — I  supposed  so. 
I — I've  had  a  hard  time  of  it.  Those 
three  years  of  jumping  over  South  and 
Central  America  were  pretty  bad.  I 
tell  you  it  takes  it  out  of  a  man; 
keeps  him  on  the  jump  so  that  every 
time  he  hears  a  footstep  he  reaches 
for  his  gun.  Always  nervous,  always 
on  edge,  always  afraid  of  every 
stranger  he  sees.  Yes,  I  tell  you  it 
makes  a  wreck  out  of  a  man.  I — God, 
I  thought  I'd  escaped  it  once  and  for 
all  when  I  landed  in  this  place.  I've 
kept  away  from  my  own  kind,  and  I've 
lived  a  quiet,  decent  life — I  have.  Yet 
I  was  always  wondering  if  I'd  ever  be 
found  out.  I — I'm  tired  of  it,  that's  all. 
I'll  go  back  now,  I  suppose,  and  put 
ten  good  years  of  my  life  in  jail  for 
being  a  fool  when  I  was  younger. 
God!"  He  paused,  and  again  looked 
at  the  floor  in  his  hopeless  manner. 

Hardigan  could  find  nothing  to  say. 
He  sat  toying  with  his  gun,  thinking 
what  his  quarry  had  done  for  him. 

Marvin  continued,  his  voice  bitter: 
"Lord,  what  a  fool  I  was  to  do  it. 
Oh,  no — I  haven't  even  the  excuse  of 
a  starving  mother  or  a  dying  child, 
such  as  you  read  about  in  the  papers. 
I  was  simply  a  young,  brainless  cub 
who  found  it  impossible  to  have  so 
much  money  near  him  without  occa- 


sionally taking  some  of  it.  Oh,  you 
know — more  or  less  wealthy  friends 
and  not  much  money  to  keep  up  with 
them.  Took  the  two  thousand  or  so 
in  driblets,  always  believing  that  I'd 
be  able  to  put  it  back.  Then,  when  I 
found  out  they'd  learned  about  it,  I 
left.  That's  all.  But  what  a  fool  I 
was,  eh?  Lord,  how  I've  suffered  for 
it  since  and  wished  I'd  never  done  it. 
What  I  wish  now,  is  that  I'd  taken  my 
medicine  at  first,  so  that  I  wouldn't 
have  to  leave — leave  her,  now  that  I'm 
so — so  happy  and  all  that!" 

Again  Hardigan  found  it  impossible 
to  speak.  He  gulped  silently.  Real 
pity  was  in  his  heart  for  this  man 
who  had  lived  a  good  life  since  his 
mistake,  and  who  had  done  much  to 
make  up  for  his  offense. 

Presently  Marvin  rose.  His  face 
was  almost  like  a  death-mask.  "I — 
I  guess  I'll  go  and  say  good-bye  to — 
to  her,  if  you  don't  mind,  I " 

He  stopped  and  clenched  his  hand. 
"God,  I  hate  to  do  it.  I— I  almost 
thought  for  a  moment,  of  backing  out 
and  taking  my  chances  again.  I — I 
could  get  every  man  here  to  help  me, 

you  know.  I No,  no!  I'm  tired 

of  always  having  the  fear  of  the 

hunted  with  me — dead  tired.  I 

Do  you  mind  coming  over  to  my  own 
cabin  with  me?" 

Hardigan  shook  his  head  in  assent, 
his  heart  too  full  to  answer.  This  man 
whom  he  was  taking  back  to  jail,  and 
who  had  saved  him  from  death,  had 
not  once  rebuked  him  for  what  he  was 
about  to  do.  And  Hardigan,  in  his 
big,  grateful  heart,  felt  this  deeply. 

Marvin  had  suddenly  turned,  and 
was  looking  him  straight  in  the  face. 
Finally  he  spoke,  his  face  haggard 
and  a  peculiar,  whimsical  smile  play- 
ing about  his  lips.  •  "Do — do  you 
know,"  he  said  slowly,  "I — I  almost 
wish,  now,  that  when  I  found  out  who 
you  were  I'd  let  you  go  off  naturally? 
Even — even  though  it  would  have  been 
a  horrible  thing!  But — but  I  tell  you 
it's  hard  to  leave  her,  man!"  He 
stated  the  fact  without  anger  and 
without  bitterness. 

Hardigan,   firm   and   strong-nerved, 


572 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


stepped  back  as  if  he  had  been  struck 
full  in  the  face.  "You — you — you 
what?"  he  gasped.  "You — you  don't 
mean  to  say  you  knew  who  I  was  when 
you  were  bringing  me  back  to  life  ?" 

Again  the  other  smiled  his  whimsi- 
cal smile.  "One  speaks  of  many 
things  when  delirious,  you  know,"  he 
said. 

"My  God!"  said  Hardigan,  and 
looked  at  his  quarry  with  widening 
eyes.  Then  suddenly  he  cried  out 
in  a  hard  voice:  "Why — why  in  the 
devil  did  you  do  it,  man?  Lord,  but 
it's  hard— it's  hard!" 

Marvin's  voice  was  still  the  same 
dead,  hopeless  one.  "Oh,  I  couldn't 
see  a  white  man — any  man,  for  that 
matter — go  under  when  I  might  save 
him.  I  simply  couldn't!  And — and 
I've  told  you  that  I  was  tired  of  the 
strain  of  wondering — always  wonder- 
ing— when  you  or  some  one  else 

would  come.  "I "  He  stopped 

and  shook  his  head  quickly,  trying  to 
brush  away  these  thoughts.  "But  come 
on,  if  you  don't  mind,  and  let  me  say 
good-bye  to  my  wife!" 

Hardigan  was  thinking  rapidly,  his 
brain  throbbing  painfully.  "Does  she 
know?"  he  asked. 

"Yes;  she  found  out  when  you 
talked  in  your  delirium.  I've  taught 
her  a  little  English.  I— I  told  her  all 
about  my  life — at  first,  too.  I — we've 
both  talked  it  over.  She — she  thinks 
the  best  thing  I  can  do,  hard  as  it  will 
be,  is  to  go  back  and  take  my  punish- 
ment. Then  she  says  I  can  come  back 
a  free  man  with  nothing  to  fear  any 
more.  Oh,  yes,  we've  thought  it  all 
out!  But  come  on!  It — poor  girl. 
She — she  loves  me  a  great  deal.  We 
— we've  been  happy!  Oh,  by  the  way 
don't  let  the  natives  know  about  it. 


They  might  use  force  to  keep  me  here. 
I'll  just  say  I'm  going  to  see  you  on 
your  way  a  bit!" 

Hardigan  did  not  move.  He  stood 
as  if  rooted  to  the  spot,  his  legs  spread 
apart,  his  arms  folded,  his  head  sun- 
ken on  his  breast,  while  with  one  hand 
he  plucked  and  plucked  at  his  heavy 
beard  with  fingers  that  shook  ner- 
vously. For  five  minutes — a  long  five 
minutes — neither  of  them  spoke.  Mar- 
vin stood  looking  out  of  the  door  at  the 
sunshine  and  green  that  he  was  to 
leave,  a  wistful  expression  in  his  eyes ; 
Hardigan  stayed  where  he  was,  ever 
pulling  at  his  beard  with  a  heavy 
frown  on  his  forehead.  Very  suddenly 
he  brought  down  his  hands,  clenched 
into  fists,  and  walked  close  to  the 
quarry  for  whom  he  had  been  search- 
ing for  five  years. 

"Marvin,"  he  said,  his  voice  full. 
"I'm  damned  if  I'll  take  you  back  to 
jail.  You  may  have  gone  wrong  five 
years  ago ;  but  I  miss  my  guess  if  you 
haven't  made  up  for  it."  He  smiled 
agreeably.  "Anyway,  you've  saved  a 
man  who  is  supposed  to  be  worth 
something  to  the  Service.  And  a  man 
who  will  bring  another  man  back  to 
life  when  he  knows  that  it  will  be  his 
own  damnation,  is  a  man  that  I  won't 
practically  kill.  The— the  bank  be 
hanged.  Your  wife  needs  you  a  blamed 
sight  more  than  they  do.  I  honestly 
believe  that  you've  righted  the  wrong 
that  you  did — before  God  I  do!  I — I 
couldn't  find  you,  that's  all,  and  my 
word  will  be  taken  as  final,  and  you'll 
never  be  troubled.  I  think  it's  a  white 
and  justifiable  lie  I'm  telling,  too!  I 
— I'll  never  forget  what  you  did  for 

me —  never.  I But  say,  better 

get  my  mule,  if  you  don't  mind.  I  think 
I'll  be  jogging  along!" 


DON    CIPRIANO 


By  Charles   C.  Lofquest 


GRIMWOOD  and  I  were  drop- 
ping down  to  Santa  Lazaro  to 
barter  for  pelts  with  the  Te- 
heulches.  We  planned  to 
spend  no  more  than  two  or  three  hours 
in  the  settlement,  which  is  merely  a 
few  miserable  shacks  looking  abjectly 
out  upon  the  blue  river  that  hurries  by 
it  to  the  sea.  It  would  take  that  long 
to  engage  peones  for  the  hundred- 
league  trek  to  the  Indian  camp.  But 
a  terrific  sand-storm  was  blowing 
across  the  bleak  pampa  when  our 
steamer's  launch  landed  us.  This 
drove  us  precipitately  to  the  shelter 
of  Alejandro's  drinking  shop,  the  only 
inn  of  the  town. 

Inside  the  Argentine's  boliche  a 
gang  of  gauchos,  shag,  dirty  men, 
were  shrieking  over  their  cards  and 
wine.  Two  gauchos  in  rawhide  jack- 
boots were  clogging  on  the  stone  floor 
as  we  entered,  and  the  others  ap- 
plauded noisily.  A  mingling  stench  of 
stale  liquor,  sweaty  clothing  and  fry- 
ing food  filled  the  vile  place. 

To  me,  new  to  Patagonia,  it  was  all 
very  vivid  and  strange.  I  stared  about 
the  place  with  frank  curiosity.  But 
my  glance  was  arrested  with  a  shock 
as  my  eyes  fell  upon  an  ugly  hairy 
man  who  was  squeezing  a  weird  mel- 
ody out  of  a  leaky  concertina.  Some- 
thing about  this  man  riveted  attention. 
As  we  took  a  table  somewhat  apart 
from  the  crowd,  the  music  stopped, 
and  the  gauchos  screamed  to  the  musi- 
cian. Looking  up,  I  saw  that  he  was 
lurching  to  his  feet. 

He  mounted  a  chair,  frantically  wav- 
ing a  hairy  hand.  His  toothless  mouth 
yawned  open  when  he  tried  to  speak. 
This  failing,  he  thumped  with  a 
wicker-bound  bottle  upon  a  table.  All 


that  was  human  had  vanished  from 
his  shrunken,  sun-seared  face.  It  was 
covered  with  an  unclean  beard.  His 
clothing,  mostly  of  skins,  hung  in 
shreds  about  him.  He  shivered  with 
a  senile  trembling,  and  his  eyes  rolled 
wildly. 

"One  hundred  thousand  hectares  of 
land  I  desire!"  he  was  bawling.  "For 
a  Dutch  corporacion " 

"There's  a  fine  estancia,  Don  Cip- 
riano,  in  the  Rio  Coile  valley!"  hic- 
coughed a  reeling  gaucho. 

Grimwood  straightened  suddenly, 
turning  to  Alejandro,  vvho  was  pouring 
our  wine. 

"Santa  Maria,  is  he  still  alive!"  he 
exclaimed. 

"Bien  esta,  senor,"  purred  Alejan- 
dro. "The  Don  Cipriano  he  come  by 
Santa  Lazaro  last  night,  and  he  lose 
mind  how  he  was  here  only  last  week." 

"Yes,  he  forgets — that's  the  mercy 
of  it." 

This  from  Grimwood,  in  an  aside  to 
me,  being  overheard  by  Alejandro, 
clearly  puzzled  the  Argentine.  He  re- 
garded us  suspiciously,  twisting  his 
cat-whiskers. 

Presently  there  was  a  commotion  in 
the  place.  The  ragged  man  jumped 
from  his  chair  and  flung  open  the  door, 
plunging  out  into  the  whirling  storm, 
mocking  his  tormentors  with  a  piercing 
laugh.  Before  the  door  was  shut, 
however,  I  got  a  glimpse  of  his  sinis- 
ter face,  which  I  shall  never  forget, 
so  poignant  was  its  terror,  so  pathetic 
its  very  repulsiveness. 

"Why  don't  they  stop  him?"  I 
shouted  over  the  din  to  Grimwood. 
"He  may  come  to  harm  in  weather 
like  this.  Who  is  he — what  is  he?" 

After  we  had  eaten  our  stew,  Grim- 


574 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


wood,  a  grizzled  veteran  of  the  pampa, 
told  me  this  story : 

Don  Cipriano  has  been  as  you  just 
saw  him  for  a  dozen  years,  the  butt 
for  the  drollery  of  every  sheep-herder 
from  the  sea  to  the  Cordillera.  Once 
his  check  was  honored  by  the  bankers 
in  Buenos  Aires  and  Rio,  even  in  far- 
away Spain.  But  this  the  gauchos 
don't  know.  Anyhow,  what  does  it 
matter  how  much  people  bowed  and 
scraped  to  him,  or  who  he  was?  He 
doesn't  remember — and  none  jof  us 
ever  knew. 

All  that  the  gauchos  do  know  is  that 
for  many  years  he  has  been  riding  a 
blind  horse  over  the  lonely  pampa. 
Sometimes  he's  in  the  Territorio  del 
Chubut,  sometimes  in  the  Territorio 
del  Santa  Cruz;  but  no  matter  where 
he  conies  the  gauchos  know  he  will  not 
remember  he  was  ever  in  the  settle- 
ment before,  or  has  told  the  absurd 
tale  of  the  Dutch  syndicate.  Because 
for  some  foolish  reason,  so  think 
these  thick-skulled  Latins,  he  always 
pretends  to  be  the  agent  of  a  group 
of  Dutch  capitalists  who  want  a  hun- 
dred thousand  hectares  of  land  for  a 
sheep  ranch. 

It  was  up  in  Santa  Cruz  more  than 
fifteen  years  ago  that  I  first  met  Cip- 
riano. I  was  managing  a  store  for  a 
Gallegos  company.  In  those  days, 
settlers  were  coming  down  to  look  at 
land  along  the  Salado,  the  Chico  and 
the  Santa  Cruz  Rivers,  and,  occasion- 
ally, there  was  soft  money  to  be 
picked  up  by  guiding  parties  out  into 
the  new  country.  The  land  then  was 
as  wild  as  when  God  made  it.  You 
could  hoof  it  over  dusty  travesties, 
crouching  under  the  sliding  sky,  down 
one  gray  canadon  after  another;  climb 
gashed  rocks;  struggle  through  dry 
gullies  where  swift  rivers  once  flowed ; 
and  push  on  to  the  cold  lakes  and  big 
forests  at  the  feet  of  the  Cordillera 
without  meeting  a  white  man  in  all 
your  journey.  Only  along  the  coast 
were  a  few  starving  settlements,  hun- 
dreds of  miles  apart,  and  isolated 
sheep  farms  in  the  green  patches  along 
the  rivers.  But  to  get  back  to  Cip- 
riano : 


One  afternoon  I  was  sitting  in  my 
Santa  Cruz  shop,  gazing  through  the 
mosquito-bar,  when  a  rider  came  clat- 
tering across  the  plaza.  In  that  first 
kinetoscopic  glimpse,  I  was  able  only 
to  note  how  splendidly  he  sat  his 
horse,  and  the  big,  star-roweled  spurs 
on  his  fancy  jack-boots.  He  pulled  up 
in  front  of  the  store  and  strode  in, 
whisking  the  sand  off  himself,  and  all 
the  time  boring  me  with  his  powerful 
black  eyes.  He  kept  scrutinizing  me 
as  coolly  as  you  please.  But  I  sat  per- 
fectly still  and  gave  him  glare  for 
glare.  I  saw  that  his  poncho  was  of 
fine  material  and  his  jacket  richly 
braided,  and  that  his  face  was  Latin 
in  every  line,  lean  as  a  hatchet,  with 
a  hooked  nose  and  luxuriant  beard. 

"Am  I  correct,  senor,  is  this  the 
town  of  Santa  Cruz?"  he  asked, 
finally. 

"It  is,"  I  replied.  "But  sit  down; 
you  must  be  tired  after  riding " 

"Stop!"  he  interrupted.  "You  al- 
ready ask  who  I  am;  where  I  am 
from;  what  I  do  in  Santa  Cruz — is  it 
not  so!" 

As  he  spoke,  his  fingers  were  ner- 
vously rolling  a  cigarette,  which  he 
adjusted  in  a  gold-tipped  holder  and 
lighted  fastidiously. 

"You  shall  know,  senor,"  he  ex- 
claimed excitedly.  "I  am  Don  Cipri- 
ano from  the  northern  Argentine  pro- 
vince of  Corrienties.  Cipriano  who? 
That  does  not  matter.  It  is  sufficient 
that  I  tell  you  I  represent  a  corpora- 
cion  of  Dutchmen  which  desires  one 
hundred  thousand  hectares  for  sheep." 

"Suit  yourself,"  I  said.  "I'm  a  com- 
mon American,  and  don't  want  to  poke 
my  nose  in  any  man's  affairs." 

"Perhaps,  then,  you  know  one  Senor 
Grimwood?" 

"I'm  Grimwood,"  I  smiled.  "What 
can  I  do  for  you?" 

He  leaned  across  the  table  and 
seized  my  arm,  looking  into  my  face 
intently.  I  wondered  why  on  earth 
he  should  be  so  excited. 

"I  have  been  informed  you  guide 
parties,"  he  answered. 

"Yes,  if  they  pay  enough." 

"Just   so!     That   is   why  I   am   in 


DON  CIPRIANO. 


575 


Santa  Cruz.  I  desire  you  to  show  me 
to  the  Rio  Coile  country,  sabe?  Per- 
haps, there  I  may  find  the  land  I  seek. 
Tell  me,  is  there  good  pasture?" 

Perceiving  that  I  had  a  stranger  to 
guide  who  would  undoubtedly  pay 
well,  I  described  the  Coile  country  as 
glowingly  as  I  could.  He  seemed  anx- 
ious also  to  know  if  I  had  taken  any- 
one out  into  that  country — and  who — 
and  when — and  where. 

"I've  only  taken  out  two  people 
there — a  man  and  his  wife,"  I  said. 
"But  there's  really  little  to  tell  about 
them." 

"Go  on,  Senor  Grimwood." 

I  can  hear  the  velvety  persuasion 
of  his  "Go  on,  Senor  Grimwood" 
across  all  these  years,  and  see  him  as 
he  sat  there,  keen-eyed  and  alert.  And 
so  I  told  him  about  those  two — the 
clumsy  gaucho  and  his  pretty  wife — 
although  I  felt  certain  I  would  only 
bore  this  Argentine  patrician. 

"How  long  since  they  left  here?" 
he  asked. 

"It's  a  year  or  so  ago,"  I  replied. 
"They  had  had  passage  from  Buenos 
Aires  in  a  transport.  There  hadn't 
been  a  white  woman  in  the  settlement 
for  two  years,  so  we  all  scurried  to 
the  beach  when  it  got  noised  about  that 
a  woman  was  coming  ashore.  It  was 
about  the  biggest  thrill  Santa  Cruz  had 
had  since  the  Sarmiento  exploded  and 
went  down  in  the  bay.  Why,  they 
even  laid  bets  on  her  looks.  But  she 
was  wrapped  in  a  big  shawl,  so  we 
couldn't  decide  bets  right  off  whether 
she  was  better  looking  than  the  Indian 
wife  of  the  superintendent  of  the  Cat- 
uja  Ranch." 

"Ah,  but  was  she  better  looking  than 
the  estanciero's  wife — and  how  did 
she  act?"  Cipriano's  tone  was  light 
and  casual,  betraying  but  a  polite 
interest. 

"Senor,  she  was  beautiful!"  I  ex- 
claimed. "But  she  cried  a  good  deal, 
which  wasn't  strange,  considering 
what  a  wild  land  the  poor  creature 
had  come  to.  It  was  easy  to  see  she 
wasn't  used  to  the  vast  spaces  of  the 
pampa.  They  stayed  a  week  in  Santa 
Cruz  while  the  husband  bought  horses, 


cattle  and  sheep,  and  lumber  and  sup- 
plies for  his  settler's  home.  I  sug- 
gested the  country  along  the  Coile 
River,  and  he  hired  me  to  take  him 
there." 

"And  they  are  there  now?"  asked 
Cipriano. 

"Yes ;  they  put  up  a.  little  house  close 
to  the  river  and  many  hundred  miles 
from  any  human  being.  Once  in  a 
great  while  he  comes  to  Santa  Cruz 
or  Santa  Stefano  with  sheep  or  for 
supplies.  I  am  sure  if  your  company 
starts  a  ranch  near  them  you'll  have 
excellent  neighbors." 

"We  shall  see,  Senor  Grimwood," 
smiled  Cipriano  blandly.  "But  come, 
let  us  go  over  the  details  of  the  trip." 

I  soon  discovered  that  my  price 
made  no  difference  with  this  man  from 
the  north.  The  Dutch  corporacion  had 
plenty  of  money,  he  declared,  and 
wished  to  try  out  merino  sheep  in 
Patagonia.  As  it  was  a  good  three- 
weeks'  ride  out  there,  I  calculated  on 
a  couple  of  peones  for  the  rougher 
work.  Everything  suited  Cipriano 
except  the  peones.  He  wouldn't  hear 
of  hiring  any  one  to  go  with  us,  and 
as  he  footed  the  bills,  we  went  with- 
out the  peones. 

On  a  chilly  morning  three  days  af- 
ter Don  Cipriano  rode  into  town,  we 
turned  our  backs  on  Santa  Cruz  and 
started  our  long  ride.  We  had  numer- 
ous talks  before  all  the  arrangements 
for  departure  were  completed,  but  his 
attitude  toward  me  was  unmistakably 
that  of  the  wealthy  Argentine  toward 
his  servant.  This  did  not  worry  me, 
because  I  was  to  receive  a  big  sum, 
and  I  felt  certain  when  we  got  out 
alone  in  the  desolation  of  the  pampa 
he  would  be  only  too  glad  for  my  com- 
panionship. We  halted  twice  a  day, 
at  noon  and  again  at  sundown,  when 
camp  for  the  night  was  pitched,  and 
had  soon  left  all  civilization  far  be- 
hind. 

We  had  been  out  four  or  five  days 
before  Cipriano  actually  began  to 
grate  on  my  nerves.  When  you  are 
alone  with  a  man  in  a  country  like  we 
were  in,  even  if  you  happen  to  be  his 
guide,  you  naturally  expect  him  to 


576 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


warm  up  to  you.  I  guess  it's  the  call 
of  man  to  man.  But  Cipriano  did  not 
relax  in  the  least,  the  barrier  of  re- 
serve was  down  hard  and  tight.  Per- 
haps I  should  have  suspected  that 
something  was  wrong,  but  I  actually 
did  not  until  one  night  when  we  had 
been  out  about  two  weeks.  A  voice 
aroused  me  after  I  had  fallen  asleep. 
I  crawled  hastily  out  of  my  sleeping 
bag,  wondering  if  a  wolf  was  prowl- 
ing about  the  camp. 

I  found  Cipriano  seated  by  the  dy- 
ing embers  of  the  fire.  His  lean  face, 
touched  up  by  the  embers'  light,  had 
an  almost  satanic  expression,  and  his 
bulging  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  dag- 
ger which  he  held  in  his  hands.  With 
bated  breath,  I  watched  him  turn  the 
knife  and  chuckle  over  something 
which  seemed  to  give  him  great  de- 
light. He  was  mumbling  to  himself 
in  Spanish,  and  all  at  once  he  laughed 
a  hard,  dry  laugh  that  sent  the  shivers 
down  my  back. 

"Don  Cipriano,"  I  called  sharply, 
"why  aren't  you  asleep?" 

My  voice  struck  him  like  a  sudden 
blow  from  behind. 

"Thank  God,  it  is  only  you — you, 
Senor  Grimwood!"  he  gasped.  Then 
remembering  my  question :  "Caramba ! 
Rather  ask  why  these  last  three  nights 
I  have  not  slept  forty  winks!" 

"The  Dutchmen  would  be  worried 
if  they  knew  you  do  not  sleep,"  I  re- 
marked. 

"Bah,  for  the  Dutchmen!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "What  have  I  to  do  with 
Dutchmen  ?" 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  strange  Cipri- 
ano made  me  feel.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  speaking  with  a  person  yet 
asleep. 

"Are  you  not  forgetting  that  hun- 
dred thousand  hectares?"  I  ventured. 

He  turned  his  haggard  face,  staring 
at  me  intently,  and  shivering  in  the 
night  wind.  Then  he  laughed  that 
same  hard  laugh. 

"You  think  I  look  for  land?"  he 
questioned. 

"What  am  I  to  believe,  Senor?"  I 
asked  him. 

"No,  you  hardly  believe  so,  do  you? 


What  I  have  ridden  out  here  for  with 
you,  Senor  Grimwood,  is  what  is  to 
the  broken-hearted  man  sweetest — 
revenge!  I  have  been  looking  for  a 
man  who  has  robbed  me  of  my  sun, 
moon  and  stars — my  all!" 

"And  your  claim  about  looking  for 
land  is  a  falsehood?"  I  cried. 

"Why  should  I  look  for  land?"  he 
groaned,  gazing  into  the  darkness 
about  me.  "Already  I  have  too  much 
land.  Up  in  Corrientes  I  own  six- 
teen thousand  hectares  and  twenty 
thousand  sheep;  in  Buenos  Aires  I 
have  money  and  houses;  in  Spain  a 
pretty  place ;  on  my  ranch  one  hundred 
men  break  my  bread.  But  what  are  all 
these  to  the  priceless  pearl  of  heaven 
that  I  have  lost?" 

While  the  stars  paled  and  the  East 
began  to  flush  with  the  rose  and  orange 
of  dawn,  I  sat  before  the  dead  ashes 
of  our  fire  and  listened  to  Cipriano 
pour  out  his  bitter  story;  somehow  un- 
able to  shake  off  the  uncanny  feeling 
that  he  was  not  aware  what  he  was 
telling  me.  Two  years  before  he  had 
been  married  to  Mariana,  the  daughter 
of  Don  Esteban,  his  neighbor.  She 
was  twenty  years  his  junior.  The 
marriage  had  been,  like  such  affairs 
so  often  are,  among  the  Latins,  a  mat- 
ter of  contracts.  Don  Esteban,  no 
doubt  with  a  crafty  eye  to  his  rich 
neighbor's  vast  ranch,  had  arranged 
everything. 

"Mother  of  God,  could  I  know  how 
it  would  end!"  exclaimed  Cipriano. 
"Mariana  said  nothing.  'Daughter, 
you  will  be  the  senora  of  our  excellent 
neighbor,  Don  Cipriano,'  her  father 
said  to  her.  'Father,  as  you  say,  so 
shall  it  be,'  she  answered.  And  we 
were  married,  and  I  was  happy  in  the 
sunshine  of  her  love  until  this  other, 
who  was  eating  my  bread,  whispered 
his  false  lust  to  my  bride." 

"Who  was  this  man?"  I  asked,  as 
Cipriano  sat  silent. 

"A  mere  sheepherder,"    he     said. 
"He  worked  on  my  place.    His  name 
is  Rodrigo." 

"Rodrigo!"  I  echoed,  jumping  to  my 
feet.  In  an  instant  the  whole  mystery 
was  clear  to  me.  "That  was  the  name 


DON  CIPRIANO. 


577 


of  the  fellow  I  took  down  here  into 
the  Coile  country.  I  remember  now 
that  he  called  his  wife  Mariana.  So 
he  is  the  man!" 

"The  very  man,"  nodded  Cipriano. 
"And  now  do  you  sabe  why  I  desired 
you  to  guide  me  to  him?  Yes,  it  was 
Rodrigo  the  Stupid.  I  never  saw  them 
together  except  once  when  he  had 
stopped  her  horse  which  ran  away. 
Mariana  said  that  he  had  saved  her 
life.  I  thanked  him  and  gave  him  a 
bag  of  gold  for  his  courage,  when  I 
should  have  stabbed  him  to  the  heart. 
Four  weeks  later  I  went  to  Buenos 
Aires,  and  kissed  Mariana  before  I 
left.  Buenos  Dios,  it  was  for  the  last 
time!  When  I  returned  I  found,  not 
the  pearl  of  heaven,  but  only  a  letter 
telling  me  that  she  loved  another — 
Rodrigo — and  that  they  had  gone 
where  I  would  never  find  them." 

"If  you  find  them,  what  then?"  I 
asked. 

"I  shall  kill  him  as  he  deserves," 
cried  Cipriano.  "She  will  come  back 
to  sunny  Corrientes,  and  I  will  forgive 
her  everything." 

Thus,  man-like,  Don  Cipriano  pro- 
posed to  readjust  his  life  again,  and 
the  slaying  of  Rodrigo  and  the  recov- 
ery of  Mariana  had  become  his  one 
object  in  living.  After  his  passion 
had  calmed,  he  told  me  how  he  had 
discovered  that  the  guilty  pair  had 
gone  to  Patagonia.  From  the  day  he 
read  his  wife's  letter  he  became  a 
wanderer,  seeking  the  consummation 
of  his  dream.  The  idea  that  Mariana 
wanted  to  return  had  become  his  fixed 
belief.  Finally,  in  Buenos  Aires,  he 
learned  that  they  had  taken  passage 
in  a  transport  bound  for  the  Patago- 
nian  coast  towns.  All  that  then  re- 
mained was  to  find  out  at  which  set- 
tlement they  had  disembarked,  not  a 
difficult  matter  in  so  new  a  land  as  this. 
He  had  visited  Bahia  Blancha,  Pata- 
gones,  Puerto  Madryn,  Capa  Rosa, 
Camerones  and  Puerto  Deseado,  al- 
ways watchful  and  vigilant  for  the 
slightest  clue.  Apparently  no  one  at 
his  ranch  in  Corientes  knew  where  he 
had  gone.  Riding  down  from  Deseado 
he  had  put  up  at  the  Catuja  estancia 


one  night,  and  there  had  been  told  of 
the  pair  I  had  taken  out  into  the  Coile 
country. 

"You  seem  sure,  senor,  that  you  will 
accomplish  your  vengeance,"  I  re- 
marked, after  he  had  finished. 

"As  sure  as  I  am  that  there  is  a 
good  God  in  Heaven !" 

"Why  not  leave  Rodrigo  to  Him, 
then?" 

"No,  no,  Senor  Grimwood,  he  dis- 
sented. "I  would  sacrifice  even 
Heaven  to  punish  Rodrigo.  I  shall 
kill  him  like  you  would  a  poisonous 
snake." 

"But  suppose  I  refuse  to  go  further 
on  this  mission  of  revenge?  I  do  not 
feel  like  becoming  an  accessory  to  the 
murder  of  Rodrigo." 

"I  can  proceed  without  you,"  he  an- 
swered haughtily,  "thanks  to  the  in- 
formation for  which  I  have  paid  you. 
To-day  we  shall  remain  in  camp,  and 
I  shall  catch  the  sleep  I  have  lost. 
While  I  sleep,  if  you  desire  to  leave 
me,  of  course  I  cannot  stop  you — but 
you  will  remain." 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  did  not 
leave.  Some  subtle  fascination  held 
me.  Perhaps  I  satisfied  my  conscience 
with  the  reflection  that  if  I  remained 
I  might  prevent  the  ruthless  murder  of 
Rodrigo.  For  six  days  we  rode  on 
across  the  scrubby  pampa,  and  as  of- 
ten as  we  struck  camp,  Cipriano  told 
me  what  he  intended  to  do  to  Rodrigo. 
It  was  so  easy!  Only  a  quick  knife- 
thrust  or  two,  and  the  wrong  would  be 
avenged,  according  to  all  the  codes  of 
Castilian  honor. 

"Suppose,  Senor,  that  Mariana  is  un- 
willing to  go  back?"  I  asked  him  one 
night. 

But  Don  Cipriano  could  not  conceive 
this. 

"Ah,  this  infatuation  for  the  stupid 
Rodrigo,  believe  me,  can  only  have 
been  a  short-lived  passion.  Imagine 
the  woman,  gay  and  young,  accustomed 
to  the  vivid  beauties  of  Corrienties,  to 
her  marble,  rose-trellised  patio  and 
the  smells  of  a  hundred  kinds  of  flow- 
ers, to  art,  music,  books,  silks,  attend- 
ants, a  young  woman  with  the  best 
strain  of  old  Castile  in  her  veins,  who 


578 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


would  care  to  live  in  a  squalid  hut  out 
in  the  vast  isolation  of  the  pampa.  Im- 
possible! You  shall  see;  she  will  fly 
to  my  arms,  and  they  will  welcome  the 
bruised  child — will  restore  her  spirit!" 

"Nevertheless,  you  may  be  mis- 
taken," I  persisted. 

Don  Cipriano  sprang  to  his  feet,  his 
lips  trembling  with  emotion. 

"If  it  proves  as  you  say,  senor,  then 
I  shall  go  mad!" 

The  following  night  we  reached  the 
Coile  River  and  camped  in  a  rock- 
strewn  gulch.  One  march  more,  and 
we  would  be  at  Rodrigo's  ranch.  There 
was  an  ugly  wind  that  night  which 
threatened  to  become  a  downright 
pampero.  I  laid  awake  most  of  the 
night,  listening  to  the  roar  of  the  wind 
and  wondering  what  the  morrow  would 
bring  forth.  The  next  morning  the 
sand-storm  struck  us,  but  Cipriano, 
knowing  he  was  not  far  from  his  goal, 
insisted  upon  proceeding.  At  noon,  the 
pampero  moderated,  but  we  made  no 
stop,  riding  stolidly  on  into  the  teeth 
of  the  weather.  Cipriano  kept  search- 
ing the  horizon  with  his  glass. 

"Santa  Maria!  At  last!"  he  cried, 
lowering  his  telescope  and  reining  in 
his  horse  for  me  to  join  him.  A 
fiend's  smile  spread  over  his  wind- 
blown face  as  he  pointed  out  a  tiny 
speck  of  a  house  far  across  the  level 
pampa. 

Without  waiting  for  my  comment, 
Cipriano  put  the  spurs  into  his  horse, 
and  we  dashed  off  at  top  speed.  But 
we  had  to  pull  back  abruptly  at  the 
steep  scarp  of  a  gully  which  we  had 
been  unable  to  see  because  of  the 
grass  until  we  were  right  at  its  bank. 
Down  in  the  shelter  of  the  gully  hud- 
dled a  poncho-clad  figure.  A  pony 
stood  sogoaed  nearby,  and  a  few 
sheep  were  bleating,  frightened  at  our 
sudden  appearance  at  the  top  of  the 
bank.  As  we  rode  down,  I  saw  that 
it  was  a  woman  and  that  she  had  a 
lamb  in  her  lap  to  which  she  was  giv- 
ing some  attention.  At  the  sound  of 
our  horses'  feet  she  turned  her  sun- 
browned  face.  Immediately  my  heart 
leaped  wildly.  It  was  the  woman  I 
had  taken  out  into  the  Coile  country ! 


"Mariana!"  yelled  Cipriano,  stand- 
ing straight  in  his  stirrups. 

I  halted  my  horse  and  watched  the 
woman  closely.  She  gazed  for  a  sec- 
ond or  two  at  Cipriano,  terror  written 
on  her  face.  The  wounded  lamb  in 
her  lap  bleated  weakly.  Then  the  wo- 
man uttered  a  piercing  scream  and  fell 
in  a  swoon. 

We  jumped  from  our  horses  and 
Cipriano  forced  some  brandy  into 
Mariana's  mouth.  Beads  of  perspira- 
tion ran  down  his  face  as  he  worked 
over  her.  The  sight  of  Cipriano,  her 
husband,  must  have  been  a  dreadful 
shock  to  her  nerves.  I  observed  how 
much  she  was  changed.  Her  hands 
were  big  and  toil-worn;  her  face,  al- 
though still  pretty,  was  baked  a  deep 
brown  from  exposure ;  and  her  clothing 
was  rough  and  old. 

"Mother  of  Heaven,  can  this  be 
Mariana!"  gasped  Cipriano,  stepping 
back  as  she  moved. 

She  opened  her  eyes  at  the  sound  of 
his  voice,  raising  herself  slowly.  Nei- 
ther spoke  until  she  ventured  to  look 
furtively  at  him  over  her  arm.  Then 
she  seemed  to  think  some  explanation 
of  her  presence  there  necessary. 

"Rodrigo  has  broken  his  leg!"  she 
muttered,  "so  I  had  to  fetch  these 
sheep  that  took  shelter  here  from  the 
storm." 

She  lowered  her  arm,  and  finally 
gave  her  head  a  toss,  but  her  lips  quiv- 
ered, and  she  began  to  cry  like  a 
frightened  child. 

"Why  did  you  come  here,  Cipri- 
ano?" she  sobbed. 

Don  Cipriano  broke  into  one  of  his 
unpleasant  laughs,  his  eyes  harden- 
ing. 

"Does  not  your  heart  tell  you?"  he 
asked.  "What  should  I  come  for  ex- 
cept to  kill  the  dog  who  stole  you  from 
me,  and  to  take  you  away  from  the 
pampa — back  where  my  pearl  shall 
soon  forget  this  nightmare." 

"You  mean  to  kill  Rodrigo!"  she 
screamed  hysterically. 

"Has  he  not  come  between  me  and 
all  that  I  prize?"  snapped  Cipriano. 

Her  weeping  became  more  convul- 
sive. Several  times  she  was  on  the 


DON  CIPRIANO. 


579 


point  of  speaking,  but  could  not.  At 
last  she  raised  a  tear-stained  face  to 
his. 

"Rodrigo  took  nothing  from  you, 
Cipriano,"  she  said,  brokenly.  "I  have 
never  loved  you  as  a  woman  should 
love  her  husband.  Our  marriage  was 
a  hideous  mistake.  I  loved  Rodrigo, 
but  had  to  become  your  wife.  I  could 
not  make-believe  to  love  you.  You 
said  often,  when  we  spoke  of  the  years 
that  divided  us,  that  love  would  come 
slowly,  like  the  oncoming  of  day,  but 
my  heart  always  told  me  it  would 
never  be  so  with  us — at  least  with  me. 
I  thought  you  would  understand  why 
I  went  away  with  Rodrigo.  Cipriano, 
do  you  blame  me?  Oh,  say  that  you 
do  not!" 

She  had  arisen  to  her  feet,  and  as 
she  finished  she  threw  her  arms  about 
him,  her  head  sinking  down  on  his 
shoulder.  He  tried  to  calm  her,  but 
only  became  hysterical  himself.  When 
she  felt  his  arms  clasp  about  her  she 
released  herself. 

"The  dog  that  came  between  us 
must  die !"  he  exclaimed  several  times. 

"Then  you  must  also  kill  me,  for  I 
cannot  live  without  Rodrigo,"  she 
wept.  "Oh,  Cipriano,  go  back  to  Cor- 
rienties — leave  us  to  our  lives  here!" 

"Is  my  love  to  be  trampled  upon?" 
he  asked  indignantly. 

"But  why  would  you  make  me  for- 
ever unhappy?"  she  pleaded. 

"I  would  do  anything  for  your  hap- 
piness," he  assured  her. 

She  ran  forward  and  again  placed 
her  arms  about  his  shoulders,  look- 
ing up  into  his  eyes. 

"Dear  Cipriano,"  she  sobbed,  "have 
you  thought  what  I  should  do  if  you 
took  Rodrigo  from  me?  I  would  not 
go  back  to  Corrienties.  How  could  I  ? 
If  you  kill  Rodrigo,  will  that  right  the 
wrong  I  have  done  you?  No!  No! 
You  said  you  would  not  make  me  un- 
happy: then  give  me  Rodrigo.  Give 
him  to  me!" 

Don  Cipriano  stood  looking  at  her 
a  long  time  before  making  his  answer, 
while  she  tremblingly  awaited  his  de- 
cision. His  lips  tightened  grimly,  and 
his  eyes  betrayed  that  he  was  crying, 


an  inward,  tearless  weeping.  While 
this  struggle  went  on  he  continued  gaz- 
ing at  Mariana,  as  if  to  stamp  some 
remembrance  of  her  ineffably  into  his 
memory  for  all  the  years  to  come. 
Then  he  took  her  hand  abruptly,  rais- 
ing it  to  his  lips. 

"Farewell,  Mariana,  forever,"  he 
gulped  rapidly.  "Even  this  I  give  you 
— though  every  drop  of  blood  in  me 
cries  out  against  it!" 

He  turned  to  me,  for  the  first  time 
conscious  of  my  presence,  and  with- 
out waiting  to  hear  what  Mariana  said. 

"Come,  Senor  Grimwood,"  he  com- 
manded, "we  must  start  back  for 
Santa  Cruz  before  I  change  my  mind 
— before  I  change  this  I  have  done." 

In  another  moment  we  were  in  our 
saddles.  Never  a  glance  did  he  cast 
back  as  his  horse  bounded  up  the 
bank.  We  hadn't  gone  a  mile,  how- 
ever, before  he  talked  boisterously, 
and  insisted  he  was  the  agent  of  a 
Dutch  syndicate.  The  change  in  him 
was  altogether  too  astounding  to  es- 
cape my  notice.  I  asked  him  where 
he  had  come  from  in  Corrienties,  what 
his  full  name  was,  but  he  ceased  smil- 
ing and  stared  blankly  whenever  I 
questioned  him.  I  don't  know  what 
psychologists  would  have  called  it,  but 
I  made  up  my  mind  that  Don  Cipri- 
ano's  memory  was  vanishing  like  a 
mist.  Toward  evening  he  pulled  out 
a  bag  of  gold  and  paid  me. 

Four  or  five  nights  later  he  rode  off 
on  his  horse,  while  I  was  sleeping.  I 
heard  him  start,  and,  wriggling  out 
of  my  sleeping  bag,  yelled  to  him  to 
stop.  But  on  the  night's  raw  wind 
there  only  floated  back  the  patter  of 
his  horse's  hoofs  and  a  derisive  laugh 
— that  harsh  shriek  of  a  laugh — as  he 
galloped  away.  I  could  not  tell  in 
what  direction  he  had  gone.  The  next 
morning  I  started  back  to  Santa  Cruz 
alone. 

More  than  a  month  after  my  return 
to  the  settlement,  and  after  Cipriano 
had  passed  out  of  my  mind,  an  Ar- 
gentine rancher  came  to  Santa  Cruz 
with  a  herd  of  sheep — and  a  horrible 
story.  He  had  passed  Rodrigo's  place 
and  found  it  in  ashes,  and  near  the 


580 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


ruins  the  almost  unrecognizable  bodies 
of  Mariana  and  Rodrigo.  I  listened, 
you  can  imagine  with  what  attention, 
while  the  Argentine,  with  many  shrugs 
excitedly  told  his  tale  to  a  crowd  in 
Espinilla's  boliche. 

"Blessed  saints,  how  horrible!"  he 
shuddered.  "Picture  out  there  on  the 
pampa  the  burned  stumps  of  Rodrigo's 
house!  The  bones  of  half  a  score  of 
his  horses  picked  clean  by  the  vultures. 
Then  the  stark  bodies  of  Rodrigo  and 
his  beautiful  wife !  Buenos  Dios,  such 
a  sight !  They  had  been  stabbed,  each 
a  dozen  times,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
the  fiendish  murderer  had  dragged 
them  out  where,  before  death,  they 
might  behold  the  destruction  of  all 
they  owned  in  the  world.  ...  I  bur- 
ied them  side  by  side,  with  a  cross  at 
their  heads,  and  when  I  turned  Rod- 
rigo I  found  this  knife  sunk  in  his 
back." 

Solemnly  the  rancher  held  up  a  dag- 
ger for  the  boliche  crowd's  wonder- 
ment. I  pushed  aside  the  gauchos  to 
confirm  my  suspicion.  It  was  Don 
Cipriano's  dagger,  a  wedding  gift,  so 
he  had  told  me,  from  his  father-in-law, 
Don  Esteban,  with  the  name  "Cipri- 
ano"  inlaid  in  the  handle. 

Not  a  mother's  son  in  the  settlement 
guessed  who  the  murderer  was,  and 
the  crime  was  attributed  to  a  band  of 
Chilean  desperadoes.  I  alone  knew 
better.  Why  did  an  irresistible  some- 
thing seal  my  lips?  I  knew  that  Don 
Cipriano  had  changed  his  mind;  that, 
having  first  foresworn  his  vengeance 
because  of  his  great  love,  his  leniency 
must  finally  have  driven  him  mad. 
Great  as  was  his  love  it  had  failed  to 
overcome  the  lust  for  revenge.  The 
baser  passion  had  triumphed!  But 
there  is  yet  more  to  tell. 

Six  months  after  the  Argentine  had 
told  us  of  the  slaying  of  Mariana  and 
Rodrigo,  I  had  business  in  Gallegos. 
During  the  evening  a  forlorn  man  rode 
into  town  and  entered  the  boliche.  He 
was  hair}',  ragged  and  trembling,  but 
his  eyes  seemed  familiar.  Then  he 
laughed,  and  a  shiver  went  through 
me.  He  babbled  about  land  and  men- 
tioned Dutchmen.  Poor  Cipriano!  I 


talked  with  him,  seeking  to  arouse  his 
sleeping  memory.  It  was  useless — he 
only  giggled  and  flourished  a  hank 
of  raven  black  hair.  He  did  not  know 
me.  The  next  day  I  went  back  to 
Santa  Cruz,  and  later  Cipriano  came 
to  Espinilla's  and  told  about  the 
Dutchmen  who  wanted  land.  Why 
did  he  remember  this  and  forget  all 
the  rest?  No  one  recognized  him  as 
the  proud,  aristocratic  man  from  the 
north  I  had  taken  out  into  the  Coile 
country,  but  a  few  months  before,  con- 
ceiving him  only  a  funny  simpleton 
sent  on  earth  to  amuse  the  idle  mo- 
ments of  saner  folks. 

Thus  it  has  been  for  years  and 
years.  Steadily  Cipriano  has  sunk  to 
the  lowest  depths  of  degradation.  The 
scheme  of  the  gods  has  condemned 
him  to  a  far  crueler  expiation  of  his 
crime  than  man  could  devise,  such,  at 
any  rate,  is  my  view.  To  the  pampa 
people,  because  he  has  remained  an 
inexplicable  riddle,  the  Don  Cipriano's 
life  has  already  assumed  the  nebulous 
outlines  of  a  legend.  In  a  more  civil- 
ized land  such  an  unfortunate  creature 
would  be  cared  for,  but  in  this  crude 
country  only  the  strong  can  live;  the 
weak  must  help  themselves  or  perish. 
If  he  had  told  me  his  name  I  might 
have  been  able  to  do  something;  per- 
haps have  located  his  friends.  Still, 
what  would  it  have  mattered?  A 
spring  more  vital  than  the  very  main- 
spring of  life  had  snapped ! 

As  Grimwood  finished  his  story,  he 
called  to  Alejandro  for  a  mate. 

"Do  you  wonder  I've  sealed  my  lips 
about  Cipriano?"  he  asked,  pointing  to 
several  drunken  gauchos  who  were 
snoring  on  the  floor  near  us.  "How 
could  you  expect  these  dregs  of  the 
earth  to  understand  the  infinite  sub- 
tlety of  the  schemes  of  the  gods !" 

Alejandro  was  serving  us  the  yerba 
tea  when  the  door  was  hastily  pulled 
open.  Over  the  noise  of  the  storm, 
much  excited  talking  could  be  heard. 
Two  gauchos  staggered  in,  dragging 
something  between  them,  and  many 
others  pressed  in  behind  them.  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  dangling  hands 
and  legs,  and  some  ragged  clothing. 


DON  CIPRIANO. 


581 


"What  have  you  there,  Pedro?" 
frowned  Alejandro. 

Pedro  was  quite  out  of  breath. 

"It's  the  Don  Cipriano,"  he  puffed, 
letting  go  his  burden.  "The  fool  is  as 
dead  as  mutton.  We  almost  stumbled 
over  him  in  the  plaza  as  he  lay  with 
his  face  in  the  sand.  Caramba,  but  I 
thought  him  only  drunk,  and  was 
carrying  him  over  here  to  give  us 
more  music  on  the  concertina;  then  I 
felt  he  was  cold!" 

"Take  him  out  of  here,"  cried  Ale- 
jandro, angrily,  but  crossing  himself, 
nevertheless.  "Santa  Maria,  do  you 
want  the  dead  to  leave  a  curse  upon 
my  shop!" 

Pedro  and  another  gaucho  picked 
up  the  inert  mass. 


"Does  some  senor  want  to  see  the 
dead  Don  Cipriano  before  we  give  his 
carcass  to  the  sub-prefect?"  asked 
Pedro. 

No  one  answered. 

"Perhaps  the  Americano "  Pe- 
dro glanced  in  our  direction. 

I  could  see  Grimwood  shudder  and 
tremble  all  over. 

"No,  take  the  poor  fellow  to  the  pre- 
fect," answered  he :  then  turning  to  me, 
"And  somewhere — somewhere  up 
North,  in  some  quiet,  fertile  valley  of 
Corrienties,  where  birds  sing  and 
flowers  bloom  constantly,  some  faith- 
ful old  servant  is  wondering  whatever 
became  of  his  master,  who  has  been 
gone  these  many  years — and  only  the 
gods  can  answer!" 


THE    RUBAIYAT    OP    A     LOVER 


O  loved  one,  from  the  Chaos  of  Unborn, 
You  entered  on  this  earth,  one  glorious  morn ! 
While  I — your  mate — slept  in  that  realm  Unknown 
From  which  souls  come,  and  go  into — alone. 

You  lived  a  space  before  I  came  to  birth; 
When  I  was  Nothing — You  were  here  on  earth ! 
How  could  you  live  and  grow,  while  at  the  Gate 
Your  Other  Self,  unborn,  did  stand  and  wait? 

And  when  at  last  I  entered  Life's  strange  door, 
Thousands  of  miles  apart,  we  were,  or  more. 
And  thus  we  passed  our  childhood;  it  does  seem 
As  though  our  lives  apart,  were  only  dream. 

Tis  strange  that  from  two  places  far  apart 
We  slowly  drifted  and  did  meet,  Sweetheart! 
Like  spars,  each  from  a  different  ship  and  mast 
Will  come  together  on  some  Beach,  at  last. 

Oh,  ever  will  I  kneel  in  reverent  prayer, 

To  that  glad  Thought,  that  brought  us  from  Nowhere, 

One  to  the  Other,  from  out  pregnant  Space, 

It  dreamed  us;  drew  us;  set  us  into  Place. 


MARION  ETHEL  HAMILTON. 


FOUND    BY   THE    FIRELIGHT 


By  Fred  A.   Hunt 


A  WHITE     splotch  in  the  vast, 
treeless  prairie  of  lush    grass, 
an  atom  of  civilization  in  the 
great  campaign  of  unhabitated 
greensward,  the  teams  and  wagons  of 
the  little  family  of  pilgrims  traveled 
westward. 

"I  don't  see  anything  of  the  Indians 
that  the  people  back  by  the  river 
warned  us  against,"  said  one  of  the 
men  that  accompanied  the  caravan, 
"but  then  I  can't  say  that  I  shall  be 
lonesome  if  I  don't  see  them,  although 
I  have  some  curiosity  to  see  just  what 
the  wild  Indians  are  like." 

"I  have  read  lots  about  the  redmen 
in  Cooper  and  Mayne  Reid,  and  other 
authors,"  rejoined  one  of  the  young 
women,  "and  if  they  can  only  talk  a 
little  English,  they  would  take  away 
some  of  the  awful  sameness  and  op- 
pressive silence  of  the  great  prairies." 
These  two  conversational  para- 
graphs typify  the  crass  ignorance  of 
the  customary  "pilgrim"  of  the  early 
days,  and  designate  the  utter  incogni- 
zance  of  Indian  character  of  the  peo- 
ple with  the  outfit  whose  adventures 
are  here  recorded.  As  is  usual  with 
those  who  recall  supposititious  events, 
these  persons  were  tireless  in  conver- 
ing  about  the  novelists'  Indians  and 
their  magnificent  heroism  and  chivalry 
— ignoring  the  actuality  that  if  such 
Indians  ever  existed  they  had  all  de- 
parted to  the  happy  hunting  grounds 
(Se-ain)  and  that  those  that  remained 
on  earth  were  a  consummately  rapa- 
cious, cruel  and  blood-thirsty  mass  of 
savages. 

But  not  for  long  did  they  remain 
unaware  of  the  presence  of  other 
human  life  on  the  grassy  waste  (tukh- 
to),  but  even  then  it  was  conjectural 


and  transitory — merely  a  dim  outline 
of  a  horse  and  rider  here  and  there, 
but  the  presumed  horseman  clad  in  a 
wild  and  unknown  garb  and  shimmer- 
ing in  the  quivering  sunlight  like  an 
indistinct  mirage. 

That  night  to  their  camping  place, 
with  the  rising  of  the  moon,  came  a 
hurricane  of  trampling  horses,  a  fusil- 
lade of  hurtling  bullets  that  whistled 
through  the  wagon-camp  accompanied 
by  frightful  yells  that  made  their 
blood  run  cold.  Then  the  incompre- 
hensible war  cries  of  the  attacking 
Cheyennes :  "Shiv-e-i-e-yo !  tsit-tah 
na-ho!"  (Charge  on!  Kill  them!") 
Feeble  and  ineffectual  was  the  defense 
that  could  be  made  against  the  horde 
of  warriors  that  circled  about  the 
wagoncamp;  the  concentric  circle  of 
hostilities  continually  drawing  nearer 
to  the  prey,  and  all  the  target  that  was 
offered  to  the  few  rifles  of  the  campers 
was  a  leg  over  the  back  of  the  pony 
and  an  arm  over  its  neck,  the  rest  of 
the  warrior  being  screened  by  the  body 
of  the  steed. 

Not  for  long  was  the  unequal  contest 
waged.  The  camp  was  overrun  by  the 
savages,  who  looted  the  wagons, 
scalped  their  victims,  drove  off  the 
horses,  and  carried  with  them  into  cap- 
tivity a  little  girl,  Annie,  the  sole  sur- 
vivor of  the  unfortunate  party  that, 
like  so  very  many  others,  had  sown 
their  lives  as  the  seed  of  settlement  of 
the  Far  West. 

In  the  late  70's  a  band  of  Crow 
scouts  was  encamped  with  the  troops 
operating  against  the  hostile  Sioux 
and  Cheyennes  in  Montana.  Down  the 
valley  of  Tongue  River,  and  debouch- 
ing from  Tongue  River  butte  came  a 
Cheyenne,  slightly  in  advance  of  a 


FOUND  BY  THE  FIRELIGHT. 


583 


party  of  followers;  the  leader  singing 
and  with  his  arms  hanging  loosely  at 
his  sides,  his  hands  open,  and  with 
the  palms  toward  the  front;  the  univer- 
sal token  that  his  errand  was  one  of 
the  Crows  (Absaraka),  who  gave  the 
war-cry  to  the  remainder.  They 
seized  their  rifles,  leaped  on  their 
horses  and  charged  on  the  little  coterie 
of  Cheyennes  (from  time  immemorial 
a  deadly  feud  had  existed  between 
the  Crows  and  Cheyennes),  and  in  a 
brief  time  had  killed  and  scalped 
nearly  all  of  them.  Attracted  by  the 
fusillade,  General  Miles,  with  a  num- 
ber of  soldiers,  galloped  to  the  scene 
of  the  massacre,  and,  as  he  had  been 
expecting  the  arrival  of  emissaries 
from  the  hostiles  in  the  field  to  arrange 
terms  of  surrender,  he  reproached  the 
Crows  in  no  gentle  terms,  and  threat- 
ened them  with  the  direst  and  most 
summary  vengeance,  which  verbal  cas- 
tigation  so  terrified  his  allies  that  they 
disappeared  from  the  cantonment  that 
night,  and,  reaching  their  agency  on 
the  Sweetwater,  became  merged  with 
the  populous  tribe  on  the  reservation 
and  their  individuality  became  lost. 

The  next  day  General  Miles  des- 
patched Red  Sleeve  (Mie  ni-iv),  a 
loyal  and  proved  Indian  Scout,  up 
Tongue  River  to  seek  the  Cheyenne 
camp,  and,  with  assurance  of  safe 
conduct,  to  solicit  their  presence  at  the 
cantonment.  At  the  imminent  hazard 
of  his  life,  Red  Sleeve  found  the  camp, 
and  learned  that  Cheyenne  ambassa- 
dors had  already  gone  to  the  canton- 
ment to  voice  the  sentiment  of  the 
tribe:  "Nah  tom-e  mow-no-e  me-ut 
tah  tsim  nish-tah  nan-oov-uts"  (we  are 
tired  of  fighting  and  want  peace.) 
There  at  the  council  fire  (a-se-e-tsis- 
tuv-  ho-ist)  he  induced  them  to  break 
camp  and  proceed  to  the  cantonment 
to  talk  to  the  Big  Chief  (mokh-e  ve- 
yune)  about  their  surrender  (mah-tah- 
a-e-nan.)  The  surrender  was  accom- 
plished, and  the  pipe  of  peace  was 
smoked  (tah-nan  oov-uts,  ha-po,  ha- 
yook.) 

The  Cheyennes,  as  their  first  duty, 
proceeded  to  bury  their  dead  (ni-yuts) , 
a  ceremony  that  lasted  many  hours, 


and  that  comprised  digging  their 
graves,  wherein  were  placed  the 
corpses  with  various  accoutrements, 
arms  and  provisions.  (Except  in  cases 
of  exigency  like  this,  the  Indians  were 
placed  on  pole  scaffolds  when  dead, 
and  their  war  pony  slaughtered  be- 
neath the  scaffold  to  provide  trans- 
portation to  the  happy  hunting 
ground.)  Then  came  the  customary 
and  obligatory  season  of  mourning 
(e-i-no  ve-tan)  when  the  close  female 
relatives  of  the  several  dead  Chey- 
ennes danced  over  .their  corpses  and 
liberally  gashed  themselves  with 
knives  (mutchk-e-yo),  letting  the 
blood  run  over  the  bodies  of  their 
relatives ;  the  depth  of  their  sorrow  be- 
ing subsequently  estimated  (and 
proudly  shown  by  the  mourners)  by 
the  number  of  scars  resulting  from 
their  self-inflicted  wounds.  By  the 
lambent  firelight  this  ceremony  had  a 
weird  and  uncanny  aspect,  and  it  drew 
many  spectators  from  the  cantonment. 

Among  these  spectators  was  Scout 
Thompson,  although  in  his  association 
with  the  Indians  he  had  frequently 
seen  similar  ceremonials.  Careless!/ 
scrutinizing  the  performers  and  the 
observers,  his  eyes  finally  rested  on 
one  girl  among  the  Cheyennes  whose 
features  appeared  strangely  familiar. 
Approaching  her  he  asked  her  her 
name. 

"Annie  Vo-us-tus  Mokh-e"  (Annie 
Black  Swan)  replied  the  girl,  with  the 
hesitancy  always  prevalent  among  In- 
dian women  when  first  spoken  to  by 
a  white  man  (ve-ho.) 

"Strange,"  he  muttered.  "Ist-e  Tsis- 
tah  ik-sun?"  (Are  you  a  Cheyenne 
girl?)  he  asked. 

"Ho-won"  (No)  she  replied,  with 
an  air  of  pride,  "wo-po-ik-sun  ist-e"  (I 
am  a  white  girl)  and  throwing  her 
head  back  displayed  a  little  amulet  de- 
pending from  a  chain  about  her  neck. 

"Great  Heavens!"  exclaimed 
Thompson,  "where  did  you  get  that 
locket?  I  gave  a  locket  like  that  to 
my  little  sweetheart,  Annie  Davis,  and 
if  that  is  yours,  you  must  be  she." 

Like  one  awakening  from  an  opiate, 
Annie  looked  at  Thompson  with  start- 


584 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


led  eyes ;  all  the  Indian  stoicism  of  her 
education  abandoned,  and  her  whole 
graceful  body  quivering  with  anxiety 
and  the  strain  of  reminiscence. 

"What  is  your  name?"  asked  Annie. 

"Harry,"  answered  the  scout. 

"Harry,"  replied  the  girl.  "I  knew  a 
young  man  called  Harry,  but  he  was 
not  brown  like  you :  he  was  white,  and 
he  had  no  beard  nor  long  hair." 

Further  interrogatories  and  replies 
awoke  the  memories  of  bygone  days — 
and  what  she  had  deemed  a  bygone 
youth — in  her  dimmed  recollection. 
Gradually,  as  they  became  more  and 
more  zealous  in  their  recollections,  and 
their  remembered  individualities,  they 


wandered  far  from  the  scene  of  the 
funereal  rites,  and  from  that  spectacle 
of  blood  and  sorrow  was  born  again 
the  love  that  had  blossomed  years  be- 
fore, and  after  crucial  experience,  had 
now  exquisite  fruition. 

Annie  Black  Swan  is  still  Annie  Vo- 
us-tus  Mokh-e  among  the  Cheyannes, 
but  on  the  wedding  register  her  name 
appears  as  Annie  Davis,  married  to 
Harry  C.  Thompson,  and  any  one  vis- 
iting their  ranch  will  learn  from  her 
own  lips  that  she  deems  her  captivity 
among  her  adopted  tribe  as  of  small 
moment  compared  with  the  happiness 
she  has  with  the  lover  of  her  girlhood 
— Harry. 


BY    THE     NIGHT    SEA 


The  sun  has  made  his  solemn,  slow  descent 
Beyond  the  western  sea-line's  crimson  bars 

And  drawn  the  gorgeous  curtains  of  the  tent 
That  shuts  me  in  with  night  and  all  the  stars. 

And  here,  lapped  round  by  two  infinities, 
My  heart  at  peace,  my  thought  at  rest,  I  lie 

Beside  the  restless  clamor  of  the  seas, 
Beneath  the  silent,  everlasting  sky. 

And  face  to  face  I  front  you,  unaghast, 

Mysterious  water,  stretched  from  pole  to  pole. 

Darkling  Pacific  beyond  thinking  vast — 
Confront  you  with  this  atom  of  my  soul. 

And  vaster  stars  that  look  down  on  the  sea, 
Eternal  fires  that  dwarf  it  to  a  span — 

Even  before  you  shall  I  humbler  be  ? 
Even  to  you  I  am  not  less  than  Man ! 


PROF.  ODELL  SHEPARD. 


FEATURES 

of   the 

PANA/AA 

PACIFIC 

EXPOSITION 


Photographs  copyrighted  by  the  Panama-Pacific  Exposition  Company. 


FROM  San  Francisco  to  the  Riv- 
iera of  Southern     France     and 
Northern  Italy  is  a  far  cry,  but  as 
far  as  the  atmosphere     of     the 
widely  separated  places  is  concerned, 
the  visitor  to  the  Panama-International 


Exposition  will  step  from  the  one  to 
the  other  when  he  enters  the  exposition 
grounds  in  1915. 

Yet,  the  Monacan  scene  and  archi- 
tecture are  but  miniatures  of  those  of 
the  Exposition  in  celebration  of  the 


Looking  north  from,  the  main  axis  of  the  Court  of  Sun  and  Stars  toward 
San  Francisco  harbor.  A  great  lagoon  will  lie  in  the  forecourt.  In  the  cen- 
ter of  the  illustration  is  seen  a  great  column,  the  column  of  Progress,  160 
feet  in  height.  At  the  summit  of  the  column  appears  the  figure  of  a  youth 
who  is  pointing  his  adventurous  arrow  toward  the  sun. 

3 


At  work  on  the  Mongolian  horseman,  one  of  the  group,  entitled  Nations  of 
the  East,  which  will  surmount  the  Arch  of  the  Rising  Sun,  in  the  Court  of 
the  Sun  and  Stars,  the  largest  court  of  the  main  group  of  exhibit  palaces. 
The  completed  figure  is  shown  on  the  opposite  page. 


completion  of  the  Panama  Canal.  The 
semblance  ceases  with  the  style.  There 
can  be  no  comparison  when  it  comes  to 
grandeur  and  general  beauty.  All 
about  will  be  the  vast  South  Garden, 
acres  in  extent,  adorned  with  palms 
and  other  tropical  trees  and  shrubs; 
brilliant  flowers,  perennially  blooming. 
Directly  in  front  will  be  a  beautiful 
lakelet,  170  feet  long  and  nearly  as 
wide,  with  clear  waters,  aquatic  plants 
and  attractive  banks.  Greeting  the 
visitors  will  tower  the  superb  Fountain 
of  Energy.  This  fountain  is  an  alle- 


gory, representing  in  its  entirety  the 
power  and  triumph  of  man  over  in- 
animate Nature.  From  the  middle  of 
an  ornate  basin  arises  a  four-sided 
column,  with  water  flowing  down  each 
of  the  sides,  the  whole  suggesting  one 
of  the  dams  of  the  Panama  Canal.  At 
the  bases  of  the  four  pillars  at  each 
corner  are  groups  of  figures  represent- 
ing the  various  classes  of  workers  on 
the  canal — engineers,  dredgermen,  la- 
borers and  others.  Surmounting  the 
pedestal,  above  the  falling  waters, 
there  is  an  equestrian  figure  of  heroic 


1 he  Mongolian  Horseman  as  the  figure  ivill  look  when  completed.     The 
figure  is  twenty-three  feet  high.    Its  position  in  the  group  is  shown  on  p.  587. 


size,  with  arms  extended,  riding  su- 
preme in  an  attitude  meant  to  convey 
the  idea  of  maintaining  the  waterway 
between  the  oceans. 

Behind  the  Fountain  of  Energy  are 
grouped  the  great  exhibit  palaces.  The 
imposing  Tower  of  Jewels,  the  domi- 


nant feature  of  the  whole  group  of  Ex- 
position structures,  rises  to  a  height  of 
430  feet.  This  tower,  back  of  which  is 
the  great  Court  of  the  Sun  and  Stars, 
is  Roman  in  detail,  designed  by  Car- 
rere  and  Hastings,  of  New  York.  At 
ni£--t  it  will  be  illuminated  by  a  novel 


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|AN  A  M  A  PACI  r  |  C  1 N  TERN  AT  I  ON  > 


One  of  the  superb  Italian  towers  that  n  ill  mark  the  approach  to  the  west  south 
Court  of  Palms  at  the  Exposition. 


592 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


and  effective  method,  with  myriads  of 
many-colored  prisms,  reflecting  the 
beams  from  a  battery  of  electric  search 
lights. 

Extending  to  the  right  and  to  the 
left  will  be  seen  the  walls,  sculpture 
and  ornamental  architecture  generally 
of  the  main  exhibit  palaces,  that  of 
Manufactures  on  the  east  side,  that  of 
Liberal  Arts  on  the  west.  Still  farther 
west  stretches  the  handsome  Palace 
of  Education.  The  exterior  walls  of 
all  these  palaces,  in  fact,  of  the  entire 
eight  in  the  main  group,  were  designed 
by  the  firm  of  Bliss  and  Faville  of 
San  Francisco.  The  general  style  is 
that  of  the  Italian  Renaissance,  with 
its  characteristic  towers,  domes,  pil- 
lars and  loggias. 

Apart  from  this  group  of  eight  ad- 
jacent buildings  will  be  the  Palace  of 
Horticulture,  a  striking  example  of  the 
French  Renaissance  type  of  architec- 
ture, designed  by  Bakewell  and  Brown, 
of  San  Francisco,  who  also  designed 
the  new  City  Hall  and  the  Burlingame 
Country  Club,  as  well  as  other  notable 


California  structures.  This  beautiful 
building,  the  site  for  which  is  now 
ready  and  the  contracts  about  to  be 
awarded,  covers  five  acres  of  ground. 
It  is  to  be  672  feet  long,  with  a  maxi- 
mum width  of  320  feet  and  a  great 
nave,  80  feet  in  height,  running  its 
whole  length.  Above  it  will  be  a  vast 
dome,  150  feet  high.  The  Palace  of 
Horticulture  will  be  built  almost  en- 
tirely of  glass,  upon  a  steel  frame,  and 
will  accommodate  what  is  promised  to 
be  the  most  wonderful  display  of  hor- 
ticulture and  floriculture  ever  as- 
sembled. 

In  front  of  this  great  palace  a  hand- 
some fountain  of  geyser  type  will  play, 
between  the  palace  and  the  Fountain 
of  Energy.  On  all  sides  there  will  be 
beautiful  flower  beds,  rare  and  hand- 
some shrubbery  and  gardens  that  will 
compare  favorably  with,  if  they  will 
not  surpass,  the  most  famous  ones  in 
the  world.  Broad  avenues,  foot-paths 
and  ornamental  statuary  of  many 
kinds  will  add  to  the  general  effect  of 
the  brilliant  scene. 


RAINDROPS 


Pattering  against  the  window  pane, 

Fell  the  drip,  drip,  of  the  silver  rain — 

Like  tears  by  an  angel  wept — 

Then  a  teasing  wind  came  frolicking  by, 

And  the  raindrops  fled  with  a  farewell  sigh, 

But  one  in  a  rosebud  crept. 

It  lay  like  a  gem  on  her  heart  of  gold, 

And  hearkened  the  story  each  lover  bold 

Breathed  to  this  blushing  flower. 

But  a  sunbeam  sped  from  his  home  on  high, 

And  carried  the  raindrop  up  to  the  sky, 

Where  he  wooed  her  for  one  short  hour. 

Silent,  Queen  Night  came  creeping  down, 

In  search  of  a  pearl  for  her  jeweled  crown, — 

And  she  leaned  o'er  sunset's  bar; — 

There  in  a  sea  of  amethyst — 

She  found  the  tear  that  the  sunbeam  kissed, 

And  fashioned  it  into  a  star — 

A  glittering  pearl-like  star. 

AGNES  LOCKHART  HUGHES. 


A  Forest  Call 


By  Katherine  Kennedy 


Come  to  a  Western  grove  primeval, 
Where  sequoias  reach  the  sky; 

Come  where  pungent  pine  and  laurel 
Breathe  of  youth  that  cannot  die. 

Listen  to  the  siren  voices, 

Calling  from  the  restless  stream; 

To  the  song  of  forest  minstrels 
Faintly,  sweetly,  like  a  dream — 

Floats — the  harmony  from  Heaven — 
Far  away — then  drifting  near, 

From  a  choir  unseen  by  mortals, 
Stealing  softly  on  the  ear. 

Early  giants  stand  like  warriors, 

Feet  imbedded  in  the  sod; 
Gnarled     arms     outstretched     toward 
Heaven, 

Fingers  pointing  up  to  God — 

Til  the  stars  burst  forth  in  splendor 
Through  the  forest  dark  and  grim; 

Spilling  light,  like  molten  silver 
O'er  the  Basin's  circling  rim. 

Listen  to  these  great  sequoias — 
Priests  of  tempbs  glorified — 

Calling  to  this  grove  primeval 
With  its  spirit  sanctified! 


The  coast  of  the  Sierra  Santa  Lucia. 


The  coast  near  Point  Lobos. 

Exploring  the  Santa  Lucia  Sierra  of 

California 

By  cL  Smeaioa  Chase 

(Illustrated  by  photographs  taken  by  the  author.) 


ABOUT  midway  of  the  coast  of 
California  there  lies  a  rough, 
little  known  region,  sixty  miles 
or  so  in  length,  by  twenty  in 
breadth.    The  range  of  the  Santa  Lu- 
cia here  rises  sharply  from  ocean  edge 
to  an  average  height  of  three  or  four 
thousand  feet,     with     higher     peaks 
reaching  to  nearly  six  thousand.    No 
roads  traverse  this  picturesque  tract, 
but  a  long  bridle-trail  wanders  up  the 
coast,  threading  its  way  through  deep 
gorges  of  redwood,  madrono  and  tan- 
bark  oak,  and  along  league  on  league 
of  bold  cliff  and  breezy  mountain  slope 


— ever  in  sight  or  sound  of  the  gleam 
and  boom  of  the  Pacific.  Here  and 
there  one  finds  a  lonely  settler's  dwell- 
ing. The  people  are  principally  Span- 
ish-Californians  or  Mexicans,  in  whose 
easy  views  of  life  telephones,  automo- 
biles and  even  railways  are  of  little 
account,  and  to  whom  a  weekly  mail 
service  by  pack-mule  seems  quite  ade- 
quate. 

During  the  summer  of  1911,  in  the 
course  of  a  horseback  journey  up  the 
length  of  the  State,  I  traversed  this 
fine  stretch  of  country.  It  was  mid- 
August,  and  I  was  already  three 


596 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


months  out,  when,  leaving  the  old  town 
of  San  Luis  Obispo,  I  struck  toward 
the  coast  and  began  to  skirt  the  Santa 
Lucias.  Passing  the  tiny  village  of 
Morro,  lying  on  a  logoon-like  bay 
whose  mouth  is  closed  by  a  great  cone 
of  rock,  I  turned  northward  along  the 
coast.  Eight  miles  brought  me  to 
Cayucos,  a  drowsy  settlement  taking 
its  name  from  the  Indian  canoes  that 
the  early  explorers  noticed  here;  and 
night  found  me  at  the  pretty,  pine-en- 
circled mining  town  of  Cambria.  By 
noon  next  day  I  rode  into  San  Simeon, 
a  moribund  port  whose  weekly  coast- 
ing steamers  forms  the  link  with  the 
outside  world  for  the  southern  part  of 
the  Santa  Lucia  country. 

I  found  entertainment  that  night  at 
the  ranch  of  kindly  Welsh  folk,  near 
the  lonely  lighthouse  of  Piedras  Blan- 
cas(  which  I  heard  innocently  termed 
Peter's  Blankets.)  The  hoarse  shout 
of  the  syren  broke  into  my  sleep  at 
five  minute  intervals  throughout  the 
night.  At  this  point  the  road  came  to 
an  end,  and  next  morning  I  took  to 
the  trail  which  I  was  to  keep,  if  I  could, 
for  a  hundred  miles  or  more  of  tor- 
tuous wanderings.  Several  people  had 
told  me  that  I  should  get  lost  in  the 
rough  and  little  traveled  country  I  was 
entering;  but  my  saddle  bags  held 
provisions  for  a  week,  and  I  knew  that 
water  would  be  plentiful,  so  I  felt  sure 
I  could  get  through,  provided  only  that 
I  found  forage  for  my  good  little  horse, 
Anton. 

A  few  miles  brought  me  to  the 
first  of  the  deep  canyons  of  the  range, 
the  San  Carpoforo.  I  led  my  horse 
down  to  the  bottom,  and  then  turned 
up  the  canyon  among  a  tangle  of 
brush  and  cactus.  After  a  mile  or 
two  I  came  to  the  neat  little  home  of 
a  Mexican,  whose  son  Marcial  I  had 
met  at  San  Simeon.  The  friendly  peo- 
ple got  me  a  meal  of  eggs  and  tor- 
tillas, with  coffee;  and  in  the  after- 
noon I  pushed  on  up  the  canyon.  I 
wished  to  cross  the  mountains  at  this 
point,  in  order  to  visit  the  ruins  of  the 
Franciscan  Mission  of  San  Antonio, 
which  stands  near  Jolon,  on  the  eastern 
side  of  the  range.  Fording  the  stream 


I  found  a  steep  trail  that  led  up  the 
mountain  side,  and  after  some  hours 
travel,  camped  for  the  night  beside 
the  creek  near  a  little  cienaga,  or 
marsh,  that  gave  abundant  forage. 
Next  day  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  find- 
ing in  the  depths  of  the  canyon  a 
group  of  Abies  venusta,  a  rare  and 
curious  fir  that  is  found  nowhere  but  in 
a  few  remote  spots  in  this  range  of 
mountains. 

From  here  it  was  a  hard  climb  and 
bad  trail  up  to  the  crest  of  the  range, 
which  I  judge  to  be  here  about  three 
thousand  feet  high.  On  the  other  side 
I  found  a  brushy  country  with  a  sprink- 
ling of  digger-pines.  Water  was  unex- 
pectedly scarce,  my  canteen  empty, 
and  the  trail,  at  best  very  little  trav- 
eled, hard  to  follow  among  the  maze 
of  cattle  paths  that  laced  the  country. 
It  was  hot,  too,  now  that  we  were  shut 
off  from  the  sea  breeze.  To  spare  my 
horse  I  did  not  get  into  the  saddle  even 
when  the  trail  was  fairly  good,  which 
was  seldom;  and  we  both  were  tired 
out  and  wretchedly  thirsty  when, 
shortly  before  sundown,  we  came  out 
on  a  high  bluff  overlooking  the  Na- 
cimiento  River.  It  was  still  an  hour's 
march  down  to  the  canyon,  but  once 
there,  we  drank  our  fill,  and  later  I 
took  a  delicious  swim  in  a  deep,  moon- 
lit pool.  After  a  long  evening  by  the 
camp-fire,  coyotes  sang  me  to  sleep, 
and  the  first  sensation  of  the  morn- 
ing was  their  good-bye  salvo  as  they 
slunk  away  to  cover. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  I  did 
not  break  camp.  It  was  a  delightful 
place  for  a  quiet  day.  The  river  ran 
calmly  through  the  oak  and  pine-filled 
valley;  doves,  quail  and  squirrels 
made  pleasant  conversation;  and  at 
evening  a  doe  and  fawn  came  down  to 
drink  at  my  swimming  pool.  A  few 
cattle  roamed  by,  but  human  life  was 
entirely  absent.  I  doubt  if  there  was 
a  house  within  ten  miles.  We  started 
early  on  Monday  morning,  and  I  was 
soon  hopelessly  at  fault  as  to  the  trail, 
so  I  determined  to  cut  loose  and  travel 
by  compass,  since  I  knew  the  direction 
of  Jolon,  about  due  north.  It  was  an- 
other long,  hard,  hot  day,  but  I  had 


EXPLORING  THE  SANTA  LUCIA  SIERRA. 


597 


started  with  a  full 
canteen,  and  Anton 
was  in  good  form  af- 
ter his  rest.  An  open 
country  allowed  me 
to  keep  my  direction, 
and  before  evening 
we  entered  the  village 
of  Jolon. 

Of  all  sleepy  ham- 
lets of  California,  I 
take  Jolon  to  be  the 
sleepiest.  It  is  more 
Mexican  than  Ameri- 
can, and  about  as 
much  Indian  as  Mexi- 
can. The  why  and 
how  of  its  existence 
are  alike  mysteries. 
Three  saloons  com- 
pete for  the  patronage 
of  a  population  of  two 
or  three  score  people, 
and  a  summer  day 
temperature  of  about 
a  hundred  degrees  is 
naturally  no  impedi- 
ment to  their  business. 
Six  miles  northwest 
of  Jolon  is  the  ruined 
Mission  of  San  Anto- 
nio. It  dates  from  the 
year  1771,  and  was 
one  of  the  most  im- 
portant of  the  Mis- 
sions planted  by  the 
Franciscans  along  the 
California  coast.  Here 
I  camped  for  a  night 
among  ancient  olives 
and  melancholic  owls, 
pleased  thus  to  asso- 
ciate with  the  brown- 
robed  priests  and 
their  simple  Indian 
converts,  whose  bones 
moulder  in  the  old 
graveyard  beyond  the 
tamarisks  and  pome- 
granates of  the  hedge. 

Again  I  turned  to- 
ward the  coast.  For 
some  miles  the  way 
led  through  open  for- 
est of  oaks;  then  a 


e 
o  Sr 


§"§ 

1: 

a,  « 


.    "2 


tut) 


Pico  Blanco,  a  principal  peak  of  the  Sierra  Santa  Lucia. 


trail  led  across  the  mountains.  It 
was  a  much  easier  climb  up  this 
eastern  face  of  the  range;  passing 
first  through  a  thin  forest  of  digger- 
pine,  and  later  entering  the  yellow  pine 
belt.  From  the  crest,  I  looked  down 
into  a  great  canyon,  heavily  timbered 
on  its  southerly  face:  to  north  in  hazy 
-distance  rose  the  peak  of  Santa  Lucia, 
.5967  feet  in  elevation,  and  to  west,  and 
far  below,  the  Pacific  lay  under  a 
pearly  bank  of  fog,  just  tinged  with 
rose  by  a  westering  sun.  It  was 
a  scene  to  hold  one  absorbed  by  the 
"hour,  but  too  soon  the  necessities  of 
fodder  and  water  for  the  night  urged 
ois  on. 

A  few  miles  down  the  western  slope 
I  found  a  side  trail  leading  to  the  little 
mining  settlement  of  Los  Burros.  Here 
I  put  up  for  the  night,  the  next  day 
continued  through  the  same  fine  forest 
country  toward  the  coast.  During  the 
morning  I  entered  the  region  of  the 
redwood,  Sequoia  sempervirens,  the 
moisture-loving  brother  of  the  Giant 
Tree  of  the  Sierra  Nevada.  From  this 
point  this  superb  conifer  continues  as 
far  north  as  to  the  Oregon  line,  where 
it  abruptly  ceases.  Associated  -with  it 


is  the  tanbark  oak,  Quercus  densiflora, 
that  interesting  link  between  oak  and 
chestnut;  and  these  two,  with  the  hand- 
some madrono,  were  my  companions 
almost  constantly  during  my  next  two 
months'  wanderings.  The  trail  de- 
scended steeply,  and  by  noon  we  came 
to  the  shore  at  Cape  San  Martin,  find- 
ing a  broken,  rocky  coast  from  which 
the  mountains  rose  abruptly  in  high- 
smooth  swells  of  summer-yellowed 
grass,  scored  by  timbered  canyons  in 
long  succession  to  north  and  south. 
Fording  a  small  stream  we  climbed  a 
trail  that  led  up  the  cliff,  and  a  mile 
farther  on  came  to  a  bench  of  level 
land  where  stood  two  or  three  houses 
of  old  settlers. 

I  stayed  for  the  night  with  one  of 
these  friendly  families.  A  lucky 
landslide,  following  the  heavy  rains  of 
the  last  spring,  had  suddenly  put  them 
in  possession  of  a  valuable  gold  mine, 
and  thus  after  forty-two  years  of  strug- 
gle as  farmers  on  this  lonely  coast  the 
family  seemed  to  be  on  a  short  road  to 
easy  wealth.  I  learned  that  for  fifteen 
years  the  father  had  carried  the  weekly 
mails  by  pack  horse  to  and  from  Jolon 
over  the  trail  I  had  traveled. 


Gamboa's,  a  typical  mountain  home  in  the  Sierra  Santa  Lucia. 


League  beyond  league  to  the  north 
the  coast  ran  in  bold,  scenic  cliffs  or 
slopes,  and  far  as  the  eye  would  carry 
my  trail  lay  like  a  thin  gray  thread 
high  up  on  the  steep  incline.  It  is  a 
solitary  but  romantic  region.  A  con- 
stant alternation  of  open  cliff  and  hill- 
side with  densely  wooded  canyon,  dim 
with  great  timber  and  echoing  with 
voices  of  cascading  stream,  kept  my 
interest  fresh  and  keen.  I  camped  the 
next  night  on  a  good  stream  abounding 
in  trout,  which  served  my  wants  ex- 
cellently but  held  no  consolation  for 
my  horse.  I  could  not  blame  him  when 
I  found  that  during  the  night  he  had 
broken  from  his  picketing  and  gone  on 
a  tour  of  exploration,  which  I  am 
afraid  can  have  yielded  but  scanty  re- 
sults. 

The  morning  came  foggy  with 
bursts  of  gray-gold  glory  to  the  east, 
against  which  the  high,  timbered 
ridges  stood  etched  in  blackest  gloom. 
Again  we  attacked  the  unending  suc- 
cession of  canyon  and  mountain-side. 
In  a  deep  gorge  named  Lime  Kiln 
Canyon,  I  came  upon  a  group  of  dis- 
used buildings,  gray  with  lichen  and 
green  with  moss.  Lime  had  once  been 
quarried  and  burned  here,  to  be 


shipped  from  the  old  cable  landing  at 
the  mouth  of  the  canyon.  It  was  hard 
to  realize  that  these  solemn,  sleeping 
redwoods  and  ferny  grottoes  could 
ever  have  echoed  the  clatter  of 
machinery.  Here  we  found  a  good 
growth  of  grass,  and  Anton  made  up 
some  of  his  arrears.  The  climb  out 
was  a  hard  one :  in  fact,  day  after  day 
the  trail  was  a  mere  succession  of 
climbs  down  into  and  up  out  of  can- 
yons, following  one  another  like  the 
folds  of  an  accordion. 

Far  in  the  distance  I  saw  my  next 
landmark,  a  little  house  high  up  on 
the  mountain  side.  When  after  miles 
of  steady  traveling  we  reached  it,  the 
hospitable  people,  not  waiting  to  ask 
if  I  were  hungry,  at  once  prepared 
me  a  generuos  meal.  (I  think  it  is 
Stevenson  who  remarks  somewhere 
upon  "the  natural  hospitality  of  moun- 
tain people.")  I  could  not  refuse  it, 
though  I  had  eaten  some  lunch  at  the 
last  canyon;  and  I  did  my  best  to  re- 
pay them  with  items  of  news  a  little 
more  recent  than  those  of  their  two- 
weeks-old  newspaper. 

The  trail  now  struck  directly  up  the 
mountain.  It  was  hot  work  under  the 
clear  afternoon  sun,  and  when,  after 


600 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


a  couple  of  hours,  I  came  upon  a  little 
weather-stained  cabin  where  an  el- 
derly Mexican  sat  on  the  porch,  I  was 
glad  to  stop  for  rest  and  a  chat.  He 
was  Santos  Barrando  ("at  your  honor's 
service,  senor"),  and  he  and  his  smil- 
ing young  wife  and  quartette  of  jolly 
children  made  as  pleasant  a  family 
group  as  I  have  seen  for  many  a  day. 

Then,  after  getting  directions  for  my 
next  point,  we  crossed  the  deep  can- 
yon of  Vincente  Creek  and  began  an- 
other hard  climb.  As  we  rose  the 
view  became  superb,  especially  to  sea- 
ward. From  the  high  mountain  side  I 
looked  down  upon  a  vast  expanse  of 
ocean,  crinkled  in  infinite  detail  with 
the  creeping  waves.  It  was  much  such 
a  sight  as  one  would  get  from  an  aero- 
plane. Far  out,  the  pickets  of  the  fog 
were  already  advancing  for  the  even- 
ing attack.  The  fog  movement  on  this 
coast  in  summer  is  almost  as  regular 
as  that  of  the  tides.  From  the  crest 
I  reveled  in  a  sunset  of  memorable 
beauty.  The  level  sun  shone  through 
a  veil  of  mist  with  a  strange  bronze 
glory.  The  great  trees,  and  the  golden 
slopes  of  grass,  took  on  a  glow  of  red 
which,  under  other  circumstances, 
might  have  looked  theatrical;  but  in 
this  high  solitude,  and  under  the  wist- 
ful influence  of  evening,  there  was  a 
solemnity  in  the  unearthly  hue  that 
held  me  spellbound  until,  slowly,  the 
sun  dropped  and  was  quenched  in  the 
fog-bank  on  the  horizon. 

A  short  distance  below  the  sum- 
mit I  found  Gamboa's  Ranch,  where 
I  was  to  stay  the  night.  The  house  is 
a  quaint  little  place,  clinging  precari- 
ously to  the  hillside,  and  command- 
ing a  view  that  millionaires  might 
envy.  The  good  Spanish  woman  made 
me  welcome,  and  I  slept  in  the  orchard 
on  a  mattress  slung  among  the  boughs 
of  an  apple  tree.  Awaking  at  early 
dawn,  it  was  luxury  to  lie  and  listen 
to  the  monotone  of  ocean  that  came 
trembling  up  from  two  thousand  feet 
below,  and  seemed  to  fill  the  universe 
as  far  as  to  the  dying  stars;  luxury, 
too,  to  pluck  and  munch  my  hygienic 
morning  apple  before  rising. 

Yet  another  deep  gorge  now  opened 


before  me,  that  of  the  Arroyo  Grande. 
It  held  two  attractive  streams,  the 
north  and  south  forks,  and  a  speci- 
ally fine  growth  of  redwoods.  For 
hour  after  hour  we  alternated  between 
religious  gloom  of  canyon  and  blaze 
of  open  mountain-side,  with  ever  the 
sea  far  below,  one  infinite  blueness, 
almost  oppressive  in  profound  uni- 
formity of  sound  and  color.  There 
was  variety  only  in  the  tiny  islets  that 
fringed  the  shore,  breaking  the  rhyth- 
mic surges  into  momentary  flash  of 
spray.  There  are  no  beaches:  league 
after  league  the  mountain  buttresses 
plunge  direct  into  clear  blue  of  deep 
water.  It  is  a  condition  simple,  inter- 
esting and  entirely  tmusual. 

The  complication  of  cattle-paths 
among  which  we  now  wandered  was 
quite  beyond  my  trail-craft.  About 
mid-afternoon  I  found  myself  entirely 
at  fault,  high  up  on  a  steep  and  slip- 
pery slope  that  was  cut  by  frequent 
gullies  choked  with  sharp  rocks  and 
stubborn  brush.  Anton  was  an  old 
Forest  Service  animal,  trail-wise  and 
steady,  but  with  all  his  and  my  cau- 
tion he  got  some  bad  cuts  on  hocks 
and  knees,  and  more  than  one  disaster 
seemed  imminent.  Daylight  was  fall- 
ing when  we  struck  into  a  better- 
marked  path,  and  then  pushed  rapidly 
on,  passing  the  ruined  huts  and  cor- 
rals of  a  departed  settler,  and  finally 
arriving  at  nightfall  at  a  house  on  the 
cliff  edge,  known  as  Slate's,  or  Little's. 
Here  some  hot  sulphur  springs  issue 
from  the  face  of  the  cliff,  and  a  cou- 
ple of  bath-tubs  have  been  hauled  up 
from  shipboard  and  lowered  into  place 
midway  of  the  cliff,  and  the  water  led 
into  them.  This  makes  a  decided 
novelty  in  the  hydropathic  line,  and 
would  be  worth  money  to  the  enter- 
prising owner  if  the  place  were  more 
accessible. 

The  fog  was  late  in  lifting  next  day, 
and  I  was  enchanted  with  the  ghostly 
effect  of  the  straight  shafts  of  the  red- 
woods rising  from  the  misty  canyon 
depths  below  me,  and  passing  pillar- 
like  into  thick  white  gloom  overhead. 
The  sound  of  falling  water  pulsated 
through  every  canyon,  mingling  with 


EXPLORING  THE  SANTA  LUCIA  SIERRA. 


601 


the  boom  or  mutter  of  the  surf.  On 
the  hillsides,  the  birds  were  clustered 
in  the  bushes,  and  their  innocent 
voices  came  to  me  out  of  the  fog  with 
a  playful,  child-like  tone  that  wholly 
charmed  me.  I  sauntered  along  for 
hours,  leading  my  horse,  and  when  at 
length  the  weather  began  to  clear,  I 
could  dimly  see,  far  away  to  the  north, 
the  promontory  of  Point  Sur,  darkly 
cut  against  the  bank  of  the  receding 
fog.  About  noon  I  came  to  a  little 
clearing,  where  two  old  fellows  lived 
and  kept  a  number  of  hives  of  bees. 
They  hailed  me  as  if  I  were  a  friend, 
even  a  privilege,  and  I  was  glad  to 
stop  and  share  their  rustic  meal  of 
eggs  and  honey. 

A  few  miles  farther  on,  I  found  an 
abandoned  homestead  where  there  was 
forage  for  a  night  among  the  trees  of 
the  decaying  orchard.  I  camped  at  the 
foot  of  a  kingly  redwood,  pleased  with 
the  tameness  of  a  band  of  quail  that, 
perched  on  the  sagging  rails  of  the  old 
corral,  discussed  my  supper  arrange- 
ments  in   flute-like   tones,   and   of   a 
squirrel  that  humorously  dropped  bark 
chips   into  my   coffee   from     a  limb 
twenty  feet  overhead.    A  placid  even- 
ing by  the  camp-fire  conduced  to  a 
night  of  serene  sleep,     and     when  I 
awoke,  the  woodpeckers'     tattoo     al- 
ready resounded  through  the  canyon. 
The  trail  now  lay  high  up  above  the 
fog,  and  early  the  sun  was  sufficiently 
hot  for  comfort.     During  the  morning 
I  met  two  pedestrians  who  were  out  on 
a  holiday  jaunt  from  San  Francisco. 
They  were  point-device  with     knap- 
sacks, revolvers,  canteens  and     cam- 
eras, but  seemed  far  from  jaunty  as 
they  mopped   while   they   questioned 
me  as  to  the  trail,  nor     were     they 
cheered  by  my  account  of  the  place 
where  I  had  lost  it.     Their  program 
was-  to  make  for  Gamboa's,  and  thence 
to  take  a  trail  across  the  mountains  to 
the  railway  that  runs  in  the  Salinas 
Valley,  some  thirty  miles  to  the  east. 
At  the  next  canyon  I  found  a  wild  as- 
sortment of  unnecessary  items  of  bag- 
gage which  they  had  jettisoned  there, 
among  them  even  the  blank  note-book 
in  which,  I  suppose,  the  record  of  their 


trip  was  to  have  been  made.  This  was 
really  a  boon,  for  my  own  note-book 
was  overflowing.  A  few  miles  more 
brought  us  to  Castro's  Ranch,  a  time- 
honored  landmark  to  wayfarers  in  the 
Santa  Lucia,  and  the  point  at  which 
a  wagon  road  begins,  going  north.  At 
supper,  the  table  was  spread  with 
Spanish  dishes  at  their  best,  a  vast 
platter  of  venison  forming  the  chief 
point  of  attack. 

After  crossing  the  Big  Sur  River 
by  a  wide,  shallow  ford,  noon  of  next 
day  found  us  at  Pfeiffer's,  where  I 
noted  the  novelty  of  a  post-office,  for 
hither  a  stage  comes  down  three  times 
a  week  from  Monterey.  The  road 
here  again  was  most  beautiful,  for 
miles  following  the  river,  and  even  in 
company  with  noble  redwoods.  On 
my  right  rose  a  sightly  peak  of  thirty- 
seven  hundred  feet,  named  Pico 
Blanco,  from  the  peculiar  whiteness 
of  its  color  toward  the  summit.  A 
mile  or  two  to  the  west  was  Point  Sur. 
I  made  a  divergence  thither  in  order 
to  visit  the  light-house,  for  a  light- 
house is  always  a  fascinating  object, 
and  its  keepers  I  have  invariably 
found  to  be  just  such  men  as  one 
would  wish  or  expect  for  attendants  on 
these  beneficent  Cyclops.  The  Point 
Sur  light  is  another  instance  in  proof. 
Can  it  be  that  loneliness  and  depriva- 
tion are  conducive  to  this  fine  gen- 
iality? 

Coming  to  the  Little  Sur  River,  I 
found  the  remains  of  a  summer  camp 
resort,  now  nominally  closed,  for  Sep- 
tember had  come.  Here  I  got  hay  for 
my  horse,  and  a  somewhat  melancholy 
welcome  for  myself.  The  situation, 
however,  was  delightful — a  perfect 
stream,  woodlands  of  the  finest,  goodly 
mountains  close  at  hand,  and  ocean 
within  sound,  and  almost  within  sight 
and  smell.  Next  day  we  pushed  our 
way  along  the  cliff  against  a  bright 
half-gale  which  furnished  a  splendid 
Henry  Moore  sea,  together  with  a  no- 
ble concert  of  pine  music.  I  stayed 
that  night  at  a  ranch  with  friendly 
Portuguese  people,  enjoying  the  old- 
world  simplicity  of  manners  and  diet 
beyond  the  phonograph  medley  which 


602 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


was  offered,  I  fancy,  in  extenuation. 
The  following  day's  travel  was  still 
along  the  cliff,  for  the  main  range  of 
the  Santa  Lucia  was  now  behind  me. 
While  I  thought  with  regret  of  those 
high  and  lonely  trails,  yet  the  coast 
here  was  fully  as  charming.  No  less 
word  than  exquisite  can  characterize 
this  succession  of  rocky,  cypress- 
fringed  bays  and  headlands,  upon 
which  lazily  thundered  a  sea  of  purest 
aqueous  blue  and  emerald :  these  islets 
colored  in  rich  tones  of  umber  and 
ochre,  forever  thrusting  back  the  wash 
of  the  greatest  of  oceans. 

A  mile  beyond  Point  Lobos  I  came 
to  the  Mission  of  Carmel.  It  was 
evening,  when  the  pensive  rather  than 
the  romantic  has  its  hour.  The  old 
building  slept  in  the  warm,  level  light; 
swallows  swung  and  soared  in  that 
tireless  joy  that  makes  their  presence 
always  so  enchanting,  so  (in  a  man- 
ner) godlike;  half  a  mile  away  I 
caught  the  gleam  of  surf  on  the  bar, 


where  the  little  Carmel  River  takes 
the  first  kiss  of  the  tide.  Under  my 
feet,  carelessly  mingled,  was  the  dust 
of  cultured  priest  and  stolid  aborigine. 
I  recalled  Bret  Harte's  lines  on  "The 
Angelus" : 

"Borne  on  the  swell     of     your    long 
waves  receding, 

I  touch  the  farther  Past; 
I  see  the  dying  glow  of  Spanish  glory, 

The  sunset  gleam  and  last." 

All  spoke  of  the  eternal  duality — 
permanence  and  change,  our  little 
works  and  joys  and  the  vast  ordi- 
nances of  Nature.  But  the  old  build- 
ing stands  a  thing  of  beauty  and  value : 
and  even  when  it  shall  not,  yet  its  mo- 
tive shall. 

I  slept  at  the  pretty,  new  village  of 
Carmel-by-the-Sea ;  and  on  the  mor- 
row rode  on  into  Monterey,  still  greatly 
the  Monterey  of  Spanish  California 
and  of  Stevenson ;  and  here  ended  this 
enjoyable  unit  of  my  long  ride. 


TO     R.    L.     S. 


A  wandering  singer  through  the  realm  of  dreams, 

He  tuned  his  pipe  to  Life's  brief-voiced  song, 

And  danced  adown  a  pathway  lit  with  gleams 

Of  fortitude  and  resignation  born. 

No  comrade  spirit  knew  his  staunch  heart's  pain 

Nor  saw  his  footsteps  lag,  nor  heard  a  sigh — 

^Ve  only  knew  a  sweetness  nought  could  mairn, 

As  hand  in  hand  with  Courage  he  passed  by. 

He  breathed  upon  life's  truths  with  magic,  rare, 

Until  they  took  the  beauty  from  his  soul, 

Or  wrought  fact  into  romance — Oh,  so  fair ! 

With  artistry  beyond  the  common  goal. 

So  with  blessed  labor,  finding  Life's  face  grey, 

He  smiled,  and  charmed  the  haunting  hours  away. 


R.  R.  GREENWOOD. 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SAN  CARLOS 

Alias   Toison    de   Ora   (Golden    Fleece),    the    first 
vessel     to     enter    the     bay     of     San    Francisco 

By   Aarco   Garceau 

This  is  a  brief  summary  of  the  certified  copy  of  the  original  log  now  in  the 
archives  of  the  Indies,  at  Seville,  Spain. 


AT  3  p.  m.,  March  19th,  1775, 
Don  Juan  Manuel  de  Ayala, 
lieutenant  of  frigate,  in  com- 
•  pany  with  two  other  vessels, 
set  sail  on  the  packet  boat  San  Carlos 
from  the  anchorage  of  San  Bias,  Mex- 
ico, for  the  west  coast  of  California 
on  an  exploring  expedition.  Once  at 
sea,  the  vessels  quickly  became  sepa- 
rated. On  the  following  day  the  San 
Carlos  came  in  sight  of  Isabella  Is- 
land, lying  five  miles  to  the  west.  On 
April  2d,  Ayala  saw  Mazatlan  and 
the  packet  boat  Conception;  on  board 
the  latter  vessel  was  the  new  Gov- 
ernor of  California.  After  a  number 
of  accidents  on  board  the  San  Carlos, 
during  which  it  was  nearly  destroyed 
by  some  burning  pitch  used  in  calking 
a  launch,  the  vessel  reached  the  local- 
ity of  Monterey  Bay,  June  24th,  but 
fog  and  bad  weather  for  a  time  pre- 
vented them  from  being  certain  as  to 
their  position. 

The  next  day,  at  9  a.  m.,  the  fog 
lifted;  land  was  seen,  and  Point  Ano 
Nuevo  was  recognized  to  the  north- 
west about  three  leagues  distant; 
Again  the  fog  enshrouded  them,  and 
when  it  lifted  they  descried  Monterey 
Bay,  and  after  some  difficulty  found 
anchorage.  After  an  interchange  of 
courtesies  with  the  small  Spanish  gar- 
rison on  shore,  and  getting  necessary 
supplies  on  board,  Ayala  again  set 
sail  on  July  26th,  and  headed  for  the 


newly  discovered  port  of  San  Fran- 
cisco, stories  of  whhh  were  freely  told 
him  by  the  Spaniards  on  shore,  who 
had  seen  the  bay  during  the  land  ex- 
plorations. Owing  to  contrary  wea- 
ther and  the  crankiness  of  the  vessel, 
it  was  not  until  August  4th  at  6  p.  m. 
that  the  southernmost  Farallone  of  the 
port  of  San  Francisco  was  seen  in  the 
northwest,  distant  about  eight  leagues. 
The  land  to  the  north  was  Point  Reyes, 
bearing  four  degrees  W.,  distant  about 
fourteen  leagues.  Late  the  next  day 
the  vessel  showed  signs  of  being 
caught  in  strong  tides,  and  Ayala  con- 
cluded he  was  near  the  entrance  of 
the  bay.  He  sent  a  launch  with  ten 
men  to  explore  the  shore  in  quest  of 
a  safe  anchorage,  while  he  battled 
with  the  tides,  fogs,  eddies  and  sound- 
ings as  best  he  could. 

The  launch  had  not  returned  by  the 
time  darkness  fell,  and  the  wearied 
crew  were  obliged  to  seek  quick  an- 
chorage at  all  hazards ;  soundings  were 
taken,  but  the  20-lb.  lead  could  not 
reach  the  bottom  because  of  the  swift 
tide  which  swept  the  vessel  inside  the 
mouth  of  the  bay  for  over  a  league, 
despite  the  most  desperate  efforts  of 
the  crew  to  direct  its  course;  finally, 
an  anchor  managed  to  hold  when  the 
breeze  died  down,  and  the  vessel 
fetched  up  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off 
shore. 

At  6  a.  m.  the  next  morning,  August 


si 

-^     Ci. 


e 


THE  LOG  OF  THE  SAN  CARLOS. 


605 


6th,  the  launch  appeared  with  the  ten 
men  completely  fagged  out  with  hun- 
ger, and  their  long  battle  with  the 
adverse  tides.  Ayala  sent  a  pilot  to  ex- 
amine Richardson's  Bay,  as  it  seemed 
to  offer  a  better  shelter,  but  the  lead 
showed  so  much  mud  that  he  was 
afraid  of  losing  his  precious  anchor 
there.  Later  the  exploring  launch 
discovered  a  sheltered  cove  on  Angel 
Island,  and  it  was  decided  to  move 
the  vessel  there,  but  again  a  strong 
current  prevented.  After  several 
shiftings  along  the  Angel  Island 
shore,  the  San  Carlos  was  finally 
moved  to  nine  fathoms  of  water,  with- 
in pistol  shot  of  the  land.  A  nearby 
island  was  examined,  but  it  did  not 
afford  shelter  even  for  the  launch.  It 
was  named  "Alcatraz,"  on  account  of 
the  innumerable  birds  discovered 
flocking  there. 

During  this  hunt  for  a  safe  anchor- 
age, the  Indians  had  been  coming 
down  from  their  villages  and  making 
signs  to  the  strangers  to  come  ashore. 
They  threw  down  their  bows  as  a  sign 
that  no  harm  was  intended,  and  in- 
vited the  Spaniards  to  their  villages, 
where  they  could  eat  and  sleep,  offer- 
ing them  pinole,  corn  bread  and 
tamales.  In  a  very  little  time  the 
natives  were  able  to  repeat  Spanish 
words,  and  later  the  sailors  invited 
them  on  board  the  vessels. 


As  soon  as  safe  anchorage  was  es- 
tablished, Ayala  ordered  out  his  men 
to  attack  the  business  at  hand,  the 
exploration  of  the  bay.  An  expedi- 
tion was  also  sent  south  in  a  launch  for 
the  purpose  of  finding  the  party  which 
the  commander  of  the  Presidio  at  Mon- 
terey had  promised  to  send  to  San 
Francisco  by  land,  but  no  trace  of  the 
land  party  was  found.  While  waiting 
for  them,  the  pilot  spent  his  time  ex- 
ploring the  big  estuary  which  enters 
the  land  about  twelve  leagues,  the 
southern  arm  of  San  Francisco  Bay. 
From  this  time  up  to  September  6th, 
Ayala  kept  all  hands  busy  with  ex- 
ploration work,  and  the  first  pilot,  Don 
Jose  de  Canizares,  was  instructed  to 
make  his  report  and  the  map  of  the 
bay. 

The  next  day,  September  7th,  an  at- 
tempt to  put  to  sea  for  the  return  voy- 
age was  made,  but  the  rudder  was 
badly  damaged  on  a  submerged  rock, 
on  which  the  strong  current  swept 
the  San  Carlos.  Eleven  days  were 
consumed  in  refitting  the  vessel,  and 
on  the  next  attempt,  Monterey  was 
reached.  Stay  was  made  there  until 
October  13,  1775,  when  sail  was  set 
for  the  return  voyage  to  San  Bias,  and 
the  vessel  arrived  there  November 
6th  of  the  same  year,  having  con- 
sumed nine  months  in  finding  and  ex- 
ploring San  Francisco  Bay. 


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THE    DREADERS 


By  Stella  I.  Crowder 


THE    Dreamer   religion,    as   or- 
ganized by  the  great  preacher, 
Smohalla,  was  a  development 
and  outgrowth  of  the  original 
religious  ideas  of  the  Indians  of  the 
Shahaptian  tribes,   including  the  In- 
dians of  the  Snake     and     Columbia 
River  basins.     The  doctrine  was  de- 
veloped by  Smohalla  after  the  Indians 
had  come  in  contact  with  the  whites, 
but    it    was    primarily    a    practical 
scheme  maintaining  the  ancient  belief 
and  training. 

According  to  this  teaching  the  earth 
was  the  mother  of  all  created  things. 
The  lakes  were  her  eyes,  the  hills  her 
breasts  and  the  streams  the  milk  flow- 
ing from  them.  *To  cultivate  the  lands 
meant  to  desecrate  their  mother's 
body,  and  to  thwart  the  laws  of 
Nature.  Corn,  fruit  and  edible  roots 
were  gifts  given  freely  to  her  Indian 
children.  These  were  the  foods  in- 
tended by  Nature,  and  to  improve 
them  was  profanation,  for  it  was  try- 
ing to  improve  Nature,  or  God.  The 
earthquakes  and  underground  noises 
signified  Earth's  displeasure  at  her 
children's  disobedience,  and  the  ma- 
larial fevers  which  followed  cultiva- 
tion of  the  soil  were  punishments  for 
tearing  Earth's  bosom. 

This  religion  was  further  enlivened 
by  a  superstition  of  the  Indians,  who 
were  taught  that  if  they  conscienti- 
ously obeyed  the  laws  and  sought  wis- 
dom and  faith  according  to  the 
Dreamer  ritual,  there  would  arise  a 
Redeemer  in  the  East.  A  man  would 
be  born  who  would  resurrect  all  dead 
Indians.  Uniting  with  them,  he  would 
drive  all  the  white  men  from  the  coun- 
try, and  thus  restore  to  the  Indians  all 
lands  that  had  formerly  been  theirs. 


The  Dreamer  faith  was  based  0:^  the 
dream,  which  was  the  method  of  com- 
munication between  the  ordinary  and 
spiritual  worlds.  The  doctrine  took  its 
name  from  this  practice  of  seeking 
wisdom  and  holiness  through  dreams. 
Those  seeking  knowledge  would  bring 
on  these  dreams  by  several  days  of 
fasting  and  vigil.  During  the  period 
of  sleep  they  would  be  attended  by 
guardian  spirits  who  would  instruct 
them  in  the  mysteries  of  the  sacred 
cult.  Without  question  these  dreams 
were  often  induced  by  suggestion  and 
hypnotism  on  the  part  of  the  priests. 

Every  Indian  of  the  faith  acquired 
a  sacred  name,  song  and  guardian 
spirit.  These  were  usually  obtained 
during  early  childhood.  The  child 
went  up  into  the  mountains,  usually 
climbing  to  one  of  the  highest  peaks. 
There,  after  three  or  four  days  of  fast- 
ing, revery  and  watching,  he  fell  into 
a  troubled  sleep.  During  this  sleep, 
the  animal  or  object  which  constituted 
his  guardian  spirit  appeared  and 
taught  him  the  sacred  song.  His  name 
was  called  after  the  spirit  which  ap- 
peared to  him.  Wolf,  Coyote  and 
Beaver  were  favorite  spirits. 

The  Guardian  Spirit  or  "Dream 
Faith"  dance  was  an  expression  of  the 
Indians'  deepest  religious  feelings. 
This  ceremony  was  intertribal  and 
danced  at  the  great  communal  meeting 
places  at  Yakima,  Kamiah,  Lapwai 
and  Priests'  Rapids.  Both  men  and 
women  took  part  in  the  ceremony.  The 
songs  were  those  learned  during  the 
sacred  vigil.  The  singer  started  the 
dance  and  song,  the  others  taking  up 
the  words  and  step.  Those  persons 
who  had  been  unable  to  obtain  a 
Guardian  Spirit  could  not  sing  the 


608 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


songs,  but  could  only  join  in  the  cho- 
rus. Those  singing  often  imitated  the 
animal  Spirit  by  contorting  the  bodies 
and  mimicking  the  yelp  or  cry.  For 
instance,  if  the  song  was  to  the  wolf, 
the  dancers  would  pretend  to  hunt  in 
bands.  The  singers  would  sometimes 
paint  their  bodies  and  dress  to  repre- 
sent the  particular  animals  whose 
names  they  bore. 

The  dance  was  given  for  many  pur- 
poses. Some  of  the  songs,  when  sung 
by  the  shaman  or  medicine  man,  were 
thought  to  bring  warm  weather. 
Others  caused  the  game  to  be  plenti- 
ful and  hunting  successful. 

Smohalla,  the  originator  and  High 
Priest  of  the  Dreamer  faith,  ranks 
high  among  the  priesthood  of  to-day. 
Although  a  savage,  he  evolved  a  doc- 
trine that  brought  to  him  thousands 
of  converts.  His  theology  perhaps  had 
more  to  do  with  the  Northwestern  In- 
dians resisting  the  white  man's  ap- 
proach than  any  other  one  factor.  And 
notwithstanding  the  efforts  of  the 
Christian  workers,  he  still  has  disci- 
ples among  every  tribe  of  the  North- 
west. 

Smohalla  was  chief  of  the  Wana- 
pum  tribe,  a  band  of  about  two  hun- 
dred and  known  as  the  Columbia 
River  Indians.  They  had  no  fixed 
home,  but  roamed  from  Priests'  Rap- 
ids down  to  the  entrance  of  Snake 
River.  This  band  was  closely  allied 
to  the  Yakimas  and  Nez  Perces  In- 
dians. They  were  hostile  to  the  white 
settlers,  and  have  never  made  a  treaty 
with  the  government. 

Smohalla  was  born  in  about  1820, 
and  was  described  by  Major  MacMur- 
ray  in  1844  as  the  following:  "In  per- 
son, Smohalla  is  peculiar.  Short, 
thick-set,  bald  headed  and  almost 
hunch-backed,  he  is  not  prepossessing 
at  first  sight,  but  he  has  an  almost 
Websterian  head,  with  a  deep  brow 
over  bright,  intelligent  eyes.  His 
manner  is  mostly  of  the  bland,  insinu- 
ating style,  but  when  aroused,  he  is 
full  of  fire,  and  seems  to  handle  the 
invectives  effectively.  His  audience 
seemed  spell-bound  under  his  magic 
manner,  and  it  never  lost  interest  t^ 


me,  though  he  spoke  in  a  language 
comprehended  by  few  white  men  and 
translated  to  me  at  second  or  third- 
hand." 

In  his  early  manhood,  he  was  dis- 
tinguished as  a  warrior,  and  had  be- 
come a  man  of  prominence  when  the 
Yakima  war  closed  in  1856.  He  was 
just  beginning  to  preach  his  peculiar 
theology.  At  this  time  an  event  oc- 
curred which  caused  Smohalla  to  be 
considered  an  oracle  and  gave  a  force 
and  an  authority  to  his  religion  that  it 
would  never  have  attained  otherwise. 
A  quarrel  arose  between  himself  and 
Moses,  a  powerful  Upper  River  chief, 
Moses  accused  Smohalla  of  "making 
medicine"  against  him,  and  thus  seek- 
ing to  destroy  his  life.  A  duel  re- 
sulted, and  Smohalla  was  left  on  the 
field,  the  other  Indians,  thinking  him 
dead.  Late  at  night  he  revived  and 
crawled  into  a  near-by  boat  on  the 
Columbia  River.  He  was  carried  by 
the  current  far  down  the  river,  when 
he  was  rescued  by  some  white  men. 
They  cared  for  him  and  he  slowly  re- 
covered. When  well,  he  was  ashamed 
to  return  to  his  tribe,  and  so  began  the 
life  of  a  wanderer. 

His  journey  was  one  of  the  most 
notable  ever  taken  by  an  uncivilized 
man.  He  traveled  down  the  Columbia 
to  the  coast,  turned  south  through  Ore- 
gon and  California,  until  he  reached 
Mexico.  After  wandering  about  there 
for  a  time,  he  returned  home  by  way 
of  Arizona,  Utah  and  Nevada.  He 
employed  his  time  well,  observing  the 
manner  and  customs  of  the  people 
whom  he  met. 

On  his  return,  he  announced  that  al- 
though he  had  been  killed  by  Moses 
and  had  been  with  the  spirits,  he  was 
returned  to  earth  that  he  might  teach 
his  people.  As  the  Indians  believed 
that  he  had  been  slain,  and  as  he  had 
been  gone  for  more  than  a  year,  they 
readily  believed  him.  They  listened 
in  awe  to  one  whom  they  believed  to 
have  been  sent  from  the  spirit  world. 

He  now  began  to  teach  his  theology, 
in  combination  with  a  complicated 
ceremonial  which  combined  the  real 
Indian  usages  ""'^  what  he  remem- 


THE  DREAMERS. 


609 


bered  of  the  Catholic  and  Mormon 
rituals.  His  home  at  Priests'  Rapids 
was  a  great  rendezvous  for  neighbor- 
ing tribes  during  salmon  season. 
These  gatherings  gave  him  opportu- 
nity to  teach  many,  so  that  while  his 
own  tribe  was  small,  he  had  disciples 
by  the  thousands. 

He  taught  that  Sagahalee  Tyee, 
the  Great  Chief,  was  angry  with  the 
people  because  they  had  deserted 
their  faith  and  their  primitive  manner 
of  living.  He  declared  their  miser- 
able condition  was  in  punishment  for 
so  volating  the  laws  of  Nature.  This 
argument  made  a  great  impression  on 
the  Indians.  They  had  departed  from 
the  ways  of  their  fathers  and  were 
threatened  by  an  alien  race  who  were 
seizing  their  lands.  Then,  too,  they 
argued  that  Smohalla  was  wise.  He 
knew  of  lands  and  peoples  they  had 
never  heard  of.  His  wisdom  com- 
manded the  respect  of  the  white  men, 
for  many  of  them  came  to  speak  with 
him. 

Smohalla  was  a  mixture  of  honest 
belief  and  crafty  deceit.  He  sought  to 
convey  the  idea  that  he  controlled  the 
elements  and  heavenly  bodies.  He 
established  the  claim  by  predicting 
several  eclipses.  He  obtained  an  al- 
manac from  some  trappers  who  had 
explained  the  matter  of  eclipses  to 
him.  By  the  use  of  this,  he  was  en- 
abled to  forecast  the  weather  also.  But 
his  prophecies  came  to  an  end  at  the 
end  of  the  year,  when  his  almanac  ex- 
pired, and  he  had  only  his  native  cun- 
ning to  assist  him  out  of  the  difficulty. 

Another  of  his  remarkable  feats  was 
the  invention  of  an  alphabet.  It  was 
a  very  crude  and  insufficient  one,  but 
it  served  to  record  the  most  important 
events  and  prophecies. 

Smohalla  was  particularly  antago- 
nistic to  the  Indian  homestead  law  and 
the  settling  of  his  land.  He  did  not 
like  the  law,  saying  that  it  defied 


Nature.  When  urged  to  live  as  the 
white  men  and  cultivate  his  land,  he 
replied:  "My  young  men  shall  never 
work.  Men  who  work  cannot  dream 
and  wisdom  comes  in  dreams.  Each 
one  must  learn  for  himself  the  highest 
wisdom.  It  cannot  be  taught.  You 
have  the  wisdom  of  your  race.  Be 
content.  It  is  of  no  use  to  the  Indians. 

"I  know  all  kinds  of  men.  First 
there  were  my  people ;  God  made  them 
first.  Then  he  made  a  Frenchman, 
and  then  he  made  a  priest.  A  long 
time  after  that  came  Boston  men,  and 
then  King  George  men.  Later  came 
black  men,  and  last  God  made  a 
Chinaman  with  a  tail.  He  is  of  no 
account,  and  has  to  work  all  of  the 
time  like  a  woman.  All  these  are  new 
people.  Only  the  Indians  are  of  the 
old  stock.  After  a  while,  when  God 
is  ready,  he  will  drive  away  all  the 
people  except  those  who  have  obeyed 
his  laws. 

"Those  who  cut  up  the  lands  or 
sign  papers  for  lands  will  be  de- 
frauded of  their  rights,  and  will  be 
punished  by  God's  anger.  Moses  was 
bad — God  did  not  love  him.  He  sold 
his  people's  houses  and  the  graves  of 
their  dead.  It  is  a  bad  word  that 
comes  from  Washington.  It  is  not  a 
good  law  that  would  take  my  people 
away  from  me  to  make  them  sin 
against  the  laws  of  God. 

"You  ask  me  to  plow  the  ground! 
Shall  I  take  a  knife  and  tear  my 
mother's  bosom?  Then  when  I  die 
she  will  not  take  me  to  her  bosom  to 
rest. 

"You  ask  me  to  dig  for  stone !  Shall 
I  dig  under  her  skin  for  her  bones? 
Then  when  I  die  I  cannot  enter  her 
body  to  be  born  again. 

"You  ask  me  to  cut  grasses  and 
make  hair  and  sell  it,  and  be  rich  like 
white  men!  But  how  dare  I  cut  off 
my  mother's  hair?  I  love  my  mother 
and  would  not  harm  her." 


THE    TRUE    CHURCH 


By  C.  T.  Russell,  Pastor  Brooklyn  and  London  Tabernacles 


"But  ye  are  come  .  .  .  to  the  Gen- 
eral Assembly  and  Church  of  the  First 
Born,  which  are  written  in  Heaven" 
— Hebrews  12:22,  23. 

THE  oneness  of  the  Church  of 
Christ     is     everywhere  made 
prominent  in  the  Bible.  Sects 
and  parties  are  nowhere  recog- 
nized.    Nowhere  is  it  intimated  that 
Christ  has  various  Churches — for  in- 
stance, the  Roman  Catholic,  the  Angli- 
can, the  Greek,  Presbyterian,  Congre- 
gational, Lutheran,  etc.     On  the  con- 
trary, there  is  but  the  one  "Church, 
which   is   the   Body   of   Christ,"   and 
that  Body  of  Christ  has  but  the  one 
head,  Jesus. 

We  not  only  find  that  Christ  and  the 
Apostles  established  but  the  one 
Church,  but  we  cannot  think  of  any 
reason  why  these  should  have  estab- 
lished more  than  one.  Nothing  is 
plainer  than  that  our  sectarian  divi- 
sions arose  from  our  neglect  and  loss 
of  "the  faith  once  delivered  unto  the 
saints."  (Jude  3.)  As  the  divisions 
came  in,  the  errors  came  in  with  them ; 
and,  as  the  errors  go  out,  so,  also,  will 
sectarianism  pass  away. 

The  General  Assembly  of  the  Saints. 
We  should  not  be  under  any  human 
or  sectarian  name,  nor  divided  by  sec- 
tarian creeds,  but  united  as  one  peo- 
ple through  our  consecration  to  the 
Lord,  through  our  desire  to  know  His 
will  by  the  study  of  His  word.  We 
thus  represent  the  Scriptural  or  ideal 
Church  of  Christ.  Regardless  of  na- 
tionality, language,  caste  and  of  all 
sectarian  creeds  and  bondages,  we  are 
simply  and  solely  as  children  of  God, 
to  be  Bible  students  in  the  School  of 
Christ,  to  learn  of  Him — to  be  fitted 


and  prepared  for  glorious  joint-heir- 
ship  with  Him  in  His  coming  King- 
dom, and  meantime  to  learn  at  His 
feet  the  lessons  necessary  for  so  great 
a  coming  service. 

(1)  The   joys   of   the  present  are 
merely  a  foretaste  of  the  perfect  glory 
we  will  experience  when  we  enter  into 
the  joys  of  the  Lord — beyond  the  veil. 
Now  we  know  in  part  the  wondrous 
things  of  our  Heavenly  Father's  char- 
acter and  plan,  and  of  our  Redeemer's 
love  and  sympathy,  and  of  each  other's 
love  and  symp  .thy;  then     we     shall 
know  even  as  we  are  known,  is  the 
guarantee  of  the  inspired  Apostle. 

Enter  into  the  Joys  of  the  Lord. 

Now  we  see  as  through  an  obscure 
glass  the  things  which  the  natural  eye 
cannot  see  nor  hear,  neither  can  enter 
into  the  heart  of  the  natural  man,  but 
which  God  has  revealed  unto  us  by 
His  Spirit.  But  they  are  still  more 
or  less  obscure  to  us.  We  cannot 
weigh  nor  appreciate  the  wonderful 
glories  which  God  has  in  reservation 
for  us,  but  then  we  shall  see  Him  face 
to  face,  as  St.  Paul  declares. 

(2)  As  new  creatures  in  Christ,  we 
seek  to  know   each   other     as     God 
knows  us,  not  after  the  flesh,  but  af- 
ter the  spirit.    But  for  all  that  we  ex- 
perience difficulties.    It  is  often  diffi- 
cult for  us  to  entirely  overlook     the 
flesh  of  our  brethren,  as  they  no  doubt 
have   difficulty   in     overlooking     our 
blemishes  in  the  flesh.     But  oh,  what 
will  it  be  to  be  there!    All  the  imper- 
fections and  weaknesses  of  the  flesh, 
against  which  we  must  now  fight — all 
these  will  then  be  gone. 

Have  we  not  the  promise,  "We  shall 
be  like  Him,  for  we  shall  see  Him  as 
He  is?"  Have  we  not  the  promise 


THE  TRUE  CHURCH. 


611 


again  that,  Sown  in  weakness,  we  shall 
be  raised  in  power;  sown  in  dishonor, 
we  shall  be  raised  in  glory;  sown  an 
animal  body  we  shall  be  raised  a 
spirit  body  ?  Have  we  not  the  further 
promise  respecting  that  glorious  resur- 
rection change,  which  shall  lift  us  com- 
pletely out  of  the  human  and  into  the 
divine  nature,  that  "We  must  all  be 
changed,"  "for  flesh  and  blood  cannot 
inherit  the  Kingdom  of  God  ?" — 1  Co- 
rinthians 15 :50,  51. 

Further   Trials — Further  Battlings. 

We  remember  that  we  "have  not  yet 
resisted  unto  blood,  striving  against 
sin"  and  fighting  "the  good  fight  of 
faith."  We  still  have  need  of  the 
Scriptural  exhortation,  "Watch,"  and 
"stand  fast;"  "Quit  you  like  men;" 
"Put  on  the  whole  armor  that  ye  may 
be  able  to  stand  in  the  evil  day,  and, 
having  done  all,  to  stand." 

Every  spiritual  help  and  assistance 
we  receive  are  parts  of  the  Father's 
good  providence  for  us  whereby  we 
shall  be  the  stronger,  the  more  cour- 
ageous, the  better  prepared  for  further 
trials,  besetments,  difficulties  and  con- 
flicts with  the  world,  the  flesh  and  the 
Adversary. 

But  when  we  reach  the  glorious  con- 
dition mentioned  by  the  Apostle,  all 
the  fightings  and  trials  and  testings 
will  be  in  the  past.  For  us,  there- 
fore, there  will  be  no  more  sighing, 
no  more  crying,  no  more  dying,  no 
more  fightings,  no  more  crosses,  no 
more  sufferings,  but  instead,  life  eter- 
nal, joy  eternal,  glory,  honor  and  im- 
mortality at  our  dear  Redeemer's 
light  hand  of  favor.  Well  do  we 
know  that  this  hope  of  sharing  in  the 
General  Assembly  of  the  Church  of 
the  First-borns  strengthens  and  nerves 
His  own  to  loyalty  and  faithfulness  to 
the  Lord,  the  Truth  and  the  brethren 
as  the  days  go  by. 

Let  us  console  ourselves  with  the 
thought  that  whatever  is  the  will  of 
God  concerning  us  must  necessarily 
be  for  our  highest  welfare  and  best  in- 
terests. If,  therefore,  it  is  not  yet 
time  for  us  to  pass  beyond  the  \eil, 
it  is  because  our  Heavenly  Father 


and  our  Redeemer  have  a  work  for  us 
to  do  in  the  present  life — either  a 
work  of  further  polishing  upon  our 
own  characters  or  a  work  of  helping 
the  brethren,  for  we  remember  the  de- 
claration that  the  Bride  is  to  make 
herself  ready  for  that  event.  We  are 
to  build  one  another  up  in  the  most 
holy  faith,  encouraging,  strengthening, 
sympathizing  with  and  assisting  one 
another  in  running  the  race  for  the 
great  prize. 

Another  happifying  thought  we 
should  carry  with  us  day  by  day  is 
the  Lord's  promise,  "I  will  never  leave 
thee  nor  forsake  thee."  And  again, 
"My  grace  is  sufficient  for  thee,  for 
My  strength  is  made  perfect  in  thy 
weakness."  And  again,  "We  know 
that  all  things  work  together  for  good 
to  those  who  love  the  Lord,  to  the 
called  according  to  His  purpose." — 
Romans  8 :28. 

So,  then,  let  us  not  lose  heart  and 
flee  from  the  battle,  like  an  army 
corps  in  retreat,  but  rather,  as  a  com- 
pany of  good  soldiers  who  have  been 
refreshed  and  encouraged  and  stimu- 
lated, we  will  return  to  our  duties  full 
of  good  courage,  full  of  joyful  antici- 
pation of  the  coming  Great  Home- 
Gathering  of  the  Church  of  the  First- 
borns; full  of  renewed  determination 
that  by  the  grace  of  God,  and  with 
the  assistance  of  our  great  Advocate, 
we  will  make  our  calling  and  election 
sure  by  so  running  in  His  footsteps  as 
to  obtain  the  great  Prize  which  He 
has  offered  to  us. 

The  Context  in  Agreement. 

Let  us  detain  you  a  little  longer  that 
we  may  point  out  afresh  that  the  con- 
text confirms  our  glorious  hope  re- 
specting this  Great  Convention  of  the 
future,  and  shows  that  it  is  nigh  at 
hand.  St.  Paul  pictures  before  us  the 
fact  that  God's  dealings  with  Israel,  in 
bringing  them  out  of  Egyptian  bond- 
age and  to  Mt.  Sinai,  pictured  the 
work  of  this  Gospel  Age,  in  the  call- 
ing of  Spiritual  Israel  out  of  the  bond- 
age of  sin  and  death.  The  Apostle 
thus  shows  that  the  giving  of  the  Law 
Covenant  to  Israel  at  Mt.  Sinai  typi- 


612 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


cally  represented  the  giving  to  them 
of  the  New  Law  Covenant  from  Mt. 
Zion  in  the  end  of  this  age. 

The  Law  Covenant  was  given 
through  a  mediator,  Moses,  and  the 
New  Law  Covenant  is  to  be  given 
through  a  Mediator,  the  Antitypical 
Moses,  Jesus  the  Head  and  the  Church 
His  Body.  It  has  required  all  this 
Gospel  Age  to  gather  out  of  the  world 
and  to  try,  test,  polish  and  fit  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Body  of  Christ,  who,  under 
His  Headship, "will  be  with  Him  the 
Antitypical  Moses,  the  Antitypical 
Mediator  between  God  and  men. — 
Jeremiah  31 :31 ;  Acts  3 :22,  23. 

As  Moses  went  up  into  the  Mount  to 
commune  with  God  before  the  Law 
Covenant  was  completed,  so  the  entire 
Church  must  go  up  into  the  Mountain, 
into  the  Kingdom,  with  our  glorious 
Head  and  Redeemer,  by  the  change  of 
the  First  Resurrection.  As  the  time 
for  Moses'  going  up  into  the  mountain 
drew  near,  there  were  great  manifes- 
tations of  the  dignity  of  the  Divine 
government.  And  just  so  in  the  clos- 
ing of  this  Age,  the  Apostle  informs 
us,  the  world  will  have  terrifying  ex- 
periences on  a  still  greater  scale.  He 
says  that  then  the  mountain  trembled 
and  smoked,  and  that  the  Divine  voice 
was  heard.  The  people  were  so  terri- 
fied that  they  entreated  that  they 
might  not  hear  further,  but  that  Moses 
might  act  as  mediator,  and  he  did  so. 

So  it  will  be  here :  There  will  be 
such  manifestations  of  Divine  Justice 
and  opposition  to  sin  and  all  iniquity 
that  it  will  cause  the  "time  of  trouble" 
mentioned  by  the  Prophet  and  by 
Jesus,  "A  time  of  trouble  such  as  never 
was  since  there  was  a  nation;  no,  nor 
ever  shall  be"  after. — Daniel  12:1; 
Matthew  24:21. 

The  result  of  this  great  time  of  trou- 
ble upon  the  world  will  be  a  realiza- 
tion that  they  need  a  Mediator — a 
Mediatorial  Kingdom.  And  this  is 
just  what  God  has  provided  for  them 
through  the  arrangement  of  the  New 
Covenant. 

Contrasting  the  experiences  at  the 
inauguration  of  the  tvpical  Law  Cove- 
nant with  those  to  be  expected  at  the 


inauguration  of  the  antitypical,  the 
New  Law  Covenant,  St.  Paul  says: 
"God's  voice  then  shook  the  earth,  but 
now  He  hath  promised,  saying,  Yet 
once  more  I  shake  not  the  earth  only, 
but  also  heaven."  And  the  Apostle 
explains  that  the  expression,  "once 
more,3'  signifies  that  this  second  shak- 
ing will  be  so  thorough  that  no  fur- 
ther shaking  will  ever  be  necessary, 
but  everything  of  injustice  and  un- 
righteousness which  ought  to  be 
shaken  loose  will  be  shaken;  and  this, 
says  the  Apostle,  implies  everything 
except  the  Church  and  the  glorious 
Kingdom  which  we  shall  then  receive : 
"Wherefore  we,  receiving  a  Kingdom 
which  cannot  be  moved,  let  us  have 
grace,  whereby  we  may  serve  God  ac- 
ceptably with  reverence  and  godly 
fear."— Hebrews  12 :18-29. 

The  Shaking  Already  Commenced. 

Can  we  not  see  the  shaking  already 
beginning?  Let  us  remember  that  this 
time  it  will  not  be  the  shaking  of  the 
literal  earth,  as  in  the  type,  but  the 
shaking  of  the  symbolical  earth — the 
shaking  of  society  to  its  very  center. 
Do  you  not  already  hear  the  rumblings 
— the  rumblings  of  discontent,  anger, 
malice,  hatred,  strife?  These  fore- 
bode the  "great  earthquake,"  an  ex- 
pression symbolic  of  the  great  Revo- 
lution, wherein  the  present  order  of 
things  shall  collapse  and  give  place  to 
the  New  Order  of  Immanuel's  King- 
dom of  righteousness,  justice,  equity 

And,  says  the  Apostle,  God  intends 
this  time  to  shake  not  merely  the  earth 
— the  social  fabric — but  also  the 
heaven — the  ecclesiastical  powers  of 
the  present  time.  Not  the  true  Church 
will  be  shaken,  but  the  many  systems 
which  more  or  less  misrepresent  the 
true  Church  and  "the  faith  which  was 
once  delivered  unto  the  saints." — 
Jude  3. 

Do  we  see  premonitions  of  this 
shaking?  Yea,  verily.  In  all  denomi- 
nations there  are  forebodings  of  com- 
ing trouble.  We  may  even  fear  that 
some  of  the  attempts  at  Christian  un- 
ion are  not  made  with  the  proper  mo- 
tive, but  through  a  realization  of  the 


THE  NEW  YEAR.  613 

shaking  which  the  Lord  is  about  to  have  any  influence  that  the  worst  form 

permit  to  come  upon  the  ecclesiastical  of  government  in  the  whole  world  is 

systems  of  this  present  time.  better  than     no     government — better 

than  anarchy,  a  thousand  times.    Let 

"Wait  Ye  Upon  the  Lord."  us  remind  them  of  the  fact  that  r 

God's  providence  we  have  the  best  of 

Dear  brethren,  in  these  coming  days  all  earthly  governments, 
of  trouble,  which  may  be  very  near,         Let  us  remind  them,  too,  that  the 

the  opportunity  may  come  to  you  and  Lord  has  told  us  to  wait  for  Him  and 

to  me  to  be  either  strife-breeders  or  not  to  take  matters   into     our     own 

peace-makers.     Let   us   see   the   will  hands.    His  words  are,  "Wait  ye  upon 

of  the  Lord  in  this  matter,  that  we  are  Me,  saith  the  Lord,  until  the  day  that 

called  to  peace,  and  that  the  declara-  I  rise  up  to  the  prey;  for  My  deter- 

tion  of  the  Master  is,  "Blessed  are  the  mination  is  to  gather  the  nations,  that 

peacemakers,  for  they  shall  be  called  I  may  assemble  the  kingdoms,  to  pour 

the  children  of  God."  upon  them  Minei  ndignation,  even  all 

Let  us  seek  rather  to  subdue  and.  My  fierce  anger;  for  all     the     earth 

calm  the  passions  of  men  in  the  com-  shall  be  devoured  with  the  fire  of  my 

ing  strife,  and  to  do  nothing  to  aug-  jealousy.    For  then  will  I  turn  to  the 

ment  them  or  to  kindle  the  fires  of  people  a  pure  language     (Message), 

passion  which  we  know  are  about  to  that  they  may  all  call  upon  the  name 

consume  the  present  social  fabric.  Let  of  the  Lord,  to  serve  Him  with  one 

us  point  out  to  those  with  whom  we  consent." — Zephaniah  3:8,  9. 

THE     NEW     YEAR 

Goodbye,  Old  Year!    Tis  sad  to  see 

Thee  creeping  from  our  door, 
And  know  that  but  a  memory 

Thou'lt  be  for  evermore. 
We  loved  thee  in  thine  infancy, 

We  loved  thee  in  thy  prime, 
But  now  to  thy  brief  life  farewell, 

Thou  son  of  Father  Time! 
All  hail  New  Year!    Thou  blest  New  Year! 

We  take  thy  dimpled  hand, 
And  kiss  with  joy  the  baby  face 

That  smiles  upon  our  land. 
We  greet  thy  coming  with  a  song, 

We  crown  thee  with  our  flowers, 
For  thou  wilt  share  twelve  months  with  us, 

The  sunshine  and  the  showers. 
Dost  wonder  that  our  heart  is  filled 

With  happiness  to-day? 
Or  that  we  think  of  those  we  love 

Both  near  and  far  away? 
God  grant  that  we  walk  worthily 

The  path  we  take  with  thee, 
For  earth  is  but  its  starting-place, 

Its  goal,  Eternity!  MARION  TAYLOR. 


Maud. 


"The  Way  Home,"  by  Basil  King,  au- 
thor of  "The  Inner  Shrine." 

This  is  the  story  of  a  man  honest 
enough  to  see  that  he  couldn't  accept 
at  their  face  value  the  doctrines  and 
standards  of  the  formal  Christianity 
in  which  he  had  been  reared.  Charlie 
Grace  was  a  minister's  son,  and  in  his 
youth  he  was  inspired  by  a  pure,  if 
somewhat  naive  desire  for  a  clerical 
life.  Moreover,  his  mother's  last  wish 
— that  he  should  become  a  minister — 
was  a  sacred  charge  that  impressed 
him  deeply.  But  as  he  grew  older  he 
couldn't  help  seeing  the  shallowness 
and  hypocrisy  of  most  of  the  professed 
Christians  about  him,  and  he  began  to 
wonder  whether  all  religion  wasn't 
sham  or  self-deception.  When  old 
Dr.  Grace  was  asked  to  resign  as  rec- 
tor of  St.  David's  Church,  because  he 
was  growing  old  and  was  thought  no 
longer  suited  to  changing  conditions 
in  the  parish,  the  boy  turned  his  back 
on  religion  once  for  all.  He  became 
an  avowed  self-seeker,  and  the  story 
of  his  subsequent  successful  but  un- 
scrupulous career  is  full  of  intense  hu- 
man and  spiritual  interest. 

In  its  opening  chapters,  "The  Way 
Home"  gives  us  an  attractive  and  in- 
teresting picture  of  social  life  in  New 
York  City  as  it  was  in  the  early  fifties. 
Portraying  with  especial  sureness  of 
touch  the  life  that  centered  round 
St.  David's,  and  the  family  of  its  rec- 
tor, the  author  reveals  a  fine  sense  of 
humor  and  a  respect  for  real  worth 
of  character. 

Before  Charlie  Grace  went  to  the 
Northwest  to  seek  his  fortune  he  had 
met  Hilda  Penrhyn,  and  learned  to  ad- 
mire her,  boy-fashion.  Later,  when 


Charlie  had  obtained  from  his  suc- 
cessful brother-in-law  a  humble  posi- 
tion in  the  then  newly  constructed 
Trans-Canadian,  the  young  man  met 
Hilda  again,  and  fell  in  love  with  her. 
He  had  to  choose  between  taking  a 
position  at  the  expense  of  a  man  who 
needed  it  sorely,  and  ncyt  taking  it  at 
all.  He  chose  to  take  the  position, 
ruining  the  other  man.  Hilda  saw  him 
make  the  choice,  and  from  that  mo- 
ment she  distrusted  him.  But  Char- 
lie fully  believed  in  the  saying  that 
"Nothing  succeeds  like  success,"  and 
when  he  had  won  wealth  and  influence,, 
Hilda  had  to  admit  that  he  was  partly 
right  in  saying  that  she  respected  him 
more  for  his  unprincipled  achieve- 
ment than  she  could  possibly  have 
done  if  he  had  remained  virtuous  and 
obscure.  For,  despite  her  pride  of 
character,  there  was  something  as 
radically  wrong  with  Hilda  as  with 
Charlie.  What  the  real  flaw  was,  she 
didn't  find  out  until  after  their  mar- 
riage, and  then  it  took  the  example  of 
one  whom  her  world  called  a  bad  wo- 
man to  show  her.  Charlie,  too,  found 
that  somehow  in  the  long  run  his 
scheme  of  life  didn't  work.  It  was  not 
so  much  that  his  sins  had  found  him: 
out,  or  that  the  enemies  his  selfishness 
made  turned  against  him.  It  was 
rather  that  he  felt  a  lack  in  his  inner 
life.  When  Hilda,  thinking  his  life 
in  danger,  brought  to  him  the  woman 
with  whom  he  supposed  himself  in 
love,  and  he  found  that  woman  pure 
and  unsuspecting,  he  experienced  no 
"change  of  heart,"  but  he  did  begin 
to  grope  for  the  "way  home;"  and  at 
last,  in  an  unusual  way,  he  came  within 
sight  of  it.  Charlie  Grace's  develop- 


IN  THE  REALM  OF  BOOKLAND. 


615 


ment  from  just  a  boy  into  a  cold,  hard 
man  of  the  world,  and  then  of  his  final 
disillusion  with  selfishness  and  its  re- 
wards, is  impressive  and  vital. 

Published  by  Harper  &  Brothers, 
Franklin  Square,  New  York. 

""The  Scoffer:  A  Modern  Miracle 
Play  Based  Upon  Scientific  Chris- 
tian Healing,"  by  Charles  Fred- 
erick Carlson. 

Dr.  Lincoln,  an  eminent  physician, 
"The  Scoffer/'  has  discovered  that  his 
sickness  and  disease  is  incurable  as 
far  as  medicine  is  concerned.  Materia 
medica  is  of  no  avail  to  him  when  he 
learns  that  he  is  given  up — deserted 
by  his  own  profession. 

Angela,  who  is  betrothed  to  him,  is 
-a  student  of  scientific  Christian  heal- 
ing, or,  to  be  accurate,  a  Christian  Sci- 
ence practitioner.  She  has  resolved 
to  bring  about  the  Doctor's  cure  by  her 
understanding  of  God.  The  Doctor, 
who  is  hopeful  of  his  restoration  to 
liealth  through  material  means,  is 
rather  chaffed  by  her  motive ;  irritable 
and  discontented  with  every  one,  he 
becomes  worse.  Around  him  are  seen 
the  characters,  sin,  error,  sickness  and 
disease,  characters  of  personification, 
typical  of  his  malady.  They  hug  him 
•close;  representing  mortal-mind,  they 
TOW  to  consume  him. 

Angela,  working  with  these  dread 
-characters  and  destroying  them  with 
lier  godly  understanding,  gradually 
•causes  the  Doctor  to  realize  the  fallacy 
and  nothingness  of  error,  and  the  truth 
;and  reality  of  God.  She  has  ever- 
present  with  her  Faith  and  Spiritual- 
Understanding,  characters  personify- 
ing the  desire  for  divine  health  and 
godly  understanding. 

With  the  evidence  of  divine  help 
demonstrated  upon  his  brother,  Wil- 
liam, and  having  borne  the  cross  of 
suffering  until  his  knees  are  bent  in 
prayer,  he  cries  out  to  God  for  help, 
understanding,  life. 

The  miracle  of  his  restoration  is  per- 
formed and  he  has  come  into  his  own 
with  the  realization  that  God  is  his 
life;  that  God  is  the  only  intelligence 


in  the  universe  and  that  man  reflects 
God. 

The  manner  in  which  the  author  has 
worked  out  the  problem  of  divine  heal- 
ing in  his  play,  has  been  pronounced 
masterly,  and  indeed  a  great  work. 
The  drama  is  deeply  interesting  and 
absorbing  to  all  who  seek  to  know  the 
law  of  life  and  health.  It  gives  the 
clearest  idea  of  the  teaching  of  Christ 
Jesus,  of  any  reading-play  that  has 
yet  been  written. 

Postpaid,  $1.50.  Published  by  the 
Eastwood-Kirchner  Printing  Company, 
Denver,  Colo. 

"Love  and  Liberation,  The  Songs  of 
Adsched  and  Meru  and  Other 
Poems,"  by  John  Hall  Wheelock, 
author  of  "The  Beloved  Adven- 
ture," "The  Human  Fantasy,"  etc. 

"The  Human  Fantasy"  and  "The 
Beloved  Adventure"  won  for  their  au- 
thor a  loyal  and  distinguished  audi- 
ence. Such  men  as  Richard  Le  Gal- 
lienne,  William  Archer,  Edwin  Mark- 
ham,  Barrett  Wendell,  S.  Weir  Mit- 
chell, and  Percy  MacKaye,  honored 
them;  reviews  in  great  number,  not- 
ably in  The  New  York  Times,  The 
Dial,  The  Review  of  Reviews  and  The 
Chicago  Evening  Post  were 'quick  to 
hail  both  books,  and  a  response  from 
the  poetry-reading  public  followed. 
The  appearance  of  shorter  poems  in 
Scribner's,  The  Century,  The  Lyric 
Year,  and  Harper's  Magazine  met  at 
once  with  popular  recognition.  This 
response  is  due  to  the  fact  that  in  a 
day  of  many  graceful  poets  Mr.  Whee- 
lock has  something  definite  and  new  to 
say,  and  because,  in  spite  of  many  im- 
perfections, he  has  said  it  with  such 
tremendous  vitality  and  sincerity.  The 
new  volume  surprises  by  its  sheer 
health  and  exuberance  of  poetry,  color 
and  light,  the  flow  on  flow  of  meta- 
phor and  sudden  turn  of  image  and 
line.  In  the  torrent  of  this  loveliness 
a  world  is  reflected,  broken  on  its 
restless  tide  into  a  thousand  new 
shadows  and  shapes.  From  the  first 
cry,  "Life  burns  us  up  like  fire,"  to  the 
later,  "Let  me  press  into  the  utmost 


616 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


marge  of  mysteries  that  bound  me," 
the  adventurous  buoyancy  of  the  book 
never  flags.  Here  again  a  new  poetry 
is  heard. 

"You  must  find  an  angel 

To  enter  Paradise; 
Heaven  is  only  seen 

Through  another's  eyes. 

"  Tis  another  bosom 
Holds  the  key  thereof. 

Through  the  hearts  that  love  us 
Alone  we  enter  love." 

Cloth,  12mo;  $1.50  net;  by  mail, 
$1.60.  Published  by  Sherman,  French 
&  Co.,  Boston,  Mass. 

"Happy  Acres,"  by  Edna  Turpin. 

Anne  Lewis,  who,  as  the  person  of 
most  importance  in  "Honey  Sweet"  al- 
ready has  a  host  of  friends,  is  the 
diminutive  heroine  of  Miss  Turpin's 
new  story,  "Happy  Acres."  Here 
Anne  goes  to  visit  her  Virginia  cousins 
— a  visit  begun  out  of  necessity  and 
with  dark  forebodings,  but  continued, 
even  prolonged,  with  an  ever-increas- 
ing pleasure  until  the  happiest  kind 
of  a  climax  is  reached.  A  great  many 
things  come  to  pass  in  the  months  of 
Anne's  sojourn  with  her  relatives. 
Anne  and  her  relatives  have  a  variety 
of  adventures — they  are  that  kind, 
moreover,  which  quicken  the  heart 
beats  of  the  boys  and  girls  for  whom 
the  book  has  been  written.  Running 
all  through  it  and  interwoven  with  the 
contributing  incidents  is  the  tale  of  an 
old  mill,  doomed  to  a  dreadful  fate, 
that  of  the  miller  being  no  less  pitiful. 
Anne  turns  the  trend  of  affairs,  saves 
the  mill  from  its  threatened  destruc- 
tion and  makes  happy  not  only  those 
who  were  dependent  upon  it  for  sup- 
port, but  succeeds  in  proving  that  the 
villainous  money  grabber  was  not  so 
villainous  and  not  so  greedy  as  he — 
and  those  associated  with  him — • 
thought.  That's  the  beauty  of  it — it 
leaves  one  with  that  wholly  contented 
feeling  which  every  book  should — 
particularly  a  book  for  children — and 
demonstrates  that  human  nature  is  a 
pretty  good  thing  after  all. 


"Happy  Acres"  has  been  most  at- 
tractively illustrated  by  Mary  Lane 
McMillan.  Scattered  throughout  the 
text  are  fascinating  little  pen  drawings 
which  will  certainly  catch  the  atten- 
tion and  please  the  fancy,  while  on  the 
cover  there  appears  a  picture  of  the 
mill  whose  fortunes  are  so  closely 
bound  up  with  Miss  Turpin's  charac- 
ters. 

$1.25  net.  Published  by  The  Mac- 
millan  Company,  New  York. 

"Fatima,"  by  Rowland  Thomas. 

In  a  little  dura-thatched  village 
which  bakes  on  a  canal  embankment 
amid  the  cotton  fields  of  Egypt,  a  vil- 
lage called  Ashmunein,  once  upon  a 
time  there  lived  a  Fool.  And  there 
lived  also  a  maid  named  Fatima,  who 
was  hardly  turned  sixteen,  and  was 
dark  of  eye  and  satiny  of  skin  and 
plumply  slender,  and  oh!  so  beautiful. 
Fatima  was  indeed  the  most  beautiful 
creature,  and  quite,  quite  the  cleverest 
creature  ever  was,  and  she  knew  it, 
and  this  story,  concerns  the  marriage 
of  AH,  the  Fool,  and  the  beautiful, 
wise  Fatima;  how  she  grew  tired  of 
her  foolish  husband  and  journeyed  to 
Mecca,  and  became  one  of  the  wives 
of  my  lord  the  Kadi,  and  fell  in  love 
with  a  young  man  named  Abdullah; 
how  she  had  strange  adventures,  and 
terrible  events  occurred.  The  like  of 
this  tale  for  fanciful  charm  and  imagi- 
native power  has  indeed  not  been  pub- 
lished in  many  a  long  day,  and  jaded 
readers  of  the  everyday  type  of  fiction 
will  delight  in  this  story  of  how  the 
beautiful  Fatima  married  a  Fool,  made 
fools  of  many  wise  men,  and  in  the  end 
learned  the  wisdom  of  being  satisfied 
with  her  own  lot  in  life. 

Six  illustrations  in  color  by  J.  M. 
Gleeson.  $1.35  net.  Published  by 
Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  Boston. 


"The  Faun  and  Other     Poems,"     by 

Genevieve  Farnell-Bond. 
Mr.  Edwin  Markham's  cordial  word 
of  introduction  for  a  book  may,  per- 
haps, be  safely  regarded  as  speaking 
sufficiently   for   its   merit.     And  this 


IN  THE  REALM  OF  BOOKLAND. 


617 


distinction  has  been  accorded  the  pres- 
ent work.  All  the  poems  in  the  book 
measure  up  to  a  high  standard  of 
poetic  excellence.  They  are,  more- 
over, vibrant  with  the  deepest  emo- 
tions of  life,  passionately  cognizant  of 
the  power  of  beauty  and  love  for  keen- 
est joy  or  blackest  sorrow,  with  little, 
sudden  rushes  of  laughter  from  sheer 
joy  in  life.  Poetry  and  nature  seem 
inextricably  entwined,  and  nature  is 
a  very  part  of  the  author's  thought. 
From  the  chirp  of  the  tiniest  cricket 
to  the  roar  of  the  ocean  in  its  might- 
iest wrath,  she  loves  them  all.  Most  of 
the  verses  have  already  appeared  in 
Magazines  and  have  received  wide- 
spread commendation.  The  author  is 
known,  too,  for  her  dramatic  work, 
some  of  which  has  received  recognition 
on  the  New  York  stage. 

Price  $1  net.  Published  by  Sher- 
man, French  &  Co.,  Boston,  Mass. 

"The  Sign  of  the  Tree,"  by  Harriet 

Mason  Kilburn. 

A  book  of  charmingly  quaint  verse, 
some  of  it  written  in  the  old  English 
style.  The  first  poem  gives  an  origi- 
nal conception  of  Christ  as  the  car- 
penter— a  divine  aspect  of  labor,  en- 
tirely reverential  withal.  Sometimes 
in  a  line  here  and  there,  sometimes  in 
a  poem  devoted  to  the  subject,  as  in 
"Love  Falleth  Never  Away"  and  "A 
Theologian  Soliloquizes,"  the  author 
shows  a  rare  appreciation  of  children 
and  the  child's  point  of  view,  and  fre- 
quently pleads  effectively  for  justice 
to  them — the  puzzled  little  theologian, 
the  tired  little  bread-winner,  the  little 
sister-mother — working  or  playing, 
children  still  in  a  bewildering  and 
sometimes  cruelly  despotic  grown  up 
world. 

Paper  boards;  12mo;  $1.00  net;  by 
mail,  $1.06.  Published  by  Sherman, 
French  &  Company,  Boston. 


"The  Evolution  of  a  Theologian,"  by 
Stephen  K.  Syzmanowski,  author  of 
"The  Searchers." 

In  350  pages  the  author  endeavors 
to  show  the  awakening  of  an  orthodox 
minister  from  the  tenets  of  the  Bible 


and  the  beliefs  of  the  leading  theolo- 
gians of  the  Christian  era,  while  read- 
ing secular  literature  and  the  philoso- 
phy of  Count  Tolstoi  and  other  mod- 
erns. The  gradual  change  in  his  men- 
tal attitude  is  set  forth  in  a  series  of 
soliloquies  and  conversations  with  his 
fellows.  These  conversations  cover 
the  arguments  of  the  early  church 
fathers,  the  conclusions  of  modern 
science,  in  short,  such  excursions  into 
philosophy,  history,  biography  and  the 
sciences  as  the  author  deems  necessary 
to  make  in  order  to  shed  light  on  his 
work. 

$2.00  net.  Published  by  Sherman, 
French  &  Co.,  Boston. 

"Glimpses  of  the  East  and  Other 
Poems,"  by  Henry  Coolidge  Adams. 
The  book  will  find  a  welcome  in  the 
hearts  of  those  who  have  traveled,  and 
stay-at-homes  will  find  an  Oriental  at- 
mosphere brought  to  their  doors. 
Memories  of  Japan  show  an  insight 
into  manners  and  customs  of  the  Jap- 
anese. Sketches  of  China,  Manila, 
Singapore,  Penang,  the  solitude  of  the 
Eastern  Seas,  are  told  in  unique, 
straight  forward  style.  A  motor  trip 
through  the  Island  of  Ceylon,  that  land 
of  romantic  beauty,  and  a  caravan  jour- 
ney across  the  Libyan  Desert  will  ex- 
cite the  interest  of  those  who  have 
never  visited  those  lands.  India  is 
touched  upon  but  lightly;  but  the 
glimpse  given  is  one  of  romance  and 
beauty.  Pictures  along  the  road  that 
runs  through  its  counties  of  ancient 
romance,  stories  of  old-time  occur- 
rences, and  legends  complete  the  ro- 
mance of  these  interesting  pages. 

Paper  boards;  12mo;  $1.50  net;  by 
mail,  $1.62.  Published  by  Sherman, 
French  &  Company,  Boston. 


"The  Honorable  Mr.  Tawnish,"  by 
Jeffery  Fernol,  author  of  "An  Ama- 
teur Gentleman,"  "The  Broad  High- 
way." 

In  this  story  Mr.  Farnol  tells  how 
Sir  John  Chester's  daughter,  Pene- 
lope, and  a  fine  London  gentleman  fell 
head  over  heels  in  love  with  each 
other,  thus  arousing  Sir  John's  ire,  for 


618 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


he  despised  the  Honorable  Horatio 
Tawnish  for  an  effeminate  dandy  and 
a  writer  of  sentimental  verses.  To 
try  his  worth,  young  Mr.  Tawnish  was 
set  three  difficult  tasks  by  Sir  John  and 
his  two  friends.  How  Mr.  Tawnish 
succeeded  in  these  tasks,  proved  him- 
self a  brave  man  and  a  gentleman,  and 
won  pretty  Penelope  for  a  wife,  is  told 
in  a  story  that  possesses  just  the  quali- 
ties to  which  "The  Amateur  Gentle- 
man" and  "The  Broad  Highway"  owe 
their  extraordinary  popularity.  "The 
Honorable  Mr.  Tawnish"  is  illustrated 
in  color  by  that  well  known  English 
artist,  Charles  E.  Brock. 

Published  by  Little,  Brown  &  Co., 
Boston,  Mass. 

"The  Coryston  Family,"  by  Mrs.  Hum- 
phrey Ward. 

There  is  the  grasp  of  big  questions 
at  stake  in  modern  English  life  we 
have  learned  to  expect  of  Mrs.  Ward, 
and  a  presentation  of  the  dramatic 
struggle  between  the  aristocratic  and 
radical  elements.  Lady  Coryston's 
position,  money  and  character,  made 
her  a  power  in  the  land,  but  as  her 
children  grew  up  they  asserted  their 
right  to  live  their  own  lives.  Her  eld- 
est son  defied  her  politically;  her  heir, 
Arthur,  planned  to  marry  the  daughter 
of  the  man  whom  she  hated  bitterly, 
and  her  young  daughter  began  to  re- 
bel against  restraint.  The  girl's  court- 
ship by  an  influential  young  neighbor 
commenced  in  idyllic  sweetness,  then 
she  started  to  think  as  well  as  to  feel, 
and  found  that  she  had  made  a  mis- 
take. Lady  Coryton  might  perhaps 
be  characterized  as  an  English  "Iron 
Woman." 

Published  by  Harper  &  Brothers, 
Franklin  Square,  New  York. 

"Yankee  Swanson.  A  Chapter  from  a 
Life  at  Sea,"  by  Captain  A.  W. 
Nelson. 

Here  is  a  chance  to  read  a  real  sea 
story,  fresh,  breezy  and  full  of  the 
smell  of  the  sea,  the  vivid  experience 
of  a  seaman  who  threshed  about  the 
oceans  of  the  world  for  35  years.  The 
old-time  sailing  vessels  are  rapidly 


disappearing,  and  a  few  years  will  see 
them  no  more.  '  The  story  of  life 
aboard  them  will  pass  with  the  sailors, 
so  this  story,  written,  not  by  a  land- 
lubber, but  by  a  man  who  has  experi- 
enced its  tribulations,  thrilling  dan- 
gers and  peculiar  life  is  well  worth 
reading.  Captain  Swanson  kept  a  diary 
— and  with  this  to  refresh  memory,  his 
tale  is  vivid  and  convincing. 

$1.50,  net.  Published  by  Sturgis  & 
Walton  Co.,  31  East  27th  St.,  New 
York. 


"An  Outline  History  of  China,  Part 
II.  From  the  Manchu  Conquest  to 
the  Recognition  of  the  Republic, 
A.  D.  1913,"  by  Herbert  H.  Gowen, 
D.  D.,  F.  R.  G.  S.,  Lecturer  on  Ori- 
ental History  at  the  University  at 
Washington. 

According  to  the  author,  this  book 
is  neither  a  complete  history  of  China 
nor  a  skeleton  of  episodes.  The  word 
"outline"  is  to  be  taken  literally.  This 
second  volume  of  the  history  covers 
the  reigns  from  Shun  Chi,  1644-1661, 
to  the  present  Chinese  Republic.  The 
author  has  skillfully  preserved  a  har- 
monious proportion  in  the  military, 
political,  social  and  philosophical  es- 
sentials of  his  narrative,  and  furnishes 
a  comprehensive  view  of  modern 
China  to  the  ordinary  reader. 

Price,  $1.20.  Published  by  Sher- 
man, French  &  Co.,  Boston. 

"Overtones:   A   Book   of   Verse,"   by 

Jessie  Wiseman  Gibbs. 

The  author  has  a  deep  and  sympa- 
thetic feeling  for  her  fellows  and 
nature,  and  possesses  a  strong  reli- 
gious sense  which  threads  its  way 
through  most  of  her  lines.  Indeed,  a 
large  part  of  her  poems  bear  exclu- 
sively on  religious  subjects,  and  they 
express  a  deep  and  sincere  spirit.  She 
has  a  keen  sense  of  the  values  of 
Wordsworthian  simplicity  in  handling 
with  sensitive  nicety  many  of  her 
themes.  To  people  of  a  religious  mind 
the  little  volume  is  timely  and  very 
well  worth  while. 

$1.25,  net.  Published  by  Sherman, 
French  &  Co.,  Boston. 


IN  THE  REALM  OF  BOOKLAND. 


619 


Ella  Higginson's  Career. 

It  was  when  "Marietta  Out  West" 
was  published  that  Ella  Higginson 
came  into  immediate  prominence  in 
England,  as  well  as  in  America.  To 
the  literary  world — particularly  the 
literary  world  of  the  West — the  history 
of  that  book  is  well  known.  Of  the 
suffering — which  was  torture  to  her 
sensitive  soul,  and  the  local  persecu- 
tion she  endured  for  two  or  three  years 
subsequent  to  the  publication  of  the 
book — it  is  needless  now  to  dwell 
upon.  That  it  had  no  effect  whatever 
upon  her  fearless  spirit,  it  is  scarcely 
necessary  to  add.  Quietly  and  unos- 
tentatiously she  remained  in  the  midst 
of  the  most  cruel  and  systematic  ef- 
forts to  ostracize  her — living  her 
blameless  life,  as  she  had  always  lived 
it,  as  she  always  will  live  it — which 
was  enough  of  itself  to  make  her  a 
target  for  the  envious  and  malicious 
and  evil-minded.  But  that  day  is  past. 
Long  ago,  her  enemies  discovered 
their  error  and  recognized  their  posi- 
tion as  a  laughing  stock  for  the  intelli- 
gent public  on  two  continents,  and 
Ella  Higginson,  with  sublime  forgive- 
ness, has  forgotten  that  such  error  ever 
existed. 

A  later  book,  and  one  of  her  most 
ambitious,  is  her  book  on  Alaska.  It 
is  in  her  best  and  most  graphic  style, 
and  during  the  months  she  spent  in  the 
vast  snow  fields,  under  Alaskan  skies, 
to  gather  the  material,  she  faced  many 
grave  difficulties  and  encountered 
many  hardships. 


California's  Old  Missions. 

Past  or  prospective  visitors  to  the 
old  Missions  of  California  may  find 
in  George  Wharton  James'  forthcom- 
ing book,  "The  Old  Franciscan  Mis- 
sions of  California,"  important  facts 
in  their  histories,  descriptions  of  their 
distinctive  features  and  the  legends 
woven  about  them.  The  copious  illus- 
trations, all  from  photographs  especi- 
ally taken,  make  most  attractive  this 
new  handbook,  which  Little,  Brown 
&  Co.,  are  publishing. 


"The  Mountains  About  Williamstown," 
by  George  Lansing  Raymond,  L.  H. 
D.,  (Williams),  with  an  Illustration 
by  Marion  Mills  Miller,  Litt.  D. 
(Princeton.) 

Dr.  Raymond  is  a  poet  in  the  truest 
sense.  He  has  richness  of  genius,  in- 
tensity of  human  feeling,  and  the  re- 
finement of  culture.  His  lines  are  lumi- 
nous and  melodious  with  music.  The 
versification  throughout  is  true,  and  the 
meter  affords  innumerable  quotations 
to  fortify  and  instruct  one  for  the 
struggles  of  life.  The  text  is  a  mine 
of  rich  and  disciplined  reflections. 

With  32  illustrations  made  from  the 
latest  and  most  artistic  photographs. 
Price,  $2  net.  Published  by  G.  P. 
Putnam's  Sons,  New  York. 


"Greeks  in  America,  An  Account  of 
Their   Coming,   Progress,   Customs, 
Living  and  Aspirations,"  by  Thomas 
Burgess,  Member  of  the  American 
Branch  Com.  of  the  Anglican  and 
Eastern  Churches  Union. 
In  easy  narrative  form  the  author 
has  succeeded  in  furnishing  the  gen- 
eral reader  and  students  of  the  immi- 
gration problem  a  sympathetic  under- 
standing of  these  Greek  immigrants. 
They  are  described  picturesquely  and 
in   sympathy   from   the   Greek   view- 
point. 

Price,  $1.35.  Published  by  Sherman, 
French  &  Co.,  Boston. 


For  the  Arthur  Rackham  Mother 
Goose,  which  The  Century  Co.  has  re- 
cently published,  the  famous  English 
illustrator  not  only  made  the  pictures 
— twelve  in  color  and  over  sixty  in 
black  and  white — but  chose  the  verses 
and  just  their  wording.  Many  of  the 
jingles,  therefore,  are  given  in  the 
form  which  Mr.  Rackham  remembers 
from  his  own  childhood,  and  which  he 
prefers  to  some  of  the  later  versions. 
Mr.  Rackham  also  designed  the  cover 
of  the  book,  which  is  in  full  color,  and 
the  quaint  title-page,  a  sampler  de- 
sign picturing  "the  house  that  Jack 
built." 


1520 


OVERLAND  MONTHLY. 


"The  Ministry  of  Evil,  With  Replies 
to  British  Critics;  also  A  Study  of 
the  Future  Life,"  by  Charles  Watson 
Millen. 

The  author  sets  forth  his  position  as 
follows :  "Feeling  that  the  more  or  less 
accepted  theories  of  evil  are  as  in- 
compatible with  truth  as  they  are  in- 
consistent with  each  other,  I  have  en- 
deavored to  present  a  view,  which,  to 
say  the  least,  does  not  dishonor  God's 
character  nor  contradict  the  Bible.  I 
believe  that  the  true  theory  of  evil  does 
not  make  God  in  any  degree  respon- 
sible for  its  existence,  that  it  does  not 
give  Satan  a  free  hand  in  the  moral 
disturbance  of  God's  universe,  and 
that  it  does  not  imply  the  performance 
of  evil  in  active  or  passive  form.  In 
the  creation  of  high  orders  of  beings, 
endowed  with  free  will,  the  possibility 
of  evil  becomes  necessary.  The  power 
of  free  choice  implies  both  good  and 
evil  as  possible." 

$1.00  net.  Published  by  Sherman, 
French  &  Co.,  Boston. 


"Love  and  Liberation.    The  Songs  of 
Adsched  of  Meru  and  Other  Poems," 
by  John  Hall  Wheelock,  author  of 
"The  Beloved     Adventure,"     "The 
Human  Fantasy,"  etc. 
The  author  has  gathered  in  this  vol- 
ume a  flock  of  his  fugitive  verse  pub- 
lished from  time  to  time  in  the  lead- 
ing periodicals  of  this  country.    Love 
Songs  and  Adorations  fill  a  large  part 
of  the  text,  while  the  rest  covers  gen- 
eral themes.     The  Songs  of  Adschul 
are  of  a  warm,  impulsive  character, 
and  thrill  with  passionate  heart  beats. 
The  sentiment  is  far  freer  than  the  art 
of  the  author. 

$1.50  net.  Published  by  Sherman, 
French  &  Co.,  Boston. 

"The   Fawn   and   Other    Poems,"   by 

Genevieve  Farnell-Bond. 

The  author  is  a  writer  of  songs  and 
ballads  of  some  local  note,  and  has 
slipped  into  the  meter  and  method  of 
handling  her  expressions  by  direct 
poetic  thought  after  the  same  manner. 
Her  friendship  with  Edwin  Markham 
has  stood  her  in  great  stead  in  prop- 


erly building  her  poetical  forms,  else 
her  experience  as  a  successful  jour- 
nalist and  general  writer  would  have 
carried  her  far  afield.  Many  of  the 
poems  contained  in  the  present  volume 
have  appeared  in  leading  periodicals 
of  this  country. 

$1.00  net.  Published  by  Sherman, 
French  &  Co.,  Boston. 

"The  Scoffer.  A  Modern  Miracle  Play 
Based  Upon  Scientific  Christian 
Healing,"  by  Charles  Frederick 
Carlson. 

Unquestionably  this  play  will  lead 
some  doubters  to  a  better  understand- 
ing of  Christian  Science,  presenting  as 
it  does  the  salient  facts  from  a  new 
angle.  The  ground  traversed  is  de- 
batable, and  the  author  has  exercised 
his  best  wit  to  fortify  it  for  his  side 
by  striking  precepts  that  stick  in  the 
mind,  awaken  thought  and  demand 
consideration. 

Post-paid,  $1.50.  Published  by  East- 
wood-Kirchner  Printing  Co.,  Denver, 
Colo. 


"Melchizedek,  or  The  Exaltation  of 
the  Son  of  Man,"  by  G.  W.  Reaser. 
The  author  undertakes  the  solution 
of  a  mystery  which  for  ages  has  suc- 
cessfully baffled  the  pursuit  of  pro- 
found Bible  students.  The  author  be- 
lieves that  there  is  a  "fullness  of 
time"  in  the  plan  of  redemption  for 
the  unfolding  of  certain  specific  truths, 
"which  hath  been  hid  from  ages  and 
from  generations."  The  effort  to  solve 
the  mystery  is  made  in  a  reverent  and 
sincere  spirit. 

Price,   $1.25.     Published  by  Sher- 
man, French  &  Co.,  Boston. 


"Jesus  Said.     Questions  of  Life  An- 
swered by  One  Who  Alone  Speaks 
with  Authority,"  selected    and    ar- 
ranged by  Frances  E.  Lord. 
The  mission  of  this  little  book  is  to 
present  the  final  word  that  has  been, 
or  can  be,  spoken  on  the  pressing  ques- 
tions of  life,  in  such  shape  that  it  can 
be  easily  carried  and  daily  studied. 

Price,     75     cents.       Published     by 
Sherman,  French  &  Co.,  Boston.